#spanning two miles is impossible

[icryyoumercy]

does anyone have a written copy of the goblin emperor and might check something for me?

i have vague recollections of someone saying the bridge over the istandaärtha would need to span two miles, but checking with the audiobook is not working too well

[spacedace]

Reluctant War AU Part 2

Part One

...I ended up writing more for that Reluctant War AU...Like. Wrote this before work and started on part 3 with plans for part 4 more.

this was supposed to just be a brain worm what happened (also thank you @catastrophic-crow for the AU name <3 <3 <3 Also, also: welcome to the cult of Ancient of the Speedforce Elle! Membership includes nonsense, shenanigans and chaos haha)

-

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Every corner haunted by death and tragedy.

Every street stained red at least once in its many years.

Every dark shadow holding the faint shadows and shades of the dead.

Gotham was, before all else, a grave yard.

Jason had known that his entire life. Every kid born and raised in the Alley did. Death came fast to Gotham’s streets. Especially for those the rest of the city turned its back on. He did his best to lighten the reaper’s load when it came to the people that called Crime Alley home. Well, mostly. He’d certainly added names to old Death’s list before, when the occasion called.

When the armies of the dead descended upon Gotham, the only surprise Jason could feel was that those white wearing pieces of shit had dared to try and hunker down in his city.

It was a sentiment shared by most of Gotham’s fine citizens. By the city itself - herself? Something to ask later, if there was a later - even if the impossible, living shadow that rose up out of Gotham’s many dark corners was anything to go by. He knew, almost instinctively, that the entity - skin of cracked pavement, mouth a bridge suspended too wide across the face, eyes of CCTV camera lenses and body built brick by grimy, bloody brick of the sharp skyline - was Gotham. Not a ghost but something bigger, greater. Something awfully, terribly alive in all its horrible, noble glory. His city, manifest in the shape almost human beneath the green glow of the torn apart sky above.

Phantom’s armies arrived without warning as they had everywhere else, and their enemies poured out in unforgivably unmarred white suits to meet them. Horrible and garish against the Gotham streets. How they’d ever managed to slink by unnoticed while being so blatantly, clearly not of Gotham Jason wasn’t sure he’d ever know.

If either side thought this would be like the battles they fought before, they were mistaken.

Gotham was a place for Ghosts.

A place the dead piled up, lingered well beyond their deaths. A place where the rules were different from everywhere else in the world. Where crime was rampant and chaos reigned but at the end of the day people said their thanks that they were born to this hellhole and not so cursed to call anywhere else in the world home.

The dead came to fight

And Gotham, a thing so alive it was sickening to look upon, rose up to fight right along side them all.

The agents were ready and prepared for the incursion of the dead. It’d been two weeks since the first volley of attacks. Two weeks spent shoring up defenses and ramping up weapons and strategizing ways to kill what was already dead. They were, as best as they were able to be considering how endless the armies that came for them, prepared.

They weren’t prepared for Gotham.

Weren’t prepared for the city itself to rise up and take spectral, eldritch shape. Jagged building spire and shattered glass teeth bared in a snarl that spanned miles. Screaming rage in a voice made of gunfire and the concussive boom of explosions and the shrieks of a furious crowd.

Weren’t prepared for its people to ignore the gentle ushering of the dead trying to push them away to safety and instead press forward to fight shoulder to shoulder with the ghostly armies.

Weren’t prepared to have brick and bottles and trash and debris rain down upon them from the jeering living. Weren’t prepared for dirty faced children with hard eyes to light up rags stuffed into chipped beer bottles filled with gas and kerosene and throw them with more speed an accuracy than any professional baseball player. Weren’t ready for Gotham’s motley crew of terrifying Rogues to band together with the citizens they so often accosted and worried and bring down wave after wave of chaos and Goons.

Weren’t prepared for Red Hood to swap out his rubber bullets for the real deal and start mowing the fuckers in white down, his own crew at his back, the rest of the Outlaws on their way.

The Justice League was trying to find a peaceful resolution. Trying to play go between to the US Government and the infinite dead. Too wound up in US politics to side with the dead outright, too disgusted by what the American government had done to ever want to stand with them. All it had gotten them was spun wheels and confusion and the slow creeping realization that the time to try and play negotiators had well passed.

Red Hood wasn’t a member of the Justice League.

He had no obligation to try and find a way to talk things out.

What he had was a grave he’d dug his way out of, enough ammunition to arm a sizable country, and a burning need to make things right.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts, and Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

Haunting the streets he’d survived as a child, the city he protected as Robin, the family he’d loved and lost a thousand and one times before and after his death.

The sky cracked open above his home, and it was not an invading army that came rushing out but a native one. Friends, neighbors, strangers on the street you caught from the corner of your eye. The people of Gotham knew their own and fought for them. Only Gotham was allowed to fucked with Gotham and they’d been screwed over enough by the government themselves to know what side they were on.

He lifted his guns and fired, teeth bared in vicious satisfaction beneath his helmet as white was splattered bright red.

A hissing electric whine of a weapon, a flash of green from the edge of his vision.

“Down!”

He was thrown bodily to the cracked and ruined street beneath him, the body shielding him warm and living as one of the agent’s weapon fired a blast of energy right where he’d been a second before. He’d seen that same weapon reduce one of the raging dead to dripping green and screams of agony the dead should not be capable of making.

Before he could shove himself up and respond in kind, the body above him was in motion and the air above him cracking with the snapping-popping-roar of a gun of a much higher power than even what he had. The fucker in white that had shot at him dissolved into a mist of red viscera, body seizing and shuttering in the briefest moment it had before it was obliterated completely.

“Watch yourself.” He looked up - and up - and wondered at the lovely, fierce face he found staring down at him. “Even without shooting at them you’re Liminal enough to trip their sensors.”

She was tall enough to be an amazon, six inches in height on him at least. Body strong beneath the pitch black armor she work - as deep and dark as the depths of space, etched with starlight, a familiar crest upon her chest in the dizzying burst of a supernova - she held herself with confidence. Strands of hair the color of a warning sunrise escaped out from beneath the helm she wore, bright against her pale skin, warming the glass-sharp teal eyes that had pinned him in place.

The hand not holding the gun she’d just used to delete the asshole that had just tried to shoot him - a strange, impossible thing that made him taste lightning at the back of his throat to look at it - stretched out to help him up.

He accepted it.

Something pulsed to life in his chest. A piece forgotten where it’d been left behind, half buried in grave dirt and broken pieces of a casket he’d clawed his way out of. It burned like a hot coal in his chest, froze him with the same aching cold of a blizzard, crackled his nerves to life with lightning even as his brain popped and fried with the same sizzling energy.

On his feet, hair on end and body and Core pulsing with the need to fight, to rend and tear and scream for all done to him, his people, his home, he met the eyes of the woman before him. Her cool gaze softened, just a moment, just a second as she seemed to realize what had happened. Her hand, lighter than the armor she wore should allow it to be, tightened on his just a moment, mouth tilting from determined frown to soft understanding.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

---

Part Three

[plaguedocboi]

Waterfalls! These gorgeous, powerful features of nature have been oddly lacking in my past lists, I think in part because their danger has always seemed more “obvious” to me. But doing the research for this list has reawakened my phobia of the water. Some of the later entries (numbers 9 and 10 especially) brought back anxieties that I thought I had gotten over long ago, but it was kind of thrilling. Like watching a particularly scary horror movie. Let’s get into it!

1. Underwater Waterfall, Mauritius

No, it’s not really a waterfall. It’s just an optical illusion caused by sand falling off the island’s slope down into the deeper water below. But it looks cool and scary, and the drop-off is 2.5 miles deep so that’s pretty impressive and I think it deserves at least a mention.

2. Blood Falls, Antarctica

There’s nothing particularly dangerous about this one, it just looks incredibly creepy. Obviously, it’s not actually blood, it’s just water that’s very rich in iron. But the really fascinating part of this waterfall is that its source seems to be a subglacial lake that contains a unique microbial ecosystem which has been isolated for two million years! These microbes are like nothing else we’ve ever observed in nature before. They live in an incredibly cold and extremely saline lake, and metabolize sulfur and iron ions with no oxygen present. They are being used as a model to study what life on ice-covered alien planets could be like.

3. Khone Falls, Laos

This waterfall is not nearly as famous as some of the others on this list, which is surprising because it’s the widest waterfall in the world, with an average width of six miles! Although not particularly tall, it is the second most powerful waterfall in the world, more than double the power of Niagara Falls! The Khone falls divide the Upper and Lower Mekong river, making travel by boat between the north and south impossible. What makes it kind of unsettling to me is that during the rainy seasons the falls are basically swallowed up by the river, turning them from a spectacular waterfall to a series of massive rapids.

4. Huntington Gorge, Vermont

When water levels are low, this river is a popular and scenic swimming spot, and the canyon has an almost otherworldly quality with its unique bends and overhangs. Unfortunately, these very features are what makes it so dangerous. Much like the infamous Strid, the gorge is full of holes, steep drop-offs, and powerful currents hidden beneath the water, which can suck people in and trap them against the cliff walls. Over fifty people have died here since the 1950s, and many more have been injured. With proper precautions, one can safely explore the gorge and swim in the river, but don’t forget that this water has swallowed up many people before you.

5. Victoria Falls, Zambia

I’m sure most of you already know about Mosi-oa-Tunya, more widely called Victoria Falls, as the largest waterfall in the world. Formed as the Zambezi river pours into a series of massive gorges, this curtain of water spans nearly a mile and falls 300 feet with such force that columns of rising spray can be seen for miles around. Despite this, the pools around the lip of the falls can be relatively tame, and locals have fished while balancing on the edge of the cliff for generations. The safest and most famous of these fishing holes is the Devils Pool, which allows you to literally swim right up to the edge of the world’s biggest waterfall. The pool is actually very safe when the correct precautions are taken, and I can only find one death attributed to the pool specifically, when a tour guide in 2009 fell while trying to help a man who had slipped and was dangling off the edge (and, honestly, I was expecting a lot more deaths given the amount of clickbait articles advertising it as the most deadly swimming hole in the world). Although that was the only death from the Devils Pool, there have been many other deaths at Victoria Falls, mostly tourists who underestimate the power of the river or get too close to the edge. So if you ever visit this spectacular waterfall, please observe it from a safe distance and follow all the rules.

6. Huka Falls, New Zealand

This is not a traditional waterfall, but rather a series of small waterfalls along a narrow stretch of the Waikato river, creating an incredibly turbulent chasm that ends in a whirlpool. The 300-foot wide river is funneled into a 50-foot wide stream, causing a torrent of water that flows at a rate of 58,000 gallons per second. Obviously, this is not an area that you should get in the water, but not everyone takes that advice. There have been multiple deaths at this waterfall, and a few narrow escapes, including two swimmers who, incredibly, survived after trying to raft down the falls on pool toys. Please, for the love of god, don’t do that.

7. Niagara Falls, US/Canada

These falls are the only place on this list that I’ve visited, and I can tell you they are certainly an incredible sight, but also rather intimidating due to their sheer size and power. These three massive waterfalls are fed by the Great Lakes and, combined, have nearly 700,000 gallons of water thundering down every second. There is also a permanent whirlpool in the river that has existed for over 4,000 years and reaches depths of 125 feet! Besides being huge and awe-inspiring, these waterfalls are known for their appeal to daredevils who have gone over the edge in barrels or, in one case, a giant rubber ball. But these famous success stories are punctuated with tragedy. Roughly 20-30 people die at Niagara Falls every year. Most of these, sadly, are suicides, but others are failed attempts to replicate the successful daredevils of the past, and others are accidental. An estimated 5,000 bodies were recovered at the bottom of the falls between 1850 and 2011.

