#just the bit i’ve done makes my room feel much less claustrophobic and i don’t feel so stressed

[tvrningout-a]

tonight turned into me finally pushing myself to tidy my space, and once i put my clothes away, i will be writing as a treat hehe

[bokunosimpfiction]

Yandere!Karl Heisenberg x Reader

Synopsis: Heisenberg kidnaps the reader. And she’s pissed about it. And so is he. Turns out there’s a lot more to it than it seems, tw: kidnapping I’m not tagging for violence because it’s less graphic than even the mild stuff in canon. Like reader gets a concussion and a dislocated arm, that’s it.

A/N: first time ever writing for Resident Evil. I haven’t even played the games, only watched a play-through and immediately fell in love with this hobo. Honestly, there’s a lot of room to make a sequel or some more from this but I have commitment issues and it probably won’t happen.

Oh and one last thing! Do you think I should add resident evil: village to my fandoms I write for or no. Let me know please!

             It’s dark in your small cottage, claustrophobic with the way you stumble to the front door as fast as you can. You try to take deep breaths, but you can’t, not with someone chasing you. You cut through the kitchen, and when he reaches out to grab you, you slam the door to a cabinet as hard as you can. You can hear his pained yell.

             “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, (y/n),” he says.

             “I’ll make it as hard as I damn please!” You put your hand on the handle to the front door, twist and right before you manage to open it, a body slams into yours and you hear your arm pop. Loudly. And it burns at the elbow like someone poured gasoline on it and set it on fire.

             You can hear his heavy breathing and feel the warm air on the crown of your head. “You put up a good fight, I’ll give you that much.” He presses his body further into yours, and you feel everything. The toned muscle under a layer of fat, the harsh fabric of his shirt and jacket, and the bulge that presses into the small of your back.

             “You’re so small,” he coos, like he’s talking to a dog, “I can’t wait to break you.”

             You manage to wiggle one arm free and jab him in the side as hard as you can with your elbow. You hear him say oof under his breath, and you take this as the opportunity to press your foot into the door and push back into him as hard as you can, to at least get him to stumble back.

             It doesn’t work, he just leans his whole-body weight on you and uses one hand to smash your head into the door. He could have done it harder, you reckon, but it still hurts like a mother fucker. “Shut the fuck up before I do something I regret.”

             “Like you don’t already regret breaking into my house and trying to kidnap me? Like you don’t regret slamming me into my door and dislocating my elbow? What are you going to do to me that you’ll regret? Huh?”

             He looks down at you through those yellow glasses of his, light from the glass peephole reflecting off of them but his hat shading the rest of his face. “I said shut the fuck up!” He presses your head even further into the door, and your temple digs into the frame. It hurts, and your eyes water from the pain.

             “Who even are you?!” You end up shouting. His grip loosens a little bit, just enough for you to move your head off the door frame and onto the actual door. “I’ve never met you in my goddamn life and you break into my house, say you love me, and try to kidnap me!”

             Something in him breaks, you can tell, the outline of his features look crestfallen. “You don’t know who I am?”

             “No… I don’t. And here you are in my house, chasing me around like I’m some goddamn animal you’re hunting.” Your eyes water. “I know you don’t mean a damn word you said this entire time.”

             “Shut your goddamn trap woman!” His grip on your hair tightens. “I love you and we both know it; I know everything about you.”

             “So, you’re a stalker? Huh, didn’t think I was pretty enough to have one.”

             “I knew you had a mouth on you, and it was attractive till it was pointed in my direction.” His voice is low and gravelly at this point, like a thin string that’s pulled taut and about to snap.

             “Well get used to it you fu-” You don’t get to finish your sentence, because a piece of metal from his hammer slams you hard in the face, knocking you out cold.

             When you wake up, it’s hard to open your eyes. It’s too bright and the room is spinning when you move your head up. That must be one hell of a bump on your forehead. You go to feel it, only to find you hands chained up to a metal pipe on the wall. Your feet are too, but that chain is a lot slacker.

             You’re lying down on the floor, a cheap scratchy blanket separating you from rough, worn down cement. It’s still hard and cold, but it didn’t scratch up your skin, so that’s something to be grateful for. You look around the room, only to find an old tv, that’s on, and playing static. That’s what was so bright, you realize.

             Suddenly the noise from the t.v. stops, and you hear a voice. It’s still sounds like static, but it’s audible enough to understand the words and recognize the voice. It’s the same guy who kidnapped you. You don’t really process what he’s saying, it’s just noise to you, and you close your eyes and curl up as best as you can. Maybe you’ll wake up, and everything will be okay.

             “Quit ignoring me girlie.”

             You snap out of your daydreaming. The days of that warm bed and leaky bathroom faucet are over, and this cruel situation is your reality for the time being.

             “Okay. Okay. But just quiet down my head hurts.”

             “I’d be sorry, but you brought that upon yourself,” he says.

             You can’t help but be snarky, you’re tired and already sick of this shit. “I’m sorry you don’t have the self-control to not kidnap people and knock them unconscious via flying pieces of metal.”

             “Touché.” You hear back.

             “Can you at least get me some Tylenol for my head or something.”

             “Why should I? After all the attitude you’ve given me, I should just leave you in there to starve.” Looks like he knows how to be snarky too.

             “Because you were the one who hit me in the head and locked me in here?”

             “Apologize and I’ll consider it.”

             You go back to your curled up position. “I guess I’ll just starve down here then.”

             The t.v. cuts off again, or you just tune him out, just run your hands along the chains to try and find a lock. You find the one attached to your left ankle and begin to plot your escape. Maybe you could pick the lock with a bobby pin? You run your hands through your hair, not only to find that it was down, but all of them were removed.

             You run your hands down your pajama pants. Maybe you have something in your pockets? They also turn up empty.

               “Are you looking for something to pick the lock with?” You hear from the t.v. You turn back to look at it, only to see his face. He’s not wearing his glasses, and he’s taken off his worn-out bucket hat, so you can see his untamed salt and pepper hair. “I took the liberty of searching your person while you were knocked out. I highly doubt you’ll find something to pick the lock with.”

             “You’re an asshole, you know that.” You find yourself saying. To be fair, you probably shouldn’t, considering that he: is holding you hostage, threatening to leave you to starve, and is clearly a psychopath, despite his claims that he loves you.

             “Calm down, you know it makes me upset to see you mad.”

             You can’t help but raise your voice at him. “Quit fucking taunting me! You won this stupid ass game. You kidnapped me! You can come down here and kill me now!”

             “You think I wanna kill you?” He asks, you can tell he’s just as furious as you are. He chuckles lightly. “You know I love you. I did this for your own good! There are people out there. People who want to taint you and your innocence! People who want to hurt you!”

             “I can handle myself just fine! I had before your psycho ass came along and kidnapped me!” Your furious, desperately searching for a weak point on the pipe with your hands while you yell at the t.v.

             “And what would have happened if I didn’t?” He asks you, “lady supersized bitch in the castle would have gotten to you first… I can’t have that.”

             “I’m sorry who?” You ask. Suddenly things have gotten more confusing.

             “I’m not the only one who’s after you,” he clarifies. “You think I’m the one who’s a psychopath, there’s a woman out there who wants to drink your blood and eat your flesh! And monster that wants to drown you and swallow you whole-”

             “Slow down! I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about!”

             “Don’t interrupt me! I want what’s best for you!” You can hear him take a deep breath. “I’m going to bring you upstairs and explain everything. And you’re going to behave, am I clear?”

             You just nod your head.

             “Good. Now stop trying to find a weak point on that pipe to get loose before I get down there. It has carbon monoxide in there, you’ll poison yourself before you get to that door.”

             You immediately stop twisting the connector and drop your hands to your sides.

             “Good girl…” His praise makes you want to vomit. “Now stay still while I come get you.”

             When he comes down and opens that iron door and unceremoniously tosses you over his shoulder, you can’t help but comment on it. “Am I a bag of potatoes to you?”

             “Don’t complain, I could be like that Dimitrescu bitch and turn you into wine.”

             You shut up immediately and grasp the back of his coat for balance. You don’t know why, but his empty threats scare you immensely. You watch the hallways blur into one another, trying to see if you can find a window, or an escape rout of some sort, hell, even a vent he couldn’t fit in but you could would work well.

             He smacks your thigh. Not hard, but enough for a slight sting and to get your attention. “We’re in the center of the factory, there’s no need for you to be tracking an escape route, especially because you won’t be leaving any time soon.”

             Eventually, you end up in a small office like space, with a desk, a cork board with several pictures of people on it, and a large grate that leads to a tunnel downwards. He pulls the metal chair out of the corner with his powers and places you in the chair. “Stay.”

             “So…” He turns towards the cork board. “Since your out of town, I’ll explain the run-down-“

             “I don’t really care for the details.” You stand up from the chair and go to walk towards him, but he crosses the room in a second and slams you back down.

             “I told you to stay in that goddamn chair!” He opens his mouth to explain but a whirring noise starts out of nowhere. It’s loud, obnoxious, and coming from the vent. He opens it. “Shut your goddamn trap!”

             “Anyhow, (Y/N),” he starts, “the other three lords decided that they’re interested in you, for whatever their reasons are. I’m assuming they want to kill you.”

             “That’s a veeeeeery extreme assumption.” You roll your eyes, and prop your head on your hands.

             “Well two of them are well know for turning people into dolls and drinking their blood,” he says casually, “it’s only a fair assumption they want to do the same with you.”

             “I’m sorry they what?”

             He turns to you, surprised for a moment that you don’t know what he’s talking about. “Super-sized bitch over here,” a sharp piece of metal lands on the photo of a pale, middle aged woman with bold red lipstick and a black hat, “is one of the other three lords, known for drinking the blood of girls like yourself. Wouldn’t suggest meeting her, she’s not that pleasant.”

             “Known for?”

             “Sort of, most of the towns people don’t know,” he turns to you and leans on the table by the cork board, “they’re too busy worshipping Mother Miranda.”

             “I’ve heard her name before,” you say, “doesn’t she protect the town?”

             You can sense the anger you caused before you can take it back.

             “That Miranda bitch doesn’t protect anybody from shit. She’s the one causing all the issues, kidnapping people and mutating them, killing them and throwing their lives away like table scraps.” You slams his hand on the table and you visibly flinch. He quickly apologizes.

             “You keep mentioning ‘the other three lords’ how many are there, and who’s the one your excluding in that statement?” You question as soon as you get the chance. He’s talking, loudly, quickly and it’s filling up the space in the room with an anxious sort of white noise.

             “Pardon me,” he says, and waltzes over, almost over-dramatically. He brings your hand to his lips and places a light kiss. You can feel his stubble and chapped lips on the top of your hand. He desperately needs to use chap-stick. “I’m Heisenberg, one of the four lords, but you can call me Karl.”

             “Okay… Karl.” You test the name out on your tongue. “What are you going to do with me, now that I’m here?”

             He gets down on one knee in front of you, still holding your hand. “Oh (Y/N), I’m going to treat you how you deserve, like a princess.”

[divineluce]

Research Reunion || Orion & Luce

Timing: May 11th, 2021

Tagging: @3starsquinn & @divineluce

Location: The Scribrary

Description: Who else would know phoenixes better than a Scribe? Luce goes to Rio for help-- third time’s the charm. Right?

Grabbing her backpack from the passenger seat of her car, Luce glanced up at the Scribary. She remembered the last time she’d been here, vividly, in fact. She’d been asking Rio for help that day too. Help for… Swallowing, she slid the backpack over her shoulder, keenly aware of the books inside. They were the one she’d borrowed from Rio, months and months ago. Books about ghosts, about exorcisms. She’d poured over every single page, trying to figure out how she could do something. And in the end, she hadn’t even been able to help. She’d failed. Nadia was safe, but no thanks to her. It was like how Remmy was safe, how Bea was safe-- by virtue of being nowhere near this town, they were safe. Luce made her way to the door of Scribe HQ and knocked on the door. “Hey. I need your help.” She said, not looking at Rio. The last time they’d seen each other… She didn’t want to think about that. Instead, she awkwardly held up her backpack, “I’ve also got some overdue books.”

Orion hadn’t expected to hear from Luce. The two hadn’t seen each other since everything with Lydia. And the last that he had heard from her was the alcoholic apology for punching him. Rio just hadn’t been sure which time specifically she had been apologizing for. Maybe it was meant as a catch all. Broken cheek bone aside, getting punched was nowhere near the reason that Rio expected the two hadn’t seen each other since the incident. The whole situation with Lydia… it still weighed on Rio. People had died. Instead of getting to help, Rio had been promise bound into hurting his sister and friends all in an attempt to help a serial killer escape. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for being so naive. At the end of the day, Rio and Luce had never been particularly close. She was more like the sister of the best friend of the person Rio had been dating. Familiar with each other by extension, acquaintances by association. “Hi there.” Rio held the door open, scratching the back of his neck as a nervous tick while conveniently covering half of his face with his arm. Just the memory of Luce made his face throb. “I really hope we can do introductions without the uh- punching thing this time.” Rio smiled innocently, though the joke sounded more like a genuine plea than anything a normal person would laugh at. But if there was anything that could get Rio out of that funk it was the mention of his books. “Really?! That’s amazing. That means I can take you off my list. Come on, follow me we can head back to the library.” Rio waved her inside and started off down the winding hallways, “So uh- it’s been a while. How ya been?”

Grimacing at the memories of how she’d… greeted him in the past, Luce offered a tight lipped smile. “Nope. No punching this time.” She said. Christ. He was just a fucking kid. And she’d fucking clocked him. Twice. She needed to work on that. She needed to work on a lot of things, but decking kids was definitely on the list. Slipping the bag off her shoulder, Luce pulled out two of the thick leather bound books and tossed them to Rio. “Yep, right here. Ghosts and Ghouls and Diaries of an Exorcist. Real light reading.” She said before squinting in slight confusion. “A list?” She echoed as she followed him inside. The hallway seemed a bit brighter than the last time she’d been here and she realized there were lights installed along the halls. Lights that hadn’t been there before-- Winston’s handiwork, she realized. Winston must have fixed the place up before she left. Yet another person who was better off away from here.

Shrugging, she mulled over her response. Out of magic. Out of people to turn to. Which is why she was here, why she’d talked to Leah. “Keeping on keeping on. Just trying to fix some shit, that’s all. What about you?” She asked.

It felt like there were a million books in the Scribrary. Far too many for Orion to ever truly miss a random ghost book that Luce had borrowed a few months back. Still, there was something oddly comforting about knowing that one was going to be back where it belonged and he could mark it off the list. “Oh yeah. I sort of started a list. Like a book check out system, so that I can keep a better track where the books are. If I can’t find one I start to get stressed, so it’s a bit calming to know which ones are in someone else’s hands.” Rio shrugged following the explanation. Even he knew that it seemed a little over the top, but considering people had found their way in before without his knowledge he also thought it’d be a good idea to keep track just in case a book disappeared that he hadn’t lent out. Farther down the hallway, he couldn’t help himself from making further conversation, “For the record, what I said earlier? When you first got here? Totally a joke. I don’t blame you for either time you-” Rio held up a fist and motioned towards his face. “Just so you know.”

Rio wondered what Luce meant by that. What exactly was she trying to fix? It probably had something to do with what she was doing here asking for his help. “Good to hear.” Rio answered regardless. It hadn’t been the most positive answer, but keeping on was about as good as it got in White Crest, “Loaded question. I guess I’m alright, all things considered. It’s just been a long year already.” He didn’t want to bother Luce with all of his issues. It was just depressing and sad, “But I’m glad you dropped by. I’m happy to help with whatever you need.”

“Huh. Guess that makes sense.” Luce said, because it did on some level. She’d never liked books, never really cared much for anything that she couldn’t listen to or see or feel. But it made sense for Rio to keep track of shit. They continued down the hallway in relative silence, Luce aware of how fucking awkward it all was. She’d never really given a shit about Rio. Which was a pretty terrible thing, but it was true. Rio wasn’t someone she’d bothered to get to know-- he was just Winston’s boyfriend. But, he wasn’t just that, was he? He’d been there, that day… he’d seen what she’d done. He’d stood between her and Lydia and she hadn’t cared. And fuck. He was… human. Innocent. “You should. I shouldn’t have punched you. Either time.” She said, her voice dull, sounding almost as numb as she felt. The memories of that day still haunted her. Day and night, what she’d done, it stayed with her.

“Yeah.” Luce said offhandedly. “I feel that. A long fucking year already.” It was hard to believe that a single year had passed since she’d been pulled from her cabin by her parents, forced to live with Bea and Nell. Now, she would give almost anything to even see her parents, let alone argue with them over whether it was really necessary for her to live with her sisters as a grown ass adult. Clearing her throat as they entered a room lined with shelves crammed full of books, “Great. I’m looking for books on phoenix’s. Specifically stuff on what can cause corruption. I reached out to,” Luce paused, not knowing if Rio was exactly on the up and up with Leah, “someone who knows about phoenix’s, but they didn’t know much either.”

It was obvious from her tone that Luce didn’t want to talk about it. Orion couldn’t claim that he wanted to talk about it either. It was awkward. Especially with someone he didn’t actually know well. “I mean the first time was just a misunderstanding. I can’t fault you for looking out for Winston.” Rio shrugged. He hadn’t loved it when it had happened. And he had mostly wished that Luce would have given him at least a minute to try to explain himself before she chose to punch him instead. But Rio and Luce weren’t super close. Luce cared about Winston and owed nothing to Rio. “I can’t say I would have done the same, but that’s just because I’m very non confrontational. I’d rather silently second guess from afar.” The second time was an entirely different story. “And we all know that I wasn’t in control with Lydia. You had to do what you had to do. If anyone should be apologizing it’s me. I threw a knife at you.” The reminder of it flashed through his head. The snapping of Athena’s arm. The air whistling as the knife flew and landed in the back of Luce’s leg. He blinked the images away and tried to focus again. “I’m just saying, neither one was exactly unmotivated.”

Inside the library, Rio was able to breathe a tiny bit easier. Something about the place calmed him. Maybe being here with Luce was not any less awkward than it was in the hallway, but it felt less claustrophobic. Physically and mentally. “Phoenixes?” Rio repeated, crossing his arms and giving a huff as he tried to consider what might be useful. “Honestly? There’s not a ton of information on them in the Scribrary. I have a theory, but can’t really prove it. But I think maybe one of them knew enough about their past lives to take the books that were stored here. Or the Phoenixes that worked as Scribes never trusted them enough with the knowledge.” All of that was speculation, a theory mostly beginning when he learned that Leah’s past life had been involved with the Scribes. Part of Rio wanted to question Luce’s source. Given her sister’s relationship with Leah, it made sense that Leah directly might be the source. But he didn’t have any interest in outing the woman if Luce wasn’t privy to that knowledge. Leah was actually starting to trust Rio, despite his hunter heritage. He didn’t want to give her any reason to jeopardize that. “But I definitely have some stuff on them. Follow me.”

“I should have stopped to think. To ask questions, get some straight answers.” Luce replied dully, her boots falling heavily against the solid stone pavers of the building. How fucking old was this place anyways, she wondered absently. It seemed older than the town itself. “I should have done a lot of shit differently.” She said, but grimaced at Rio’s next words. You had to do what you had to do. No. She’d done much more than that. She remembered the way she’d set fire to innocent bystanders, people caught in the crossfire of a world they weren’t even aware of. She could feel the flames curl and crackle against their skin. She could remember the way rage and fear had coursed through her. “Sure. They weren’t unmotivated.” But they were motivated for the wrong fucking reasons.

Glancing around at the massive store of books, Luce had a hard time believing that the Scribes didn’t have much on the subject of Phoenix’s. They had to have something. They had to have information. Or else… what was Luce going to do? Give up. Go back to Adam and tell her she wasn’t the right person for the job. Her magic was gone, her sister was gone, her family had abandoned her for what she was. And now, she couldn’t-- she couldn’t even find a goddamn book. Luce wrapped her arms around herself as she listened to him, as though she could hold all the remains of who she was together. “Alright. Makes sense to me. Theories and stuff aren’t my wheelhouse, but sure. Lead the way.” She nodded.

Unable to argue that, Orion just shrugged. At the time, he had certainly wished that Luce had stopped to question Rio on the topic or tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Partially because he didn’t enjoy getting punched in the face, but mostly because he had hoped that he ame off friendly and pleasant enough that Luce might have questioned the misunderstanding entirely. He had to remind himself that the two had not been friends at the time. He wasn’t even sure what they were now. “Yeah. Well I get that much. I would have done a lot differently too.” Like never promise a random woman that he would protect her at all costs. The only problem was that he wasn’t sure he would have done anything different. He still wanted to give people the benefit of the doubt. He just couldn’t help himself from making stupid decisions.

Rio didn’t waste any time leading her to the few materials that he had found on phoenixes. Most were journals by other scribes talking about their experience with them, though there were a few self-collected bestiaries that almost devoted a small section to them. Certainly not as vast as some of the more common supernatural creatures. Books about vampires or werewolves took up multiple bookshelves, while mentions of Phoenixes fit neatly on a single row. “I guess theories and stuff is sort of my area of expertise. If you want to call it that.” He honestly wasn’t sure what he would describe as his ‘wheelhouse’. When he got to the shelf, and pulled off a book and started flipping through it, “So if there’s anything about them it’s probably here. Feel free to start flipping through some of them. What kind of corruption do you mean?”

“Shoulda,” Luce kicked at a broken piece of cobblestone, “Coulda,” The stone bounced and skittered across the floor ahead of her, “Woulda.” She said, a grim expression on her face. There were a lot of things she would have done differently. She wouldn’t have let herself get carried away by fear, by anger. She wouldn’t have called in a favor from a woman she hardly knew or understood. She wouldn’t have listened to the words of a kid, of a… fuck. She was more than just a kid. Athena was Rio’s sister. Christ. Rubbing her forehead, Luce followed him to a different section of the scribrary. The books here were all old, leather bound things, with worn spines. No doubt used by generations of Hunters and Scribes alike. And now… her. To try and do something good for once.

“The way I see it, you’re the expert here on books. Theories go right along with that.” She shrugged. Luce wasn’t a theory gal, wasn’t a reader, barely even gave a shit about learning things she cared about. Rubbing a hand on her arm, Luce thought back to the scene she and Adam had witnessed in the forest. The way the fires had burned an natural red, the way a curved beak had seemed to jut from the phoenix’s face, while their head remained human. Pulling another book from the shelf, she paused at an anatomical diagram of a phoenix, in both human and full form. How had the person who wrote this book figured out the anatomy? Had the phoenix in this sketch offered this knowledge? Or had it been taken? Luce cleared her throat. “The flames, they didn’t burn like normal fire. Or normal phoenix fire either. There were feathers, on fire, being shed all over the place. And they didn’t go out on their own. They just kept burning, like oil. And the flames, they didn’t look right. There was this shade of red, to them. I’ve never seen fire look like that before.” She frowned, “And I know fire.”

Listening to Luce’s description, a worried line settled across Orion’ face. “That sounds scary.” He didn’t know much about phoenixes, but that definitely didn’t sound normal. Plus, he trusted Luce if she said that it hadn’t been normal. “Definitely not something you see everyday.” Rio had a bad feeling that if the former Scribe phoenixes did know anything about this it wasn’t something that they would want stored in Scribe records for anybody in the group to see. His only hope was that something was left behind, or somebody was studying the phoenix without their knowledge. Just the thought of that made him feel gross, though. He didn’t want to operate like that. Studying someone that didn’t want their secrets out. He would be better. He had to be. “Do you think they were dangerous?”

Had it been scary? Maybe. At this point, Luce had seen so much shit in this town, done so much fucked up shit… it hadn’t really registered as scary. Which was a troubling thought-- one that she could deal with later. When she wasn’t trying to stop half the woods outside of White Crest from getting set ablaze. Shrugging, she continued to flip through her book, “Nope. Not at all. Apparently, they also were able to melt through a car. Which means they’re powerful. Real goddamn powerful.” She said, thinking back to the melted shards of glass and obsidian, the dried streambed. At Rio’s question, Luce paused. Yes, definitely. But not because they wanted to be. “They’re dangerous only because they’re out of control. Whatever happened to them, it doesn’t look like it was intentional. Magic might change someone’s appearance, but it wouldn’t be enough to alter their flames. I think they’re in trouble.” I think they’re afraid of what they’ve done. What they might do.

Orion continued flipping through his own book, but couldn’t help but glance up at Luce as she described the encounter. She sounded so casual while discussing so insanely powerful. Rio had been dealing with the supernatural his entire life and he still couldn’t quite manage to keep himself that calm. “Woah. Didn’t know that was something they could do. That’s like… insanely hot.” Rio had no idea exactly how hot, but definitely not a safe amount of hot. He realized moments too late what he had said. “Hot as in like actual temperature hot, I mean. Not like attractive hot. For the record. I mean melting a car might be very attractive. I’ve never seen it for myself.” Definitely time to focus on reading that book again. He pulled it up to try to head his reddening face and only peaked over the top to look back at Luce when she gave him the best news he had heard so far tonight. That she didn’t think it was intentional. She didn’t think they were dealing with someone evil, but someone that might need help. Now that he could get behind. “In that case, we have to find something. I want to help.”

“Sure is.” Luce said off-handedly as she read a paragraph about phoenix feathers and molting patterns. Hm. Nothing there. A bit late, she realized that Rio was sputtering over his words. Glancing up from her book, she offered a grin. “Keep it in your pants there. But no, I know what you mean. It’s real fucking hot. I’ve melted metal before, but that shit takes time. And I only did doorknobs. I could never cut something as huge as a car. Guess that’s what happens when you’re basically a living sun.” She said before going back to her book. Fuck, she hated reading. Why weren’t there like… audiobooks for this shit? Or some wise old person to tell her what was up? Well. There were plenty of wise old spell casters in town, the difference was… they just wouldn’t have anything to do with her anymore. She couldn’t exactly go to them for help. So, Rio and Leah were the next best thing. At Rio’s words, Luce looked at him again, expression  pensive. “Why? This isn’t your responsibility, you don’t need to help me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you are. But why?” Was he trying to ease guilt the way she was, was he trying to atone?