8. Murchison Falls, Uganda

Also known as Kabalega Falls, this is the worlds most powerful waterfall. Formed as the Nile River flows from Lake Kyoga to Lake Albert, this waterfall is so strong it literally causes the ground to shake around it. Here, the Nile is constricted from a river nearly 400 ft wide to a passage only 20 ft wide, creating an incredibly turbulent and violent tunnel of water that tears its way into the pool below at 79,000 gallons per second. And this is no ordinary pool. Waiting below the falls is the highest concentration of large crocodiles observed anywhere in the world, waiting for any dead or stunned animals caught in the falls to wash into their lair. Although the waterfall and surrounding park are now a beautiful tourist attraction and wildlife refuge, the history of the falls includes tales of human and animal sacrifices, thrown in alive to appease the gods that some believed resided beneath the raging waters.

9. Bath Fountain, Jamaica

This is just a random little waterfall along a hiking trail, but the video triggered some intense bathophobia in me for the first time in a while. Like, I was scared to get in the shower after watching this. Proceed with caution:

10. Kipu Falls, Hawaii

This one scares me because, despite my research, I can’t actually figure out what the hell is happening here. Multiple people have died here; all tourists, all drownings, all of seemingly very unclear causes. Kipu Falls is a beautiful and popular swimming spot, and locals frequently dive off the top of the falls with seemingly no danger. However, five deaths over the course of five years from 2006-2011 challenged its reputation of being a safe swimming hole. All the articles I could find seem to repeat the same information; there is no current in the pool and the waterfalls are not especially powerful. Despite these established facts, all five deaths were the same. Someone jumped in, surfaced, and then were dragged back down to the bottom of the pool and held there until they died. This has resulted in a lot of speculation, including everything from a hidden whirlpool current to evil spirits. I’m just. Really unsettled by the lack of information on this one. Every article I found was published in 2011 and I couldn’t find any updates, which hopefully means people aren’t still dying here, but… what the fuck???? Was going on????? Sorry guys this one might not be as dangerous as some of the others but it freaks me out a lot so it’s getting a higher rating. I want to know what’s going on but I’m sure not going to investigate it myself.

[silcodependent]

Sway

Chapter 9

Silco x Fem!Reader

1.4K Words

Silco image to remind us what we are fighting for

The hours flew by looking over this piece of paper and that, trying to imagine walls out of two dimensional lines. The way Silco described it was breathtaking, it took the rumble you were surrounded with and painted a picture of the future, both grand and believable. He certainly had a way with words, it made you wonder what else that silver tongue was good for.

“There’s one last thing I want to discuss” Silco’s words brought you back from your daydream as you and Remy followed him back to what had been your dressing room.

Like everywhere else the walls were bare, the countertops, mirrors and vanity lights gone but had been replaced with large sheets of paper spanning most of the walls covered in detailed drawings of a dressing room beyond belief. Two stories, the bottom for dressing, makeup, costumes and a private bathroom to die for despite its size. The upper level was connected by a spiral staircase in the back corner that led into a lounge complete with a space to receive guests, entry from the balcony, wet bar and your own veranda overlooking a slice of the undercity. 

Your fingers gingerly traced the designs as Silco described every piece. A stunned silence hung in the air when finished.

“Do you like it?”

You couldn’t take your eyes off of it, lips trembling, stumbling over the right words. But there were no words. All you could do was shake your head in stunned disbelief. 

“It's…It’s too much.” You finally forced out, hands still tracing every line of the drawings, completely transfixed.

Silco hummed from somewhere a thousand miles behind you.

“I see. You prefer something simpler.”

His words hardly reached you, everything around you felt as surreal as a dream. It wasn’t until you felt his presence behind you that began to wake. 

“Show me.” Silco’s voice as dark as the depths and twice as soothing. You turned to him, your eyes betraying your normal concealment, showing you for exactly what you are: Confused, skeptical, and utterly in awe.

Fire and water searched your face for words you didn’t know how to speak. There was a slight lift in the scar on the corner of his lips and you were lost in it.

“She loves it.” Remy placed a hand on your shoulder forcing you back to reality. You couldn’t help but look at him in hope that he'd be able to speak the words you couldn’t.

Another win for Remy’s relentless charm as he did just that, looking directly at Silco.

“It’s perfect”. Isn’t that right?” This time Remy looked to you but you couldn’t return the gaze finding it impossible to lift your eyes from the floor. 

“Yes, perfect. Truly.” Was all you were able to squeak out. Luckily Remy continued as though you were being perfectly normal, asking Silco about materials and details until they exited to the next room.

A moment alone allowed you to exhale the breath you’d been holding since you walked into this room. 

It doesn’t make sense. It’s too much. It’s…

You felt naked and vulnerable in the light of such a grand gesture. You were lucky he wasn’t there to see. Or perhaps he already had. You didn’t know. Your head was swimming with thoughts and feelings you couldn’t understand.

The plans in front of you were taped neatly to the wall with intentionality. They were more detailed than any of the others you’d gone over today, complete with artist rendering of the finished design--something that no other part of the club was given.

But why?

The answer was both obvious and elusive. There was a spark between you. You knew that. You were sure he felt it too but to what degree? This was beyond the game of cat and mouse the two of you had been playing for weeks and it left you mystified and speechless.

This was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for you. How do you thank someone for that?

Perhaps you were reading too much into this but the feeling lingered and nagged. What was this and what did it mean?

“If everything looks in order, I’ll have the workers start on it this week” Silco’s words pierced your haze as you joined them both in that hallway.

“This week sounds great.” You replied, finally finding your voice. 

“Then I’ll get to work.” Silco said, giving you a soft smile. “I’ll keep you updated as things progress.” He added, turning on his heels and making his exit. Your eyes couldn’t help but linger on the door after he left.

“Care to tell me what’s going on with you and Silco?” Remy’s smile was evident in his voice before you turned to see it plastered even wider on his face.

“Nothing!” You said, a little louder than you meant to. Remy simply laughed and shook his head as blush rapidly rose to your cheeks.

“Nothing.” You repeated softly this time,”I don’t know what all this is about.”

“Well I have a theory…” he teased. You did not appreciate it.

“Enlighten me.” you pushed back sarcastically.

“He’s smitten.”

“He is a flirt.”

“I very much doubt that.” Remy retorted.

You thought back on your moments together.

“I don’t have the look or temperament to be a lover”

“The more I find out about you, the more I’m surprised by your intentionality, strategic thinking, and reserve. We seem to have more and more in common.”

As comfortable and slick as he was trading coy barbs with you, his comments did make it seem like this was rare for him. Or perhaps rare for him these days. Your brain flashed the image of young Silco fighting on the bridge again, and you felt that familiar pang in your ribs. This was rare for you too.

Despite how light and fun you both had kept things, this had gone too far. You had known from the beginning that Silco was bad for business but you could never have predicted this. And here you were stunned and uncertain of your next move.

No investments, no attachments, no situations you weren’t in control of; rules broken. Rules meant to protect you.

“Do you like him?” Remy asked. He was genuine in his question but it didn’t make you feel any less silly.

I don’t know him, was your first thought. How much you longed to, was your second. 

But all that came out was a shake of your head as you replied “I don’t date men I’ve met at the club.”

Remy’s eyes were soft and compassionate, which made his next sentence resonate even more.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

The realization now obvious to both of you. 

This was going to be trouble. What were you going to do?

You shook your head, forcing that dilemma away until you were alone to unravel its meaning.

“Who else was supposed to be at this meeting?”

Remy’s brow creased with confusion at the sudden change of topic.

“Silco asked you if ‘this is everyone?’. Who else were you expecting?”

You could see from his reaction you were both in the middle of conversations you’d rather not have.

He swallowed hard before he answered, “The Kane brothers. Although I’m not sure ‘expecting’ is really the right word for it.”

“What?” You exhaled in disbelief. The Kane brothers? The Kane brothers? Your mind felt foggy and dense. Today had taken its toll and there was no way to process or understand this information. This wasn’t right. You were mistaken. You were dreaming. You were…

“I reached out to them to try and mend things. Invite them to still be a part of the process-”

“And Silco went for that?”

“Silco suggested it.”

The words washed past you with the idle meaning of leaves in a stream. Except they weren’t leaves, they were diamonds. Foreign and strange and wholly out of place. This was wrong.

“What?” Was the only sentence you could form.

“It hardly matters now..”

You could hear Remy continuing on but your mind was overloaded as it is. Of course it matters. When diamonds start floating down stream you figure out where they are coming from. And why is it that they aren’t sinking.

“--I was hopeful they’d show but not surprised they didn’t. I figured that much after they never responded to my letters, but you know me, I can’t help but hope for the best.”

At least you could count on Remy to stay Remy. That seemed to be the only thing you could count on these days.

[shares-a-vest]

@flufftober Spring Edition Day 9: Daisies

wc: 612 | Rated: T for Alcohol Consumption (Not Excessive - Wayne is sipping on a beer) | cw: Alcohol Consumption, Food Consumption

Tags: Claudia Henderson, Wayne Munson, Grandparents, Backyard, Found Family, Family Lunch, Steddie Being Silly in the Background

'Daisy Chains'

“Pa!” Joanie shrieks, waving wild and big.

Wayne chuckles at the sight of his granddaughter, sitting barely a few paces beyond the back porch, gesturing as if they are miles apart. He remains on the deck, watching over the backyard as he quietly sips from a chilled afternoon beer. Beside Joanie is Claudia Henderson, concentrating on the daisy chain in her hands that cascades off her lap in a long line off to the side.

They have been working on it for a good while now, ever since Wayne roused them outside so he could do the dishes. But Joanie appears as if she is growing distracted. A four-year-old’s attention span only goes so far, he thinks.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, setting his beer down on the glass patio table, hurried along when Joanie sits back on her haunches and frowns.

“Come here!” she whines, allowing herself to fall against Claudia’s shoulder with an oomph and a startled “ah!” despite him very clearly making his way over.

“I’m here,” he says, lowering to the ground not a few moments later.

He only just manages to stretch out his left leg (and his bad knee) when Joanie plops onto his lap.

She haphazardly brushes her hair off her face, revealing sun-kissed flushed cheeks as grins up at him, all toothy and excitable.

“Ganma is making me a daisy chain,” she nods.

Wayne had watched the pair from the kitchen window as they gathered the flowers, all scattered around the backyard where they grow wild.

“That so?” he asks, humouring Joanie as he looks past her to Claudia’s handiwork.

She picks up another daisy and makes an incision with her bare thumbnail, splitting apart the stem enough to loop the next flower through.

“Thought you were helping me, Missy?” Claudia jokes, threading and splitting another flower like she has worked up a practised rhythm.

“You do this,” Joanie begins to instruct, breezing past her Ganma’s quip entirely as she picks up another flower.

She is rough, pinching her index finger and thumb together to rip a hole in the flower’s stem rather than Claudia’s delicate tearing motion. It reminds Wayne of Eddie at that age, sitting on the patchy grass of the Forest Hills trailer park all those years ago – looking a lot more lonely but nonetheless doing the exact same thing.

His heart pains at the memory of that kid, uncomfortable in himself, quiet and secluded.

Eddie, now older and happier, is sitting under a tree on the far side of the yard with Steve sitting impossibly close by. He looks a sight under the tree, shaded and wearing all black despite the springtime sunshine.