“Ha ha. Very funny.” Orion laugh sarcastically, thankful that Luce didn’t spend much time teasing him on the subject. Instead, she surprised him. He knew about her family's power, but he had no idea she had been strong enough to use the fire to cut metal. “That’s impressive. I guess I should have known that fire magic like that could get that powerful.” The extent of his knowledge on spellcasters came from Winston and the Vural family admittedly. The Quinn family had never partnered much with spellcasters to help catch supernatural creatures. They had always been far too proud. He hadn’t been expecting Luce to question his intentions. It took him off guard, mostly because he didn’t really know them himself. Though he had more than a few ideas. “Um… I guess I don’t know the right answer to that.” Rio shrugged, but continued to consider the question, “I guess I’ve seen a lot of bad stuff in my life? I was raised as a hunter, told that supernatural people were inherently evil and unnatural. I knew that wan’t true, but I never got a chance to help them.” More often than not, Rio had stood idly by while watching them get slaughtered. It wasn’t a feeling that Rio would soon forget, the helplessness of knowing he couldn’t stop it. The disgust at himself for not trying anyways. He had failed so many people in this town. He just didn’t want to do that anymore. “Now’s my chance. I don’t want to waste it.”

“It can.” When it works. When it wants to. “But, I couldn’t do something like that even if I wanted to.” Luce said, saying the words her brain was thinking automatically. Luce’s mouth snapped shut and she stared at Rio. Fuck. Fuck. She hadn’t meant to say that. She didn’t-- she didn’t want more people to know about this than need be. She didn’t have the protection of the coven and Bea had only just gotten back from New York, she didn’t want to add more to her sister’s plate. Same went for Nell—she didn’t want to force her baby sister to watch her back. If more people knew that Luce was without her magic, it would paint a big fucking target on her back. “I didn’t say that. You didn’t hear anything about my magic. You got it?” She asked, voice shaking slightly.

Listening to his words, Luce couldn’t help but wonder how anyone could have thought that this kid could be a hunter. He might have the genes, but there wasn’t a cruel bone in his body. “Yeah. Don’t fucking waste it.” She repeated before looking blankly back down at the book that was clutched in her hands. Any other time, the pages would be scorched and smoking in her grasp, a byproduct of her stress and anger. But the pages were only slightly crumpled under her fingers. Fuck.

Orion was left confused and concerned about Luce’s comment. It had been said so quickly that it had almost completely gone over his head completely. But a few moments after Rio’s eyes narrowed as he became perplexed by the wording. His head tilted, glancing away from the book in order to get a better look at Luce. Before he even had a chance to question her, Luce was talking again. She seemed pretty adamant that this was not something to be spoken of. Or even remembered from the sounds of it. That only concerned Rio more. “Right. Uh- didn’t hear anything.” Rio bit his lip and considered if there was anything else he should say. Adam had experienced something similar with his own abilities. Why did that thing only happen to people that actually wanted the powers? “But uh- if I did hear something, I’d definitely be there for you. Like to help figure that out. But I wouldn’t tell anyone. If I had heard anything.”

Not wasting the opportunity would be a lot easier if Rio knew what to do to help. That was the first step in helping others. Still, he appreciated Luce’s energy. It was intimidating for sure, sometimes downright scary. But it was surprisingly motivating. It made Rio want to find the answer to this more than ever. “I won’t. We’re going to help.” Rio tried remaining confident. Good vibes only. “Even if we have to write it ourselves.”

“Nope. You sure didn’t.” Luce said flatly before looking back at her book. It was useless though. She wasn’t the studying type usually and even less so when she had an audience. She glared up at him, ready to tear him a new one if he kept up on this subject. But, as she looked over at him and saw the expression on his face, she couldn’t help but sigh. She didn’t want his help, but… “We’ve got more important things to deal with than my shit. But thanks. You don’t need to, though.”

“Yeah.” She said with a nod before flicking through her book. “Whatever it takes.” Luce said quietly, the words familiar to her tongue. Not in the same context, not in the same way, but the words were just as true as they were a year ago. Whatever it takes. She’d right her wrongs, one step at a time. As she skimmed over the pages, she paused on what looked like… an ingredient list. It seemed to be talking about some kind of illness-- not corruption, exactly. But something that affected phoenix flames. “Hey. What do you think about this?” She asked, pointing at the list. “Essence of the phoenix stricken by disease. White flowered herbs found where wild creatures roam, bound with sage and lavender to purify. Tears of another freely given and,” Luce squinted at the text, “Fire. Lots of fire.”

Clearly, Luce was serious about not bringing it up. Orion continued to peak over the book at her, trying to pick up on any signs without asking. Asking wasn’t the right idea it seemed. Rio wasn’t sure that he could necessarily relate. He had always hated his abilities, had wished that they would go away. For him, losing them felt like a blessing in disguise. But for someone that seemingly liked and enjoyed the powers they had always had, it must be a lot harder. Like an extension of themselves. Rio didn’t understand, but he could guess that it must feel like losing a part of herself. “Point taken. Subject dropped.” Rio assured her, though he hoped at some point it would come up again.

Rio continued skimming through his own book until Luce pointed something out in the book she was looking through. He bent around to get a better look at the list and scanned through quickly, noting a few words that stuck out to him. “A phoenix disease? Never heard of that before. But that could make sense.” If there was ever a disease specific to phoenixes, one of the first things Rio would consider was their fire abilities and temperature. “So is the list some kind of spell? Or potion maybe?” He squinted at the list further and sighed, “They kept it pretty vague. Except for the fire part.”

At least he dropped it. That was something. Luce focused on the list-- there wasn’t much to go off of at all. It read more like an old ritual that the coven would do, one of the ancient rites that they did on a yearly basis. Big magic, powerful magic. The books Bea had kept, the ones on necromancy, they had featured lists similar to these. They were written to be vague for a reason. “It’s a spell. A potion would have more specific instructions, discussion about tinctures or timing. This is a ritual, some kind of cleansing. The sage and lavender tell me that much.” She tapped the line on the book before flipping the page. But, there were no further instructions, no other words. “Whoever wrote this, they kept their cards close to their chest. And I don’t blame them. The Scribe who figured this out, they must have worked with spellcasters and at least one phoenix. Can’t imagine either of them would have wanted the specifics of a ritual to be written out.” She said with a sigh and pulled out her phone to take a picture of the list. “I don’t know exactly what all of this means. The fire is clear and the lavender and sage are easy enough to source. The specifics of it, though. Can’t tell you.” Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Luce wished she was better at this. Better at all the parts of magic that she’d scorned. Because then, maybe she wouldn’t feel so lost.

Orion listened to Luce’s description intently. He was thankful to have a friend well versed on spells like that. That is what Luce was, right? A friend? Today more than ever, it seemed like there was actually a small chance of that. “Good to know.” Rio nodded, making a mental note of this in the back of his mind. He may never be involved in a spell or potion making, but he would at least remember how to tell a difference between the two, hopefully. “Big shocker there, a scribe being cryptic and vague.” He sighed. For a group dedicated to cataloguing supernatural knowledge for historical use, a lot of scribes didn’t love putting things in layman's terms. “I can’t tell you anything for sure, but I have a couple theories. That part about wild creatures. I would bet they’re referring to more than just your average wild animal. Probably somewhere with a large population of supernatural creatures. And this part,” Rio paused to look at the part about the tears of another, “Phoenix tears are supposed to be special, right? Some kind of super healer or something.”

“Witches aren’t much better. Must be a paranoid magic thing.” Luce said with a shake of her head before shutting the book. She couldn’t make heads nor tails of what it meant and, honestly, she wanted to be able to study the book on her own. It took her time to parse through magical shit, she didn’t pick up written spells and rituals quickly. “Mind if I borrow this? I’ll give it back sooner than the last batch.” She said, shaking the ancient book in her hand. “As far as what you’re saying… It makes sense, but keep looking for anything that might help. We don’t even know if this would help a phoenix who’s been corrupted. This is talking about disease, but I don’t think what we’re dealing with is a disease. I’ve got some leads I might track down, see if they can help.” She let out another sigh. “But yeah. Thanks for your help with this.”

Magic seemed fickle. Orion nodded at Luce’s statement, wondering what made it so different from hunter strength or a werewolf’s ability to turn. In the end, it was all some kind of magic, right? Some unexplained phenomenon that made people stronger or more capable than regular people. None of it made sense. But without any insight, Rio decided to just nod in agreement and leave it at that. “Yeah of course. Take whatever you want. I’ll just make a note of them before you leave. For this archive thing.” He shrugged, sure that she wasn’t interested in hearing about his attempts to modernize this ancient library. “Definitely. I’ll keep looking. Keep me updated okay? So I can help with stuff.”

Shoving the book into her backpack, Luce nodded. “I think just the one will be enough for me. It’s not exactly light reading.” She said as she shrugged on her bag. As she turned to leave, she glanced at the young Scribe for a moment. He really did want to help. And fuck, she needed the help. She wasn’t smart enough, didn’t know enough about magic outside of her own fire. And she couldn’t do this alone. It wasn’t possible, not if she wanted to help this person. “Yeah, I will. I’ll keep you posted. And if you find anything… let me know.” She said before turning her back on Rio and walking back down the dark corridors of the Scribrary. First Leah, now Rio. Who else would know about this? Who else could help her? Who else would understand why she… needed to do this?

It didn’t matter. It really didn’t. “Whatever it takes.” She repeated to herself. Whatever it takes, to bring some scrap of balance back to the world. To right the wrongs in her past. Whatever it takes. 

[dabis-girl]

Mine pt.2 | Dabi x Reader | Smut 18+

A/N: its been way too long my loves lets just say I’ve been busy. Anyways this is a follow up to the very first fic I ever published on here. Not sure if this will be come a whole thing but let’s just see where this goes. 

Warnings/ Tags: Dubcon, breeding kink, humiliation ( I think that it but let me know.

Word count: 2.5k 

Summary: After your last encounter you distance yourself from your evil lover and he doesn’t take too kindly to that.  

Read Part One Here

It had been 3 weeks since the last time you had seen Dabi, you had been ignoring his calls and texts. He had gone to far last time usually, you could keep up with his sadistic practices but you had never been okay with being fucking into of a stranger. It appeared that he realized that he had gone too far this time, he had even sent you a gift box filled with lace thongs the replace the one that he had given away. You couldn’t quite place your finger on what upset you the most about that night. What it how he made you into a spectacle or like his property, no one had ever treated you like that.

You tried your best to focus on training and trying to get recruited by a professional hero agency hopefully, you could get pick up as a sidekick. Training had fallen by the wayside after you met Dabi, proving that he was only a distraction. It’s not like he was too supportive of your hero dreams anyway, he always teased you about wanting to be a hero. He didn’t believe that you had it into, not with your weakness being you damned evil lover, there was no way you could hurt him on purpose even if you had to. It wasn’t easy, but you had to put all of that to the back of your mind while you completed your last year at UA.  

It had been so long since you had slept with the window open, you used to leave it open for Dabi to sneak in but you missed the way having a window open made the room less claustrophobic. You had meant to close it before you went to sleep but you have drifted off while watching a movie. You woke up in the middle of the night and the tv was off and the room was pitch black, the moonlight poured through the window reminding you that it needed to closed. It was too late, he was at the edge of the bed staring down at you with a starved look on his face. He had scared you making you retreat to the corner of the bed, he stood over you with a small blue flame sitting atop the palm of his hand. Weeks had passed since he’d slutted you out and completely embarrassed you in front of his colleague, that was the last night you two had seen each other. That night you told him you never wanted to see him again.

“You’ve been ignoring my calls.” He said as he looked down at you with a menacing grin. 

“I told you we have to stop, Dabi. “ You said clutching the blanket off the bed. In that same instant, he’d quickly put out the flame and harshly grasped your face with is rough scarred hand. 

“And why is that? Am I getting in the way of your hero dreams?” He teased keeping a firm grip on your jaw. “I bet you’re dripping right now, thinking about what I’m going to do to you.“ You shake your head and he tightens his grip. “Let me finish little girl.” He growled. “I know what you need, to make this all better.  You need me to drag your slutty ass out into that hallway and make you beg me to fuck you, in front of all of your stupid friends. “ He let out a laugh that scared you but also made you even wetter. “ Am I right?” This humiliation kink that he’d developed was one that you’d never be able to escape.

You knew that you were already wet, your cunt had started drooling the moment you laid eyes on him, it was out of your control. As much as you could try and deny it he knew that you were just as disturbed as he was. You tried your hardest to be opposed to his twisted fantasies, but he had no qualms about shoving his hand down your pants and seeing for himself. This is the reason he constantly taunted you because he knew your protests were empty.  

You didn’t answer and angered him so he picked you up and tossed you over his shoulder heading for the door. You kicked and fought him until he finally released you. He gazed at you and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he began to cress your face and leaned in for a kiss, painting his lips on yours. He tased like ash and whiskey, his taste excited you as you leaned into his kiss. Just as he as placed a hand on your lower back you sank your teeth hard enough into his lip to draw blood. He reflexively pinned you to the wall, with a loud thud you could feel my slit silkening beneath him as the bulge in his pants strained against you.

“What the fuck?” He spat through gritted teeth. Licking the blood that oozed from his wound he smiled at you. “Playing hard to get tonight I see.” He chuckled 

“Get off of me.” You didn’t even believe the words as they came out of your mouth. Wiping away your saliva he wasn’t angry like you thought he’d be instead, the look on his face was one of amusement. He liked to chase, and you were playing his favorite game. 

“Tell me I’m wrong and you don’t want me. “ He said as his hand traveled down the length of your torso to your thin cotton underwear to tease your clit. “Come on say the word and I’ll stop.” He teased. You thought that you’d had more willpower than this, not a single word of protest left your mouth instead you soft moans peppered the air. He had instructed you to lay on the bed, you didn’t move. 

 Your hesitance perplexed him, by the point you had usually given in. Alas, here you were standing in the same place that he had left you. His eyes narrowed as you were challenging his authority. He took a stance in front of you and folded his arm across his chest, the ice glare of his turquoise eyes caused goosebumps to erupt over your skin. His patience was wearing thin, you had never seen him this angry at least not at you.

 “What now?’ His voice was flat and gravelly impatiently peering down at you. Your chest heaved as each breath was heavier than the next. 

“I told you that we have to stop Dabi.” You deified your body calling out for him. This performance wasn’t any more convincing than your last. “ Can you leave?” You managed to choke out with almost no conviction.   

 “This again?” He rolled his eyes. “ Fine, we’ll just have to do this the hard way, Doll.” He said just as his hand seized around your neck. “That’s what I thought.” He chuckled as he threw you onto the bed. 

You didn’t fight back, Dabi glared down at you as you laid on the bed with no further protests. He tormented you for being a slut and making him go through all this trouble, he called it a sick fantasy. Dabi was a sadistic lover and it made sense that he would all of this would just feed into the twisted mind. A feeling of unease washed over you as you thought about what you were doing, playing into his perverted delusions. As much as you’d hate to admit it you were just as sick as he was, enjoying yourself like this.      

He was standing over you while you had assumed your position on the bed, eyes pleading with him. He kneeled between your legs removing your panties and for a moment he just stared at your exposed mound in all its slick glory.  He reached out a finger nuzzling it betwixt your folds reveling in what he’d done to you. The twitching of your clit caught his attention, he said that it was if she was dancing for him. He was purposefully ignoring your needy clit,  causing you to thrust your hips towards him causing your throbbing bud to brush ever so slightly against the bridge of his nose. The sudden contact caused your body to shudder, craving more you buck your hips with even more force. Dabi had grown tired of your impatience, he grabbed roughly grabbed at your inner thighs forcefully pushing you back.

 “For someone that was so set on wanting me out of their life, you are acting a bit desperate now, aren’t you?” He taunted. “ I should make you beg for being a defiant little brat, make you submit to me finally. Maybe I’ll take you with me, this hero school is getting to your head.” He ranted still gripping your thighs. Your feral whines were making it hard for him to hold out.  “ Your pleasure is in my hands and I don’t hear any begging” He cupped his hand behind his ear.  You bit your lip in an effort to hold back your moans and pleas, angering him more.  It worked, he was livid, abruptly he let go of your legs and stood. “Fine, I’ll leave.” He said plainly, making his way to the window.

“Please.” You gasped scrambling to the edge of the bed following after him.  “Dabi... please stay.” You said  gripping at his shirt pulling back toward the bed. He looked down at you viciously before shrugging you off. 

“Why should I?” Dabi said coldly, your facial expression dropped at his words.  You pleaded with him apologizing for your actions. “With all the stunts you’ve pulled today you’re lucky I’ve kept my composure.” Dabi ranted, he was frustrated this dynamic was getting old. Tonight was going to be your last night in the dorms and you hadn’t the slightest idea. He began to unbutton his pants freeing his dick, allowing it to spring up and bounce off of his lean torso. The same one that had violated you so sweetly as you were bent over the armrest of a filthy sofa. “Show me your sorry slut.” He commanded.

You reached out and wrapped your fingers around his dick satisfied with the weight of him. Stroking him admiring the bulbous tip, you hungrily licked your lips as you watched a bead of precum dribble out of the tip. You took him into your mouth, he moaned as he watched his length disappear as you sucked him down allowing him to bottom out. In the back of your throat. 

“Fuck.” He moaned, grasping the top of your head as you bobbed up and down around him. He had begun to thrust his hips into your mouth causing you to sputter and drool.  He shoved himself down your throat savagely, wrecking your throat. Finally, he halted his assault letting you up for air admiring the thick string of saliva that connected the two of you. Looking up at him you could see the lust in his eyes, his gaze was it’s most ferocious as swooped you up laying down on your back, knees parted waiting for him to fill you.

He trailed his length over your slit coating his dick in your wetness before teasing at your entrance. It was apparent that things would go differently tonight, it wasn’t normal the way he was acting. Usually, he would devour quickly as he was a very busy man but now he seemed to want to take his time. At last, he sank into you at a devilishly slow-pace you let out a loud yelp as he entered you fully before withdrawing before slamming into you with no mercy. His hands moved to grip your ankles forcing your legs further apart and his thrusts seemed even deeper than before. Dabi was looking you in your eyes while he penetrated you, he watched your face contort as he pummeled into you.  

He withdrew himself from you and flipped you over onto your stomach. Planting his hands on your hips he pulled your ass into the air, you felt his tongue on your clit sucking and slurping up the juices that flowed out of you. Without warning he rammed into roughly once again picking up a vicious pace, he continued to reach around and grab you neck lifting your head off of the bed he adjusted his grip so that his hand grasped your jaw. The arch of you back deepened and Dabi leaned down to plant a kiss on your forehead. It was abnormal for him to show this type of affection during sex but you weren’t opposed in fact you found your pussy clenching around him. Dabi continued to push you off of him, grabbing your hair to align your face with his pelvis he entered your mouth again.

“Look at you.” He gleamed. “You look so good cleaning up your mess.” He brushed his fingers through your hair while he watched you slobber on his dick. Having had enough he pushed you back onto the bed entering you with a primal force. He pushed himself into you repeatedly hitting your spongy core.

“Yes Dabi, please.” You begged for your release knowing that he’d give it to you. At this point, you were out of control writhing beneath him, your hands searched for something to grasp. At first, it was the sheets, but you had managed to pull them completely off the bed and they were now bunched around the bodies of you and your lover. The next attempts were the pillows but Dabi had snatched them away from you so that you’d end up gripping at his wrists. Your release was close and he could tell by the way that pussy was tightening around him. 

“Cum for me Doll. “ Dabi said before he kissed you. Like clockwork, you came undone beneath him. Seconds later he came himself thrusting harder into you to burry his seed, he let out a throaty groan as the walls of your cunt milked him. He’d never came inside of you before, it shocked you especially considering the be knew you weren’t on birth control. You jumped off of him and watched in disbelief as his seed dripped out of you. “Congratulations you’re gonna be a mommy.” He laughed. “Now get your things you’re coming with me.” He said. 

“What do you mean? “ You spoke with confusion. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“You can either come with me now or wait a few months for your stomach to swell and people to start asking questions.” He said as he zipped his pants. “The choice is yours.” He shrugged. He hoped that his plan would work he didn’t know if you were actually pregnant but may you were shocked enough to take his words at face value. 

“You’re right. “ You said defeated. There was no way to pinpoint what you were feeling, the mix of emotions were bittersweet. On one hand, you were leaving behind everything you had worked so hard for, and on the other, you were going to be with the man that you love carrying his child maybe.    

Ultimately you decided that Dabi was too good to give up as if he’d ever let you go anyways. 

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

Sharp Spikes and Glamour - Fusion AU

Ao3,   MasterPost,   More of This AU

Relationships: Romantic Dukeceit, mentioned Romantic Royality and Analogical. 

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of sex/sexual innuendo, violence against inanimate objects, mentions of injury- for perspective this is Remus-centric, and he’s just like that. Also mild arguing, some self-deprecating thoughts. The Dukeceit fusion uses it/its pronouns (as do I, so no clowning). 

Word Count: 3,992

Remus let himself fall backwards onto the hardwood floor, huffing. A satisfying thump echoed through the empty room, but the dull pain at the base of his skull stopped him from slamming his head down again. If Remus kept tripping over himself when his body was in top condition, he probably wouldn’t do any better with a cracked open skull and shattered vertebrae all the way down his back (however fun that might be).

Schmaltzy music lingered in the room still, and with a snap Remus willed it into silence. Now, Remus hated silence, but in that moment it felt like a blessed mercy in the wake of fucking classical fucking ‘music’. He laid flat on the floor, enjoying the quiet and wallowing in his aching muscles. As disgusted as he was by the orchestral garbage, he liked the dancing that went along with it even less- maybe for the simple fact that he was so very bad at it. 

So, the big question was why he was doing this to himself. Why had he gone through the trouble of making a dance studio in his side of the Mindpalace? Why the hell was he using it to learn waltzes, rather than his usual style of fast-paced and very suggestive movement? 

The answer was simple enough: Janus.

Now, just a month ago, Remus could very confidently say that his and Janus’ relationship was perfect. And it still was, really, but back then he’d been safe in the knowledge that they were also as affectionate and intimate as they could be! Which is to say, very very intimate. Wink, wink, if you catch his meaning. That was the way he liked it; Remus didn’t want there to be a step he hadn’t taken in any situation, but especially a relationship like that!

But then, that month or so prior, a very weird and crazy and impossible and fucking awesome thing happened right in the middle of the goddamn living room, proving Remus unfortunately and/or fortunately wrong about his boyfriend. His brother and his best friend had fused. Like, actually, Roman and Patton had pulled some cartoon bullshit that none of them had ever known they could even do before!

Obviously Remus was floored; everything there was to know about his (and other people’s) physical forms, he knew it and he’d pushed it to the limit before! Except for now, with something he had somehow never found out about that his brother got to first. That was the kicker, that was what made it both shocking and anger-inducing. 

There was no question. Remus was going to learn to do that. 

So, here he was, trying to learn, but he was not good at like, actually dancing. Which would’ve been fine, if he was dating anyone other than Janus- the most elegant, classy, coordinated side of them all! And Remus knew, somewhere in his sick-and-twisted guts, that Janus deserved to have something special, something that wasn’t more fitting in a sleazy nightclub. He wanted to give him that, no matter how hard it was.

Which was much harder than he’d originally assumed, actually. Before Remus knew it, Virgil and Logan had also managed to form a fusion before he had even gotten the hang of a waltz. And those two hadn’t even danced to get it! Wasn’t that just cementing his confidence?

Remus shook his thoughts away with a frustrated growl. He sat up on his knees braced against the ground, scraping his talons down the shiny wooden floor of his horrible, horrible dance studio. He was gonna get this right, because if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a fucking quitter.

Swinging up to his feet, Remus pushed his hair back from his face and fixed it into a tangled mass of ponytail. He brought his arms down, and then back up again, shaking them wildly. When he deemed that job done, he kicked his legs out in much the same way. Seeing as he was the embodiment of energy, he never managed to get rid of all of it, but the wiggling definitely helped his focus. With a huff of finality, Remus settled, stared at nothing, and snapped his fingers. Shitty ballroom music filled the room again, and it took all of Remus’ effort to count his steps instead of willfully vomiting onto the floor.

But he did restrain himself, he kept his focus for once and propped his arms up on the empty air. Under his hold, the very absence of material wavered, shaping itself into something like a person. And so he laid his hands on that, in relatively respectful places, and began to lead the mannequin around the room in choppy movements. It matched him beat for beat, but it could not offer its own, organic responses like an actual dancing partner might- and that was by design.

It was boring, that was the real problem. How was he supposed to get invested if it was the same four movements, over and over! Each new attempt, he got maybe five minutes in before the fatigue hit, the need to do anything more interesting. What was just a couple of twirls, maybe a dip? Janus would still probably appreciate those additions anyway!

None of the flair attempts went well. He stumbled, hit the wall, tripped, all of it. By the end of twenty minutes Remus was waving the mannequin out of existence, feeling frustration pricking the corners of his eyes. What was he thinking, he wasn’t Roman, this was so stupid!

Remus straightened up (ha, ha) and spun around. He made his way to the corner of the room, fell into a crouch, and sunk his claws into the edges of the glossy wooden floor. Splinters bit his fingers, but he barely noticed them as he began to peel back the panels. They came free in a series of crunches and snaps, spitting shards of wood out and revealing the void beneath the ground. Remus held the chunks of flooring, feeling sharp edges digging into his palms, and he shredded them to pieces. When they weren’t much bigger than pencils, he let them fall into the newly made hole. Once done, Remus set his hands on the new edge, and he did it again. 

But, like almost everything he did, the destruction was loud. Shrieking, splitting, crunching kinds of loud. The kind of loud that didn’t go unnoticed. 

And the mindscape was as infinitely big as it was claustrophobically small.

Within minutes there was a sharp knock against the doorframe. Remus jolted upright, spitting out the hunks of plank that had one way or another found their way to his mouth. As he turned, he grinned manically, tucking his hands behind his back. 

Janus lifted a brow at him from across the room. The side stood with one hand propped on his hip, the other raised above his head so that he leaned on the doorway. His mouth was a thin, quietly concerned line, his eyes flicking around in tiny movements as he assessed the situation. 

“This is quite unlike the other rooms you've created,” He observed, clicking the back of his heel on the floor. Remus turned his gaze to the wall just above Janus’ shoulder, discreetly picking the splinters from his hands. In all honesty, this situation wasn’t unexpected- Janus was known to wander around in Remus’ new creations, whenever he wanted to catch his attention- but Remus had been under the impression that when that happened, he wouldn’t be right in the middle of tearing it all down. 

Which had clearly been a stupid assumption from the start, because he was. Himself.

“Hey, J.D.!” he chirped, scraping the last of the rubble from his fingertips, “Thought I might try out something new!”

Janus’ eyebrows arched up, a bemused smirk gracing his lips.

“An empty room?”

“Yeah, but obviously it got boring, so-” he gestured at the corner he’d torn into non-existence. “Time to get rid of it! It was probably a dumb idea, anyway.”

Even to his own ears, his cheery tone sounded forced. He threw in a gargled giggle to make up for it, but that came out even worse. Janus narrowed his eyes in that knowing way of his, then, and Remus knew he’d have to explain himself properly.

“Darling,” Janus slipped into the room with long strides, “What is so wrong that you’re using half-truths to talk to me?”

He wasn’t embarrassed that he’d been learning to dance- he was 99% sure he wasn’t able to feel shame (which was very sexy of him, in his opinion)- but he was upset that he was so disappointed at it. 

He didn’t need anyone’s approval… but he certainly wanted Janus’. 

“It doesn’t really matter,” Remus’ statement rang with honesty. He met Deceit in the middle of the room, his smile challenging, only to be met with calm and patience. 

“I don’t care if it doesn’t ‘really’ matter. I just want to know why my partner was angrily devouring housing material in a brand-new corner of the mindscape.” 

“It’s not that weird, I’ve eaten a lot worse than plywood!” 

Janus huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You’re clearly frustrated.”

“I’m frustrated all the time,” Remus argued, “There are so many stupid things to be frustrated about, you know that. It’s a very easy feeling to have, you get it without even noticing! Like, if it were an injury, it’d be a papercut; everyone has a papercut somewhere on their body most of the time.”

“What?”

“It’s an analogy, I think!”

Janus gave a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Remus felt a small bit of pride at how annoyed he looked, despite the uncomfortable situation he’d gotten himself into. 

“Whatever, if you’re really doing so well I suppose I should spare my worry and save us both the headache.”

“Exactly! See, just because I’m feeling a bit manic-panic doesn’t mean it has anything to do with you, scaleface.”

And that was his mistake. 

Janus stopped turning away as soon as he’d started, his mouth curving into a deep frown. He crossed his arms over his chest, and he almost seemed to be offended.

“You just lied.”

Remus, internally, screamed. He hadn’t even fuckin’ lied on purpose! That couldn’t be fair!

“So it is about me, then,” Janus went on slowly. “Are you angry with me?”

Remus blinked, falling untense oh-so quickly at what he now saw was Janus’ nervous face. 

“Wha- no! That’s not what this is about!” 

Janus only narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Remus grabbed the snake’s hands with his own scarred ones, pulling him near. He felt his hesitation leave as soon as it had arrived, replaced by his usual affinity for just spitting out whatever he had to say. It wouldn’t turn out any worse than having to see his baby hurt or worried. 

“It was supposed to be a surprise. For you.” 

The suspicion melted off of Janus' face in increments, leaving him with a confused little half-smile.

“For me?” He echoed, “What was it?’

Remus huffed, snapping his fingers. The lyricless music returned to the desecrated room, and he gestured around with both hands. 

“It didn’t really work out the way I planned, so,” he rolled his eyes and huffed. “I was teaching myself to dance all proper.”

Remus could basically see Janus’ thinking, and for some reason it was grating him. 

“You want to dance with me? Dear, you know you don’t need to give me traditional romantic gestures like that-”

“It was to fuse!” Remus blurted, “I wanted to fuse with you. Like, properly.”

Janus made a soft sound of realization, his eyes going wide. He was silent for a long moment, holding too-tight onto Remus’ hands. But he had yet to let go, which the creative trait counted as a good sign.

“Oh, Love,” he whispered at last, “You’re really serious.”

Remus would’ve winced, if not for the fact that Janus' face was split in a smile, open and sincere in a way that showed he'd really been caught off-guard. His face was warm, and he looked pleased for all the world. He wasn’t judgmental, then, only surprised.

“Um… yes? I wanna fuse with you?”

Janus shook his head musingly, laughing almost exasperatedly.

“No, no, I understood that bit, but-” he waved a hand at the barren room, smirk growing wider, “Ballroom dancing? You? Really?”

He had a point. The walls were a pristine white, shot through with neat marbled patterns. There were mirrors stretching the surface of either wall, reflecting onto each other with clean clarity. There was no clutter, no objects, nothing but the little box itself. And Remus felt no more frustration as he burst out laughing. He tipped his head back and cackled, tugging Janus’ arms until they were pressed together.

“I don’t know why I thought this would work!” He cackled.

“I never know why you think anything that you do,” Janus’s nose wrinkled as his own resolve cracked, leaving shrill giggling behind. Remus snorted, holding onto his partner just to keep himself upright.

“Sorry, Jay,” he almost wheezed, “There’s no way we’re gonna be able to fuse like this, I’m horrible at it.”

Janus’ giggles tapered to a stop sharply, turning to trills of confusion before cutting off completely. Remus met his eyes, and was surprised to find renewed concern. 

“Now, that’s entirely what I meant by that remark, you aren’t misinterpreting at all.”

Remus squinted at him, at the sudden spout of backwards talk.

“...What?” 

Janus scoffed.

“Of course I don’t want to fuse with you, it’s not like we’re in a committed relationship, or anything.”

Janus got very lie-ey when he was heated; the ferocity had Remus taken aback. 

“Soooo, you… do want to try it with me?”

Janus glared in a very duh-obviously--you-idiot kind of way. Remus might have been annoyed with his little tsundere, but the snake’s grumpy face edged just too much on the endearing side for it to spark any of that. It wasn’t too much of a shocking revelation, he supposed, but when he admitted to failing before it felt pretty final, in his opinion. 

“Uh, Okay! You have to lead, though, and I’m at least 60% sure it won’t work, because like I said I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Janus hummed in satisfaction, his grimace curving up into a smirk. 

“To start, we’ll need a change of scenery.”

Remus nodded agreeably. They couldn’t risk falling into the nothingness pit he’d made, after all- those were very difficult to get back out of and not a whole lot of fun in general. So when Janus held his hand out invitingly, Remus took it, letting the trait transport them to wherever he had in mind. 

But that place was no better than the destroyed dance studio at all. The room they ended up in was also very much destroyed, and cluttered, and generally very slimy. 

Remus’ room. From the corner of his eye, he saw Janus’ lips twitch in amusement. 

“Dear, let me explain,” he tilted his head back just so, making eye-contact with his boyfriend. “We’re going to fuse. It could be in here, for all I care, or somewhere bigger for our needs, but whatever it is most certainly will be a dancefloor. Because we’re not doing this your way.”

Remus made a startled chuckling noise, almost convincing himself that the doublespeak was somehow triplespeak- which just looped back around to ‘speak’, come to think of it. 

“You- that’s a really bad idea.”

Something teasing glinted in Janus’ eyes.

“Aren’t bad ideas your specialty?”

“Yes,” Remus ground his teeth together, “But not yours!”

“Your point?”

Remus breathed exhaled, loud and puffing, as he tried to explain. He wasn’t going to deny the excitement this was all bringing him, but it was hysterical, an almost negative side to enthusiasm. There were so many things that felt needed to be said. To be warned, before Janus made a horribly bad decision for himself.

“My point,” he managed, words heavy in his throat, “Is I don’t think about things, so one of us has to. I want to do this the right way, Jan, this is like the one thing I don’t want to fuck up.”

Janus narrowed his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching down.

“You think it won’t work this way.”

“You like doing things so fancy and dramatically!”

“You called it the ‘right way’,” it was hardly above a whisper, he looked surprised at his own words as he said them. Remus could only scoff.

“Well, yeah! If we do it how I would, then you probably won’t wanna be part of the creature that comes out of that!”

Janus’ pupils went from circles to slivers in no time at all, pain washing over his expression. Remus held his hands tighter and leaned in, ready to apologize for whatever he’d said to hurt him, but he couldn’t get a word in. 

“It’s going to end up more of you than me. That’s what you’re worried about.”

It wasn’t a question. Remus felt some of his usually infinite energy slip away from him. It left a hole behind. 

“I know you, baby,” he was tired, maybe desperate, “You won’t want that.”

“Why shouldn’t I want it?” Janus snapped suddenly, “I’ve already made it clear that I want you. Clearly I must find some of your qualities desirable, why else would I spend nearly all my time with you, around you, thinking of you?”

There was a fragile kind of quietness, broken only by Janus’ hitching breath. Remus found himself blinking and blinking, his eyes stinging like someone was pushing needles into his tear ducts, agonizingly slow. He pulled Janus to his chest, propping his chin on the side’s hat and shivering.

And Remus, to his own shock, had no words. He didn’t have much on his mind at all, knowing only that he felt so much in the moment, so much and so powerful and all serving to remind him why he loved Janus as much as he did.

He wanted to ask more questions, to make sure that Janus was as sure as he said he was, but he couldn’t. His snake was stubborn, would stick to his words no matter how much Remus badgered him, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. He pressed a kiss to the top of Janus head, closed his eyes, and let the emotions wash over him. 

He breathed in, out, and suddenly the second wave hit him in the chest, his eyes forced open.

Or…

It. Its eyes were forced open. Yes, that sounded right.

It stood in the middle of a room- a familiar room, but certainly not Remus’. It was much bigger, the ceiling higher to accommodate the inhabitants height, and much more organized. There was still plenty of clutter, plenty of skulls and bones and preserved creatures, but all in neat little rows on pretty rustic shelves. The place had the distinct vibe of a house belonging to a very ominous, eccentric, wealthy old murderer. Perfect.

The new creature turned its attention to itself, stretching out its limbs curiously. All nine of them, it turned out; seven arms stacked on their torso, four on the left and three on the right, all of which ending in sharp talons covered by gloves. A wicked grin split its face, and it wasted barely a moment before dashing out of the new room and down the hall. It came to the bathroom door, threw it open, and leapt inside. Two hands gripping the basin, it peered at its reflection. Two piercing, yellow eyes peered back, the pupils mismatched in shape and size. Lime-green scales covered its face and neck in splotches, smooth and diamond-shaped.

As its gaze traveled downwards, it appreciated the too-wide mouth filled with dangerous fangs, those snake-like slits up both sides of the face. Its hair was kept pinned back from its face, partially hidden beneath a black, metal crown. It was clearly messy- probably greasy- colored very dark with shocks of silver running through.

The collar of its shirt rose to nearly past its jaw, then plunged down to reveal a lot more of its chest than necessary. Its clothes were almost entirely black, broken up by the lemon/lime embellishments travelling up its arms and around the clasps in the front. The overcoat had long coattails and striped sleeves, ending in cuffs of fabric about the wrists. Moving lower it had very tight pants that did not leave much to the imagination, and boots that were more than a little over-the-top. Finally, there was the cape, hung around its shoulders and reaching floor length. It billowed when it moved even as much as an inch, looking at first like more black. Then the material caught the light, showing a dazzling display of green and yellow, glittering like a perfectly formed geode. 

A laugh sprouted from it, giddy and exuberant. It twirled in the small space, its many hands twisting and toying with its outfit, hair, anything it could reach. From its hazy mind came then came its first intelligible thought, just from its appearance: it was called Rennet.

It stilled, hands hovering in scattered positions. The sharp laughs were quieting, but it still shook like it was laughing. Just shaking in general, probably. The worries of its more excitable half weren’t all gone, not that easily, and it knew it wasn’t yet stable. 

Rennet took a breath, but its head didn’t clear, if anything it grew fuzzier. It was two creatures, two creatures that spent hours and hours inside their own heads as it was, and now both of those over-stuffed brains were in one too-small skull. It could almost feel the weight, leaning heavily on the wall just to keep upright. 

“Should we stop?” Rennet verbalized the question in a thickly accented voice, knowing that otherwise it would never be able to understand the words through the mess of its mind. 

“I don’t know,” it’s tone dropped in pitch, the sharp edges smoother, “Is that what you want?”

But it had barely gotten a chance to be. It couldn’t give up already. 

So what was wrong with it?

“Oh, I don’t know. Everything?” Rennet threw its head back, because of course the worst thought was the only one that ended up audible. It sighed, dragged a hand down its face, shook its head. “Just remember the saying- two wrongs don’t make a right!”

Rennet’s mouth shut with a snap, and it felt quite angry with itself. On behalf of itself. It wasn’t sure, really- the indignation was much like something felt when a loved one was insulted, not when one’s self was insulted. That somehow made the sting worse. 

“You think you’re wrong?” It said in a whisper, clutching its own wrists tight. Rennet knew the answer, though, knew it as it was ingrained into them.

And with that, its resolve sharpened. It was not going to come apart so easily, it would not accept either bits of it thinking anything so bad about himself, and…

Rennet was going to be the sexiest, baddest bitch the Mindpalace had ever seen. That was for damn certain. 

It stood straight up, clapping three pairs of hands together and snapping its fingers with the seventh. It had to bear in mind that it was, for the time being, a giant sparkly monster babe. Now, being sad under those conditions just wouldn’t make any sense, and it intended to keep that thought at the forefront of its newly formed mind. Because Rennet was smart, it’d certainly retained that part of Janus, and it was peppy, if Remus had any part in it at all. 

And, it mused, as it walked through the hall and down into the living room- it was undoubtedly very mischievous.

Taglist: @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob 

[enkelimagnus]

Raised Jewish

Bucky Barnes Gen, 2709 words, rated M for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky's therapy session with Dr Raynor takes a turn for the worse when Raynor starts asking him about his identity.

TW: queer used as a slur, mention of Bucky's 1945 "death", Raynor being the worst therapist

Read on AO3

Part 5 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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

Dr Raynor isn’t nice.

She’s not kind, or sweet. She doesn’t speak the way Sam does when he’s trying to figure out if Bucky’s okay. She’s harsher, more commanding. She seems more used to orders than to niceties, and so is he.

Yet, he can’t stand it.

He can’t stand her. He can’t stand the way she looks at him, with her notebook and her pencil clicking. He can’t stand her questions, and the fact she knows everything he’s talking about. She has access to all his files, the Hydra ones, the Army ones, everything. She knows everything about him.

Why is she asking all these questions? Why is she even pretending to give a fuck? She’s here for a paycheck, and he’s here because he has to be. He suffers through this shit because he doesn’t want to go back to prison.

He spent one month in the Raft after Stark’s funeral. They put him in custody the day after Steve left, and he was there until his trial. It was hell. Claustrophobic and silent and… he has to breathe in deeply whenever he thinks about the absolute despair of that month.

The whole prison smelled like seawater and cleaning products, there was a heavy, unmistakably nefarious bracelet around his left wrist, and the cell was too small. Way too small.

Bucky closes his eyes and inhales deeply, trying to chase the phantom of the Raft’s smell from his nostrils. He gets drying flowers and washed out perfume instead, coming from the vase on the table by Dr Raynor’s chair and from the woman herself. It’s not unpleasant, as far as smells go.

He’s stopped paying attention for a moment, and when his eyes refocus, she’s staring at him with that pinched look that says she’s expecting him to explain what he was thinking about, what pulled him from the session and made him lose focus. She hates when he’s not focused.

He sets his jaw and shifts his fingers in his gloves, hearing leather creak over his left knuckles, and stares right back at her, silent. He doesn’t like talking to her about the things in his head. He’s fought for them too long and too hard to give them to the first person he’s told to give them to.

She’s the closest to a handler he’s had since Colonel Helmut Zemo in Berlin. Or, as he introduced himself back then, Doctor Theo Broussard. What is it with Bucky and shrinks?

“I see our usual conversation isn’t enough to keep your attention, James,” she says. It feels like a reprimand. She says ‘James’ the way handlers said ‘Soldier’. Like it’s a threat.

He stays stubbornly silent. He’s always been the stubborn kind. Hard to get through, hard to break. Much stronger people than Dr Christina Raynor have attempted to break their way into his mind. They had to torture him to do so.

“Let’s change subjects then,” she nods, and pulls her notebook out. Bucky wants to scream. It’s not red, but it feels red.

“I think it’s time we dive deeper into your identity.”

Alarm bells go off in his mind and he freezes. Your identity . What is she referring to? What does she know? There are things that Bucky prays aren’t in the files. Things he never wants anyone to ever find out, especially her. Old instinctual fears of teenagehood suddenly rise and the leather creaks harder, the sound mixing with the wiring noises of the arm. It’s a quiet threat wrapped in a sound, like a wolf’s warning growl.

“Please remember to control yourself, James.”

She’s so very good at reminding him he’s only free because she wants him to be. The second he shows any sort of aggression, he’ll be put back in that tiny cell, with that bracelet and won’t see the sun for the rest of his overly long life. He knows it. He can feel it.

His obedience is part of the deal he made with the government. He has to comply with their demands. And that includes humoring Dr Raynor.

“What do you want to dive into?” He asks, letting his irritation obviously show. She can’t take that from him. He will comply, but fuck them if they believe he’ll do it without attitude.

If she starts asking about his relationships and Steve, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He can’t escape. He’s trapped in this room, with this woman, until she decides that their session is over. This is the price of his freedom.

He can’t tell her, or anyone, about Steve. He can’t do that to him, to his name, to his legacy. He just can’t stain him this way. It’s the kind of secret that has to die with him. Captain America can’t be a queer.

He forces himself to stay still, to not let nervous motions betray his emotional state, and he just waits to see what Dr Raynor knows. The other shoe will drop. He’s just trying to prepare for it.

She drums her pencil against the side of the horrible notebook and exhales through her nose, obviously irritated by his attitude. He just stares back at her.

“I’ve read your files, James,” Dr Raynor starts, the way she does so often. “And you’ve mentioned the word shul some time ago. I’m guessing you did not use it to mean school. You don’t have German ancestry.”

Bucky relaxes a little at that. Alright, it’s not about Steve. He silently thanks anyone who might be listening.

“My mother spoke a little German,” he replies conversationally. From what he remembers, it was only bits and pieces, picked up from growing up in a large city. It was probably mostly Yiddish.

“You were raised Jewish.”

Bucky can’t help the full body shift at that. He bristles. It feels like an attack, like an accusation. It feels ugly and menacing coming from that woman who knows too much. It feels disgusting in her mouth.

What does she want him to answer to that? What does she want from him?

He knows he’s not much of a Jew anymore. He knows what he’s done is too much, too ugly, too against everything he was ever taught. He was taught to save lives even if it breaks religious rules, to take care of people, to be kind and helpful and make sure to do good in the world and all he’ll ever be remembered for is ugly disgusting acts of horror.

He knows all of what he was raised to be is gone. He’s pretty sure it was gone the instant his hand slid on the train railing and he felt himself pulled down by gravity.

That moment where he saw the horror and anguish written all over Steve’s beautiful face. That moment where he knew he’d never see his mother again. His sisters. That moment he screamed in fear but tried to drink in Steve’s face for the last time. As if it could make it less terrifying and painful and lonely.

There was too much time during the fall. Too much time for him to think and feel. I’m going to die alone. He’d wanted to die old with his loved ones or the Chevra Kadisha with him. No one’s supposed to die alone.

The pain had been blinding. Some nights, he can hear his own wails again. Life and death have that in common. The screams.

“James.” Dr Raynor’s voice snaps him back to the present and she still looks pissed at him.

Bucky exhales and his breath is shaky. Panic curls into his bones. He can feel something inside of him tremble and he looks at the window. He could jump through it. Escape it that way. There are no bars on the window, it’s just glass, and it’s only two levels high. It’s doable, easy even. It won’t hurt that badly. He inhales, deep. Ayo taught him that one. Breathing. Focus on your body rather than on the storm in your mind, White Wolf.  

He focuses on his body, but mostly on Ayo. The memory of her is strong and firm in his mind, in the same way she talks and walks. Ayo’s eyes always have weight. The kind of weight - smothering or comforting - depend on how he behaves. He’s trying to be good. He’s trying to be good for Wakanda, for Ayo, and for Princess Shuri and for King T’Challa.

Dr Raynor should be the one helping him, not the memory of Ayo.

He calms down, eventually, and sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a second. There’s a clock ticking loudly. It’s a wonderful sort of noise for him in this moment. It’s rhythmic and predictable.

“I was,” Bucky replies to Raynor’s earlier comment. He was raised Jewish.

In all truth, he was born Jewish more than he was raised Jewish. At least that’s what his father would say. That he was born into a legacy, born into a community. Born to sing songs in age-old tongues. Born with knowledge and strength in his soul.

He hasn’t thought about those words in years.

“You don’t talk about it.”

Why would he? There’s nothing to say. Words and experiences that he’s half-forgotten over the time, that he doesn’t have anyone to share with anymore. Community and family were such important parts of every ritual, and now he’s alone. Completely and utterly alone.

“There’s nothing to say,” he says out loud.

Raynor crosses her legs and leans back in her seat, watching him. “I would expect there’s a lot. You worked for an organisation that was born from Hitler’s government. You spent seventy years furthering nazi ideology and agenda.”

Bucky wants to scream. It’s salt in an open wound. It’s violent. He closes his eyes and tries to keep his cool. He can’t lose it here. He has work to do still, amends to make still, in the free world, and he is so desperate to stay out of prison.

“I know,” he replies. His voice is so tight it might break any second.

He knows. He’s very intimately aware of what he did, what it meant, who he was for seventy godforsaken years. He’s aware that it means he can’t possibly claim that part of his life back. He can’t be a Jew anymore. Not after being a Nazi agent for so long.

Even if he wasn’t actually one, even if he had no choice. He killed people and said ‘Hail Hydra’ and made the world a worse place every day of his existence. His actions are why fascism has such a prominent place in today’s political landscape. He’s responsible for it, for putting people in power, for killing good people. It’s on him. It isn’t his fault. It’s still on him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he tells Dr Raynor, and now his voice is quiet. “Not to you. Not to anyone. Ever.”

How can this part of his life possibly be of interest to the government? Do they think his jewish upbringing means he’s less likely to go back to Hydra and their neo-nazi friends? Do they see him reclaiming that part of his identity one more reason to keep him free? Is it a ploy? Is this going to be used against him, again? Can’t he have one thing in his life that isn’t used by someone else for their gain?

“It could be a way for you to form connections.” As if she gives a flying fuck if he has friends and family. As long as he doesn’t start killing people, comes to his appointments and does whatever the government tells him like a good fucking dog, he can pretty much go fuck himself.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this angry with her before.

How dare she touch this part of his life? How dare she prod him about it, let him know she knows? How dare she take that one thing that no one has been able to touch before?

Even Hydra didn’t know.

They never asked, his dog tags had P on them, and there are a lot of other Americans that were circumcised. They didn’t know.

But she does. The US government does. And he can’t have it be his secret anymore.

“Stop,” he asks, louder than he expected. “Stop, I said no.”

As if that has ever stopped anyone. As if those words have ever brought him anything but renewed suffering.

He doesn’t see her anymore. His eyes are open but he can’t see anything, and he’s panicking and he wants to run so far away. He wants to leave Brooklyn, and leave the US, and disappear and never come back. Fuck his pardon, fuck Sam, fuck everything and everyone, and he can go back to living in Romania and having no name and no handlers and no one.

He stands up suddenly and she flinches. She’s scared of him. Of course she is.

“The session’s not over,” Raynor tells him quietly, calmly, despite her earlier flinch. “Sit back down.”

“No,” he bites back.

He’s trapped, and he can’t actually leave because they’ll put him in prison for it, and he can’t do anything but stand there and shake with barely controlled emotion and try to wait it out. But he doesn’t have to take her orders, and he doesn’t have to be happy about it, all he has to do is be here and answer with more than a grunt.

He can say no. She can’t make him sit down. She’s not strong enough. Physically, anyway.

It takes on average three expertly-trained soldiers to take him down, and that’s when he’s half-starved and in pain. He’s been eating well, he’s clear of any sedative, and he’s not in physical pain. There is no way she can take him down, unless she has a gun. But in this room, if she makes a move for a gun; he’ll snap her wrist before she manages to touch it. She can’t do shit.

“Alright then,” she nods.

He narrows his eyes. She should be mad at him.

She looks down at her notebook and back at him. He stares at her, glares at her, trying to convey that if she starts writing in that fucking book, shit is going to happen. So she doesn’t.

“Why is this upsetting to you?” She asks him, back to her bullshit questions, and it makes Bucky want to punch something, anything. But he can’t.

Everything he has is devoted to controlling himself. His gloves creak again, with the exertion of containing his fists. The prosthetic is loud in the silence, threatening. At least it’s loud to him.

“I said no.”

“So it’s all off limits?”

He nods. “Yes.”

Boundaries, that’s what they’re called. And that part of his identity is behind the line. He thought he was ready to talk about everything that’s in the files, but he was wrong. Not that. Never that.

Dr Raynor sighs heavily, looking away from him. He can tell she’s only pretending, trying to make him feel a little more at ease.

“I need to know about these things, James.”

He huffs. “I’m doing the work you want me to do. I have a quiet life.”

“You’ve told me about the shul already,” Dr Raynor points out.

“Yeah. I did.” And it was a mistake.

He just wants to be left alone. He wants to do his job and be left alone. And she doesn’t get that. She scoffs when he tells her he wants peace and serenity, she needles him about the things he’s not ready to say. He’s pretty sure she’s not a good therapist, and he literally doesn’t have any other experience.

Dr Raynor sighs heavily again, parading her irritation out to him. He doesn’t move.

“Well. We won’t get anywhere today. You’ve won. The session’s over, you can go home.”

You’ve won. He tastes something sour.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and nods at her. There’s no use in dignifying her with much of anything. He mumbles ‘goodbye’ because he was raised right by his ma and calls it a fucking day.

He’s pretty sure he finishes his pack of cigarettes by the time he gets home.