Meanwhile, Steve looks to be devouring another admittedly, delicious sandwich courtesy of Claudia’s elaborate Family Lunch. A smorgasbord of choices. Deli meats and breads, salads and dressings. All of which she insists on preparing and bringing over herself.

Something falls out the bottom of the thing and the sandwich collapses completely. Eddie throws his head back and cackles before offering to help with the cleanup. A task that somehow involves licking his partner’s face. Steve splutters, leaning away as he attempts to pick at the mess that has spilled down his yellow polo shirt.

“Stevie…” Eddie whines through giggles when the other boy leans away with a frown.

Wayne rolls his eyes, knowing full well that at any moment, those two are going to say or do something a little too inappropriate for a family afternoon out in the sun.

But he will leave them be he thinks as he turns his attention back to his beaming granddaughter who is holding out a daisy ready for him.

More of my Flufftober Spring Edition posts here

[aphroditestummyrolls]

26 + wesper? 💌

Hello! Sorry this took so long— the holidays are always a more difficult time to focus on writing, and then with Covid, jetlag, and the leftover annoyance of my sprained ankle, I’ve just been off my game.

Thank you for participating, though! And being so patient. These little prompts are really helping me get back in the saddle. And I LOVED writing this one. I think I might even continue it and make it a little oneshot.

Enjoy ❤️

Jesper Fahey couldn’t sit still. This wasn’t something that he was bothered by or defensive about when people mentioned it— not most of the time, at least. It was just a fact. As much of a fact as him having charcoal grey eyes, being devilishly handsome, and being able to shoot a coat button from a half mile away and around a corner.

He had a permanently restless mind— his thoughts raced from one thing to another, and his body was constantly fidgeting. He couldn’t keep up with himself sometimes. And he’d fiddle with his guns, or chew absently at his fingers, desperate for something to occupy him whenever he was idle.

Jes didn’t do idle. And if there was one thing smaller than his attention span, it was the likelihood that he’d been listening in the first place.

It wasn’t his fault his brain was so loud. So constant.

Unless it was a target, focus was just not a Jesper talent.

That particular night, though, Jesper had never stayed still for so long. It took effort to keep his mind in check, but luckily for him, his loud, hectic brain was only thinking about one thing: Wylan Van Eck.

A fluff of half singed curls tickled at the underside of his jaw. There was a puff of a pained whimper across his collarbone. The tip of Wylan’s sooty little nose nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

Thank the Saints you stopped by to walk him home, he thought, his fingers twitching restlessly over his lover’s smaller frame. He was pressed to his side, a solid, grounding weight where they laid in the workshop's grotty old bed. If it had been worse, he could have…

Well, Jesper would’ve felt terrible for all the cracks he’d made about losing fingers. That was for certain.

He stroked his thumb along the knuckles of the hand he held— one, two, three, four, and a thumb curled loosely by Jesper’s palm. They were all present and accounted for under the fraying edge of the bandage tied there. It probably wasn’t the best patch job, but he was a bit rattled at the time. It would do until Wylan had slept off the worst of the headache— then they could find Nina and beg her help.

For now, it was just them. Just Jesper, really, listening to his own loud mess of overlapping thoughts while Wylan slept, curling in impossibly closer.

He works too much. These long days are too long, and he probably forgot to eat again, and I was too busy to stop by—

It left a pit in his stomach and a twitch in his muscles— to move, to pace, to do something more, even if there was nothing more to be done.

Wylan snuffled against his chest, and Jesper felt the clench of something desperate and warm wrapped around his heart. He pressed his lips to his merchling’s forehead, getting a nose full of his smoky curls while he did.

They’d need a bath when they got back. In a big way. The stench of the chemicals was more than the ventilation shafts could handle. Still, Jesper only held him tighter, feeling a little insane.

He would never forget walking into the workshop that night— the reek of burning chemicals in the air, the thick cloud of bitter smoke that made his throat sting and his eyes water. He was blinded by the dark plume of it, blinking rapidly as he fought to adjust to the dim lamps somewhere in the chaos. Still, Jesper ran down the stairs.

When he called Wylan’s name, he got nothing but stomach-churning silence.

It took a long moment of Jesper shouting himself hoarse, covering his nose and mouth with his— probably now ruined— pocket square, before he picked up the first signs of movement in the wreckage. There was a rattling cough, and then I’m here! He croaked out the words before dissolving into coughs. I’m- I’m alright, just wait—

With a sudden gust of wind, the vents were cranked open as wide as they could go. The noxious fog thinned and, finally, there was the slim silhouette of his lover. He was hunched over with one hand braced against the workbench. The other was cradled to his chest.

Jesper was at his side faster than he knew he could move. With the reassurance of that standing, awake, alive merchling in his arms, Jes’s brain immediately filled with a hundred shouted questions— what happened? Where does it hurt? Let me see your hand—

In the end, he didn’t need to say a word. Which was a good thing, because not a single word could seem to make it from his brain to his mouth. Wylan was leaning heavily into his chest, his knees wobbly enough that Jesper had to steady him with an arm around his waist. The other was nothing more than a blur, flitting uselessly across the smaller man’s frame like he could scan him for injuries.

My… he swallowed with an audible click, a breath from Jesper’s ear, my head. I hit my head.

Sure enough, there was a bloody mat of hair at the back of his head. His fingers came away stained red. Sucking his teeth nervously, Jesper’s brain got louder, but he didn’t say anything for the moment. Wylan’s eyes were glassy, but focused, and he took that as a good sign as he stroked lightly over his wild hair, trying to assess the damage better. It was so tender that even Jes’s barely present little probe was too much. Wy hissed.

Jes, please.

Okay— okay, Love. He carefully removed his goggles from the top of his head, and plucked the plugs from his ears. I’ve got you.

By the time he shuffled him over to the bed, the smoke had cleared. Jesper sighed at the state of it all— the workshop and the mad scientist included— and let himself revel for just a moment in sheer relief.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed.

Snagging a roll of bandages and a half-assed first aid kit from a shelf near the bed, Jesper could see that the smoke was much worse than the actual explosion. There was a splintered gouge in the workbench that would need sanding— as if anything ever got sanded in the Barrel— and a sooty stain where it all happened, but other than a few broken bottles and vials, it was no worse for wear.

Wylan must’ve been right there when the blast went off. The support beam behind the workbench had a small blood stain at just about head height for his merchling. He was sooty and singed, with only two perfect circles of clean skin around his eyes— at least he’d been wearing his gear. All that was hurt were his pretty little head, and a messy looking red burn on his right hand.

Alright, Jesper nodded, trying to remember what his da did to gauge Jesper’s head injuries growing up. Head first, merchling. D’you know your name?

Wylan’s lips twitched like he might laugh. A good sign. Wylan Van Eck.

Mhm. And where d’you live, Wylan?

The Slat, with- with my boyfriend.

He never got tired of hearing that. You’ve got a boyfriend? That’s a shame. Wylan managed half a little smile when Jesper winked at him. Come here often?

Jes, he sighed, my head hurts.

He cooed sympathetically, cupping his cheek as softly as he could with one hand while he used his sacrificial pocket square to smear away a little bit of the soot with the other.

I know, Love— you gave it a good, hard smack. But you’re not slurring, you’re not disoriented. So, that’s a point in your favour. Are you nauseous? Dizzy?

Jesper had had enough concussions to at least remember how they felt. Wylan nodded. A bit— the dizziness was pretty bad at first, I… I think I’m fine now, though.

Just in case, it was best not to move him yet. And by the time he was finished dabbing a burn salve into the raw skin of his hand and was tying off the bandage, Wylan’s pretty brown eyes were halflidded. He was swaying just a little where he sat at the edge of the bed.

Jes kissed the top of the bandage.

He supposed a little nap couldn’t hurt. The clock tower was striking 8 bells, and Kaz was sure to be wondering where Jesper had gone— he’d mentioned something about a meeting? He’d never given him a time, though, so he had no right to give him his disappointed face when they got back.

At least, Jes didn’t remember a time.

Well, something more important came up.

The most important thing was Wylan’s poor beleaguered head, pillowed on his chest. His steady breaths were leaving little puffs of warm air across Jesper’s chest. And with that bandaged hand held loosely in his own, his brain finally felt a little quieter.

[paullicino]

Six Years - On PTSD and Choosing Life

Content warning: This essay very frankly discusses mental health, trauma, gaslighting and suicide. It also links to discussions of abuse and sexual assault.

If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, know that you are not alone and help is available to you or anyone who might need it, such as the Samaritans, the Suicide Prevention Hotline, or this list of other crisis hotlines and this list of international support resources.

This was reposted from my Patreon.

There are blue skies today. The sun bounces off the mirrored windows of a skyscraper downtown. It cuts straight across my balcony and shines onto my wall. A few blocks away, the staff of my favourite café will share their latest gossip with me, as they always like to do, and maybe later tonight I will make good food and play games with friends until unwise times in the morning. Isn’t life full of wonderful things?

You can find them everywhere. And I certainly do. Sometimes I’ve found them in the intimate, up-close details of a famous oil painting, between the notes of a new song heard by chance, even in the rustling at the bottom of a dumpster, which becomes chittering and then fur and a tail and then direct eye contact with a tiny criminal whose only felony was hunger. I’ve found them amongst perfectly crafted sentences that capture thoughts and feelings and hold them forever on the page, in the silence of the impossibly wild mountain wilderness a thousand miles from home, in the first moments that I’ve taken someone’s hand and watched the gaudy lights of some forgettable venue play across the lines and the shapes of their face.

That’s so many wonderful things to live for. And I can get overdramatically passionate about the tiniest, silliest little details.

I’ve been trying to write this for a long time. I had three significant dreams during that period. In the most recent, I had moved into a dark and barren basement, with most of my possessions still in boxes. Some old friends from long ago came knocking. They pressed their faces against the small windows and tried to force the ageing door. “Where did you go?” they kept asking, their voices entering through every crack. “What happened?”

Six years ago this month I destroyed my suicide note. I burned it on a rainy August night and watched it curl into a tiny, helpless twisting of ashes and charred plastic that no longer had any power or purpose. The note was inside of a ziploc bag, a choice I’d made to ensure its integrity and survival against any of the several different plans I’d made to end my life, and this had melted into black strands of hair-like debris that reached up to nothing. One or two of my handwritten words remained half legible in this mess and tried to reach beyond the flames, to share their intent with the world, but they would never again mean anything to anyone.

I made videos of the burning and took a few pictures, a sort of ritual of recording, then I told a close friend what I’d just done, and then, for a very long time, I set the image as the wallpaper on my phone. It would be an ever-present reminder to me of my choice to stay alive. It was supposed to help me feel strong, though the truth is that I rarely did. It was the worst, most harrowing and most damaging period of my life and with help, honesty, insight, therapy, time and invaluable connection with others who have either seen the same things that I have or had comparable experiences, I managed to fumble and fight my way through it all. But I will never be the same. Six years is a long time and I am still profoundly affected by so much. I am still trying to understand things. I am still trying to figure myself out, to make sense of my identity, my situation, my experiences. To work out where I went and what happened. And I am still trying to move on.

These words are something about that ongoing experience, that work in progress, and about the dual significance of a span of six years. It is not so much about causes or causers, but instead about consequences and changes, and that’s for three reasons.

The first is because what happens after and as a result of trauma is so enduring and significant, perhaps even the most significant consideration of all, and it’s how we find ourselves discussing things like spans of six years or, for some people, far longer. I want to try to explain some of that sort of intensity and that sort of timescale.