[thirstyhellfirenacht]

The Ciarog Cockwarming Fic

Cia is part of The Conglomerate, a Beetlejuice Mafia AU. For more info visit @beetlebitchywitch, @sofasmut, @realmonsterboyhours @do-ya-hear-that-sound  @monsterlovinghours  @beetlejuicebeadoll

This fic was made specifically to kill @beetlebitchywitch because of our mutual thirst for one (1) Irish Demon.

The Clones belong to @yankyo from their amazing series “Who’s Who?”

Exhibitionism, public sex, cock warming,

----------

It had been months since you had the chance to go and visit Cia at his pub. The other had kept you so busy at home lately that you’d hardly been given the chance to leave the estate. Not that it was a bad thing- there was hardly a lack of entertainment with everyone around. But even with a large manor filled with so many people, it could still feel claustrophobic at times.

Not that being at Cia’s pub was much better in terms of crowds. In fact, the surprisingly small pub held quite a number of people in the small dining area. Out of all the Dons, you wondered how Cia could afford all that he could when it seemed like his Pub, while quite popular, wasn’t quite as... financially beneficial as the others fronts. You had asked him once, but he just gave a cheeky wink and said that after being alive as long as he’d been he was more than okay with a smaller mafia. You suspected that the Fae were involved somehow, but since he liked talking about that even less than the shadier parts of his dealings you decided to leave it well enough alone.

Normally when you visited, you sat at the bar and watched Cia work. He didn’t need to tend to the bar himself, but you got the feeling that he genuinely enjoyed it. Every time you were there he was bustling around and joking with customers and keeping your drinks topped off. He flirted and smiled and could make even the crankiest patron lighten up. Something about Cia just brought people in, even with that invisible wall he often put up to anyone who tried to get too close.

Tonight was slightly different, he had wanted to bring you here on a proper date. He asked you to wear a dress for him- not a completely uncommon request though that was normally when he and Bajo would take you out together. Even when wooing you he was still thinking of ways to tease his husband. But you'd been happy to oblige and had slipped on a flirty dress that Gio had brought you just the other week.

When you two had arrived, instead of taking his place at the bar he immediately started walking you around, introducing you to regulars and showing you off. It was a little embarrassing but the look on his face was so happy that you didn't have it in you to want to hide. He was proud to call you his partner, and you felt proud to be that.

Once he was done, he pulled you into a booth in the middle of the room with a perfect view of the stage ahead. For the next hour his attention was completely on you, buying you drinks and making you laugh. It wasn't often that you got his attention completely to yourself, oftentimes it was a tag-team with him and Bajo so this was very nice.

"This is nice." you commented after a few drinks, leaning against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you easily. "I've missed you." you admitted.

"I'm sorry, leannan." he said, stroking your hair and pulling you onto his lap. "I know things have been busy for me, but I'm gonna make it up to ye, okay? I'm all yours tonight."

You smiled and leaned against his chest, playing with his hair. "I'm all yours too." you replied, leaning into kiss him. Cia kissed you back and ran his fingers along your side causing you to shiver a bit. The alcohol combined with being so close to your lover kept you relaxed and content even if there were other people around.

"Is that a promise?" he asked and you responded with a teasing nip to his neck and a sound of confirmation. "Good." His voice lowered into his chest, and it was at that moment you realized what your words would mean to the man.

Ah, fuck.

A hand slipped up your thigh and under the hem of your dress, tracing your sex over your underwear. A soft whimper escaped your lips at the feeling and you could already tell how amused your lover was.

"Hush now, we don't want everyone here to hear ye do we?" he purred lowly in your ear. You shook your head, but you didn't try to push him away either. The lights in the pub went dim, which almost startled you before you saw a few people hop on stage. Your eyes widened slightly as a few of his clones introduced themselves as the entertainment for the night. Cia had planned this well, hadn't he?

For the first two songs, Cias' fingers simply teased along your panties, stroking over your clit in small circles and occasionally tapping in rhythm with his fingers. Small jolts of pleasure were sent through you as he acted like he wasn't getting your panties soaked from his teasing. Occasionally his hand would stray down your legs and press into the hickies that his husband had left the night before, adding a little discomfort to the pleasure.

Once you were sufficiently squirming in his arms, he slipped your panties off. "Eyes on the stage, leannan." he chuckled. "They've worked so hard for this, so you better pay attention." Easier said than done as a finger slipped into your soaked entrance. Once again he was teasing you, not giving you what your body craved. His finger swapped between very lightly pressing against your g-spot and sliding in and out of you. Occasionally you'd snap back to reality as the drunken crowd around you would laugh and cheek for the clones onstage. It was a blessing and a curse- on one hand the volume of the crowd meant you were allowed to quietly moan and whine but on the other occasionally someone would be facing your booth and you'd have to pretend that you weren't being edged and teased to the point were you were close to begging for Cia to take you to the back room and fuck you senseless.

A firmer press to your g-spot had you biting your lip and a shudder ran through your whole body. "Hold still piseag." he teased, pressing another finger into you and massaging your insides deeply. You were trying so hard not to shake and writhe in his arms as he took you apart with so many people around. Your heart sped up as you made eye contact with another patron for a second, who just smiled before turning back to their friend.

"You're throbbin' around my fingers, piseag." He said in amusement. "Is this excitin' ye? Bein' all worked up while any o' these people could see?" You couldn't even try to deny it as you gave a miniscule nod. At that his fingers sped up for a moment and you let out a sharp gasp, clinging to his arms for a moment as you felt your orgasm approaching. You were so close, and stars danced in your vision as you tried to focus on the band. God it didn't help that Jazz looked at you while on stage and gave you a knowing wink. That nearly sent you over the edge before Cia's hands pulled away, squirming under you.

It didn't surprise you in the least that you felt his hard cock, but it did surprise you when you felt it slowly pushing inside you. Cia adjusted you in his lap, hissing in pleasure as you were seated. Oh god, his cock was inside you with so many people around. You tightened around him at the thought and his teeth nipped at your shoulder in response.

"Sit still." he ordered, holding you firmly on his lap. "And not a peep outta ye." God you wished you had never told these boys about your cock warming kink. First Zhuk on the train and now this. These boys really were going to be the death of you.

For a far too long drinking song, Cia held you completely still, not touching you other than the cock deep inside you. It was torture, you could feel yourself dripping and soaking on him and to make matters worse, you could see the clones occasionally glancing over at the two of you giving you carnal looks. Cia had promised tonight he'd be all yours and you wondered just how much of him there would be.

"I see you starin', piseag." Cia purred into your ear again. "Thinkin' about my clones while I'm inside ye?" You tried to shake your head, but you both knew that was a lie.

"Can't... can't help it." you panted quietly. "They look almost exactly like you."

Another song started, the upbeat tempo had the crowd cheering like made. You assumed it was a very popular song but you could hardly think to remember the name, especially when Ciarog's leg started bouncing in time to the beat. You almost let out a cry of pleasure as his cock bounced against your g spot as he jiggled his leg under you.

"Ciarog.... please" you begged quietly, but he pretended not to hear you- an easy task with all the noise in the pub at the moment. That Irish bastard, he knew exactly what he was doing to you at the moment. You were even begging and he still wasn't letting up. You let out a small frustrated whine as once again you were edged closer and closer to orgasm. You were so close now, closer than you had been before all he needed was to keep bouncing his leg just a little more-

As long as the last song was, this song was as short. You dug your fingers into his pants in protest at the edge, but he didn't seem to mind. After all, his husband had done way worse to his thighs before. The clones thanked everyone for coming before headed over to your booth, all of them piling in and looking at you hungrily. Each of the clones' hair was tipped magenta.

"Did ya enjoy the show, eun òran?" Jazz asked with a shit eating smirk.

"F-fuck off." you said weakly, earning a chuckle from the group before you let out a gasp as you felt something warm and wet begin to lap at your clit. You closed your eyes, rocking your hips forward desperately as that sinfully good tongue was giving you what you'd been craving all night. For a moment the group looked confused before Ren stuck his head under the table.

"Chamie, ye animal get out from under there yer gonna blow her cover!" he scolded, pulling the clone back by the collar. You let out a whine from the loss.

"But she smells so good...!" protested Chamie. "And Boss literally has his co-" Wasp was quick to throw a hand over Chamie's mouth.

"That's 'cause boss knows how to be discreet, amadan." Jazz snapped back quietly.

Ciarog held you tighter against his chest for a moment as he watched his clones squabble amongst themselves. As much fun as he was having teasing you, it was a double edged sword as he was also teasing himself. He was ready to drag you to the backroom and fuck you senseless against the barrels of ale.

"I think she's been good." Ciarog decided, finally dipping his fingers down between your legs to rub slow circles around your clit. Chamie tried to duck under the table again, but he was held firmly in place by the others. Cia had made it clear tonight- he gets first dibs on making you cum.

"Oh god... oh thank you thank you thank you." you whisper quietly, trying hard to look natural even as the clones stared hungrily at you, taking in every twitch and gasp that you gave as Cia's fingers slowly pushed you to the edge. Even when he was giving you what you wanted, Cia was still being a tease- how had he learned to touch you so gently but still keep you headed towards an orgasm. Oh, it was near torture as he slowly built you up as he started an easy conversation with the clones in front of him. Even though they were all chatting, their eyes never left your face, none of them wanting to miss the moment where your eye would roll back.

As you got closer, they moved in to keep you as best hidden as they could from the other customers. They didn't want a stony-faced orgasm from their girl- they wanted something more satisfying. So when you finally peaked from Cia's gentle stroking, you were okay with letting your eyes roll back and letting out a shaky gasp as your dripping pussy clenched around Cia's cock. He groaned at the feeling, rocking his hips into you just a bit to get some stimulation of his own. Oh, he was going to ruin you once you two were alone but for now he let you ride out  your bliss on his lap.

"Piseag mhath" He cooed as you came down. He nodded at Chamie who reluctantly slipped under the table again and helped you put your panties back on, unable to resist a quick taste of your dripping cunt before hand. You shivered at the touch to your sensitive clit before you were removed from Cia's hard cock.

He tilted your head to look at him, and he gave you a soft kiss before pulling back. "Backroom. Now." he said, getting up and out of the booth before offering his hand. "I'm not done with you tonight."

[reeesea]

Something Sweet: Part Nine

~something special~

one ~ two ~ three ~ four ~ five ~ six ~ seven ~ eight ~ nine

pairing: minsung, han jisung/lee minho

warning: mild language, brief depiction of anxiety

words: 3.3k

summary:  3RACHA debuts and they take over the world obviously, and minsung get softer somehow

a/n: literally always shook when I come back and someone has liked one of these chapter. But I’m so thankful to anyone whose read this <3

ao3 link

-------

The dancing trio’s apartment was cleaned and tidied up more than it probably had been in months. The three roommates had luckily found the time to tackle the figurative ocean that was their floor and the piles of clothes, books and shoes that littered it. All in all it was objectively not a large amount of mass but on the minimal square footage they had it made the already tiny space unbearably claustrophobic.  

The living room screen had been flooded up and placed against the wall for the special occasion, allowing the window above Felix's bed to actually stream in light to the rest of the room. Doing a bit of moving around of the furniture had been tiring but it allowed the space to open up and feel a little less like they were stuck living in a small cave, as Hyunjin had put it. Out of all of them Hyunjin had been very invested in the interior design of the room, while Felix and Minho merely humored him, to get the space clean as quick as they could, despite Hyunjins particularities.  

The evening had found them settled to enjoy their newly tidied space with a watch party of 3RACHA’s scheduled debut stage.  

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

“Jinnie, will you get the door by chance.” Minho yelled from the stove. He was busy trying to cook up their rabokki, since a hungry Felix mentioned his craving for comfort food after his audition that morning. 

Getting up, the lanky blonde wandered to the door. “Hyung, were you expecting anyone?” Without an answer he jiggled the knob of their door to coax the door into opening, not bothering to check the peephole as it was nothing more than a literal hole in the door that they had taped over when they moved in. 

“OH hey Hyun-”  Slam.  

A whole Kim Seungmin was standing on the other side of their door, and to say Hyunjin was unprepared to face his long standing university crush of two years is an understatement. 

“HYUNG!!!”

“Yes Jinnie~” 

“Did you just sl-” Minho’s voice was full of a teasing lilt, Felix’s was just simply confused at the loud door slam.

“WERE YOU GOING TO MENTION YOU INVITED KIM SEUNGMIN OVER TO OURS, OR WAS I JUST MEANT TO HAVE HEART ATTACK AND SPEND THE REST OF THE NIGHT A NERVOUS WRECK” 

“Well I invited him over because we are work husbands, but I also had hoped you would actually talk to the boy you've been anonymously pinning over since freshman year” 

“Don't worry Jinnie Suengmin is so nice! And if you're nervous I'll hold your hand.” Felix did cute grabby hands from the couch.

“Lix that kinda defeats the-”

“Hwang Hyunjin, open the door for our guest before I have to kick your cowardly ass.”

Okay Ow. Hurtful! 

Hyunjin knew he was right though and opened the door to a rather alarmed and confused Seungmin.

“Oh hey Hyunjin I thought that was you, I was afraid I had gotten the wrong apartment number.” His smile was so gentle that Hyunjin’s soul may have left his body. 

“Yeah. Nope, I mean yes this is the right place. Come on in! Sorry about slamming it earlier we have some janky door hinges.” Felix giggled and earned him a death glare from the long haired blondie. 

“Oh no problem! I’ve had to deal with my fair share of goofy doors at SU.” Of course Hyunjin nodded, completely understanding, even if he himself had never lived on Seoul University's campus. 

Hyunjin knew Suengmin had spent time as a resident adviser for the dorms. He also knew that he was a business and photography double major, also his current favorite restaurant, cafe, and book. Also not to mention that he was most obviously spending the summer as Minho’s co-worker. Hyunjin had done his fair share of social media stalking to learn more about the boy he had spent a long ass time pining over, as Felix puts it. It definitely wasn't one of his proudest moments, but he couldn't help but admire Seungmin after meeting him during their first year orientation. 

Opportunities to talk to Seungmin were rare, as their majors did not generally intercept plus Hyunjin’s general fear of speaking to the other. It seems Minho, being the attentive hyung he is, found the perfect opportunity for Hyunjin to actually get to know him. Without telling or mentioning it to the now flustered dancer. Damn him. 

“Glad you could make it Seungmo~” 

“God, I told you not to call me that.” Suengmin delivered his usual sarcastic banter toward the older, Felix laughed to himself, quite enjoying watching the drama unfold in front of him. 

“But of course I cant miss a good watch party.”

Although red in the face and ears glowing red from sitting next to Seungmin on their couch, Hyunijin feels light at the atmosphere around him, and smiles fondly toward them. Felix’s whispered “whipped” resulted in a kick to the shins. Minho brought a pot of noodles, rice cakes, cheese, and other toppings to their coffee table. Felix practically let out an inhuman squeal as he moved to grab some of the steaming noodles. 

“Suen-min does aht mean you like thee Racha?”

“Lix chew your food first you fool.” Felix takes a minute to slurp up and finish chewing before restating his questions, but Seungmin responds readily some how understanding the incoherency of the freckled pixie boy.

“Oh Yeah! Vaguely, one of my old friends from high school is Changbin’s brother. So he practically forced me to listen to all their music whenever they released new tracks. I’m really happy for them, but can't say I know much about them as a group other than recognizing a few songs'' 

“Really? That's so cool, I didn't know he had a brother.” 

“We literally met him Felix.” Hyunjin can't help but tease the other for his starstruck state when they first met 3RACHA. 

“He was too distracted by Chan’s smile and Changbin’s biceps to remember that.” Minho smirked.

“Shut it Hyung!” Felix threw a pillow at the older, sending the rest of them into a fit of giggles. 

“You can’t say anything Min-hyung, you're literally Jisung’s boyfriend.”

“I knew it!” Seungmin shouted accusingly. 

“STOP, No god he is not my boyfriend.” 

“Last Friday suggests differently~” Felix ever so casually mentions with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. Seungmin’s eyebrows were raised at his hyung.

“Yeah hyung, you practically never let go of his hand all night.” Hyunjin smirked at his hyung, taking some form of embarrassment revenge on the older.

“Oh my god your kidding! Hyunjinnie you have to tell me everything.” And of course being the whipped man he was, he did, much to Minho’s despair, gladly fueling the other with material to tease thier hyung.

---

“Okay! Everyone! Shut up! ITS STARTING!!!” Even though no one was speaking they all unanimously agreed to comply with Felix’s outburst. The screen showed the hosts speaking from cue cards before a heavy back track flooded the speakers of their small TV. 3RACHA flashed across the screen as did the members' concept images. Felix had already squealed over them earlier in the week when they were posted on instagram (Minho did too but in his room privately). Still the images hit differently as they were broadcasted on television for the whole country and world to see. 

CB97… SpearB… J.One…

Their photos completely embodied their personas and it sent a chill down Minho’s spine in anticipation. The whole world was about to witness the electricity that was 3RACHA performing. 

The scene transitioned into a red lit stage and the three rappers standing in the center of it. The crowd's cheers faded as the beat entered. Heavy bass hitting an addicting rhythm that anyone listening could feel in every part of their chest. And of course because Minho was an unlucky bastard, and Jisung’s rap was first. 

The round cheeked boy with an innocent glint to his eyes and a heart shaped gummy smile was instead replaced with some monster of a man on stage. He hadn't seen them perform since him and Jisung had first met at the Sweet Lotus, and all the memories of J.One and his charismatic flow took over his senses immediately. J.One was on stage in front of him, using every once of his dangerously charming voice to bring in every single viewer’s attention. He uses his tone playfully and masterfully (just to play with his heart apparently, Minho thinks). It wasn't until Jisung ends his verse with a practically growled “zone”, and Chan takes over for the chorus, that Minho realizes he hadn’t been breathing. 

Not that CB97 or SpearB’s verse were going to give him any form of a break either. Chan’s part practically demanded your full attention, practically commanding the viewer to a call to action. Changbins part came in gently but built up to a point where his tone and verse exploded. Booming syllabus matching the booming 808s. The electricity was undeniable. The stage finished all of their voices joining in aggressively and with finality.

 A lone spotlight shone down on them revealing their intense and confident images. Ending fairies full of smirks and cocked eyebrows that left the audience screaming and cheering. 

“Holy shit.” Felix was the first to say anything, but even so they were all left speechless. After their performance of “Zone” no one could deny that they were something big. And Minho had absolutely no doubt in his mind that their three local rapper friends were about to take over the world. The screams from the TV and the cheers after each of their additional songs only solidified it. 

----

“3RACHA WORLD DOMINATION.”

Of course Minho was right, he always was, Jisung definitely knew that by now. But the headlines and the chart topping was all so new and overwhelming to the members it was hard to believe. 3RACHA had exploded practically overnight. Their debut stage had gone viral and hadn't left its place on trending pages in more than a few countries. 

Every day the 3RACHA boys had woken up to more insane news of their accomplishment. Their days are full of constant promo and show recordings for later broadcasts. Sana practically lived in their loft for the week. Their manager’s hours were somehow even longer than theirs and most hours where she was able to sleep it would be on the infamous couch.  

[Lee Minho hyungie]

2:45 pm

We watched your new performance last night!

You guys did amazing

I dont think I’ll ever get tired of listening to the album…

Of course the hectic week of 3RACHA’s debut and all of their new accolades were overwhelming, but Minho’s compliments seem to make Jisung’s heart stutter the most. He would never admit that he had been re-reading all of Minho's messages all week. Their correspondence was lacking due to mainly Jisung’s busy schedule, but the older had kept steady in his messages even if Jisung was largely unable to answer. Minho understood and instead would always send him motivational and supportive statements or goofy selfies of him in various fruit filters, never failing to give Jisung his smile back. 

The week had passed since their debut and Jisung couldn't help but feel light. The three of them had managed to nab some free/rest time for their weekend. Chan was thankfully already taking advantage of it, and had been knocked out asleep in his room since the morning. Changbin was spending some extra time in the complex’s gym, and Sana had finally been given the opportunity to go back to her own apartment to crash. He was so thankful for the small hardworking team he had found himself in. Jisung wanted to make the most of his time as well, and left their apartment for one of his impromptu strolls around the city. Jisung felt light.

----

Minho had taken an earlier shift, trading the weekend dinner wave for the never ending brunch crowd. Thankfully he had gathered a large stack of tips from the rich women tipsy enough from mimosas to slip him a few more percentage points into his pocket. His feet felt heavy from having to stand so long but thankfully he was able to stumble into an empty living room and relax, while the sun still sat comfortably in the sky, basking the room in a warm afternoon light. 

Minho was unwinding peacefully after enjoying his post work shower when his phone rang loudly next to him on the couch. 

[Jisungie is calling]

Jisung never calls him. Worry starts to nip at his insides as he moves to answer the call. 

“Jisung? Hey what's going on?” 

He can’t hear much on the other end but the sound of labored breathing signals that there was a living breathing boy on the other side of the line. 

“Did you mean to call me Sungie?”

“Ye-yes I did. I just needed to call…”Jisung’s voice trailed off, and Minho could hear the boy’s soft hiccups. Worry now rightfully settling to the base of his stomach. He approached the boy on the line gently. 

“Of course, did you need anything?” Jisung took a moment before answering.

“Hyung, I’m scared. There were so many of them outside, and I thought they didn't recognize me at first, but then they started calling my name and kept following me, and I got lost. I think I’m near your place, but i don't want them to find you and I don't wanna go back home. Channie would be so worried an-”

“Hey, hey it's okay baby. Just take a deep breath for me, yeah?” Minho couldn't help but let his protective instinct take over. Jisung was so fragile when he was scared, there isn't anything Minho would do to help him. Jsung was taking steady breaths in and out, and slowly they became more regular. The younger wasn’t crying but Minho didn’t want the other to get anywhere near that state still lost in the city.

“Can you tell me where you are Sung?”

“I-I’m in a convenience store, it's on a corner. I-i think there's a cafe across the street. I think I lost most of them but i'm afraid that there are more.” Minho was already slipping his shoes bringing an extra jacket with him, recognizing the store location. Jisung must mean that the reporters and more aggressive photographers had already tracked down the boys’ location. He lets his angry words for them die in his mouth, opting for a gentler response.

“That's good Sungie, I’m on the way it'll only be a few minutes. Do you want me to stay on the line?”

“Yes please.”

He sounded so small and afraid. It broke Minho’s heart “Okay baby, you wouldn't believe what happened at work today? Wanna hear about that?”

Minho heard something like an affirmative hum from the other side of the line. He kept the one-sided conversation steady so there was never silence. Talking about how Suengmin had somehow been stuck on server duty, and all of his unfortunate run-ins that come from a morning brunch shift. It was easy to keep the conversation light and the focus away from the stress or fear Jisung might be feeling. Minho keeps talking even as he is walking into the convenience store a few blocks from his apartment. 

He finds a startled Jisung practically crouching in on himself in the chip aisle. When Jisung’s eyes finally find him they are wide and stared with the beginnings of tears. Hanging up he holds out his arm, welcoming the other to come closer to him. 

“Hey there stranger, you can come to mine for tonight. That sound okay?” Jisung nods gladly and accepts the jacket Minho handed him, allowing for his obnoxiously orange shirt to be covered into something more inconspicuous. Huddling the sweet boy into his arms, Minho collects their favorite snacks from the shelves and a few ramen packs, and leads them out onto the street, and back to his apartment. The sun setting on the city and the night life awakening, they easily got lost in the crowd.

---

By the time Minho had allowed the worry to die down in his chest, Jisung was curled up in his small bed engulfed in a comforter. Minho had texted an extremely worried Chan about Jisung’s run in with the paparazzi. Jisung had spent a majority of the night not letting go of Minho’s arm, hand, side for even a moment. He remained relatively quiet the rest of the night but Minho was able to pull a few giggles out of the younger. 

Initially Minho was apprehensive about allowing Jisung into their tiny home, but as soon as the boy was in need, Minho’s reservations disappeared. As soon as they walk through the door, Jisungs shoulders relax. 

---

Jisung looked around at the small living room taking in the small bed in the corner and couch, the TV had been left on some mindless program when Minho had rushed to retrieve Jisung. The warm orange light from the setting sun filled the room, adn despite the cramped space and the boys’ overabundance of belongings, Jisung felt warm and at ease. The homey feeling of the apartment was something that he hadn't realized was foreign to him. Sure Jisung felt he had a rather close relationship with his bed back at the loft, but the environment of their place didn't quite compare to the very lived-in apartment he found himself in. 3RACHA had done thier fair share of moving around much to the will of Changbin or his parents, Jisung never minded it though, he was too thankful for their generosity. 

“I like your place Minho-hyung” It was the first time he had spoken since they arrived. Minho flashed him a relieved smile.

“My home is your home now then. Well mine and the other two mongrels' home is yours now too, but they're working late tonight so you're stuck with just me '' Jisung smiled. Minho couldn't help his heart from tugging. 

---

They had spent the night with instant ramen and an over abundance of snacks as they watched videos in Minho’s bed. Jisung fell asleep early, exhausted from his earlier tears and general low energy from the busy week’s drain. Minho moved to make sure Jisung was comfortable, before moving to get washed up for the night. He felt a small fist grab his shirt as he got up. 

“Where are you going?” Jisung had his wide puppy eyes on full display, apparently not asleep at all. 

“Just to wash up Sungie.”

“Will you come back to sleep with me after?” In any other situation the words may have seemed provocative, but with Jisungs sleepy gaze it was only endearing to Minho. Not like Minho would deny him a night in his arms anyway. 

“Of course baby, i'll be right back okay” Jisung let go of his shirt accepting his answer. Minho wasn’t a fool and could feel his heartbeat quicken with being so near to Jisung, but more than anything all he wanted to do was allow the younger to sleep in his arms as comfortably as possible. As soon as Minho rejoined the bed, Jisung had already moved to burrow his head into Minho's chest. If Minho could be even more endeared at the cuddly nature of Jisung, he was fully at the will of him now. 

He was a goner, but that wasn’t news to Minho when it came to his affection for the boy in his arms. Wrapping his arms around the younger's tiny waist he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of his head. 

“Goodnight Jisung” 

I’ll always protect you.

---

one ~ two ~ three ~ four ~ five ~ six ~ seven ~ eight ~ nine

[bubonickitten]

TMA fic: where there’s a will, we make a way

New chapter is up on AO3 here!

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 11 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 11: mild self-harm (brief instance of wrist banging/bruising to distract from intrusive thoughts; mention of scratching/skin picking); some Buried-related claustrophobic memories; mentions of Jon starving himself (wrt to consuming statements, but worth mentioning for anyone who needs content warnings related to eating disorders, restrictive diets, etc.; there will be more going forward of Jon being hungry and restricting himself, and I'll keep warning for it, especially in chapters where it features heavily). SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 11: Reaching Out

The tunnels are as ominous as they’ve always been, but at this point, Jon just might be growing accustomed to them. The creeping fear he’s always felt down here has faded to the background – an ambient sense of dread. It's almost tolerable, or at least less oppressive than the omnipresent sense of being watched that he’s long since accepted as his normal.

Here, he can compose his letter to Martin without the risk of Jonah Seeing exactly what Jon’s eyes see.

After the Watcher’s Crown, Jonah did not Watch through Jon’s eyes anymore. Whether that was because Jon was stronger than Jonah at that point or because Jonah did not bother to try, Jon doesn’t Know. Once the ritual was completed, Jonah no longer had any stake in Jon’s trajectory, no need to monitor his progress or ensure his survival. Moreover, Jonah’s inflated ego never allowed for the possibility that Jon could pose a threat to his reign. His Archivist – his Archive – had no further interest to him except as a source of entertainment, and he didn’t need to See through Jon’s eyes in order to behold the show. He could See all of creation from the Panopticon.

Jon is stronger now than he was the last time he was here, but he’s still nowhere near as powerful as he was during the apocalypse. He’s tried to Know how he measures up against Jonah now, but the Beholding seems intent on withholding that knowledge from him. Last time he made an attempt, the Eye treated him to a litany of statistics about the interactions between the human body and the venom of various species of spider.

Sometimes Jon thinks that if the Beholding is sentient, it might just be the pettiest of the Dread Powers.

In any case, Jonah Magnus is still as much of a gnawing question mark as he’s always been. It’s safest to assume that he has the advantage until proven otherwise – and Jon will take the tunnels over Jonah’s voyeurism any day, no matter how harrowing they may be. Even if he has to be down here alone – which he is.

Georgie is with Melanie, and Jon is reluctant to ask Basira for any favors right now. He wonders again if this is how Martin felt, living in the Archives, spending sleepless nights with himself and the scratching of a pen as his only companions. Just like Jon, Martin was never very good company for himself, especially back then – and back now. He was primed for the Lonely long before he started working at the Institute.

Speaking of which…

Jon sighs, puts his pen down, and begins to read through what he’s written.

I’m sorry I left you.

…now I’m here, trying to explain things –

– had changed since he left –

– it seemed he was alone –

– as far as I could tell, all alone in the world, and rather unhappy about the fact.

I will admit to taking a dislike to the man when I first met him – but –

– I’d say that – was a foolish act of past me.

Jon is still worried about starting the letter like this, but this is a point in time not too far removed from his early mistreatment of Martin. Jon had made his apologies and explanations at length in his future, but this version of Martin hasn’t experienced that yet. Jon can’t just jump into showing affection before taking accountability for his past behavior – recent past, from the perspective of this timeline.

He can only hope that Martin will read through to the end, and that Jon’s intention – his sincerity – will be understood.

Soon I was giving my account as a full confession –

– trying my best to fit this into a relatively coherent narrative.

It’s plenty of things I’ve done I couldn’t explain to you. I mean, I’m constantly – looking back at my past self and thinking, what an idiot. How the hell could he have done such an obviously stupid thing? How was I surprised it went so badly? What a relief I’m now so much older and wiser.

I’ve never really been the social type – I’ve always just been happier alone. Well, maybe happier isn’t quite the right word. I did get a bit lonely sometimes. I’d hear laughter coming from other rooms in my building, or see a group of friends talking in the sun outside, and maybe I’d wish I had something like that, but it never really bothered me – I didn’t need another people and they certainly didn’t need me.

Jon looks down at the words with a dissatisfied scowl. Does this come off as too self-centered? As more as an excuse than an explanation? This would be so much easier if he could just say what he means. Then again, Jon’s always struggled with discussing emotional matters, hasn't he? He can’t blame it all on the Archive.

These thoughts, these feelings were always in my mind – until – I realized the deeper truth of it all.

I tried to put it into words, but without any real success. Even here, with the time to compose it properly, I’m not sure I’ve caught the essence of what I felt –

– I had a look through my library, and couldn’t find anything that matched it –

– those are musings for poets, among whom I do not number –

– it’s all very well to say ‘write down what you saw,’ but what if you don’t have the words?

I suppose I’ll just have to try.

I’ve always been more comfortable alone –

– had few friends – reluctant to make the sort of connections that might lead to –

– the prospect of being genuinely loved –

– fully and completely known –

– having people be genuinely lovely to me, I didn’t know what to do with those feelings –

– I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone.

It is the fear of being watched, and judged, and having all your secrets known.

Ironic, in some ways –

– being what I am –

– an Archivist pleading for knowledge –

– to feed the sick voyeur that lurks in this place.

Eventually, I opened my eyes –

– feeling absurd about how terrified I was about being seen –

– kicking myself for having been so stupid –

– it wasn’t natural for people to live in isolation – we were creatures of community by nature.

Soon enough, I could no longer fool myself –

– the man I loved –

– who was by all accounts such a kind and gentle soul –

– when I – saw him standing there waiting for me – I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than in that moment.

He spoke words I thought existed only in my heart, and I loved him as the soil loves the rain –

– and it seemed he felt the same way –

– and together it seemed like we would get past our pain.

Everything about being with him felt so natural that when he told me he loved me, it only came as a surprise to realize that we hadn’t said it already.

…to say – “I love you” – honestly it’s one of the few decisions I’ve ever made that I completely understand.

It’s… woefully inadequate. Too devoid of context. Unlikely to reach Martin through the fog. But maybe it will be enough to at least convince him to talk to Jon. To keep the Lonely at bay, at least for now.

After leaving the hospital, the next thing that is properly clear in my mind is –

– I need him to be okay.

I couldn’t see him or hear him –

– I didn’t even get a chance to speak to him – asked what had happened, he was just gone. And I was alone again.

I wanted to say something reassuring, to reach out and let him know I was still there –

– I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed.

I think he might be part of something really awful, and I don’t know how to make him see that – of course I did worry. I knew that, secretly, he was as well.

I know how that sounds – but – I ask you to read on.

For a split second, the memory of the ritual flits through his mind – Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading … – and Jon brings his wrist down on the side of his chair, hard. The pain jolts him out of the recollection and brings him back to the present. He watches halfheartedly as the discoloration fades before his eyes, frustration with his overreaction itching in the back of his mind. Stupid.

With a longsuffering sigh, he rereads the previous section again. The borrowed words sound patronizing, without the qualifying context he wishes he could provide more explicitly. He isn’t just nitpicking – it’s crucial that Martin knows that Jon isn’t underestimating him, despite a history of doing exactly that for far too long.

The first time around, he trusted Martin – more than he trusted anyone, including (perhaps especially) himself – and even knowing what he knows now, he doesn’t regret it. He heard the tapes.

“But if I could just explain,” Martin had said.

“And how do you think Jon’s going to react to that explanation, hm?” Peter had replied. “You think he’ll accept it calmly? Come through with a well-considered, rational response?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Or would he assume he knows better than you and do something rash?”

“I don’t like being manipulated.”

“That’s fair. But I’m not wrong.”

“No.”

In Jon’s original timeline, he had proven Peter wrong. He had trusted Martin, respected his boundaries, followed his lead. This time, though… Jon won’t be able to demonstrate that with non-interference, and not being able to use his own words doesn’t help him explain that this isn’t just another instance of Jon just assuming he knows better than everyone else, that he actually does have special knowledge, and – well, truthfulness aside, that sounds condescending, too, doesn’t it?

He doesn’t blame Martin for agreeing with Peter. For a significant portion of Jon’s life, it would have been a fair assessment. He didn’t trust people. He didn’t trust himself, either – not really – but at least he knew his own intentions. That bone-deep fear of being manipulated, of being rejected, of not having control… it never played well with the concept of trust.

And when they first started working together, Jon made no secret of his knee-jerk judgment of Martin as being incompetent, clumsy, and unreliable. In retrospect, he couldn’t have been more wrong – and he knows now that he was only seeing what he wanted to see, projecting his own insecurities and fear of failure onto Martin to distract from his own floundering.

After learning that Martin had lied on his CV, Jon readjusted his initial opinions. He was impressed. Martin was remarkably capable for someone with no prior qualifications, no experience, no degree. What he lacked in experience he more than made up for in effort. He was clever, and resolute, and dependable, and genuine, and… and god, wasn’t Jon a fool for taking so long to notice? And then for never saying as much until it was almost too late?

This version of Martin hasn’t heard that apology just yet – or the corollary apology for waiting so long to apologize. Georgie had told him years ago that he needed to use his words, that people needed to hear directly that they were acknowledged and appreciated. Jon himself struggled with reading between the lines. Just because he had low tolerance for receiving direct praise – despite craving it deeply – didn’t mean that other people had the same hangups.

He’s since taken that advice to heart, but he should have done sooner. Georgie had been right about a lot of things.

Jon did eventually say as much and more, during those brief few weeks they had in the safehouse. Peter hadn’t been all wrong when he questioned how much they really knew one another. Between Jon’s early irascibility and the distance he felt obligated to keep given their employee/boss relationship; between preventing apocalypses and being in such constant life-or-death peril that it started to feel normal, so normal that Jon didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t being chased or held captive; between the coma, and descending into inhumanity, and the Lonely… they hadn’t had a chance to get to know each other outside of a crisis situation.

Jon didn’t even know himself anymore. He wondered if he ever had.

For the first time, they finally had the time and space to remedy that. Both of them were changed and would never be the same, but they had each other. They were both willing to put in the effort, to learn how to communicate and accommodate and navigate boundaries, despite neither having much experience with a healthy relationship. And for a little while, it had seemed that they could both learn how to be present in the world again – starting with their own microcosm, one day at a time, encouraging one another to be more patient and kind with themselves.

It wasn’t fair, how abruptly that hesitant, hopeful attempt was stolen from them. Jon didn’t feel like he deserved comfort and contentment – he still doesn’t – but Martin… Martin deserved – deserves – to be safe and cared for and loved. Martin deserves to be happy.

Jon desperately wants to help him See that.

Don’t… misunderstand me, please –

– I trusted his instincts almost as much as I trusted my own.

More than I trusted my own, Jon amends in his head – but the Archive isn’t cooperating.

But I knew that I – knew the future –

– the promise of secret knowledge, of seeing something that no one else was privy to –

– there was – a lot – we were missing.

Please. All I ask is that I be allowed –

– a chance to express myself –

– said something about knowledge being a good defense here –

– so here I am, pouring out my lunatic story on paper in the hopes that you might eventually read it.

Statement of Georgina Barker regarding –

– travel through time.

Jon still has to ask Georgie if she can explain the situation to Martin, but he doesn’t think she’ll mind. It won’t be as comprehensive as Jon wishes it could be – he still struggles with explaining the fine details of the apocalypse to the others given his current limitations – but he’s done his best, and he can trust Georgie to do the same.

Some fears can only be endured for so long. I remember every second of that fall. Like it was happening in slow motion. I was certain I was about to watch him fall like I had.

That knowledge I had gained – could finally be put to use.

I shall do my best to explain, and hope that any revelations contained here in me sway you from the path you have started upon.

I wanted to tell him to stop, to warn him – because I knew –

– the Extinction – while I have seen evidence of its influence in other powers –

– there was no sign of – imminent arrival – I resolved –

– its emergence as a true power of its own –

– wasn’t a threat.

Whatever he was planning –

– to try and rescue those trapped –

– trying to protect me –

– defending the world from the darkness…

…I know – to talk to other people about it –

– desperately wishing for another human being to talk to –

– to take too much comfort in – people – would go quite strongly against the spirit of the experiment – had to really feel alone. That at least didn’t take too long to set in.

All that remained was the fog – could wander there for years, and never meet another – utterly forsaken – there seemed to be no end to it.

But it didn’t need to be forever, did it?

“This too shall pass.”

I tried to explain but all I could manage to get through the shaking sobs was, “I love you.”

By then it looked like he was on the verge of tears,

Jon stops reading for a moment, realizing that, aptly enough, he’s on the verge of tears right now. He swallows them back and continues.

By then it looked like he was on the verge of tears, but I couldn’t leave it alone – just couldn’t let it go.

I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand. And now I stare at it and not a word of it is even enough to fully describe the fact that –

I cannot lose him.

I – cared deeply about his well-being.

I know he didn’t deserve what happened to him.

He deserved to –

– to be – beloved –

– cared for – trusted –

– being wanted and appreciated –

– being genuinely loved –

– no matter how wrong it might feel –

– when you’re at your lowest point, when you’re your most emotionally vulnerable.

I need him to be okay –

– and the world is so much better for –

– the easy, charming man I’d fall in love with –

– being in it.

Please. All I ask is that I be allowed to –

– talk to you, before it all comes to an end –

– and I swear to you that –

– if you decide to do it – if –

– you want to be alone – and –

– didn’t say much to me after that –

– I made sure to keep – distance.

There’s so much more Jon wishes he could say; so much that he wishes he could say in his own voice, rather than the stolen words of survivors recounting the most traumatic moments of their lives. It still feels perverse, to use their statements like this. It might not be as bad as feeding directly on a victim, but it still falls on a spectrum of appropriating the torment of others for his own use.

At the end of the day, it really doesn’t feel all that different from Jonah’s brand of dehumanization. It’s just one more way Jon is complicit in the evil that thrives in this place –

“Hey,” comes Georgie’s voice from just a few yards away. Jon startles, sending his pen clattering to the floor. He had been so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t even heard her descending the ladder. “Sorry,” she says with a wince. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Retrieving the fallen pen, Jon waves the apology off – it’s okay – and Georgie comes to sit next to him.

“Finished with your letter?”

“…I’m vague on the details,” he says. “I have to be.”

“Want me to take a look?”

Jon nods; he had been planning on asking her to read it through. Even if it was in his own words, he would likely run it by her. He trusts Georgie’s judgment regarding relationship matters far more than he trusts his own, and he knows she’ll be straightforward with him if he’s said something… well, stupid. He’s gotten better at communicating, but that doesn’t mean his tendency to put his foot in his mouth has disappeared entirely.

He jiggles his leg restlessly as she reads, increasingly self-conscious the longer the silence goes on. He resists scratching at his hands – Georgie is sure to reprimand him if he starts that up again. It isn’t that she has a problem with his fidgeting; she was actually one of the first people in his life to tolerate it. Encouraged it, even. She pointed out quite bluntly once that whenever Jon tried to force himself to sit still, his restless energy didn’t go away, it just came out as waspishness instead.

But she had a rule: no self-harm, no matter how mild. Personally, he didn’t categorize the scratching as self-harm, but she was firm about it. Lately, the scratching is limited mostly to his burned hand, and he’s tried explaining to her that it doesn’t even hurt – the scar tissue doesn’t register much sensation anymore – but she won’t hear it. For the past couple weeks, whenever she catches him at it, she gives him a look until he stops.

“I think it’s good,” Georgie says. “But…”

Jon tenses, but then he glimpses Georgie’s playful grin.

“It’s nothing bad! It’s just… well…”

He can hear the spark of mischief in her tone and somehow that makes him more apprehensive than the prospect of criticism.

“See, you say you’re not a poet,” she says, pointing at the letter, “but this part here…”

He spoke words I thought existed only in my heart, and I loved him as the soil loves the rain –

– and it seemed he felt the same way –

– and together it seemed like we would get past our pain.

“You go and use a sappy metaphor – and I know,” she says, seeing him ready to protest, “they’re not your words and you’re using what you have available.”

Yes, he wants to say, and my vast library comprised solely of people’s retellings of their supernatural trauma isn’t exactly forthcoming with declarations of love, Georgina.

“But,” she says, goading now, “then you go and rhyme the first and last lines.”

Jon squints at the letter, and…

Fuck. It does rhyme.

He moves to snatch the paper away and Georgie stands and holds it out of reach, dancing backwards.

“No, nope, absolutely not,” she says, laughing. “Jonathan Sims, I refuse to let you change it. You’re leaving it exactly as is.”

“…being used against me in a cruel joke,” he huffs, glowering at her – but her laugh has always been infectious, and he can’t fight it as his lips twitch into a smile.

She hands the letter back to him after a minute, still grinning when she takes her seat again.

“I’m teasing you. You can change it if you want, but I think it’s adorable and you should leave it. Besides, Martin’s a poet, isn’t he? He might get a kick out of it.”

Honestly, it doesn’t bother him enough to rewrite the entire thing. And if there’s a chance of it coaxing a smile out of Martin…

“On a more serious note – this part here, ‘statement of Georgina Barker’ – I’m assuming you want me to try to convince him that you actually are a time traveler here to stop the apocalypse?” Jon nods. “Probably easier than trying to write it all out. I don’t mind, but are you sure he’ll listen to me?”

Jon shrugs. He has the same worry, but…

“As for myself, I must cling to –”

“– that most insidious of emotions: hope.”

“Somehow both unexpectedly sappy and predictably ominous,” she replies, “but I’ll take it. Better than despair, anyway.”

Despite the light teasing, the smile she flashes is genuine. Fleeting, though, as she continues.

“Oh, and one more thing – that one bit, capital-E Extinction? One, don’t like the sound of that, and two – should I know what that is? Melanie hasn’t mentioned anything like that before.”

“I’m sorry – it won’t let me say the words,” Jon says with a frustrated sigh.

“Will Martin know what it means, though?” Jon nods. With any luck, Martin can be persuaded to fill the others in on it. “Good enough.”

She watches him for a few moments as he chews at his thumbnail, leg still shaking, staring at the floor.

“Something’s on your mind.”

Jon sighs and closes his eyes.

“I could feel hunger gnawing at me.”

“You still haven’t had a statement?” Georgie says, frowning at him.

“Something he could salvage from the whole situation,” he mutters, not looking up at her. “Just a way of getting some control over his life, you know?”

“Jon, you can’t just starve yourself –”

“Running was pointless,” he agrees sullenly. “To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do –”

“– some hungers are too strong to be denied –”

“– you have to feed it – or it will feed on you.”

“So why haven’t you?”

“Even as I did so, in the back of my mind I hated myself –”

“– to feed the sick voyeur that lurks in this place.”

“I’m not saying you should… go hunting, or whatever you want to call it. This is an archive, there are plenty of statements lying around.”

“…you’ve got all this… all these people’s experiences listened to and filed away.”

“Right. They’re already given. They can’t be taken back. You’re not going out and hurting people, you’re just… reading what’s already here.”

She thinks he was just agreeing with her, he realizes – she didn’t comprehend his true meaning there. How could she have? He hasn’t properly explained to them that he is the Archive. He already Knows all of the statements housed here. Old statements were stale even when he hadn’t read them yet. Now, they’re even less fulfilling.

As a child, he hated reading anything that he felt like he had read before. It seems morbidly fitting that the Archivist in him is much the same way.

“Think of it like… like harm reduction,” Georgie is saying now. “From what I can gather, abstinence just isn’t an option for you, at least not right now. The next best thing is to meet yourself where you are. Even if you can’t stop, you can still take steps to minimize the harm – and that includes harm to yourself. Reading the statements that are already here – I think it’s justifiable, if the alternative is starving to death.”

“I am not sure how long this might continue for. Maybe years. Maybe forever.”

“Maybe. But right now, you need to take it one step at a time. You’re getting ready to hurl yourself into danger. You should be at full strength for that. If you aren’t going to sleep, you at least need to eat something.”

She has a point. There is one other concern, though.

“It seems I cannot avoid the ceaseless gaze of – Jonah –”

“– still there, still watching me –”

“– eyes were always focused on something, always watching. And – I always felt afraid –”

“– being under constant scrutiny and observation –”

“– it may be worth your while to keep an eye on the statements – in case he finds his way here –”

“– my mind has always been receptive to the thoughts that lurk in the written page –”

“– that throw out strange or sometimes even dangerous things –”

“– a simple ruse or deception –”

“– quietly waiting for you to lose your footing, to slip up and fall.”

“You’re afraid of getting tricked into reading the wrong statement again.”

Jon nods, not quite meeting her eye. All of the statements housed here are already catalogued in the Archive. He can recall them on his own word for word, if he concentrates. But something about that doesn’t feel right. Physically reading the statement, speaking it into the tape recorder… it’s like its own little ritual – like there’s an order of operations that has to be followed or it doesn’t count, somehow.

“…I outlined basic checks in due diligence –”

“– checking and double checking –”

“– before I finally felt safe enough –”

“– to read a statement – hitting record and speaking it aloud.”

“Well… we can probably vet them before giving them to you?”

“…they were also there as a backup in case something went horribly wrong – in case –”

“– it tried to read me back.”

“Okay,” she says after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll let Basira know.”

Her expression is concerned, but there’s something else underneath it. It doesn’t seem like judgment, or suspicion, or any of the other reactions he’s come to expect when discussing his reliance on the statements. It’s definitely not fear; this is Georgie. Pity, maybe?

Whatever it is, it makes him feel small and exposed and uncomfortably seen.

“Jon, look at me.” He does, with hesitation. “I know things are bad, and I’ll admit I was skeptical when you first said you wanted to change, but based on what I’ve seen over the past few months? I believe in you. It’s okay to have a little faith in yourself, too. I think you’ll need to, if you want to get through this.”

His gaze drifts to the floor, self-conscious.

“Anyway, it's probably best that Elias doesn’t see us pre-screening statements for you, right? Might make him suspicious. I can just gather a box of them and bring them down here. I’ll bring Basira with me, and we can explain the situation.” She stands and starts to walk toward the ladder, then stops abruptly. “Wait.”

She does a half-turn, not quite facing him, watching the floor pensively.

“I don’t know what I’m looking for. Is there something particular – like, do you have preferences, or – are there… nutritional requirements or something?” Jon can’t help it; he smiles at the absurdity of it all. “Do you need variety? Does a balanced diet even apply in this –”

Realizing he isn’t replying to any of her questions, she finally looks up, sees his amused smirk, and pauses mid-flustered gesture. He chuckles softly and shakes his head, mortified by the idea of cultivating a preference for statements as if choosing from a menu, but also just a bit shamefully, morbidly endeared at her thoughtfulness.

“Well, I don’t know!” she says indignantly, but she grins back. “Fine. I’ll grab a bunch at random then, and you can just deal. Ass.”

God, he missed this easy, playful banter even more than he had realized.

Jon watches as she climbs the ladder, preparing for the customary anxiety that tends to hit him whenever she leaves his presence – that conviction that it will be the last he sees of her.

When she pulls herself up through the trapdoor, though, he’s pleasantly surprised to note that the fear doesn’t come. He’s even more surprised that a half-hour later, when Georgie sends Basira with a box of statements but doesn’t accompany her, the fear still doesn’t overwhelm him. It shouldn’t be that surprising – he does trust Georgie – but intellectually understanding something isn’t the same as emotionally assimilating it. It seems that for once, his emotions have caught up with reality.

“Melanie needs company right now, so Georgie couldn’t come with. She didn't say exactly what you needed help with, but I think I have an idea.”

“…to keep an eye on the statements –”

“– they were also there as a backup in case something went horribly wrong.”

“Figured as much. Anyway, Georgie said she’ll come see you before she goes home today.” Basira drops the box on the floor in front of him. “I told her you probably wouldn’t want her present for the statements anyway. No need to expose more people to them if we can help it. I thought you’d agree.”

Jon nods, thankful that Basira is on the same page and he didn’t have to bother explaining it himself.

“So, any stand out to you?”

May as well get it over with, Jon thinks with a heavy sigh.

He leans over the box and sifts through them, eyes skimming over the case numbers until one catches his eye. CASE #0020312, the label reads. Figures, he thinks to himself with a grim, humorless smile, and he hands it over to Basira for her to inspect.

She skims through it quickly – she’s a fast reader, Jon notes – and at several points her eyebrows raise and furrow.

“Seems normal enough – for a statement, anyway,” she says, handing it back to him. Then, meeting his eyes: “A bit on the nose, though.” Jon shrugs. “You want me to stay while you read it, right? Go on, then.”

The tape recorder clicks on in his pocket, as if to voice its agreement. Jon removes it and takes a moment to glare at it before turning his eyes to the statement, clearing his throat, and beginning his monologue.

“Statement of Tova McHugh, regarding their string of near-death experiences. Original statement given December 3rd, 2002. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins…”

The Coffin sits where Breekon dropped it, hungry and waiting. It’s the densest, most solid thing in the room, as if it has its own gravity, a sort of metaphysical black hole. It’s not as bad as the rift at Hill Top Road, but it has a similar feel to it: oppressive, wrong, its existence impossible but unavoidably present all the same.

Jon stands at the threshold, blocking the entrance, Basira and Georgie standing behind him.

“So this is it, then,” Georgie says. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

“…as you can imagine, getting out of there proved – difficult –”

“– but they did return.”

She still looks uncertain, watching the Coffin as if it might move on its own.

“…try to keep you far away –”

“– didn’t want a good look inside that room – stopped at the threshold –”

“– make it very little distance over the threshold before – swallowed –”

“– you must trust me on that and not come looking –”

“– supervise from a distance –”

“Jon,” Basira says, cutting him off, “we get it. It’s dangerous, stay away, et cetera. I can feel the compulsion from here; you really don’t need to tell me twice, let alone five times.”

Jon barely hears her, his mind already entirely occupied with what he’s about to do. He stands paralyzed, knees locked, hands trembling just slightly, pulse thundering in his throat. Already his breath feels constricted, and he hasn’t even opened the thing yet.

“Do you need more time?” Georgie asks gently.