The second is because it’s my hope that this is the most helpful way for me to talk about all this, the most illustrative to other people, the most constructive. I could have chosen many approaches, some which I believe might have been more harmful and destructive, and I don’t generally want to be a punitive or destructive person. Ultimately I think this is the most positive and productive approach.

The third is because I’m still not ready to unpack many things, as so much is still ongoing. I am not at the end of this, not out of the woods, and I think I need to know that I’ve reached the end of whatever journey I’m on before I can return to the start.

There is, allegedly, a power in choosing how your own story is told. So I’m choosing to tell it this way and, I hope, with the awareness that any exercise of power requires consideration and responsibility.

Six years is a long time, and while I’ve been trying to write and rewrite this thing for months, those months still pale in comparison to more than half a decade. A lot has changed in six years, and yet I also wish some things weren’t still the same, that I would have been able to make more progress, that I would have been able to create more distance.

Because, while I am six years from that burning note, from that summer rain, in my memory and my mind it doesn’t work like that. I still find myself beside that moment in time, like I could open the door to the next room and once again be right there.

---

Writing this has been very difficult. Writing is supposed to be one of the things that I am best at, and in the past words used to spill out of me so regularly that I wrote a tri-weekly diary, but I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my relationship to writing has changed. It’s not just that this is a difficult topic. It’s that words don’t come as easily or as fluidly as they once did, making it much easier, all too appealing, to simply not push myself. To avoid things entirely.

But I wanted to write this, in part, because it would be another act of not giving up. I wanted to show myself what I could do, what I still can do, and that, even if I’m changed, I’m still stubborn enough to fumble and fight my way through.

---

I want you to imagine a house. It can be any kind of house, that part isn’t important. What is important is that the house is your home and you have lived there for a very, very long time. It is comfortable. It is safe. It is so intimately familiar that it is a part of your identity. Perhaps you grew up there, or you raised a family there, or you retired there. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s your home and that everyone knows you live there.

Next, imagine that you have a terrible day. The worst day. And at the end of this terrible, terrible day, on a bleak and dusky evening, you expect at least to be able to come back to your house, your home. You take the same route back to the same address, where you see the same building stood before you and open the same front door, ready for the comfort of a place you’ve made your own.

You enter this space that you’ve known for so long and you notice something is wrong. The first clue is something small, perhaps a lamp missing from its usual spot, or you collide with furniture moved somewhere unexpected. You feel for a light switch that is now on a different wall. You stumble on the stairs as you make your way to a bed that is hard and unwelcoming. In the morning, the light from the window is not only a different shape, but cast in the opposite direction.

The changes stop being so subtle. After you notice that a carpet is suddenly faded and pale, you open a closet to find it is twice as deep. Some of your possessions are missing. The spare room no longer has a skylight. The kitchen is a different colour, with different appliances, with no back door, half the size it once was because the walls have been moved. There are new rooms whose arrival and contents are both equally inexplicable. Your most cozy corner is now cold and uncomfortable. You must relearn the entire layout, from bathroom to basement, because moving around the way you once would only causes you to stub your toes, to trip, even to fall.

Your friends don’t understand why you no longer enjoy going back to your house, your home. They don’t understand why you screamed at the different closet, why the sunlight on the wall makes you nervous. Being in your own home now hurts and scares you. How can you possibly relax here? But this is still your same house, at your same address, the one that everybody knows. You can’t argue that it isn’t. And if you invite a friend inside, after ranting about everything that is different, they ask “Why did you change all this? It’s so much worse.”

What can you even say in return? “I didn’t”? That shit’s insane.

But that is how it feels, like I live in a house that isn’t my home. Sometimes I don’t recognise myself. Sometimes, on the worst days, I don’t know who I am any more.

“Where did you go?” ask the voices, entering through every crack. “What happened?”

---

Last summer, a man came roaring down my street in his flawless luxury emerald convertible. I remember him well. He had dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket and a hairstyle slick with oil, like he was being a parody of a rich man from an eighties film. He surged through the stop sign right in front of me and I let him know what I thought of his public display of privilege and indifference.

“Go a little faster, you cunt,” I yelled. “Maybe you can hit a kid.”

He swivelled his head, looked back over his shoulder and stared straight at me.

He also slowed down.

It was then that I realised the volume I must have used to project myself, over the noise of his engine and toward a driver already continuing down the street, meant a few of my neighbours had likely heard me too.

I’m not sure I cared.

I used to be a more modest and deferential person, and often that is still the case. But often it is not. I have less patience. I have less fear. And I have less trust.

The fear thing is great. Last autumn I walked across a narrow, quivering suspension bridge with no care for the drop below. Later, I found another far narrower, far smaller one and, all by myself, alone in the woods sixteen kilometres up a trail, I jumped up and down on the thing until it shook and swung.

I used to be terrified of heights.

My sense of fear isn’t gone. But it’s both so much more manageable and also, quite often, a thrill. It’s taken me a while to realise that I increasingly seek out things that are exciting, risky or extremely stimulating. I am frank with strangers. I am quick to make decisions. I am keen to try new things.

It doesn’t sound so bad, does it? That’s because it isn’t. Not all change is bad and not every consequence of my experience has been negative. Slowly, gradually, I am learning to appreciate a few of the changes, to lean into them. While one part of me feels sad that I’m less trusting than I used to be, another part of me sees this as more practical. I’m far quicker to drop something or someone like a rock the moment I sense things that I don’t like, and my sense for such things is certainly sharper than it used to be. Am I always right? I don’t know about that. Perhaps some people have been casualties of an overabundance of caution. Or paranoia.

That might just be the new cost of doing business.

---

It was some time in early 2020, while talking with my GP and taking some evaluations, that we began to look at my behaviour more closely. A year before, I’d talked extensively with a therapist about anxiety and about a growing sense of discomfort and distrust. I had far less patience, particularly for those who pushed boundaries, violated or were exploitative, often regardless of whether these things even involved or affected me. Anything that felt uncomfortably familiar, whether it was something I saw in a film, caught on the news or heard about on social media, could ruin my day. I would become jumpy, irritable, scared, or simply unable to do much beyond lie down and try everything I could to banish the feeling that my chest was being crushed. This might take hours. One evening, an ex found me curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. On another evening, a routine trip to see an exciting film turned into a sleepless night of panic and distress.

I began taking tests and found myself either dismissing the results or retaking them over and over in an attempt to get different answers. The outcomes kept telling me I had the symptoms of PTSD. This was far too dramatic a result and there had already been enough drama in my life already. I myself was too much drama.

Anyway, I thought, having the symptoms isn’t the same as having.

Sometimes I think about how, during some of my most difficult moments, the toughest weeks and months that I didn’t really know how I was going to get through, I made a lot of haphazard decisions motivated by panic and fear and ignorance, by doing my best to improvise and cope and adapt. Some things worked out. Some things did not. Probably the deciding factor there was luck and I’m not really sure I can look back with any wisdom or insight.

I didn’t always know what to do, what to say, who to trust, or how much to trust, how to respond to new information and changing situations, or what in holy hell might ever work out. My response to all of this was to keep secrets or to be cagey, to avoid places and people, to suddenly and liberally cut others off through a mix of ghosting, avoidance and outright blocking, or to occasionally have three-day long anxiety spikes in which I remained highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. During one of these, someone teasingly pushed me to take part in something that I didn’t want to, something that wasn’t even a big deal, and I was so close to breaking down that I had to almost run from my friends and find a quiet place to catch my breath, all the emotions in my body somehow pinched into a single point somewhere in my gut. During another, a laptop accidentally nudged half an inch sent me into panic mode, manifesting a feeling like a blade of ice slicing straight through my pulmonary artery.

These sorts of responses and behaviours would happen even in spite of all the various combinations of therapy and medication and support I was cycling my way through. I don’t feel proud of how I handled many of these things. I would love to be able to say that I handle them so much better now, with the aid of wisdom and insight. Perhaps sometimes I do.

Sometimes I have simply made terrible decisions and, looking back, I am still not sure how I might have ever done any different. I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further.

---

It’s a magnificent day as I write this. The world is jade and azure and gold. The sky is exquisitely, flawlessly blue. Every leaf is rich with the gloss of summer. The sun is setting into the sparkling sea beside a succession of fading distant mountain ridges, each hazier than the last, the furthest so indistinct it looks almost like mist, a ghost of an idea two thousand metres tall. Container ships the size of city blocks sleep in the bay, their hulls traced and wrinkled with rust from a lifetime of global migration. As the growing shadows of slowly swaying trees reach their way toward me, the last light of the day glides over the ground, over the grass and even over my body itself, like spilled wine gushing from a glass. It colours everything the sweet shade of nostalgia. The air is gently warm and the grass is soft beneath me.

I love days like this. They are one of the reasons why I moved here, why I put so much time and effort and energy into relocating halfway around the world. Into building the life that I wanted, piece by piece.

And I love so many of those pieces. I love my little apartment, with the balcony that I always wanted, with its ragtag assortment of secondhand furniture collected one item at a time, with its shelves tucked in here or squeezed in there, never quite tidy enough to look presentable. I love my walkable neighbourhood, with its shops and cafés and cats that follow me from block to block, or critters that peer out from between bushes in the rustling dusk. I love how low cloud creeps in to cover the tips of the skyscrapers downtown, or how the jagged outline of mountains shape the horizon in almost every direction. I love trying to make things, especially with other people, and the reward of being creative, of being silly or being funny. I love all the things I’ve learned to cook, or the ways I can warm myself up on a cold day, or the late nights I can so often indulge, with no care for what might come tomorrow.

I have so much to be grateful for and so much to be proud of. So much here. So much now.

Pretty soon, the sunset will transform the whole sky into a gradient of colour. Someone somewhere will be playing guitar on the beach, and maybe they’ll be good. Stars will appear in the sky, above the familiar urban zodiac traced out by the city lights of apartment buildings. If I stay up late again, the dawn sky will turn the royal blue of an emperor’s cloak. And then all of this will happen again.

I have so much to be grateful for. So much to appreciate.

---

A few weeks ago I had my first nightmare in some time. They still happen. The specifics matter less than the broad themes. Deception. Gaslighting. Manipulation. Boundary violation. All of it in plain sight, yet still unseen, making me feel like I’m helpless, like I’m crazy, like I have no hope of ever being believed.

I thought about it all day. The situations, the faces and the fears. This is the way it’s always been and once one of these nightmares visits you, it stays for a while. It’s like a small stain, an odour that gets into your clothes, the stink of cigarettes after a party the evening before.

Can you wash out a stain? Sometimes. With the right substances, with the correct regimen. And with some aggressive, persistent scrubbing.

One summer night years ago an ex woke me up because I had been thrashing about in my sleep. I had worried her by rolling around and muttering like a madman. Was I having a nightmare, she asked, and it wasn’t just that I was, but that I had them all the time. Every week, at least, each leaving that same gross feeling of violation and abuse. The anxiety medication that I had been prescribed was helping me sleep more, but it also seemed to make my dreams more vivid and profound. It was either that or barely being able to sleep at all, woken by the slightest of noises, up before the crack of dawn because some unresolved tension in my body overpowered all tiredness and fatigue. Even with medication, the smallest of things could still turn me into a nervous wreck, and one night I cried cross-legged on my bed as I explained to my ex not just that I had interpreted a few of her utterly inconsequential actions as a sign she wanted to leave me, but also that I might always be like this. Forever.