Jon shuts his eyes, swallows around the lump in his throat, and shakes his head no. The longer he puts it off, the harder it will be to take the plunge. And Daisy has waited long enough.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Jon breathes out, opens his eyes, and turns to face her. She opens her arms slightly, offering an embrace – but he shakes his head, giving her an apologetic look. Pressure is usually good, grounding him, but right now – well, he’s about to have all of creation pressing in on him, and any reminder of that is only going to send him spiraling.

“Okay. You have everything you need?”

He nods, trying to project whatever thin veneer of confidence he can muster – more for himself than the others, really. He holds up the tape recorder with Daisy’s statement tape in it, then gestures vaguely at the tape recorders littering his desk.

“…like breadcrumbs taking us home. Home, in this case, was –”

“Martin,” Georgie says with a knowing smile. “I’ll make sure he gets your message – and yes,” she says, seeing him about to interject, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t read it outside the tunnels. And I’ll explain… the situation. Don’t worry about things over here. Just focus on what you need to do on your end.”

Jon nods again, clenching and unclenching his fist at his side, stuffing the tape recorder back into his pocket with the other hand.

Time to stop dithering, he tells himself firmly.

“Tell Daisy I –” Basira blurts out, then pauses, struggling for words. “Tell her…”

She breathes out a short exhale and looks up at Jon. He nods at her: I understand.

“Tell her I’m waiting.” She pauses, biting her lip. “And Jon?” He makes a questioning noise. “Come back safe,” she says, then turns on her heel and walks briskly away down the hall.

“We’ll see you home soon, Jon,” Georgie says. She pours every ounce of reassurance into it that she can manage, but he can feel that she’s still apprehensive. “Don’t get lost.”

“…I’d – get out of there as soon as possible,” he says, trying to mirror her composure.

“You’d better. I doubt I’ll be the only one cross with you if you stay away too long.”

The tape recorders fill the room with a low, static-leaden murmuring – dozens of overlapping tones, unbroken streams of phonemes rendered nearly incomprehensible, discrete parts unable to compete against the cacophony of the whole. Although it sounds like the background noise of a crowd to Jon, he Knows every word being said: a litany of horror and dread unspooling in the air around him.

He also Knows that they will continue running, replaying each statement on a loop until he returns, no batteries required.

A notebook sits on his desk, battered and careworn. It’s Martin’s, half-filled with poems and works-in-progress, many of them from the weeks he was living in the Archives. He left it here when he went to work for Peter. Whether it was meant as a deliberate symbolic gesture – leaving the past behind him, sacrificing this sentimental part of himself in order to become what Peter’s plan required him to be – or was simply an oversight after months of having no time or mind for writing, Jon still doesn’t Know. He never asked. In the future, after Martin started writing again, Jon felt it was best not to reopen old wounds for the sake of satiating his own curiosity.

If only he could have learned that lesson earlier in life.

Jon has never been a fan of poetry. It’s never really resonated with him; he’s never understood it, and he… doesn’t have much patience for things he cannot understand. But then, Martin went to work for Peter Lukas – and the last time Jon was here, he had burned every other bridge between himself and humanity.

When he was a child, he had convinced himself that he didn’t need friends, didn’t need affection. He found human connection in books, and he told himself that it was enough. It wasn’t, in retrospect: he entered adolescence and then adulthood with stunted social skills, and practicing didn't seem worth the risk of failure. Between that and being the Archivist, it was no wonder he had chased everyone away.

By the time he woke up from his first coma, he knew that books would be no replacement for actual companionship, but he thought it might at least take the edge off, like it used to when he was a child. It backfired terribly. He would always Know how the story ended before even finishing the first chapter, and it would demolish any motivation to continue reading. It wasn’t just that his reading habits now tend to be as particular as they were when he was young, having little patience for anything that felt like he had read it before. It was that he couldn’t have a moment of peace from the knowledge of what he had become.

One day he stumbled across Martin’s notebook in Document Storage, along with some spoken word recordings that Martin had made while living in the Archives. At first, Jon didn’t know what the tapes were, and listening to any tapes that turned up had long since become automatic for him. Once he realized what was on them, he probably should have stopped, but he listened to every second of that handful of tapes, over and over and over again. He felt guilty – he had already violated Martin’s privacy once before, when he was deep in the throes of paranoia – but he justified it to himself because he… well, he'd needed to hear Martin’s voice.

The poetry was… well, Jon still didn’t get it, not really. But he found himself liking it anyway, because it was Martin’s voice and Martin’s words and Martin’s story, and Jon didn’t have to understand it for it to have meaning and value and warmth. He should have been content with the tapes, but he kept stealing glances at the notebook, itching to open it and start reading. Part of it was that simple curiosity that was always leading him astray, but for once, that wasn’t the loudest part of him.

It wasn’t a need to Know. It was a need for closeness.

So, he pushed that guilty voice in his head aside and… he read. Unlike the fiction stories he had been trying to lose himself in, he never once Knew anything about a poem before he finished reading it. He rarely Knew anything about it even after reading it, and then rereading it, and then rereading it again. For the first time in his life, not having answers was… refreshing. Freeing, even.

It didn’t take long for Jon to memorize every word, cover to cover – and he never grew bored of them, despite their familiarity.

Gingerly, almost reverently, Jon turns the pages. There are a handful of poems in here about him, and even now, indelibly etched into his memory, reading them on the page still makes him feel seen in a way that is all at once terrifying and comforting. Affecting, certainly, but in a way he could appreciate, once he gave it a chance.

You’re stalling, Jon tells himself, closing the notebook and placing one last tape on top of it.

He closes his eyes and forces himself to take several deep breaths – it’s the last chance he’ll have for the next few days – and he checks his pocket for the tape recorder with Daisy’s statement in it. Pointless, really; he already Knows it’s there, same as it was the last dozen times he checked.

Swallowing hard, he finally turns to look at the Coffin. The moment he lays eyes on it, the static rises in his mind.

Oh, shut up, Jon thinks tiredly. The Dread Powers are like cats yowling at overflowing food bowls, insisting that they haven’t had supper yet. At least cats are endearing. The Fears are noisy and intrusive with none of the charm. You’re all so goddamn needy, you know that?

The Coffin carries on, and Jon rolls his eyes. Wrapping himself in annoyance does little to drown out the fear, but it offers a slight buffer. He’ll take it.

You’re still stalling, he reprimands himself.

With trembling hands he picks up the key, fits it into the lock… and he opens the lid. It lifts easily with only a slight creak, no heft or resistance to it: it wants to be opened, like so many of the other hungry doors lurking around this world, bear traps and snares and spiderwebs all lying in wait for somebody foolish and curious enough to ignore all the alarm bells for just one… peek… inside.

Knock-knock, comes the intrusive thought.

Shut up, Jon shoots back.

The tape recorder clicks on, whirring impatiently in his pocket, as if to urge him onward.

You too, he snaps – but as much as his knee-jerk impulse is to be contrary, he has put this off long enough.

Jon steels himself, takes one last deep breath – savoring fresh air, full lungs, airways clear of dirt and grime and debris – and he begins his descent.

Martin is in Peter’s office, tending to some tedious administrative tasks. His brain feels fuzzy, thoughts sluggish and stunted from the lack of stimulation. The tick-tock of the wall clock drones on and on. He’s considered removing the batteries, but it’s the only company he’s had in days. Complete silence might be worse. Besides, the longer he sits here, the less and less the noise scrapes against the edges of his consciousness – and even when it does penetrate the fog filling his head, he can’t bring himself to care.

If Peter intends for the monotony to highlight his isolation and desensitize him to the absence of… well, everything, it’s working.

Then, between one moment and the next, there’s a shift. It crashes into him, tears through the quiet, and the world around him comes rushing back in, a sharp and blinding and cacophonous flood of sensory input.

There’s a palpable void where one shouldn’t be, and he knows with certainty that it’s distinct from the general sense of absence that he’s grown accustomed to over the past few months. The Lonely feels soft, quiet, gentle – natural, like a cocoon tailored specifically for him. This feels like a knife to the gut, a gaping wound, alarm bells screaming in his mind that something is wrong, wrong, wrong –

“Something’s happened,” he says to himself. He flinches at the sound. It’s jarring, hearing his own voice, raspy as it is with disuse.

Before he even realizes that he’s moving, he’s out of the office and hurrying down the hallway, not bothering to close the door behind him.

“Jon,” he whispers with a passion and urgency that feels alien to him now, thoughts no longer muffled and detached. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does: Jon’s done something drastic, and given his track record, it can’t be good.

The only thought running through his mind is Jon, playing on a loop like a stuck tape; like the nervous stammering of the person he used to be, intimidated by and enamored with the man in equal measure; like a – like a prayer: Jon.

Martin picks up his pace, making a beeline for the Archives.

End Notes:

The Buried, Round Two: BEGIN.

I might not have much free time to write this weekend, so the next chapter probably won't be ready until next weekend at least. It will have some Martin POV though, FINALLY. This story hasn't had enough Martin screentime yet and that is entirely a hell of my own making, but I WILL remedy it. Also: ACTUAL DAISY CONTENT SOON, I SWEAR.

Citations for Jon's letter to Martin are as follows: MAG 040; 112/007/029/102; 007/150; 020/019; 150; 013; 135; 048/144/007/021; 021; 013/002/032/147/153/013; 161/091/101/089/135; 048/028/067/013; 143/150/008/013; 135/048/009; 013; 150; 013/117; 085/052; 063/124; 123; 011; 123/133; 070/154/123; 133/019/036/011; 094/088; 075; 135; 127; 124/157/050/157/130; 143/107/012/056; 122/012/057; 013; 145/121; 150; 042; 042; 032; 037/136/110; 152/008/101/153/032/129/153; 117/155/013/155; 133/112/152/154/013/051/049.

Citations for Jon's dialogue are as follows, broken down by section: Section 1: MAG 064; 019; 138/139; 019; 058; 148; 121/014/089; 066/135; 043; 096; 138/060/154/060/113/017/005/116/121; 054/022/054/147; 057/091; 155. Section 2: 150/096; 095/006/023/157/139; 125; 047. Section 3: None. Section 4: None.

The cited dialogue between Peter and Martin is from MAG 126. And it probably goes without saying but the Jonah/Elias statement quote is from MAG 160.

As always, you can also just ask if you want to know where a particular line comes from. c:

[a-stitch-in-time-and-space]

Headcanon: Julian Bashir is autistic and has frequent sensory overload, and the only two people who can help him are Garek and O’ Brien. Me? Projecting? It’s more likely than you think!!!

Ha, moooood. Which on that note I have a somewhat intense fic here in which Julian has a meltdown. It’s not related to sensory issues so much as “oh boy a lot of shit’s happened to him” but if you want more O'Brien helping him out after this – so because we gave that fic to O'Brien, let’s give this one to Garak.

Also can we talk about the fact that it’s canon that Julian and the other augments can hear sounds at decibels that non-augments can’t and that it causes them pain, but Julian just taught himself to not react, like fuck, how did someone write this and not follow through on Julian-Bashir-is-autistic-and-or-otherwise-nd!

sorry for taking so long, a. this got a bit longish so it’s under a cut and b. I got distracted by the fact that I always want to see everyone’s notes on reblogs in case of interesting discussion points and i have just now learnt that that cannot be done easily if a lot of people reblog at once… oh hyper-fixation how you get me time and again

this takes place post-Doctor Bashir I Presume and alludes to the fact that during this time Garak and Bashir’s interactions were gradually stripped away in the show (because it too gay) - Andy Robinson ran with that in A Stitch In Time and had Garak write about how much he regretted the two of them not remaining close/hinted that he was in love with him… so take that background as you will.

—— More Space ——-

Thank goodness, he thought after an indeterminate amount of time. O'Brien was here. He would be able to calm him down, he would know how to come up with some soothing description of exactly which of DS9’s pistons or pipes or programs was currently making that noise and he’d either fix it or stay with him until it sorted itself out. Or maybe the noise was gone and the residual whining was just himself recreating it perfectly in his head, or maybe he was just too far gone by now for it to matter, but O'Brien would help. Since the two of them had become friends and some of Julian’s old ticks had returned after his augmentation had come to light, Miles had been a surprisingly steady presence in his life.

“Doctor?”

No, not Miles.

Garak.

He couldn’t make himself respond. His body felt like it was compressing him into a vice, with all his ability to focus somehow splintered into a million shards, each of them painful to the touch. Oh no, what if Garak touched him? If Garak touched him right now he might shatter or scream or something else entirely outside of his control, but talking was also impossible right now, so he couldn’t ask him not to touch, please don’t touch-

Garak sat down in front of him, far enough away that it didn’t feel like too… much.

“Doctor. You don’t need to say or do anything.”

He could manage that.

“I was wondering why you’d missed our lunch date. Very pleased to find you didn’t simply opt not to come without telling me, although I find the alternative to be distressing.”  He stopped talking for a moment then. “Apologies for breaking into your room. Again.”

While Garak simply sat and occasionally spoke Julian was dimly aware of the fact that he could feel his edges hardening again. The shards were being pulled back together.

He also noticed now that he was freezing. It usually happened like that, having sat sedentary for however long or coming down from some emotional extreme. He shivered.

“This station is cold,” said Garak.“The temperature, the lights, the people… all too cold.”

Julian managed a smile and it was like his mouth was freed from a curse. “It is, isn’t it.”

“Not to mention loud,” Garak added.

“All that machinery,” Julian nodded and spoke slowly. His mouth still needed to unstick. “Every time an alarm goes it’s like a sharp pain… I used to be… much better at this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I used to… I used to get these all the time as a child. Meltdowns, shutdowns, I think. But then my parents told me later that it was a side-effect of the augmentations and I tried to… to will myself to stop them, to bypass my natural instincts in order to not be found out and it worked, in a way, or at least nobody found out. I familiarised myself with and categorised any sights, sounds, smells, feelings I came across on earth during my Starfleet training and ordered them into lists and sublists: What I could handle mostly, what I could handle sometimes, what I needed to avoid at all costs. I managed to… to pretend. And then I came to Deep Space Nine and for awhile it was all too much again, I had to make new lists, but I managed, I really… I really did, I really did, I really-” he was talking himself into hyperventilating again, he knew this, but he couldn’t stop now, “- and then I got captured and it was like everything just stopped. I barely- I don’t even remember most of it, but when I got back it was so much worse -”

“Julian,” said Garak and the sound of his first name coming from Garak’s mouth surprised him back to the now. “Julian,” said Garak again. “You’re here. With me. On a floor that is quite cold, I might add.”

Julian breathed out and mumbled under the exhale. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.”

“What is that,” asked Garak.

“Counting my fingers. It… helps.”

“Noted,” and the easy way in which Garak seemed to have just accepted that he would be helping Julian again in future was another shock to his system, but then why wouldn’t he? Even if they hadn’t met up as often as they used to. Even if he was untrustworthy at heart and Julian could never figure out why Garak wanted his company at all. He found he missed Garak’s simple and complicated nature. It grounded him, somehow.

He got up off the floor, reaching out for Garak when he stumbled. He held him just tight enough to make sure that he wouldn’t fall. Not overcrowding – Julian suddenly remembered that Garak was claustrophobic. He must know how easily sensory inputs could become too much.

At Garak’s questioningly soft hold on his arm, Julian nodded and he helped him to the sofa. “Would you like some water?”

Julian nodded. As Garak went to fetch it, he began to talk again. Somehow… he just needed to get it out now, like an excision. “After the truth came out my mother told me that they’d been lying. I mean, they’ve been lying about so much, but specifically about this. I’ve always been like this. Or. Some of it. The meltdowns. I thought… those memories weren’t real. But now they are? Some of them. I’m having trouble sorting them.”

Garak handed him the water.

“I developed a theory,” said Julian, forgetting to sip.

“Tell me your theory doctor,” said Garak, his tone of voice tender as he sat down beside him, again, close enough if he needed him, but not too close.

“I was wondering why a heightened inability to process inputs was a side-effect of the vast majority of augments, when I had this inability before my augmentation. I started to suspect that it was less to do with the augmentations and was simply… who we were. The augmentations gone wrong could throw that into extremes, but that may have more to do with medical trauma responses than… anyway, I can’t confirm until I have more data. I did research into my own developmental delays, the medical history – it’s fascinating how we repeat cycles actually, first it was considered a form of possession or changelings, then it began to be classed under a broad form of what would be known as schizophrenia, then divided into narrow and still somewhat inaccurate categories of autism, aspergers, adhd, add, high and low functioning etcera, and then was gradually broadened again under general brain-differences known as neuroatypicals or neurodiverse,” he took a breath and continued: “- I’m not too interested in 21st century history honestly, but I know the government upheavals affected medical classifications and concepts of what was known broadly as “disabilities” at the time, and that it fundamentally shifted again once we formed the federation. But then -” and here he started gesticulating widely in excitement or outrage - “it all becomes the same just repackaged, doesn’t? Stigma against augments who are overwhelmingly people like me is stigma against neurodiversity is stigma against the “possessed,” it’s…” he trailed off. “It’s all the same,” he finished lamely.

He’d become very aware suddenly that he’d done that thing that annoyed most of the people he ever conversed with, running his mouth while forgetting the other person. But Garak didn’t seem annoyed. He was listening intently, in fact. At the pause he even nodded and offered: “The history of such matters is different on Cardassia. Or rather, mental and developmental differences don’t get acknowledged on Cardassia.”

“Eugenics?” said Julian with a frown.

“Not as such. We don’t mind in theory, as long as everyone can perform the tasks they’re assigned to. It’s a… class thing. If you belong to a powerful family and are expected to do great things in the army or politics or the sciences, being unable to do so for any reason is usually – what is the term humans use? - “Swept under the rug.” But then someone like you, dear doctor, if you had been Cardassian it might surprisingly have been easier for you.”

Julian shook his head. “My abilities are due to my augmentations. I’d have been… I don’t know. Not me,” he said softly.

At that, Garak gave him a look that he couldn’t pin down. Something… surprised for a moment, almost? Then smoothed out into an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps. From what you tell me you’ve always processed like you do, you’ve just been given better tools to translate and more…” he searched for the word for a second, before landing on: “space.”

At that Julian burst out into an unexpected laugh. “I certainly have enough space out here. More than enough, I’d say.”

Garak’s smile deepened. “But it doesn’t matter. Either you were always going to be able to pursue medicine and the stigmas of your parents and surrounding society were preventing you from discovering that on your own, or your augmentations made you unlock new abilities. But on Cardassia someone with the kind of passion you possess would have done well, with or without them.”

“If I were born into the right class. And if I didn’t get arrested for being fundamentally against the militaristic state.”

“Naturally,” acceded Garak. “And I must say I’m quite relieved to find the incorruptible, perfect federation comes with its own flaws. One wouldn’t have expected it with the way humans constantly go on about it.”

“Oh, we go on about the federation? According to you Cardassia is superior in culture -”

“- oh, definitely -”

“- politics -”

“- without a doubt, my dear -”

“- criminal justice system?”

“- well, we’ve never brought a wrong case before the court-”

“- I know you’re just saying that to rile me up-”

“- my dear doctor, when have I ever been anything but sincere?”

“- when have you ever said anything you meant?”

“- I am offended, truly-” said Garak with a big grin on his face.

Julian found it the easiest thing in the galaxy to return.

“Remember to drink your water,” he was reminded, gently, before they continued their lunch discussion. It was a moment in which they both forgot that they had ever begun to drift apart in the first place.

—— The End ——-

[jarofrebuke-transcripts]

Jar of Rebuke Episode 3 Unofficial Transcript

Season 1 Episode 3: Cherry Tobacco

INTRO

The following audio recording is classified documentation for Case [audio distortion] with the Enclosure. Unauthorized access to this information will lead to immediate intervention. Progress further if proper clearance has been given.

JARED

I really need to get into the habit of doing this more often. Dr. Daman keeps asking how this is going, but I rarely have anything to tell her that she seems to want to hear. She really wants me to do this regularly, but sitting at my desk with a sore back didn't sound too appealing, especially if I didn't have to. Even though my back is feeling a bit better after the snipe hunt tournament incident, I'm actually recording this from a bed and breakfast. And I'm tired. Not even a vacation, it's more of a work trip. Not terribly much has happened since my last update. Darius's birthday was recently. He had a little get-together with some friends and he even invited me along, which was really nice. I made sure to get there a little early especially since it was a day off of work for me. We met up at Waytooth, a restaurant that his dads and him frequent often. I got there and just sat outside for a bit fiddling on my phone, then Darius showed up. He was so excited for the party, I could tell. He smiled the second we made eye contact. He jogged over to me and we talked for a bit. The weather is still pretty nice, it's finally starting to get chillier, which is actually nicer, I prefer the layers. So we sat outside and enjoyed the weather as we talked until his other friends showed up. They were all nice, but I kind of stuck by Darius most of the day since he was the only one that I really knew.

After lunch, we all went to a drive-in theater that they've got set up here in town, which is mostly just a projector and a large painted brick wall, but it was still a nice time. His friends all sat in different cars as we watched the movie, but Darius and I sat in the bed of his truck and ate snacks that he had packed. Darius is a really good cook. He's learning a lot of cool stuff from that class he's taking. I gave him a little gift, of course. Well, two things. I got him a new wrench set since he'd been saying that he needed a new one, his old one's been a bit worn down for a while. Uh, gifts to give him in front of his friends, since he really plays up the whole inheriting the family farm shtick around them. But we, when we were in his truck, just the two of us, I gave him his second gift. He said he had really gotten into cross stitching recently and he seemed a little embarrassed about it. But I wanted him to know that I thought that was interesting, so I got him a little pack of stitching patterns and some thread organizers. I wasn't sure what kind of patterns he'd like, so I just got him a couple of different kinds. He was quiet for a few moments after he opened that gift and I kind of panicked for a moment honestly. But he then gave me a really big smile and put his hand on my shoulder. He gave me a really soft thank you and I told him it was my pleasure, as long as he made me something. It was an obvious joke, at least I hoped it was obvious. But he asked what I'd want. I told him I like birds. Birds have so much freedom to just fly around and always sing such pretty songs. Besides geese, I don't like geese. He asked me if I had any favorites. I said I like blue jays. Major assholes, but beautiful. He laughed and he said he'd give it his best shot, but I told him that I’d hang up anything he made me. And that was about it. We barely watched the movie, we spent most of the time quietly talking actually.

What else have I done? Well, Dr. Castillo and I went and investigated the energy signatures from the cornfields after Todd told us to do so and you know what we found? Corn. That's it. Oh, and more corn! No energy spikes, no signs of tomfoolery of the natural or supernatural kind, nothing. It was almost strange how untouched by supernatural energies it seemed. We investigated during the day and at night. No changes. So we've been keeping tabs on the fields but nothing that's been too notable has happened when we're out there. We've been passing a lot of our time in the labs reorganizing files going over the energy spikes that have been recorded and theorizing what we could possibly be dealing with there. But until we can further examine it, there is not much we can do. Ever since they replaced my old lab partner my workload has been much lighter. I actually prefer to be busy than bored, and I think Dr. Castillo isn't used to having idle hands either. They only ever give me small menial tasks and it's becoming more annoying than anything else. But I did recently see my old lab partner, Dr. Lomax in the hall this morning. I've seen them in passing a few times but we haven't been able to catch up much since the sudden change. Dr. Lomax also has no idea why they got suddenly switched to a different lab. Seems that none of us know why the change was made. All Todd said was “just had to rearrange some staff, don't worry about it!”

Speaking of, before I left work today, I got another email from Todd. Typically his emails are him asking us to do something and then him talking himself up for multiple paragraphs and making it seem like it should be a privilege to do what he's asking you to do. But this email was him actually giving me lodging information for the local inn, and explaining that I had to pack up a bag and go. They apparently planned to do renovations or something on my house due to a concern of faulty plumbing. I'd mentioned to Dr. Daman about the less-than-stellar heating system when I wanted to take a bath or do dishes, but I didn't expect anyone to actually do anything about it. But a night without weird tapping on my door sounded nice, and even though I replied to the email basically saying “oh no, you really don't have to, I can live with it”, Todd insisted. I could just see his smug smile on the other side of the screen. He'll subtly hold it over my head for later, but the rule of one denial for good polite measure then acceptance of an offer had been met and I was off home to pack a bag. And here I am now.

The Chronicle Inn bed and breakfast is run by an older married couple, Ester and Laura. I'd met them a few times before my stay here but I hadn't spent much time with them. This place is mostly a restaurant and homemade goods store rather than an inn, considering we don't get many outsiders who stay here any longer than to grab a bite to eat and get gas. But for times like these it's nice to have an inn available. Even if it's only a few rooms, it's much better than staying at the facilities that the enclosure has on site. Work would have likely put me into a temporary on-site lodging space if the inn wasn't available. To be honest I'm surprised they actually put me in the end instead of just tossing me into some temp lodging room for a night. Maybe they remembered how much I hate that place. It's nearly impossible to sleep with the buzzing lights and the beds really aren't made for comfort and the bathrooms are all so claustrophobic. I swear, they make that place as uncomfortable as possible so people want to leave. That, or they just skimped on the prices for a comfortable setup to focus the money elsewhere at the Enclosure. I'd believe that. Though maybe they booked me at this place to have me investigate something while I'm here. Can't even enjoy this nice little one-night getaway, huh? They expect me to work? Do they plan to pay me for looking into things overnight? Probably not, not like they ever pay me for the full work I do anyways.

The room I’m in is kinda known for weird happenings. The whole town knows but there's not a huge fuss over it. No one's died from it, so why be too concerned? Ester warned me about these weird happenings while I was checking in. There's word of a spirit that haunts the upper floor of the building. Been here for as long as anyone can recall. She explained it all to me with a smile and a jovial tone, so she doesn't seem concerned. After the literal run-in with the deer a few weeks ago, I really just wanted some rest. Her wife Laura told me that they serve breakfast at 7 am but they'll be at the desk to take my key as early as 6. Thankfully tomorrow my shift starts at 8 instead of the usual 6 so I might be able to actually get some real food in me before work.

Didn't take me too long to get up here and settled in. I decided to just relax today instead of going out into town. So I did some reading in bed. Not that I could really focus much, the bed here is nice and cozy, but there's definitely a vibe about it. The room, not the bed. The rest of the inn is very homey, lived in, but in a good way. But the second I got to the top of the stairs it was like the air got barely but still noticeably cooler. When I came into the room I saw a little baggie of homemade beef jerky that Ester made and gave me. She's known around town for her jerkies and her woodwork. She's always so hands-on with everything she makes, whether it's snacks or a new set of chairs. She may have actually made the chair I'm sitting in right now, actually. I sat outside for a bit. There's a nice balcony that looks over some gardens and in the far distance I can see the vast fields. The evening felt so nice and I could see the little lightning bugs flying around as I got darker. I've always liked watching their dances. I often watch kids running around catching them in jars and then letting them all go just minutes later, but I prefer to watch them do their own thing out in nature. I watched the stars and the flicking lights of the lightning bugs for a bit, sipped on some sweet tea that Laura had brewed and offered me, ate some of the jerky that Ester made, and relaxed. I let my mind wander to wherever it went off to which as usual was all over the place. But no tapping on the doors, no weird deer staring at me, it was nice. But I keep feeling like something, or someone, is watching me. I feel that pretty often but this is different. It feels closer, if that makes sense. Like right now I'm sitting in a plush chair by the window in the room looking over the nice herb garden out back. The stars are still twinkling, the wind is just slightly blowing, and I've been able to crack the window open for some breeze. But I feel like something is watching me from the doorway. I swear to gods if I turn around and someone is standing there... (deep inhale) nope, nothing.

When Ester was telling me about what I could possibly expect, she said that a spirit had been wandering around in the room I'm staying in. Sometimes the spirit watches people. Sometimes the spirit just walks around and ignores the tenants. Must depend on her mood. But apparently something about the blue lamp by the bedside table really draws her out. Considering my line of work, and that my boss sent me here, I'm obviously going to turn on the light. Even if she's not rumored to be particularly dangerous, if they're just wanting to keep me busy then I could see Todd throwing me here to look into it a bit more. Okay. Hold on, give me a sec, let me see what happens. [lamp clicks on] It's a pretty light. I don't think I've seen a light this shade of blue outside of some of the lights they put up around town in the winter. It's nice. Oh, uh... hello? I don't know if she can hear me but I do see someone standing by the door, on the other side of the room, and um, [sniffs] tobacco?

THE BLUE LADY

I can hear you just fine.

JARED

[startled] Ah! Sorry about that. how are you?

THE BLUE LADY

Why do you ask?

JARED

Manners, I guess? Should I ask- who are you?

THE BLUE LADY

I don't think it really matters now. Besides, it's better I ask who you are.

JARED

Oh, uh, Dr. Jared Hel. I'm a scientist with the Enclosure on the edge of town. I…

THE BLUE LADY

WHO you are, not what you are. I know what you are.

JARED

...What I am is a person who would like to get some rest.

THE BLUE LADY

No, what you are is different. At least different from what I remember.

JARED

From what you remember? Have we met before?

THE BLUE LADY

Not exactly. “Met” isn't the word I would use. But we've interacted.

JARED

How so..?

THE BLUE LADY

I've watched you from afar, I've seen what you do. I guess our paths have more indirectly crossed.

JARED

I've never studied you before. You're not exactly the kind of thing that the enclosure typically sends me to study.

THE BLUE LADY

Then why are you here?

JARED

Well, work decided to fix the plumbing in my house so they put me up here. To get some rest.

THE BLUE LADY

And yet you're not here to study me?

JARED

Well that's actually unclear, I guess. I mean, if they're going to book me in the most haunted room at an inn, I guess they're having me investigate. Or Todd's just messing with me. That seems like something he'd pull.

THE BLUE LADY

Messing with you? [scoffs] When did you start putting up with the antics of people like that?

JARED

Okay, I'm gonna be upfront- if we met more than two years ago I have zero memory of any of that time. So this vague, cryptic talk is going to get you nowhere.

THE BLUE LADY

What are you doing with that thing?

JARED

[rustling sound] This it's an audio journal. It takes less focus and energy than writing. Are you just gonna keep staring at me or..?

THE BLUE LADY

People don't usually understand me this well for full conversations, so it has been quite a while. It isn't as if Ester and Laura can clearly understand me, even if they have tried.

JARED

How long have you been here?

THE BLUE LADY

Longer than I can remember. The rumor is that I've been here since the establishment of this town, whenever that may have been.

JARED

And when did we meet? I mean interact indirectly.

THE BLUE LADY

For the first time? It was many, many years ago. But again, you've certainly changed.

JARED

But again, I don't remember. You keep saying that and, [winces in pain] oh god my head!

THE BLUE LADY

We won't be getting very far right now.

JARED

No wait wait wait no hold on hold on.... and she's gone. [slams fist on table] Damn it! Why won't anyone just tell me anything outright? Oh my head... it's always like this. They disappear for a while and then come back so suddenly. Oh I hate this flesh prison! I'm done recording for now I need to try and nurse this headache now and recover from whatever the hell… oh it seems she left a little gift. Some blue ribbon? It's maybe four or five inches long, a little frayed at the ends. It's the same color as the lamp. There's something written on it. The handwriting's a bit hard to read but it looks like “you need to remember”. Remember what? How am I supposed to remember if no one ever tells me anything? Everyone always pushes me to try and remember but there's nothing to remember if they're making me grasp at thin air! They say they support me, they say they want to help, but what do they do to help, huh? All of this performative support is getting me nowhere. [facing away from recorder] And how is this ribbon supposed to help? You couldn't have given me something a little less vague? [groans] Why is everyone always so damn vague? Are they scared to just say something concrete? Why can't anyone ever give me a straight answer! No, it's fine. It's fine. I'm just… I'm going to go to bed. Right. I'm going to get some sleep. No tapping, no knocking, just sleep. I'm gonna go turn off the lamp and get some rest. Right. Ugh. Whatever. This is Dr. Jared Hel, signing off, I guess.

OUTRO

Jar of Rebuke is written and produced by Casper Oliver, who is also the voice of Dr. Jared Hel. Voice of The Blue Lady provided by Misha Bakshi. The intro is read by Vanessa Rosengrant, and credits are read by Ashley Craft, who has created the podcast official graphics. Music was created by Luke Menniss, spelled m-e-n-n-i-s-s, who you can find and support on Bandcamp, Spotify and Twitch. Find us on Twitter, Instagram and anywhere else you get your podcast fix for more Jar of Rebuke and also to get updates on upcoming official merch for our show. Support projects by this crew on Patreon to further other queer-lead projects and get neat perks. All donations are appreciated and will grant further clearance to special Jar of Rebuke content. You can also make one-time donations on Ko-fi. And special thanks to our patreon supporters Becky Thompson, Perry Bruns, and Tristan Fraud.

[zoryany]

@kaitodetective1412 sent me 45 -- You may technically be an adult, but you’re still my child.

(an anon did as well and I do plan to answer both in different ways and I will tag kaito in the anon answer as well bc I feel like this isn’t what either of you wanted but it’s what you’re gonna get, for now)

Imperial Royal Skywalker Family AU Pt 1 || Pt 2

send me ficlet prompts – optionally include characters

Dessert passed in relative silence, the atmosphere in the dining room having grown decidedly tense. Luke had really been hoping he could have delayed Han meeting his father until after he’d spoken to his parents, but the Force seemed to be set on toying with him. At least Mother had been able to placate Father before he’d done anything rash, but Luke wasn’t sure that had been entirely preferable, either.

When they’d all finished, Luke moved to usher Han back to his suite, but his mother raised her hand before he had the chance to even rise from his chair. “Leia? Sweetheart, can you please escort Captain Solo to his rooms while your father and I talk to Luke?”

“Yes, Mother.” Leia looked as though she would rather swallow a bantha whole, but she knew better than to argue with their mother, especially when she was already in a dangerous enough mood. She was also probably hoping she’d get to be in on the whole conversation that was to come, which added to her disappointment. Not that it mattered, anyways, because one way or another, she would know exactly what was said, but her expression and presence in the Force soured significantly as she turned her gaze to Han. “Let’s go, Captain. I don’t have all night.”

Han threw a final, withering look over his shoulder as Leia led him from the room, leaving Luke alone with his mother at last. With a severe expression, she turned to face him, and Luke felt his stomach drop out from under him. Out of the eyes of company, it was entirely clear just how upset she really was. All of the guilt that had been eating at him for the past weeks rose back up in him all at once.

“Come, dear,” said his mother as she stood. “Let’s not keep your father waiting.”

Hanging his head, Luke followed his mother with heavy steps to his father’s study. Unlike the rooms of the Palace occupied largely by the Empress, Darth Vader’s spaces, both planetside and on his flagship, tended to be dim and spartan, possessing little in the way of embellishments. He claimed it as practicality -- and, on most occasions, Luke would agree with that -- but right about now, he was convinced that it was meant to make facing him all that more intimidating.

Luke had never been afraid of his father. He understood why people were, and why they should be, and he was all too aware of what someone as powerful as Darth Vader was capable of, but he’d never feared him. His father would never hurt him or Leia, especially not with Mother around to rein in his temper, but there was always a certain anxiety that overtook him whenever his father was angry. He hated the feeling, the sudden urge to cower in submission before a man he’d idolized all his life and who loved him deeply. Leia had always been better than Luke at standing strong in the face of his emotions, perhaps because she had never felt the same level of hero-worship towards him, but Luke was finding himself longing for some of her strength right about now.

His father had been pacing the length of the room when they’d arrived, but the moment they crossed the threshold, he stopped in his tracks and whirled around. The movement was so abrupt that most would assume that kind of speed impossible from a man as large as Vader, but he moved quick enough to send his cape billowing behind him. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing to a chair in the centre of the room.

As he complied, his mother walked to stand to the right of her husband, both parents folding their arms across their chests. His cheeks burned in shame as he avoided looking directly at them. How was it that they could so easily make him feel like he was five years old again?

“You know why you are here, son.” The modulated voice carried a tranquil rage, one that affected him far more than being shouted at ever would. “Explain.”

‘You can do this, Luke,’ he thought silently, sucking in a shuddering breath in an attempt to steady himself. ‘You’ve been practicing this speech in your head since you left.’

"I -- I can’t apologize enough for leaving without warning like that. I know I put you through needless worry, and I’m sure that nothing I can do will make up for that. I just... needed to get away.” Stars, it sounded even lamer saying it out loud than it did in his head. Neither parent looked pleased. He pressed on. “You know I’ve never really liked -- never really been comfortable with any of... well, our status.” Once again, he was jealous of Leia. She wouldn’t be stumbling over her words like this. “I’ve never liked being the Prince, never really liked making public appearances. Never been good at them, either. Leia’s always been better suited for it. And after twenty years of it, I was feeling... claustrophobic. I needed some freedom.”

“Freedom?” It had always been a touchy subject for his father, Luke knew, but he had to hope he could use that to his advantage. “As the Imperial Prince, you have been granted every want, every desire you could hope for. Your mother and I fought tirelessly, made endless sacrifices to create this life for you and your sister. There has never been more freedom in the galaxy, and you stand at the head of it all.”

Was his father being serious? “You... actually expect me to believe that being rich and powerful is the same as being free?” But then, of course his father did. “Maybe you just don’t realize this gilded cage you’ve put me in, Father. I can’t go anywhere beyond our private quarters without an excessive number of guards accompanying me. You and mother have to be aware of my location at every given moment. I’m not allowed to fly or talk to people or do anything without express permission! It’s suffocating! It’s -- ”

“For your safety,” his father growled, hands falling from his chest to form clenched fists at his sides. Next to him, his mother tensed slightly, pursing her lips, but she did nothing more than focus on watching him just a bit more closely. “Everything I have ever done has been to keep you and your mother and your sister safe. The life we live has come at a great cost, and I will not see you throw it all away out of some foolish rebellion. If something would have happened to you -- ”

“But it didn’t!” Luke cried, his voice pitching upward. Any fear or anxiety he’d been feeling had evaporated, and he was prepared to staunchly defend himself. He was not an idiot. He knew exactly how his parents would feel and how they would react to his departure. The decision he made was conscious and purposeful, and he had every intention of justifying it. “I can take care of myself, you know. All that training hasn’t been for nothing. I was careful. I took every precaution. And I’m twenty years old, now, I’m not a little kid anymore.”

While his mother’s face had relaxed a bit, his father did not appear to be convinced. “You may technically be an adult,” he said, slowly, “but you are still my child -- our child. I have torn down the galaxy once to protect you, and I would do it a thousand times over if it keeps you from harm.”

Letting out a noise of frustration, Luke leapt up from his seat. “But that’s just it! I know you have and I know that you were trying to do it again! Don’t think I didn’t notice the swath of destruction you left in your wake when you tried to track me down this time. It’s too much! I love you both so much, but I don’t want the galaxy to grind to a halt just because I ask for some time alone. I can’t stand all the attention, the pomp and circumstance that surrounds everything I do, the formality I’m forced to endure just to attend dinner! I just -- ” His voice broke, and he was embarrassed to find his eyes stinging as he looked imploringly at his parents. “All I wanted was a little bit of normalcy.”

Slumping back in his chair, Luke realized he may not have processed all of this quite as successfully as he’d initially thought. Running away, it turned out, had only served as a distraction from genuinely confronting what was really bothering him.

“Normalcy?” The vocoder’s tone was dull and flat, and his father seemed to have relaxed his stance, somewhat, almost in disbelief. “You wish to be ordinary? Like every other being in this galaxy?” Disbelief was evident, now. His father’s fists had uncurled, his shoulders slackened, and though he could not see his face, Luke got the impression of wide eyes and raised brows. “That... is unacceptable. You are the furthest thing from ordinary, son. You are above those lesser beings, and I would not see you receive anything less than you deserve. ”

"No,” Luke said, quietly but firmly, “I am not above them.” He’d spent countless hours in the Coruscant underground, on treks both known and unknown to his parents, and he’d spent several weeks touring the galaxy. He had interacted with their citizens on a regular basis, and he knew who they really were. They were people, beings with dreams and aspirations and ideals, and they were magnificent. “My abilities and my status don’t make me any better than anyone else. Aren’t we supposed to be ruling the galaxy for them?”

A stubborn set worked its way through his father’s frame, unyielding as ever. “We do. The galaxy has never fared better.” And he could not be certain if that was a truth or a lie, but his father certainly believed it. “But I cannot allow you to stoop to the level of those below your status. The future of our benevolent Empire rests upon you and your sister. You must maintain a particular image if you wish for your control over them to endure.”

“Are you not listening to me?” But Luke already knew the answer to that. Of course his father wasn’t listening to him. Anything that contradicted his very specific view of the universe rarely made it through. “I don’t want that power to rest on me! I’m not interested in having people grovel at my feet or flinch away from me in fear. I don’t want people to worship me or treat me like... like -- ”

“Royalty?” His father’s arms were folded across his chest again. “That is what you are.”

Luke was prepared to cut in, and his father looked like he had more to say, but before either of them could speak up again, his mother stepped up and placed a gentle hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Ani, wait.” Even after twenty years, Luke could still not believe just how quickly his father seemed to settle when his mother intervened. “I think I know what this is about.” His mother’s expression grew tender as she stepped towards him, crouching down before his chair and cupping his face in her hands. “Dearest,” she said with unparalleled tenderness, “was this because of your birthday?”

Reading the sympathy and understanding in his mother’s deep brown eyes, Luke found himself leaning into her touch. She was radiating compassion, searching for understanding, and Luke knew that this was the reason he’d always intended to return home when he’d left. His parents loved him. They cared for him. They wanted what was best for him, even if they didn’t know how to go about it. All he’d wanted was to do something on his own terms.

“Yes...”

Because his birthday had not been on his terms. It hadn’t been on Leia’s, either, but she could adapt to it much easier than her brother. He’d been overwhelmed, surrounded by sycophants who only wanted to know him because he was an heir, and his status meant that he could not enjoy even the smallest of pleasantries at a party that was meant to be for him and his twin. And then the scene during the speeches...

He’d never wanted to leave his family. Luke loved his mother, father and sister with his entire being. But their status had always weighed on him, and that night had been a breaking point.

“Oh, sweetheart...” His mother shifted her grip and pulled him close. Luke squeezed his eyes shut. Tears had been threatening to spring forth since he’d sat back down, and they ran freely down his cheeks when his mother’s arms enveloped him. “Why didn’t you say anything? We could have talked this out. You didn’t need to run away.”

At this point, his father had taken a single step forward, appearing somewhat hesitant but still refusing to relent. Luke chose to focus on his mother, and he found himself sinking in on himself even more. It felt nearly impossible to convey how he felt and what he wanted without hurting their feelings. His mother’s sympathetic gaze coupled with his father’s unyielding stance only served to elevate his guilt. 

But there was this sneaking feeling within him that the conversation his mother suggested wouldn’t have gone well regardless.

“I didn’t think you would listen to me,” he said quietly. “You’re still not really listening to me. I had to do something drastic. It felt like the only option, at the time, and I still feel like it’s not enough. Han makes me happy in a way that all that spectacle just - doesn’t. So I just - I need you to understand why - and I mean actually understand. Because I didn’t want to run. And I don’t want to do it again. But I can’t keep going like this...”

For a long moment, his mother looked at him with large, sad eyes before finally withdrawing her hands and stepping away. “Alright,” she said, a quiet resignation working its way into her voice. “I... don’t think we’ll get much further tonight. Why don’t you go wash up for bed, and your father and I will discuss what you’ve told us.” She pressed her lips together and gave him a long, steady look. “We want what’s best for you, Luke. Please know this.”

And he did. The trouble was, their idea of what was best for him didn’t always match up to his own.

“Luke.” His father seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. “Please do not resort to this again.”

There was more his father wanted to say - more they all wanted to say - but Luke felt satisfied that they had, at the very least, made some manner of progress tonight.

“I won’t, Father. I promise.”

[midas-or-khaos]

Spirit, Chapter 1

The journey down to the University of Falmouth had been a bloody road trip, rather than the drop off it was meant to be. Getting up at around the same time you’d usually go to bed, the two of them were at wits end, bags under their eyes so deep and purple you’d have thought they were weighed down by boulders to get so large. So to say the mother/son duo were at snappy was...

“Fuck me that was a lot of boxes.”

“Stop swearing!”

...A gross understatement.

Not for the first time that day did Bill wonder how his mum was able to hear what he thought were comments under his breath, when most of his life spent back at home she couldn’t hear his bellowing from inside their thin walled, two story house for a towel when he inevitably forgot to get before showering every. Single. Morning. Sod’s law.

Taking a deep sigh, both mother and son looked down the 3x2 meter room, floor littered with boxes of all sizes, and the boy couldn’t help but cringe. This was supposed to be his room for the next year. His home for god sake! Most dog kennels were probably bigger than this. Better furnished too.

“How much was this place?”

“I’m not cheap.” How did she always know what he was thinking?

Still trying to cover his bare arse, the exhausted boy quickly fumbled together an excuse, “I’m just asking for next year so I know what to expect when I have to pay for my own apartment.”

“Don’t lie to me, I know you think this place is awful. My first year, the halls I stayed in were so poorly insulated the toilet water-“

“-Froze over, I know. I’m not taking for granted the insulation, it’s just you can’t deny there’s enough dead skin on that mattress to say there’s probably a colony of something growing in there. Maybe Botulism.”

A light smack hit the back of his arm, turning the peach skin rosy. Ok, he was being too cheeky now, and she wasn’t impressed.

“I’m going to look at the kitchen, start unpacking now so I know it’ll be done before I leave ‘cause I know you won’t do it unless I make you.”

Taking her leave, the boy kept looking at the room, swaying between both feet, a sigh huffing out like like some overworked Victorian steam train as he let his brow hang heavy over his eyes to shade the shitty bleak, full-screen bright sky that dominated most of the year in dreary, coastal areas like his uni. The low ceiling only came to around 6’1/2ft tall, fitting the overall feeling of ‘Sardine tin’, though for the first time in probably forever he was happy to only reach 5’3ft. If he’d been reaching 6ft like most of the people his age, Bill was sure he would’ve been feeling claustrophobic. Still didn’t mean he enjoyed the room, though.

Working up the energy, the smallest box was taken into hand first, and began the tedious process of open, pick out, place, repeat. Contrary to the usual, the whole apartment wasn’t too overheated, and made the work more manageable, meaning once all the clothes were pulled out and hung up, he didn’t have to change out of his long sleeve t-shirt or baggy jeans.

With a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth and a hand scratching cherry, buzzed hair to brush out the accumulated dust, the last and second largest box pulled open held all his art supplies, from a bag of coloured pencils to a tray of oil pastels, seven clean canvases and bottles of acrylic paint (all in different stages of use and decay, the white nearly out) to sponges, rollers and brushes. If you’d heard of it, he probably had it. These were his pride and joy, the reason behind his whole relocating. These next 3 years, he was going to learn how to illustrate professionally. It’d been a pain in the arse to get here, having to do an extra foundation year just to earn the correct amount of points to get in anywhere, but to finally be where he wanted to be (excluding this flat), was a dream come true.

Kneeling down and using care he hadn’t bothered using with his other bits and bobs, each item was lifted out and slid into the square cabinet just under window along the back wall, slotted in together. Silent work, with upmost precision. No more irritating unpacking after this. Just a well needed nap maybe.

The door threw open unexpectedly, slamming into the wall, sending the poor boy up in shock, only to knock o into the unforgiving block of wood making up the overhanging window cill.

“FUCKING HELL!”

“STOP. SWEEEEAAARRRRIIIINNNGGGG!!!!”

Swerving round, venom charged by the unexpected and unnecessary pain, alongside the lack of sleep spat out, “Well maybeeeee if you had KNOCKED like a NORMAL FUCKING HUMAN BEING I wouldn’t have swore when I HIT my HEAD!”

No reply, just the sourest notes pinching her brow and nose. Now she’d fully lost it. Just great. Always quick to offend, painfully slow to forget. She wasn’t going to let this incident go any time soon. The thought clogged his throat and pinched the flame of rage, till all that was left was guilty silence. He’d fucked up.

“...some...of your flat mates have arrived.” Muttered out. Turning round, she briskly left without another word, her footsteps echoing down the stairwell just outside the thin apartment door.

“..,I’m sorry.” Whispered out dejectedly against the silence. Too late, as always. Why couldn’t he control his anger and just hold his breath? So much impulsiveness was becoming irksome even to himself. He didn’t think about swearing negatively, it’s offensiveness never really made sense to him he never directed at anyone. But her constant nagging and his irritability made for dynamite. He’d have to make up for that before she left. God, she was leaving properly today! For months! Was he really prepared for life on his own?

No, he couldn’t think like that, this is what he had worked for. Getting up, giving few quick assuring leg rubs, Bill shook his head to get out any unwanted thoughts and to go find the kitchen. He wasn’t really in the mood to have awkward stranger conversation, but ‘first impressions are always important’ as his mum would say. He supposed she was right, he needed to at least make some friends. The cramped corridor outside only had 5 doors, so it was easy to find luckily, and already there were a couple people and residents hanging around chatting.

“OH! Hi, which are you in?” FUCK, where the hell had she been hiding?!

A regally tall girl sporting the single most neon make up I’d ever seen came unseen from my right, and stood close.

Poor idiot couldn’t help but stare up in awe at the whole display of cyan shadow circling almond eyes and mint lipstick offsetting her natural tan skin and jet black swath hair. She must’ve be studying as a make up or fine artist to have that much knowledge on colour theory and pattern. Shit, shouldn’t stare.

“Oh, sorry, ugh... which room was it...I can’t remember the number but the one just by the entrance to the apartment.”

“That’s room 7.”

“Thank you.” The conversation died. There was a social queue here wasn’t there? Conversations usually carried on longer than this, what was it?

The girl smiled politely, but turned and left to talk to another girl. Bill let out an irate huff. Damn it, once again, a failed attempt at human interaction.

Never mind, try again.

Taking the initiative this time, he walked up to a lone boy this time. Ginger, riddled with freckles, slightly chubby. Tapping his shoulder, the boy turned and Bill tried to give his best realistic smile: eyes crinkled, cheeks full.

“Nice to meet you, I’m-“

“I’m a bit busy, can we talk later?”

Taken aback, all he could say was, “Oh, er, yeah. Sorry.” And he backed off again

2 more attempts and all he was left to do was huff. This was useless! Turning round, the brunette took off with silent footsteps out and didn't look back till he reached his room, sliding the door closed. Hands on the door, Wetness on his cheek. Lifting a hand, he tried desperately to wipe away any sign of tears. This was stupid, why was he so bad at social interaction? All he had to do was respond, like other people normally do... but how do people know what to say when there’s nothing interesting in common? Who talks about the weather and sports as a proper conversation?!

No, he couldn't cry here, anyone could hear him though these thin door. The bed seemed a more inviting place to calm down; covered, warm, maybe decrepit and creaky but it was the best he had, so no time like now to jump in. So that’s what he did, and it took a good hour, but the ache of anxiety that he hadn’t noticed had been building up in his chest earlier, finally drained away under the covers till he could at least stop his tears from falling. A year apart from familiarity and family was more daunting thought than it had been ever before.

A light knock sounded out. Hastily the covers were ripped back and hopefully now enough time had passed that his eyes weren’t puffy from all the rubbing. Mum walked in and a btech version of his earlier smile came out, probably pained looking. She looked slightly less upset than before, but still sported piercing hawk eyes. For all their disagreement, the boy didn’t want his last link to home on a sour note, so took his chance, and spoke up, trying to make amends for earlier, “Mum, thank you for dropping me off. I’m so sorry for acting stupidly, I was tired and in pain, and should’ve been calmer. I’ve unpacked everything and what not so I can take you out for a meal like you said earlier if you want?”

No immediate response, just the same prolonged eye contact, up until she let out a sigh. Was that a resentful sigh or a sigh of forgiveness?Oh how he hated being unable to understand subtleties.

“It’s alright, just please try to understand this from my point of view. Your an adult and people won’t appreciate you swearing around them when you work professionally, so just please try to make an effort to stop. For both our sakes.”