The nightmares began a few months after I burned my note. It was right after I opened up to another friend about what was going on in my life, and their response was to tell me about something else that had happened, the full story of an event from another six years before, from distant 2012.

It’s not my tale to tell, but six years is a long time to not know the full story of something. A long time to be deceived, to find out you’ve been lied to by someone you trust and that your ignorance has affected many decisions that you’ve made. Again, I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further. But some did.

Six years. It hit me then how long it can take for people to feel able to talk about something, as well as continue to be affected by it. How far the ripples travel and who they touch. And now, here I am, with my own six years.

That discovery was one of several experiences that transformed me into that person having three-day long anxiety spikes, remaining highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. That person thrashing about in his sleep. That person yelling “You cunt,” down his street.

---

I’ve written before about my physical health and my relationship to my body. I was anxious about things being wrong with it long before I had thorough examinations and validating diagnoses, but as part of those treatments I wrote about, a trio of doctors warned me about how stress was worsening every condition and symptom I experienced. Stress was ruining my health. I was having so many migraines that my GP sent me for an MRI that revealed how those migraines were changing the white matter in my brain.

I would have to do something about this.

Those doctors would help me do something about this, as would other professionals, and their help was invaluable. This would be impossible to tackle alone.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard say such things as “It’s not your responsibility to fix someone else,” and, while I don’t disagree, doesn’t such a phrase also imply it’s surely somebody’s responsibility, in this society that we all share, built from things that help us support one another?

Otherwise we’d be suggesting that people fix themselves.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard tell others, or themselves, or sometimes the world via the spontaneous and sneeze-like broadcasts of social media “It’s on you to fix your shit,” and I wonder if that’s where that sentence should terminate, if that’s exactly how it should be phrased, if those are really the words that everyone, or anyone, needs to hear.

Because sometimes I also think of another clumsy analogy I once put together. It’s a scenario in which I describe a pedestrian struck by a car, perhaps one driven by a rich cunt with dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket, perhaps even one that has mounted the curb or surged into a crossing. The pedestrian is knocked down, maybe immobile from the pain and injury that comes from a broken pelvis or fractured leg. An ambulance is summoned, a customised vehicle equipped to transport them to a hospital. In that hospital, that specialised medical facility, a team of trained experts will use skills and equipment to triage and manage, to analyse the pedestrian’s injuries, to provide relief and to chart a course toward recovery. There will be x-rays, there will be drugs, there may well be physiotherapy. I doubt at any point that the person lying in the street would be told, by someone coming upon the scene, “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

No. Not any more than they’d be expected to walk to the hospital, to interpret their x-rays or to prescribe their own medication. Indeed, if they attempted any of these things themselves I wouldn’t be surprised if someone along the way communicated to them some more polite version of “What the holy fucking fuck do you think you’re doing?” and “You’re in no state to do this yourself, let alone know what you need,” and “Fucking hell. You’re at your most vulnerable right now. Fuuuck.”

Hopefully.

Once, many years ago, I knew someone who broke their pelvis. It takes months to recover, maybe a year or more for a limp to fully disappear. And it requires all kinds of help and oversight. It worked out. Doctors and medical professionals can be remarkable.

I have read a lot of books and papers over the last six years. I have listened to a lot of podcasts and interviews. I have been recommended a lot of material by therapists, by friends, by fellow PTSD sufferers. One well-known trauma expert I was pointed toward is Canadian psychologist Dr. Gabor Maté. And he says this:

”Everybody is born needing help.”

He means that it’s a fundamental element of the human experience.

---

Sometimes I go running and sometimes I go to the gym. The reasons I do this are complex, ranging from wanting to be healthier, to wanting to feel better about my body and how it behaves, to feeling like I am making progress with something. That last one is particularly important, because I’m doing something where I’m objectively able to recognise change.

When I run, an app tells me how far I ran and how long it took. I can’t disagree with the app, because it’s entirely objective, and so when I have a bad day, feel terrible and wonder what the point of anything is, the app still shows me that I achieved a reasonable or even an improved time.

It wasn’t always like this. I was bad at these things. I run better than I used to. I perform better at the gym than I used to. I have the metrics to prove it, and while I’m not a particularly dedicated or regular person with my exercise, I still keep at it and I still see improvements.

Whatever it is I’m doing, these apps and their statistics all offer me the same, very simple analysis:

“You’re doing better.”

I motivate myself to run, to go to the gym, to go on twenty-five kilometre hikes over difficult terrain, but I don’t do these things without some kind of help that comes from either expert resources, advice or training.

I don’t exist in a vacuum. None of us do.

---

Help is important because it offers things like perspective and expertise and informed advice. And don’t all of those things sound so extremely important?

How about we imagine that our immobilised pedestrian wasn’t collected by an ambulance. Let’s imagine instead that the driver of the car that hit them stepped out of their vehicle, shook their head, put their hands on their hips and said “Look what you’ve done.”

And then “It’s okay, I know what’s best for you,” before carrying the inert person into their car and driving away. Perhaps even unseen. No witnesses.

If such a thing happened, in this society that we all share, with that person at their most vulnerable, who is responsible then? Who is responsible for what happens next? Who is responsible when that pedestrian, forever limping, says things like “It was my fault, I shouldn’t have been walking there,” or “I should have been looking out,” or “I should have been more visible,” and so on?

A lot of accidents and injuries and collisions and whatnot can be traumatic, scary, confusing. “How do I make sense of this?” asks that person, whether carried away alone in a car, or surrounded by doctors in the emergency room, or anywhere else they may happen to find themselves. “How do I deal with this?” And who might be around them at that moment to help answer such things?

And what will they say?

Perhaps you know someone who was, metaphorically, struck by such a car, before being then carried away by a driver with all sorts of ideas about what’s best, and who later blamed themselves for everything that happened. I don’t know.

I do know how important it was to receive the right help from the right people.

---

It’s hard to know exactly what to do. You may respond to your trauma with a desire for revenge, retribution or restoration. You may not have the insight or the time or the means to do anything much at all. There is the ideal of what could or should happen when harm has been caused, but there is also the uncomfortable reality of how such things actually play out, of how long justice can take, of who is granted credibility, of how complex social dynamics can quickly become, of how awkwardly and uncomfortably people can react when they discover something they would rather not have, or that they have been misled, or so much more. We’ve all seen such things play out secondhand and firsthand.

I have had six years to consider the most helpful way to respond, the most constructive, the most positive and productive. I am still considering. I don’t have much in the way of answers or advice there.

Sometimes I think about the anonymous Broken Teapot essay, with all it has to say about the complexity of dealing with abuse dynamics, of harm happening within a group or community, about social consequences. It was written over a decade ago now, but it remains a very relevant piece of writing that brings up all sorts of considerations around responsibility, about trying to come to terms with trauma and abuse, and about how people might try to use systems or processes to try to solve things in unhelpful ways or even for their own ends.

People can have a lot of opinions about how to handle trauma, how to respond to abuse and how to leap into some sort of process of justice or accountability or reparation or even plain old revenge. So many opinions.

It’s exhausting.

Back in 2020 I tried to write something about all these complications and considerations that I was going to title The Calculus of Abuse. Like much else, it rots in my drafts folder.

Sometimes I think about how many of the ways that we push people to address both their trauma and the things or people that have caused their trauma only makes things worse. I am sceptical about the practicality, value and effectiveness of processes of justice, reparation and accountability. I think a lot of people believe that they will fix things, that they will be fair, that they will spotlight situations and systems and people that cause harm. That, in this cold and unflinching exposure, justice will be done and books will be closed on long and difficult stories.

And I think that’s because we see this happen now and then. Sometimes it happens very publicly. It seems to at least occasionally all work out.

Sometimes I think about friends who were excluded from social circles because they spoke up about something creepy or problematic, because it mattered less what actions or behaviour someone had demonstrated, even what could be proven, and much more who was more popular, or that the status quo be maintained, or that applecarts not be upset. I think about how different people share or don’t share their traumas and their experiences, what they include and what they leave out. I think about people who weren’t believed, people who were misrepresented, people who were shut down. I think about people who spent so long trying to get a handle on their trauma that any thing or person they might want to stand up to already had so much time to prepare, to seed the ground, to dig in, to get a head start. And I even think about the capacity people have to improve, to feel regret, to move forward as better humans. It’s a potential that I hope exists in us all and the writer Kai Cheng Thom seems to agree, saying that even those who cause harm themselves need help to “exit harmful behaviour patterns.”

Sometimes I think about what a friend of mine said about abusive people just being "regular people with very limited tools." And that’s not so different from a child. Doesn’t that make you feel sad?

I think about all of these things because how could you not? How could you not worry about how taking action to address a terrible thing would, in fact, only make that terrible thing even worse?

There is a paper by the American psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman called Justice From the Victim’s Perspective that touches on how many processes and pushes toward addressing abuse and trauma can be retraumatising, without any guarantee they will lead to a meaningful outcome or significant change. It touches on how legal processes and systems can be manipulated to further harm and harass those seeking redress, or how disparities of power and status and money can immediately put the damaged and disadvantaged people who try this on the back foot. It touches on difficulties presented by such things as burden of proof, especially combined with the challenge of a memory minced by traumatic events. How does someone demonstrate and prove trauma, or gaslighting, or manipulation, or anything else?

It also talks about how not everybody seeks such things as justice, restitution, revenge, or not always in the ways that we think, and for a multitude of reasons. These can vary from worrying they won’t be believed or that the process will serve them, to wanting to move on, to the idea that it may be pointless, as some “offenders are empathetically disabled… not capable of a meaningful apology, so they can never provide anything to victims that would be useful.”

Both this and the Broken Teapot essay also feature people examining how they themselves have handled abuse and trauma. I think this is probably the most difficult part of many years of therapy, reading and reflection. Sure, it sucks to have been harmed by an event, a situation, a person or a system, but at some point you also start asking yourself difficult questions like “How do I avoid something like this again?” and “Did I do anything that made this worse?” and “Was I codependent, did I enable someone or did I perpetuate something with my reactions or my responses?”

“Abuse dynamics aren’t so simple,” says the Broken Teapot essay, at one small but very important moment, not long after “I was not solely ‘a victim’. Is anyone?” And, after all those years of therapy, reading and reflection, I’ve come to believe that abusive people and systems gain at least some of their power from how you interact with and respond to them. If we were, all of us, perhaps better informed, we might understand, avoid or escape so many difficult things so much sooner.

And while both the Broken Teapot essay and Justice From the Victim’s Perspective talk a lot about sexual assault, their considerations and their examinations of consequence are more broadly applicable. This reflects how I find myself relating to so many stories of trauma and abuse, regardless of what the specifics of any incidents might be. It’s because I recognise the same things in the subsequent developments, reactions and outcomes, much like I might recognise the same chord pattern in different songs. I see people trying to understand their own changing behaviours, trying to articulate why they won’t do a particular thing or go to a particular place any more, trying to both explain and understand how their body or their health has been affected. The specifics don’t need to be the same for so many of the consequences to be. And I recognise and am much more attuned to recognising those consequences.

Both these pieces of writing are also very good at illustrating one of the most important things that you can learn about trauma, and that is, whatever happens or whatever choices you make, things can never be put back in the box.

Trauma is never erased.

---

Here’s what I think is another of the most important things we can learn about trauma, which is that people are generally very bad at dealing with it and are even worse at dealing with it if they are unsupported. And even if they have all the support in the world, they are probably still going to make bad choices, self-sabotage, lose perspective and do things they regret.