She was being lenient this time. She too wanted to leave on good terms. “I know, I’ll try and stop swearing so much.” A lie, but his swearing was habitual now, so it wasn’t going to change any time soon.

“I’d love to go out, but I’m already meeting a friend in town. You know Sandra right? Well she’s come up from Exeter to meet me, so I can’t miss that. Maybe tomorrow morning before I leave to Manchester?”

Why did it have to be tomorrow?

“Sure. See you tomorrow.”

“Alright see you tomorrow. Try and make an effort to make friends please?”

His Mum blew a kiss and left on good terms, so at least now Bill knew his mind could be at rest not worrying over an awful departure. His whole face dropped at last, overexerted by false emotion. If he hadn’t felt drained before, he sure as hell was now. What the hell his expression must luck like now was unbearable to think about. The covers came back over, but this time it wasn’t coming back off till tomorrow. Screw getting into pyjamas, fuck making friends, piss off outside world. All he needed now. Was rest.

————————————————————————————————————————

...Cold...

...coooolllllddddd???…

...Where were his covers?...

...why could he hear wind?

Head pulled up and eyes forced open, Bill was greeted by a yellowing sea of grass. Only, this grass...was seven times his height..

...what in the actual fuck? Elephant grass?

Shit, a winter gust blew up the back of his shirt and crawled into his skin, the force throwing him face down back into the ground. Shit, he needed to get to shelter. But where the fuck would shelter be in a field of grass?! Isn’t this stuff supposed to be the shelter! And more to the bloody point, where even the fuck was he! Was this some sort of shit joke played by someone in his flat or something?

Getting up properly this time, adrenaline pumped out by his rude and impromptu awakening, the boy grabbed the edge of his shirt to keep it down and hunched over as he began to walk forward. Obviously he was automatically lost, but he was balls deep in this shit show now so nothing better to do. Ughhhh Just one foot in front of the other COME THE FUCK ON. There’ll be shelter at some point. Thank god it wasn’t muddy, otherwise he’d be stuck here forever. Would be like walking through tar. Looking up through the arching tips of the leaves, the sky was the same blinding, blanket white as yestrday, no sun at all. It could very well rain soon if the clouds decided to turn grey. That spurred him onward. The winds kept on beating down, nearly knocking him down without warning at irregular intervals so he was constantly on his toes, and the uneven ground was a bitch to deal with. Ugh, now he understood what his mum was going on about “too much swearing”.

Something felt especially wrong about this situation. Obviously waking up in an endless field of grass was completely out of the ordinary, but the world felt.. out of proportion. The cracks in the earth which should have been minute, barely feel able, yet these were the more like small trenches, the size of gutters. On top of that the elephant grass was decidedly less woody, and reached higher than anything he’s seen before. Was this actually a joke?

Over the gale, was that. It WAS. Murmurs over the utterances of the wind; there were others out here too!

“HHHHHHEEEEEEEYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!”

The murmurs stopped, YES they’d heard him.

“HHHHHHEEEEEEEYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!”

“AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!”

...who responded to a hey with ‘arghhh’.

But more importantly...how in the hell were they so loud? Would it be a good idea to be found by someone he didn’t know the intentions of? An extra large gush smacked the back of his head, thin, neon red fuzz doing nothing to stop the icy chill gripping his skull and adding to the overall painful exhaustion that was going to take the waning strength of blueing limbs. There was no choice left.

“HHHHHHEEEEEEEYYYYYYYY, I’M OVER HEREEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!”

No shout this time thank god, his ears couldn’t take that again. Legs shaking, feet black and blue in his trainers, Bill was desperate for them to arrive soon.

THUMP THUMP

What was that?

THUMP THUMP

WHY THE FUCK WAS THE GROUND SHAKING?!

The earth tremors kept coming, and the boy couldn’t stand any longer, falling to his knees and gripping the strands around him with white knuckles. They were getting closer. They couldn’t be earthquakes. Something huge was approaching. Nonononononohejustsighedhisdeathwarrentandnowwhateveritwaswascomingtocollect-

The thumps stopped directly in front of him and a shadow fell over. He’d been seen. Looking straight up through the light canopy, staring straight down at him, was a face.

A gigantic.

Bearded.

Middle aged.

Face.

...Not a point of pride. Bill fainted.

(AN:- a repost from my other account cus it isn’t working properly)

[terramythos]

TerraMythos' 2020 Reading Challenge - Book 22 of 26

Title: House of Leaves (2000) 

Author: Mark Z. Danielewski

Genre/Tags: Horror, Fiction, Metafiction, Weird, First-Person, Third-Person, Unreliable Narrator 

Rating: 6/10

Date Began: 7/28/2020

Date Finished: 8/09/2020

House of Leaves follows two narrative threads. One is the story of Johnny Truant, a burnout in his mid-twenties who finds a giant manuscript written by a deceased, blind hermit named Zampanò. The second is said manuscript -- The Navidson Record -- a pseudo-academic analysis of a found-footage horror film that doesn’t seem to exist. In it, Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist Will Navidson moves into a suburban home in Virginia with his partner Karen and their two children. Navidson soon makes the uncomfortable discovery that his new house is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Over time he discovers more oddities -- a closet that wasn’t there before, and eventually a door that leads into an impossibly vast, dark series of rooms and hallways. 

While Johnny grows more obsessed with the work, his life begins to take a turn for the worse, as told in the footnotes of The Navidson Record. At the same time, the mysteries of the impossible, sinister house on Ash Tree Lane continue to deepen. 

To get a better idea try this: focus on these words, and whatever you do don’t let your eyes wander past the perimeter of this page. Now imagine just beyond your peripheral vision, maybe behind you, maybe to the side of you, maybe even in front of you, but right where you can’t see it, something is quietly closing in on you, so quiet in fact you can only hear it as silence. Find those pockets without sound. That’s where it is. Right at this moment. But don’t look. Keep your eyes here. Now take a deep breath. Go ahead and take an even deeper one. Only this time as you start to exhale try to imagine how fast it will happen, how hard it’s gonna hit you, how many times it will stab your jugular with its teeth or are they nails? don’t worry, that particular detail doesn’t matter, because before you have time to even process that you should be moving, you should be running, you should at the very least be flinging up your arms--you sure as hell should be getting rid of this book-- you won’t have time to even scream. 

Don’t look. 

I didn’t. 

Of course I looked. 

Some story spoilers under the cut. 

Whoo boy do I feel torn on this one. House of Leaves contains some really intriguing ideas, and when it’s done right, it’s some of the best stuff out there. Unfortunately, there are also several questionable choices and narrative decisions that, for me, tarnish the overall experience. It’s certainly an interesting read, even if the whole is ultimately less than the sum of its parts. 

First of all, I can see why people don’t like this book, or give up on it early (for me this was attempt number three). Despite an interesting concept and framing device, the first third or so of the book is pretty boring. Johnny is just not an interesting character. He does a lot of drugs and has a lot of (pretty unpleasant) sex and... that’s pretty much it, at least at the beginning. There’s occasional horror sections that are more interesting, where Johnny’s convinced he’s being hunted by something, but they’re few and far between. Meanwhile, the story in The Navidson Record seems content to focus on the relationship issues between two affluent suburbanites rather than the much more interesting, physically impossible house they live in. The early “exploration” sections are a little bit better, but overall I feel the opening act neglects the interesting premise. 

However, unlike many, I love the gimmick. The academic presentation of the Navidson story is replete with extensive (fake) footnotes,and there’s tons of self-indulgent rambling in both stories. I personally find it hilarious; it’s an intentionally dense parody of modern academic writing. Readers will note early that the typographical format is nonstandard, with the multiple concurrent stories denoted by different typefaces, certain words in color, footnotes within footnotes, etc. House of Leaves eventually goes off the chain with this concept, gracing us with pages that look like (minor spoilers) this or this. This leads into the best part of this book, namely... 

Its visual presentation! House of Leaves excels in conveying story and feeling through formatting decisions. The first picture I linked is one of many like it in a chapter about labyrinths. And reading it feels like navigating a labyrinth! It features a key “story”, but also daunting, multi-page lists of irrelevant names, buildings, architectural terms, etc. There are footnotes that don’t exist, then footnote citations that don’t seem to exist until one finds them later in the chapter. All this while physically turning the book or even grabbing a mirror to read certain passages. In short, it feels like navigating the twists, turns, and dead ends of a labyrinth. And that’s just one example -- other chapters utilize placement of the text to show where a character is in relation to others, what kind of things are happening around them, and so on. One chapter near the end features a square of text that gets progressively smaller as one turns the pages, which mirrors the claustrophobic feel of the narrative events. This is the coolest shit to me; I adore when a work utilizes its format to convey certain story elements. I usually see this in poetry and video games, but this is the first time I’ve seen it done so well in long-form fiction. City of Saints and Madmen and Shriek: An Afterword by Jeff VanderMeer, both of which I reviewed earlier this year, do something similar, and are clearly inspired by House of Leaves in more ways than one. 

And yes, the story does get a little better, though it never wows me. The central horror story is not overtly scary, but eeriness suffices, and I have a soft spot for architectural horror. Even Johnny and the Navidsons become more interesting characters over time. For example, I find Karen pretty annoying and generic for most of the book, but her development in later chapters makes her much more interesting. While I question the practical need for Johnny’s frame story, it does become more engaging as he descends into paranoia and madness.

So why the relatively low rating? Well... as I alluded to earlier, there’s some questionable stuff in House of Leaves that leaves (...hah?) a bad taste in my mouth. The first is a heavy focus on sexual violence against women. I did some extensive thinking on this throughout my read, but I just cannot find a valid reason for it. The subject feels thrown in for pure shock value, and especially from a male author, it seems tacky and voyeuristic. If it came up once or twice I’d probably be able to stomach this more easily, but it’s persistent throughout the story, and doesn’t contribute anything to the plot or horror (not that that would really make it better). I’m not saying books can’t have that content, but it’s just not explored in any meaningful way, and it feels cheap and shitty to throw it in something that traumatizing just to shock the audience. It’s like a bad jump scare but worse on every level. There’s even a part near the end written in code, which I took the time to decode, only to discover it’s yet another example of this. Like, really, dude? 

Second, this book’s portrayal of mental illness is not great. (major spoilers for Johnny’s arc.) One of the main things about Johnny’s story is he’s an unreliable narrator. From the outset, Johnny has occasional passages that can either be interpreted as genuine horror, or delusional breaks from reality. Reality vs unreality is a core theme throughout both stories. Is The Navidson Record real despite all evidence to the contrary? Is it real as in “is the film an actual thing” or “the events of the film are an actual thing”? and so on and so forth. Johnny’s sections mirror this; he’ll describe certain events, then later state they didn’t happen, contradict himself, or even describe a traumatic event through a made-up story. Eventually, the reader figures out parts of Johnny’s actual backstory, namely that when he was a small child, his mother was institutionalized for violent schizophrenia. Perhaps you can see where this is going... 

Schizophrenia-as-horror is ridiculously overdone. But it also demonizes mental illness, and schizophrenia in particular, in a way that is actively harmful. Don’t misunderstand me, horror can be a great way to explore mental illness, but when it’s done wrong? Woof. Unfortunately House of Leaves doesn’t do it justice. While it avoids some cliches, it equates the horror elements of Johnny’s story to the emergence of his latent schizophrenia. This isn’t outwardly stated, and there are multiple interpretations of most of the story, but in lieu of solid and provable horror, it’s the most reasonable and consistent explanation. There’s also an emphasis on violent outbursts related to schizophrenia, which just isn’t an accurate portrayal of the condition. 

To Danielewski’s credit, it’s not entirely black and white. We do see how Johnny’s descent into paranoia negatively affects his life and interpersonal relationships. There’s a bonus section where we see all the letters Johnny’s mother wrote him while in the mental hospital, and we can see her love and compassion for him in parallel to the mental illness. But the experimental typographical style returns here to depict just how “scary” schizophrenia is, and that comes off as tacky to me. I think this is probably an example of a piece of media not aging well (after all, this book just turned 20), and there’s been a definite move away from this kind of thing in horror, but that doesn’t change the impression it leaves. For a book as supposedly original/groundbreaking as this, defaulting to standard bad horror tropes is disappointing. And using “it was schizophrenia all along” to explain the horror elements in Johnny’s story feels like a cop-out. I wish there was more mystery here, or alternate interpretations that actually make sense. 

Overall The Navidson Record part of the story feels more satisfying. I actually like that there isn’t a direct explanation for everything that happens. It feels like a more genuine horror story, regardless of whether you interpret it as a work of fiction within the story or not. There’s evidence for both. Part of me wishes the book had ended when this story ends (it doesn’t), or that the framing device with Johnny was absent, or something along those lines. Oh well-- this is the story we got, for better or worse. 

I don’t regret reading House of Leaves, and it’s certainly impressive for a debut novel. If you’re looking for a horror-flavored work of metafiction, it’s a valid place to start. I think the experimental style is a genuine treat to read, and perhaps the negative aspects won’t hit you as hard as they did to me. But I can definitely see why this book is controversial. 

[rimmers-swimming-certificate]

Red Dwarf Fanfic - Comatose (7/?)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6

Lister’s guitar stood resting against the wall, in the same place it had been yesterday, and the day before. The same place he had left it the last time he had played it, months ago, when he could still touch it.

Sitting on his bunk with his legs dangling over the side, Lister moved his hands as though he was playing, humming a tune to himself as he imagined the feel of the guitar in his hands; the weight of it, the feel of the smooth, painted wood, the pressure of the strings on his fingertips as he pressed the frets and strummed to coax music from the instrument.

He stopped. It was no good. Imagining it would just never be the same.

Lister sighed deeply, pulled his legs back up onto the bed, and lay down. He closed his eyes and tried not to think. Thinking at a time like this would be a bad idea. The best thing he could do when he felt himself sinking into despair was pick up his guitar and let himself get lost in the music.

He had never been prone to depression before he had been marooned in deep space. He was fully aware that he’d had his issues, but that had never been one of them. Since Holly had brought him out of stasis, however, he had found himself sinking into low moods with alarming regularity, even before he had been whacked over the head and woken up as a hologram.

He supposed it made sense. After all, he was the last human being alive, he was cast adrift in deep space, with very little hope of ever seeing Earth again, and he hadn’t touched a woman in three million years. Honestly, he supposed it was a miracle that he wasn’t a blubbering wreck rocking back and forth in the corner.

Most of the time, he could ignore the feeling; push it into the back of his mind and act like it wasn’t there. He could drown it out by making himself smile, finding the joy in what little he did have, and forcing himself not to think about what he had lost. If he pretended hard enough most of the time, it would go away.

But not always, and once he began to sink, he would often sink hard, and it would take time and effort to drag himself back up. And that was what he felt beginning to happen now.

It had been brewing for some time in the back of his mind, and right now, he just didn’t have the mental energy to fight it off. He couldn’t retreat into his usual coping strategies. He had always used his guitar to stave off the worst of the loneliness, his guitar, and a good curry, and now he couldn’t even touch either.

“Lister, falling back into old habits, I see,” Rimmer announced as he strode purposefully into the living quarters they shared. “Honestly, if I’d known that you were going to spend all your time lying around in bed, I’d have suggested we leave you comatose.”

Lister cracked open an eye and glared at Rimmer through it. “Very funny.”

Rimmer shook his head. “It wasn’t a joke,” he said.

Lister rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Leave me alone, Rimmer. I’m not in the mood.”

Rimmer frowned at him as though he was some disgusting piece of gum he had found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Not in the mood for what, exactly?”

“This conversation, for a start,” Lister said. He wasn’t in the mood for anything, he wasn't in the mood to have to deal with Rimmer, he wasn’t in the mood to talk, and he definitely wasn’t in the mood to have to pretend like he was okay. Not now, when he was feeling less okay than he had in a long time.

Rimmer nodded. He looked himself over in the mirror, brushed down imaginary dust from his clothing, then turned back to Lister. “You need to get up,” he said.

Lister continued to stare at the ceiling. “I’m tired,” he said.

“No, you’re not. Well, you shouldn’t be, anyway. You only woke up a couple of hours ago.”

“No I didn’t,” Lister argued. He frowned, and turned to address a question out into the centre of the room. “Hey, Holly, what time is it?”

Holly’s face appeared on the viewscreen. “About 4.15pm,” she said. “Why?”

Lister turned back to Rimmer triumphantly. “See. I woke up three hours ago.”

“Oh, well done,” Rimmer congratulated him in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “And what have you done with your day so far? Achieved a lot, I imagine. Have you even got out of bed yet?”

“Yes!” Lister told him. Truthfully, as it happened. “I mean, only for a bit. I popped down to the medical unit to check on my body.”

Rimmer nodded. “How’s it doing?”

“Same.” Lister turned his head to look at Rimmer as he spoke to him. “Kryten says he's going to keep me informed, but I guess there’s nothing to tell, because so far he’s barely said a word about it.”

“No news is good news,” Rimmer said.

Lister shrugged. He wasn’t so sure about that, but he supposed that at least it wasn’t bad news.

“I don’t understand why you keep going down there.” Rimmer told him. “Surely it can’t be fun, seeing yourself hooked up to all those machines.”

“It’s not.”

“And it’s not like it’s helping anything. It isn’t like visiting a sick relative so they think you care. There’s nobody in there to score points with.”

Lister stared, disbelieving. “That’s the only reason you’d visit someone in the hospital then, is it? Point scoring? So they ‘think you care’? You genuinely wouldn’t give a damn if someone you cared about was sick in hospital?”

Rimmer shrugged. “It would depend on the person,” he said.

“So did you never go visit me then, before you hologrammed me? You never once swung by to check up on me?”

Rimmer folded his arms and looked away. “Once or twice. I didn’t make a habit of it.”

“No? Because Kryten told me you were there every day.”

Rimmer shrugged dismissively and suddenly appeared very interested in the wall at the other side of the room. “Yes, exactly. Once or twice a day. That’s what I meant.”

“Because you didn’t want to make a habit of it.”

The hologram scowled, then folded his arms. “Even comatose, Lister, you’re a better conversationalist than the Cat. Anyway, forget that, we were talking about you, not me.”

Technically, no. Lister had been trying to have a lie down on his bed. Rimmer was the one trying to talk.

“You’ve got to get up, Lister. Stop moping around and get on with your life. Otherwise what was the point in us giving you this hologram body, if all you’re going to do is lie in bed?”

Lister eyed him suspiciously. “Did Kryten put you up to this?” he asked.

“Kryten? No. Why?”

Lister shook his head. “No reason. So, go on then, what do you suggest I do? I mean, my options are a bit limited right now, if you didn’t notice.”

Rimmer gave him a look. “Yes, thank you. I’m well aware of the limitations of being a hologram Lister. I’ve been dealing with them for a good few years now. Maybe it’s time you stopped moping around and listened to me. You might even find that I have some vague idea what I’m talking about.”

Lister sighed.

“There’s loads you could be doing,” Rimmer assured him.

“Like?”

“Like? I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

Lister shook his head. He wanted to be left in peace. He had been perfectly fine moping around in bed. “Leave me alone, Rimmer,” he said. “I’m okay, honestly. I don’t need your help.”

Rimmer shrugged, and turned to leave. For one, brief, moment, he thought the hologram was going to do as he was asked. Facing the door, Rimmer stopped, and then turned back. “No,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this. Get up.”

“Rimmer…”

“Lister, you know the ship’s computer can take control of a hologram’s body, right? Holly did it to me, when he decided to play that ridiculous practical joke and pretended to be Queeg. It’s not very nice, and if you don’t want to learn that first hand, I suggest you get out of bed.”

Lister sat up and stared at him in horror. “You wouldn’t,” he said.

Rimmer stared back at him wordlessly. His expression said ‘try me’.”

Lister felt his mouth go dry as he imagined a total loss of control. A familiar feeling of claustrophobia began to grip him at the mere thought of it, but that would be so much worse than being trapped in a small space. To be trapped within his own body, unable to move except at the will of another person. He felt himself begin to break out in a cold sweat, and his heart, or the simulation of his heart, pounded in his chest.

“Don’t.” He slid down from his bunk. “Please don’t, Rimmer. Don’t you dare.”

“I wouldn’t.” Rimmer told him. He was staring at him in horror. “I… really I wouldn’t. What do you take me for? It was a joke.”

A joke. A joke? Lister took a deep breath and sat down so heavily on Rimmer’s bunk that for a moment he thought he was going to fall through it. He ran a hand over his face, then wiped it on his trousers. It felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Rimmer told him. “I didn’t mean to make you… whatever it is that’s happening. What is happening, by the way?”

Lister leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, he sucked in a slow deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips as he tried to chase away the rising panic. “Claustrophobic,” he said.

“Oh. Well I wasn’t going to make you lock yourself in a box or anything.”

Lister forced himself to look up and glared at Rimmer, who genuinely looked worried about what was happening. Lister took another slow, deep breath. “You’re a total smeg head, Rimmer. You know that, right?”

Rimmer sat down on the bed next to him. “It’s been pointed out to me,” he said. “On occasion.”

Lister nodded.

“In my defence though, I expected you to just threaten me back, or… I don’t know, maybe call my bluff or something.”

Lister sucked in and blew out another breath. “Rimmer, if you ever so much as think a threat like that again…”

Rimmer nodded. “I won’t,” he promised. “Got you out of bed though.”

“Yeah.” Lister sat up straight and rubbed a hand over his face again. He could still feel himself shaking, but he trusted that Rimmer wasn’t really going to follow through on the threat. He turned to look at Rimmer. “Any particular reason for that? Or have you just decided you don’t like people to be laying down?”

“I wanted to try to cheer you up,” Rimmer told him. “I smegged that one up, didn’t I?”

Lister couldn’t help it, he laughed at that. “Great job,” he said.

Without thinking, he touched Rimmer. A quick hand on his shoulder as he moved to get up, and he froze.

With his hand still on Rimmer’s shoulder, he stared at it in fascination. “Rimmer…” he began, but broke off.

Rimmer too, was sitting completely still, staring at Lister’s hand. His eyes were wide, and his expression impossible to read.

Lister squeezed, just slightly, pressing his fingers into Rimmer’s shoulder. He could feel the flesh and the bone beneath. It felt so real. Warm; human. The unexpectedness of it took his breath away.

Rimmer raised his other hand slowly. Hesitantly, he touched the back of Lister's hand. Through the fingerless leather gloves he was wearing, the touch felt feather-light, moving slowly across the back of his hand, tracing the shape of it. Lister watched, wanting him to press harder, but not wanting to break the spell of the moment by speaking.

And then, it was over. As quickly as if a switch had been pressed, Rimmer snatched back his hand, got to his feet, and bolted from the room.

“Rimmer, wait a minute!”

Lister was too late, Rimmer was already gone and by the time Lister had reached the door, he had disappeared around a corner.

“Smeg.”

He went back into the room and sat back down on the bed. He looked at his hand. He could feel the ghost of the unexpected touch. He touched his own hand, but it wasn’t the same. It didn’t speak to that need for contact inside of him; a need that until that moment, he hadn’t even recognised.

He sighed. He didn’t get it, Rimmer had seemed to like it at first. Until he hadn’t. Lister flexed his fingers and shook his hand as though he could shake off the memory of the touch, but it was impossible.

Finally, he got to his feet. “Holly, do you know where Rimmer’s gone?” he asked.

(next)

[just-a-smalltown-guy]

A genuine question for other trans people

Mentions of gender dysphoria and self harm//please keep scrolling if you are easily affected by the mention of these things.

How do you feel proud for being trans? Not trying to be condescending or anything, seriously. If anything I’m just seeking support.

Personally I hate having dysphoria. I hate having that discomfort in the back of my mind 24/7. If I could do it over I’d take being cis either way. Girl or Guy.

I can kinda feel a bit proud , being trans is tough shit to go through. And there are thousands of people who transition and live their best lives and triumph over crippling dysphoria. You got through it! You did it ! You made it! You /can/ find happiness and relief!

I know life isn’t all miserable. I don’t think I hate being trans as a whole, I hate the pain and discomfort it brings.

I just want to transition.

I’m so tired.

I’m so tired of feeling uncomfortable.

I’m tired of not being able to shower for days at a time because I can’t stand to look at my body.

I’m tired of tossing and turning to get comfortable in bed because I can feel the feminine parts of my body.

I’m tired of taking my binder on and off.

I’m tired of forgetting my chest is there and then snapping back to an anguishing reality

I’m tired of feeling claustrophobic when my binder just wont flatten them enough and no matter how much I try to shift I end up feeling worse.

I’m tired of my dysphoria setting off because I’ve worn my binder too long and I get chest pains.

Im tired of being in a blinding hurting rage because I have to try and hold myself back from clawing at my chest.

I’m tired of punching walls because if my hands hurt it’s at least a distraction.

I’m tired of having to hold back the urge to self-harm , just to feel something else other than dysphoria.

I’m tired of always needing some form of drug to distract me from dysphoria.

I’m tired of being so angry at my dysphoria but not being able to do anything about it.

I’m tired of never doing the things I used to love because dysphoria gets in the way.

I’m tired of being patient with the same (sometimes stupid) and invasive questions from people.

I’m tired of my family not taking about the elephant in the room. ( hint hint : it’s me transitioning and feeling like shit because of my dysphoria)

I’m tired of crying , and the people that do care not knowing how to help.

I’m tired of screaming into a wet pillow.

I’m tired of not passing and when I do - not looking my age.

I’m tired of waiting, and waiting , and waiting , and waiting and saying “maybe next month”

I’m tired of trying to be happy when I’m so fucking miserable.

I just want relief.

I just want freedom.

I just want to put on a fucking shirt and not have to double check and check again to see if I’m flat and if I can still be slightly comfortable.

I just want to /move/ again.

I just want to go hiking and rock-climbing and running again.I haven’t done any in four.fucking.years.

I just want to breathe again.

I’m so tired of feeling trapped.

How? How do you cope with something like this? How do you keep going without turning on auto-pilot? How do you function when each day that flies by is just another where you have the chance feel more or less miserable?

I want dysphoria to leave me alone so I can move on with my life. I want it to stop holding me back from every little single minuscule thing I want to do that makes me happy.I want it to fuck off and go rot in the shit-hole that it came from.

I just want to be happy.I just want to be free.