They will probably be foolish, be confused and be likely to make choices that could hurt other people. They may not have great insight or work against their own best interests. That doesn’t mean that they get a free pass. It doesn’t mean we are obliged to simply accept these behaviours. But I think these are realistic expectations that we should have.

In his pioneering book The Body Keeps the Score, the psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk writes that many trauma responses are “irrational and largely outside people's control,” coming from people who are “rarely in touch with the origins of their alienation.” An awful lot of the book is about helping such people to find ways past this, rather than disregarding them or pushing them away, even though this will be difficult. I don’t remember anything in the book that comes close to “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

---

While one part of me wishes many things had not happened, feeling both weaker and sadder, another part of me acknowledges that I have gained new skills and strengths. And one of the best things about what I’ve gained is that all this doesn’t just help me, but can also be applied to help others.

That’s a good thing.

I’m a tiny bit wiser than I used to be. A lot of reading and talking to experts and digesting all sorts of media leaves its mark. It’s not just that I know a little more about myself and my experiences, it’s that I can now better recognise parallels to those experiences in other people’s situations, behaviours and pasts. I anticipate slightly better, seeing problems further ahead, and I have a stronger sense of what I need to drop or to avoid.

I’m doing better.

---

I don’t have much that I can write here in terms of the specifics of therapy. I would describe a lot of the process of unpacking and analysing the causes of my PTSD as being extremely painful, like trying to both tidy up and then reassemble broken glass with your bare hands. The things that brought about your PTSD are shameful and harrowing. Their analysis can also be, through a process that can variously be sad, scary, frustrating, educational, validating and empowering. It takes a long time and requires expert assistance, which means the help you need can be a somewhat scarce resource and very, very expensive.

You pay for your trauma for a very long time.

---

I discovered one of the most beautiful sounds in the world some time after 2016, some unknown amount of time after I moved into this apartment of mine, with its balcony and its skyscraper views. I don’t remember now when I first heard it, but it’s been years now and I still adore it whenever it happens. It’s small and subtle and can happen at almost any time of night or day. It’s a sound that makes me think of safety and independence, of making my own space and then occupying it. Of security and stability.

I really, really appreciate security and stability. Much as I increasingly seek out change and crave new experiences or opportunities, these things feel so much better if I can enjoy them with the understanding that I have some sort of foundation under me. Something solid. No matter how small or how far away. Some place of safety.

The sound happens when it’s raining. Whatever metal it is that rings my balcony is hollow, so that when rainfall strikes it, it responds with a kind of subtle but sonorous singing. This ringing isn’t the specific sound I’m talking about, though. That sound is slightly different, something that rises above this other background arrangement.

When a particularly large drop of water hits my balcony railing, it gives a flat, gentle ping of appreciation. The background patter of the other raindrops will continue and then, again, after some irregular interval, presumably as water has collected from the balcony above into a particularly large drop, the ping will sound again.

I heard it one morning this spring, months ago now, right after I woke up and not long after I had started writing all this. I lay there in bed on a day the colour of slate and cigarette smoke and I thought about how the world is made up of so many beautiful, tiny things. Ping, goes one of them, and maybe nobody else on the planet notices or cares. But I try to remind myself of this and how my life is full of so many other probably stupid little things that I like, that I love. Don’t lose these things, I try to tell myself. Don’t forget about them and don’t forget to notice them when they happen. You gave yourself so many more of them when you chose to stay alive.

You get a lot of time to think on days the colour of slate and cigarette smoke.

---

You’ll notice I say “sometimes I think about” a lot here, when reflecting on less positive things, and you might consider this a writing device or a cheap hook or some other writer’s cheat. It partly is, but it’s also a truth. I do think about these things, and so many other things, very often. I think about one or another of them almost all of the time. I find it very hard not to think, to turn my brain off, and the unfortunate truth is that it reminds me about things to do with my trauma almost every day. It has done so for six years now and, as we’ve already established, six years is a long time.

Evenings can be the most difficult time. While I’ve always had a flippant attitude toward sleep schedules, I never used to have trouble going to bed. Some nights my brain will never switch off. My memory is overflowing. It doesn’t matter if I’m tired, it makes no difference if I’m exhausted. The rules around sleep are different now and I think I’m still trying to relearn them.

One therapist described the traumatised mind as like an overflowing wastepaper basket full of difficult memories that are constantly falling out. Any new addition can cause one or many of them to spill and scatter. Time and therapy can help to more properly sort them and make space for other, new things.

What a good analogy.

Occasionally, there might be a suggestion of ADHD sent my way. I can understand why things would look that way and a lot has been said by people more experienced than I about how ADHD and PTSD can seem similar. I think if ADHD had ever been the case some mental health professional or other member of the medical community that I’ve dealt with would have spotted this by now. But no. I’m distracted by some memory or flashback. I’m avoidant, or I’m in need of some thrill or stimulation. I might be full of nervous energy or unusually, intensely focused on something because it feels so good to be thinking about something I enjoy.

And sometimes things are bounding out of that wastepaper basket like clowns out of a clown car. I can feel like I've lost a lot of control over my mind and it's all I can do to rein it in. Some days I have coping strategies and some days I'm sick of it and wish I didn't need to have to cope.

And so I keep myself busy with the stimulation and the novelty that I crave. With people. With events. With runs, with the gym and with twenty-five kilometre hikes. Whatever it takes, whenever I can. It’s not ideal. I’m still figuring out what I need. I don’t always get the balance right. Sometimes unexpected things make me very emotional, either very sad or very frustrated, and I rarely know in advance what might do that. Sometimes I sleep less than four hours a night. Sometimes I want to be alone. Sometimes I desperately need company. I probably seem very strange.

But, let’s not forget, in the past I would lose whole days. For hours, my chest would feel like it was being crushed. I might be found curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. The nightmares would come every week. So things have clearly, obviously, demonstrably improved.

I’m doing better.

---

I still suck at writing. I don’t know how to fix that yet. I still very regularly feel like there is a gulf between me and so many other people, even my friends. I still have outsize reactions to irrelevant, immaterial things. I still lack confidence in my own personal calibration. "Many traumatised people find themselves chronically out of sync with the people around them,” writes Bessel van der Kolk. Yeah.

Toward the end of its six season existence there is an episode of BoJack Horseman where an actor reacts angrily to some improvisation and unexpected physical contact that happens during filming. Her colleagues are confused as to why she does this, and perhaps she doesn’t understand herself, but we the audience know that this a response to a physical assault by the titular character some time before. She never finds out, but this leads to her missing out on perhaps the biggest opportunity of her life, after a director discreetly describes her as erratic.

There is no further development with this plotline, no resolution to be had. Nobody finds out why she is like this, nor wants to, nor sets things on a new, better course. I try to remind myself that this sort of thing can be happening all the time, to try and grant people some grace and compassion, but also I try to remind myself that this is me. I have my versions of this behaviour. Maybe fewer than I used to, but still. I can be erratic and I have to face the consequences of that, as well as minimise it as much as I can.

I recently stopped buying fresh fruit from my local store because they would repeatedly put mouldy, furry produce on display. The last time I discovered this, I was holding up a box of ostensibly shiny, blood-red strawberries to once again discover the mass of fuzz hidden underneath. Food is expensive enough as it is, I thought, and it doesn’t also need to be garbage. Too late, the look on the face of the customer standing next to me clued me in to how vocal I’d been with my three-word expression of disgust and displeasure.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

---

You’ve read a little about my first dream, about old friends. You’ve read a little about my second dream, the nightmare. Here comes my third, from earlier this summer.

I dreamt that I was trying to get home again. I was confused about where I was, trying to remember a route through unfamiliar Vancouver alleys. It was evening, not yet dark, but the time between when you lose the long shadows cast by the last of the sunlight and begin to wear the rich, jewelled canvas of the stars. None of  the people I stopped and spoke to knew the streets I named. None of the alleyways I walked down took me in familiar directions.

I never found my way home, but I never stopped trying. Perhaps this does indeed mean I haven’t reached the end of whatever journey I’m on, that I can’t yet return to the start. I think it’s both practical and pragmatic for me to accept that the next six years might still present me with many challenges. That I will have bad, directionless days. That sometimes I’m going to fuck up and fall short.

I woke up to another bright, warm summer’s day, far later than I meant to, and I made myself a fine cup of coffee and a rich breakfast that I would be foolish not to enjoy.

Sometimes I think about suicide. Those thoughts haven’t left me yet and I’m not sure they ever will. Sometimes they arrive strong and loud and insistent, from out of nowhere and with all the power of a thunderbolt in a storm. Sometimes I want to be a shining example of how to conquer PTSD and sometimes I'm so sad I can’t get out of bed and sometimes I am just pissed off and angry. Each day is still different. But tomorrow I will wake up and perhaps I will think to myself “There are blue skies today,” or perhaps I will hear ping, or perhaps I won’t need anything at all to feel great. And perhaps there will be some undeniable sign in the day’s events, in my behaviour, even in the world around me, that demonstrates to me how much I’ve improved.

Each day is still different and today the glib part of my personality says “I sure hope you’ve improved, it’s been six years! That’s six years of painful PTSD examination, therapy, medication, reading, research, specialist appointments, many thousands of dollars spent and a god damn MRI of your weird and messed up brain.” And am I being disrespectfully flippant of my own experiences when I add that having an MRI of my brain was, at least, kind of cool?

Because another part of my personality wants to remind me I’m wiser, braver and maybe even a little more able to help others, people who I will remind myself can’t be expected to fix their own shit alone. People who shouldn’t be pushed aside, in this society that we all share.

And I don’t regret calling that cunt a cunt.

It’s been six years and each day is still different and this morning, when I pause to ask myself how I’m doing, I find I have the most simple of answers.

It’s three words.

“I’m doing better.”

[previousloversandmuses]

FREQUENCY: Episode 2 - A Soldier Boy Story

FREQUENCY:  A Soldier Boy Story

EPISODE 2: “Uncle Sam”

WORD COUNT: 4,056

PAIRING: Soldier Boy X Reader 

WARNINGS: (NSFW) Racial slurs, fatphobia, drugs, and mentions of suicide. Foul language, mentions of sex, or sexual innuendos. 

A/N: This story is dark, and covers mature themes. The main character, as well as other major characters, are offensive in nature, and may offend some people. Please peruse with caution, and remember that this is fiction. Reader discretion is advised. Please message me for any questions, comments, or concerns. 

Masterlist | Taglist

When John and I would fuck, only he would find it easy to sleep. See, we almost always did it at Vought tower. He had thought my apartment was gross and grimy.

He would snore away, his naked body pressed against mine, his strong arms holding my waist. I’d be up all night. The tower was loud, and I was much too nosy to not listen in on everything going on. Most people had left by the time that I was laying there awake, but the important ones stayed.

Security worked all night, keeping their tabs on literally everything going on in the world. If two Pakistanis were going at it premaritally at a goat farm in the middle of nowhere, Vought would be the first to know. 

It was always funny to me that the CIA always assumed they were one step ahead of Vought. That they had the upper hand, and that no matter what, the good guys would always win. Wrong. Vought knew absolutely everything the CIA was doing. They knew every hideout, every operation, every compound, every undercover. Vought, a private company, was the global leader for national security- but no one would ever know that. 

John would shift behind me, nuzzling his face into my neck, nibbling on my ear. 

“Go to sleep.” He’d say plainly, before drifting back into his own disturbing dream. 

Go to sleep, I’d think. Funny. Little did he know I was keeping my tabs on every compound mentioned in terms of Vought, and every event to go along with it. I knew every building the CIA operated. Every property. Every piece of land. Which is why I’m so confident now that I know exactly where Soldier Boy is.

In upstate New York, the CIA has a large base. It spans acres, but in the middle rests a midcentury, concrete bunker. Strong enough to withstand the blast of a nuclear bomb…getting warmer, I think. 

After the job I did for Butcher, I went straight home and started doing research. The CIA compound wasn’t visible on any map, but thankfully I was already aware of the coordinates. 

The next day I hopped in my shitty car, and drove upstate. I started spying once I saw the first signs of surveillance, which was about twenty miles away from the location. I staked out for about a week, driving closer each day, taking note of every camera, every security checkpoint. I wasn’t in my car after I got close enough, obviously. The closer I got the more inclined I was to walk on foot. 

I understand this may seem impossible, I mean, this is the CIA after all. No one is getting past them, right? Wrong. You need to remember, no one would ever see me coming, and they definitely wouldn't see me going. I can hear cameras before I see them, and it’s the same thing with all types of security. The CIA didn’t stand a chance anymore after I was created. Nothing was getting past me. I was born for this mission.

The morning of, I made sure to leave no trace of any research in my apartment. I threw out my computer at the edge of the city before I drove upstate. I prayed to all holy, although I’m not much of the religious type, that my shitty four-door would make it all the way up there without breaking down. As I stepped on the gas, I took a deep breath, shutting off my senses as best as I could until I was in trackable distance. I’d have to savor all five, I’d need them to be as strong as possible. I was going to get my revenge. 

This may sound conceited, but I do think I have created the best plan in the history of plans: See, unknown CIA compound number whatever, although large, and unknown to me internally, is quite easy to navigate if you think about it. Let’s think about the five senses here. Sight: I could look through the walls of the building until I feast my eyes upon the, I’m assuming, frozen solid body of Soldier Boy. But this can sometimes be all encompassing, and too much work. Sound: I could always hear him out. Scope out the slowest multiplying cells in the area, until it leads me to the supe popsicle. But again, too much work for what it’s worth. Also I needed to be focusing on nearby agents, cameras, and security. Touch?  No idea how that would work, no interest in finding out. Taste? Absolutely not. I don’t even want to know how that would work. But smell? Ahhh smell. That’ll lead me right to it. I can taste the frosted formaldehyde from here, a mile away. I’ll sniff out the frost bitten captain America better than any bloodhound. Smell. That is the way. 

I park my car off in a clearing, I think it may have been used as a campsite at one point. There isn’t a camera in sight. It's the dead of night. Leading up to the compound is a long, winding, wooded road. It's a forest boundary, which is nice because I won’t be getting any sort of sound pollution. 

I begin to walk parallel to the street through the woods, attaching the silencer to my gun. As I get a half-mile away, I start to take note of small CCTV’s attached to dry, dehydrated fir trees. I begin shooting down every camera I can hear, and as far as the eye can see. This is my collateral. I know once I break him out, CIA intel will be checking every camera to see where we went. They will never see us leave. They’ll never even see me coming. I got a few hundred yards between me and the next scanner. 

I reach into my backpack, pulling out scarf, and then wrap my head hijabi style. I’m already wearing a modest, all black outfit. Maybe something similar to a burka. I thought it would steer people away from my trail by posing as a stereotypical supe terrorist. Nothing scares Americans more than a muslim being in places they aren’t supposed to be.

I can see the building now, it's fortunately surrounded by trees, making my breaking and entering a little bit easier. I don’t even know how they can see anything on surveillance with all of this blockage, I think. Hell, the pine needles are getting in the way of my quality of sight. 

It's a tight squeeze through shrubbery, but I make it to one of the side doors. Again, I shoot out every camera around me before I even get close to the area. I stop and take a listen. From my spot now, the closest heartbeat I can hear  is deep within the compound, maybe at the front security desk. Most agents have gone home by this point. 

I’m assuming, if my hearing is correct, there is an obese man sitting at a control panel at the highest point of the building. Similar to that of a bird's nest. He’s asleep, snoring so loud I don’t know how he’s not choking himself. This is too good to be true, I think.

I make my way inside, there was a codebox on the outside of the building which are the easiest contraptions to get into. I smacked the side of it, feeling for the numbers.

 I aim for each camera before it can catch me, knocking it out in the center every time. 

I take a deep breath. Formaldehyde is all encompassing. I choke on the taste. He’s in the basement. 

I go ahead and make my way down multiple floors, once again, getting rid of every camera. This part of the compound is terrifying. Tons of steel and concrete feel suffocating when you’re this far underground. I almost trip over a janitorial cart in the darkness of the stifling halls. 

I come face to face with a large steel door. It’s got to be a few feet thick at least. To the right of it is a key pad. Looks pretty high tech, much different from the one on the outside of the building. This one must be new, I think. That’s a good sign. I mean, along with the fact that my eyes begin to water, my nose hairs singing off from the stench of chemicals. 

There is a card reader on the side of it for swipe entry. I pull up my finger, and gently tap it onto the corner. It echoes through it. I listen for the preset code. I can hear each four number etchings clear as day. 4459. 

The door opens with a flash of a green light and a click. I walk slowly down the hallway. It’s stark, cold. A metallic chamber with no windows. No place for a human being to live, I think. At least he’s not awake to see it. 

I round the corner, reaching another door. Fuck. I think to myself, another lock. The code box blinks at me, then speaks to me in a robotic voice. 

“Please enter access code.” 

I look down at the machine. Again, knocking on the side of it, like the one from before.

“Please enter access code-” I jump at the sound, but before it can finish I type in the numbers again. 4459. 

Clink! Green light illuminates from a bulb over my head. The door slides open. Idiots. 

There is what looks to be a control panel. It’s windowed, and looking down into a surgical-like dip in the floor. I walk over to the glass. There are buttons and levers riddled around a console. 

About fifteen feet below me I visualize him. Most of the lights are off inside of this area, but his body is lit up. He lays like a corpse inside a see-through cryogenic freezer. His heart is beating slowly, maybe less than five beats per minute. His blood barely circulating through his augmented veins. 

I take a deep breath, it’s now or never. From what I can tell, the security guard watching over the cameras is still fast asleep. Him, the man at the very front, and the other few scattered around near the archives, are all unaware of my presence in the building. 

I open the door to the right of the panel, and make my way down the rickety metal stairs that lead to his futuristic tomb. There he is, fast asleep… or frozen? I’m not sure of the right thing to say. I lean over, looking at his face through the glass. I place both of my gloved hands palm down, feeling my way around to getting him out of there. A latch, which, as I can tell, is connected to a code box. The CIA and their codes. They are just asking for me to break in. 

I squat down next to the machine and locate the lock. I do as I do again, knocking on the side of it, and waiting to hear the notches for the numbers. 1919. Really? I go ahead and select them, and watch as the glass casing begins to open up around him. It’s like a vampire coming out of a coffin. A waft of nitrous mist cascades around the room, revealing to me then, the body of a very, very, cold man. 

He has an oxygen mask on his face. I go ahead and take that off. The chemicals they have pumping into his veins via IV drip; I rip those off too. The machines tracking his vitals, I unattached, letting them drop to the floor. I can’t see much of anything else that would be keeping him asleep. Unfortunately though, I think I will have to wait for him to thaw out. 

I look around the room, checking my watch. I've been in the building for twenty minutes now. I look over at him, he's still not moving. His heart rate is still resting at an undetectable rate. I’ve got to get moving. I start pacing around the room, rubbing my chin with my hand. Think, think, think. I couldn’t bring any ammonia or any other sort of smelling salt because I’d be able to smell it through the container. Migraine waiting to happen. I could always slap him awake, but I’d risk breaking my hand from the sheer strength of his jaw. I could warm him up myself? Rub up on his arms until he begins to heat up. 

I look down at his arm, lifting up his wrist with my fore finger and thumb. He may be strong, but I’m sure he doesn’t weigh a ton? Ugh, who am I kidding? This man has got to be over two hundred pounds of pure muscle. THINK woman, think. 

Then, by the grace of all holy, I remember the janitorial cart I almost broke my neck on earlier. That’ll do it. I check back down at my watch, twenty-five minutes have passed now. It might not be too hard to drag him all of five minutes.

So, I do just that. Wrapping my arms under his, then securing around his torso, I begin to lift up. No, this will definitely be too hard. I drop him onto the floor, then clamp my hands around his wrists. I start pulling him across the room, then I remember; the stairs. Fuck. Making my way up I’m already drenched in sweat. It's one thing having to carry someone awake, but this supe was all dead weight. I’m praying he wakes up soon. 

It takes me ten more minutes on top of the five I had already expected to climb all the stairs back up to where I saw the janitorial cart. Before I go to put him in it, I listen in again. Everyone was still where they were before. The obese security guard is still in desperate need of a CPAP machine. I smile. This is all working out for me. With the little strength I have left I hoist him up into the cart, setting him on top of dirty mop heads and rags. 

I see it before I hear it. Red lights begin to flash around the building, then the sirens begin to wail. The security guard is definitely no longer asleep. I get a good grip of the cart handles and begin to push him down the hallway with unrelenting fervor. 

I can hear footsteps gaining on us as I reach the same exterior door that I came in through. I launch him out, and watch as the cart goes tumbling onto the forest floor. Great. Maybe that will wake him up. The guards are even closer now, a floor above me. Flood lights shine around on the outside. I push him back into the cart, and gun it through the forest with a speed that rivals Usain Bolt. 

Once I reach the clearing where I parked my car, about ten minutes later, I can just now make out the glimmer of flashlights in the distance. This was a huge forest. They had no idea where I could be. I go ahead and begin to load the bastard into the backseat. He mumbles a little, making me jump. I reach my hand down to his forehead. He was definitely warming up. I buckle him in with a seatbelt, and hop in the driver's seat. I accelerate out of the lot, watching as police cars race past me just a road over. This was going to be a long drive. 

It took him a four hour drive, plus forty-five minutes in the hotel room to finally wake up.

“…helewooh…” thump thump. “….ooonclee saaamm…”

As he came to, everything was blurry. It reminded him of when he used to mix codeine and benzos. 

Slowly, but surely, he begins to focus, making out the silhouette in front of him. A girl, young and lean. She sits across from him on a chair. She snaps and claps in his direction. Leaning in a bit closer, she slaps him in the face. Now that wakes him up. 

He jolts forward, easily breaking the pitiful restraints that have him tied to the chair. Now that he thinks about it, he’s sure he’s just broken the chair too. 

“Woah, WOAH,” she waves her arms in front of his face, trying to calm him down. “Easy there tiger, I wouldn’t want you blowing up this motel.”

He shakes his head, finally waking up enough to take in his surroundings. It’s a cheap, tacky motel room in god knows where. It reminds him of the one he stayed in when those pansies brought him home from Russia. Wait, those pansies-

“Where the fuck am I?” He looks around again, running over to the windows and peeking out the blinds. He turns around holding his finger up to the young girl in the room with him. “And who the fuck are you?”

She walks towards him slowly. He takes her in. She’s young, definitely young. Pretty, to say the least, but that’s the last thing he can think about right now. Her shorts and shirt are tiny and much too tight for a girl her age. Again, he thinks of the past. Has all modesty been thrown out the window? Not that he’s complaining, really. 

“Okay, first of all, I saved you, you should be worshiping the ground I walk on.”

“I don’t even know who you are little girl.” He recoils. “Wait,” He looks her up and down. “You’re not some unclaimed child of mine, are you?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” She says, rubbing her hands down her face.

He walks forward, getting into her face. “So ya don’t know me, and you expect me to believe you got me out just out of the kindness of your heart?” 

“Yes.” She says simply. 

He nods, going back over to the window, looking outside again. 

“Where are we?”

“Pennsylvania.” 

“They got any beaners here?”

“I’m sorry?” 

“Any beaners. I need to cross the border. Get out of here as soon as possible before these fuckin’ gay lovin’ commies try and throw me back into the ice again.”

“I’ll get you across the border, no problem. I don’t need any help either. Anywhere you want I’ll get you there.”

He glares at her, squinting. Looking her up and down. Hey, maybe she does look pretty good. He begins to walk around the room, searching for any hidden cameras, any microphones.

“You wearing a wire?”

“No one followed us down here.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No, I’m not wearing a wire.”

He gets back into her face. Towering over her. She shows no sign of fear. Naive, he thinks. She can feel his breath on her skin now. 

“What’s the catch?”

She smiles up at him, crumbling under his intense gaze. She feels for the back of the chair behind her then sits down. 

“Have a seat.”

“No thanks, been layin’ a lot recently. What’s the fuckin' catch, sweetheart?”

“Okay,” She sighs. “There is a catch, you're right.” 

He gets angry now. His chest visibly rising and falling. It begins to glow. Okay, now she’s getting nervous. 

“Hear me out please,” she begs, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’m trying to get revenge on Vought.”

“Get in line, little girl.”

“I’m a supe. Please, please hear me out.”

“Too late.”

Okay, she’s angry now. Looking around the room she sees her keychain. It has one of those pull-able self defense devices. She reaches over to grab it. 

“If you don’t calm down, if you don’t help me, I’m going to pull this tab, and it will notify every police department, every agent in a 300 mile radius.” She’s bluffing, of course. But he’d surely believe it. Hell, they have fuckin' lesbians plastered on billboards these days. Anything is possible. 

“You’re bluffing.” He says smiling. 

“Am I?” She asks, smiling back. 

He stares at her. He says nothing. She goes to pull the pin out of the device.

“Wait,” he says. “Look, I’m old, I’m tired, and I just want to go fuck off to Costa Rica, and live my life not frozen in ice. If you want revenge on Vought, honey, by all means go for it. Girl power and all that shit. But there are plenty of other supes out there willing to help.”

She sighs, looking up at him with heavy eyelids. He smiles down at her now. She’s much prettier when she’s not being fuckin' hysterical. 

“Your loss.” She says, shrugging, pulling the cap off of the safety device. It immediately begins to flash and scream. Sending her far away from it, gripping her ears in pain. Sending him flying to the floor trying to put the pin back in. 

“Why the fuck did you do that?” He yells, his hands shaking as he tries to find a way to silence the device. She doesn’t answer, just shoving herself into a corner with her hands over her ears. “Did you hear me, nutcase? How the fuck do you stop this thing!”

He throws it onto the ground now, beginning to stomp on it. He ends up with his foot halfway through the floor. All is quiet.

He looks over at her shoved into the corner. She slowly moves her hands from her ears. He’s angrier now, stomping over to her. 

“How long until these people find me?”

What? She thinks to herself. Oh yes, the bluff. 

“30 minutes. We might as well leave now, and keep driving until we get to the safe house.” Welp, there goes 50$ for the room rental. “And there’s more where that came from, so don’t do anything fuckin' crazy.”

“I won’t as long as you aren’t acting like a fuckin' lunatic.” 

“So then it’s a deal?”

“No deal.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, no deal. You can take me to this safe house and we can discuss further. That’s all I’m agreeing to. You take that, or I can just smash your head in along with the rest of your little devices.”

She rubs her chin. Walking over into the corner and picking up her duffle bag.

“Yeah, let’s hold out on the latter. Y’know, collateral land all that.”

“It really is that easy, you know? All it would take is just a snap of that spine and you’d be shut up for good.”

Her skin crawls at this. He is right. The collateral is shit. He has every right to bash her brains in and leave with no trace. What the hell can she do about it? 

Unless. 

“Look, Captain America, there is something else that could pique your interest.”

“Trust me, there isn’t much.” He looks around the room one last time before they go out the door. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any reefer?”

She closes the door just as they’ve opened it. She leans into him. This is cruel, she thinks. This is wrong. And hell, he’d have every right to kill her after they get the job done. And maybe that would be the best thing to do. Quick and easy. 

“Look, if you help me do this, I can show you to your children. To your family.” Yup, she’s rotting in hell. “I used to work for Vought. I know of their location.”

His gaze softens. Fuck, she thinks. 

“This is some sick fuckin' joke?”

“No,” She coos, placing a sweaty palm on his shoulder. He flinches. “No, of course not. And if you help me, you can take all of them down to Costa Rica with you.”

He looks at her with question, with curiosity. He doesn’t think he can trust this girl, but hell, she did just save his life.

A family? His family? People who are ready to welcome him with open arms. His own children who’d view him as a hero, as a good father. People he could make proud. Hopefully they wouldn’t be fuckin’ pussies like Homelander. What a waste, he thinks.

She bounces back and forth on her feet. He nods, not looking at her. 

“Tell me what you need in the car. And we’re stopping for alcohol and cigarettes.”

“Deal.” She says with a guilty smile, watching as he walks his way downstairs. 

Masterlist | Episode 3 | Taglist

Taglist:

@sl33pylilbunny @lanassmarty @sydneyyyya @1-800shootmeplease @muhahaha303

[matcha-kathrin]

STRANGERS - Chapter 4

Summary: Promises are the hardest to make, and the easiest to break. You knew that, but maybe a part of you believes your stranger will show up. 

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x reader

Notes/Warnings: Bittersweet. Not heart wrenching but DAMN. I was in an interesting state when I wrote this lmao. I feel the need to be honest with you guys and come clean: this will be the final part of the series for the time being. To me this is the perfect way to end things, Strangers has made it’s way into my heart and it’s there to stay! Stay tuned for future fics and oneshots, and my asks are always open so feel free to flood me with requests or questions and I’ll be glad to answer!

Word Count: 3.3k 

Please read Part One, Part Two and Part Three before proceeding.

~*~

STRANGERS – CHAPTER 4

It’s physically impossible to be happy every day. That was something you were understanding more and more as time went by. You had thought that once you had reached a certain stability in life the waves of depression that came crashing down on you would subside, becoming somewhat of a gentle tide. Unfortunately, the sadness never leaves, it’s a part of life, without the deep rooted feelings of melancholy you wouldn’t be able to enjoy the beautiful, positive things in life.

Yet you hoped, you hoped that one day you would be at peace. Even now as you were getting ready to leave for what was supposed to be a very exciting night for you the feeling inside you couldn’t help but settle in the pit of your stomach. You wondered if it was because of your nervousness or excitement. All in all, you were looking forward to the evening ahead of you. You were excited to see how the film turned out and how you looked on screen. You’d never get over seeing your face on a big wide screen in a theatre projected in front of a hall full of people.

It was like staring into the face of someone you didn’t know, someone who looked awfully familiar, someone who looked like you, but was a stranger nonetheless. Because the person on the screen was not you, it was a part of you, a small piece of a bigger picture. A small fragment that for the span of a film’s duration had gained individuality. It was the uncanniest thing you had ever experienced.

You sat on your bed, staring at the window that gave onto your small fire escape, you watched as the sun had slowly receded behind the tall buildings of your street. Soon you would have to leave, take a cab or walk the five miles it took from your place to get to the downtown theatre. You didn’t mind walking, even if that meant spending quite a bit of time in the cold chilly air with nothing but your dress and your favorite jacket.

Ah yes, your dress.

In all fairness it wasn’t fully dry, you could feel the slight dampness of it at the hems, but overall, it was wearable. You’d be lying, or worse cheating, if you said otherwise. After straightening it out with your old iron which you never even took out it felt better already, and after you had slipped it on and stared into your mirror, the only light shining the one from your bed, you frowned.

You felt, as you had the day before, stupid.

Not because you felt ridiculous, or because you didn’t think you looked good in it, but for some reason you felt slightly childish in dressing up so elegantly for a small film screening. Like it was something important.

“It sounds important.” His voice whispered in your mind, and you smiled. You knew what he would say if he saw you frown at yourself, he would tell you how you had every right to dress up for something you deemed important. Even if you were the only one who thought so. And was it so bad? Trying to look your best for people you didn’t even know? A few minutes ago you thought exactly that, but even just imagining how he would react seeing you wear the dress you bet on, made you change your mind quicker than ever.

You wondered if you were more excited for your film screening, or finally knowing the name of your dear stranger.  You pushed the thought aside as you turned around to check that every fold, and every thread, of your dress was in place. It fit you like a glove, the soft fabric complimenting your natural features in a way no other dress really could. It had been your mother’s dress, that’s why it meant so much to you, as soon as she had grown out of it she placed it in a pretty box along with your things when you were moving out of your home. Unbeknownst to you it would become your prized possession. And you treasured it dearly, only wearing it in the pivotal moments of your life.

Letting out a shaky breath you realized you had no more reason to stay idle in your room, staring blankly at your reflection. Even when you locked eyes with yourself you felt the same uncanny feeling, as if you didn’t quite recognize yourself. Like there were parts you still had to meet, still had to know. Maybe someday you would.

You shrugged on your jacket, feeling a slightly bit better that the air wasn’t prickling your bare skin anymore, and you slipped on your shoes. Even the pair of shoes were elegant, a pair you never really wore, but you didn’t have much of a choice now. Taking your bag and keys, checking that you had your phone and, god forbid, your cigarettes you looked at yourself in the mirror once more.

You were ready, at least you hoped.

And with that you left your apartment, double checking the lock and click clacking your way onto the ever dark, ever damp streets. You enjoyed the way you made heads turn, for some reason you were more aware of it when you had this particular dress on, like you were searching for something in the eyes of the strangers who passed you by. Even though you had done it a thousand times before, something felt different. You weren’t satiated by the quick glances or looks people were giving you, oh no, these strangers had no power over you anymore.

Only one stranger did.

You wondered if he would really show, you had lived long enough that you had experienced disappointment before. The little voice in your head preparing you for the worst. He was kind, he listened to you, he was there when you least expected him to be. But he owed you nothing, and for all you knew he might’ve forgotten about the whole thing already. Even if he had promised, but promises were very easily broken.

Maybe the little voice in your head was just trying to protect you, the rational, impartial voice trying to lower your expectations as much as it could. Which, on certain accounts, was also quite sad. It was like you wouldn’t allow yourself to get too excited. You never did, always fearing it could backfire.

So, as your pace quickened you tried to concentrate on what you could actually look forward to. You had met some amazing people while working on the film, talented young students that reminded you a lot of how you were when you were in their shoes. And you were excited for them, excited that they got chosen for a late evening screening at a film festival that could mean the opportunity of a lifetime. You hoped for them. Hoped they would get the gratification that they deserved. And before you knew it your feet were drawing near to the entrance of the theatre, your mind buzzing and your heart thumping loudly in your chest.

You could see people filing in, and a few familiar faces smiled when they noticed you approach, greeting you and complimenting you on your appearance. To your relief you weren’t the only one who had dressed up for the evening, making you feel less out of place than you expected. As your colleagues exchanged niceties you couldn’t help when your eyes scanned around you for a glimpse of your stranger. But even when you had sat down in the theatre in between your director and co-star, the light of the hall darkened signaling the start of the film, you hadn’t seen him anywhere.

You should’ve expected as much.

And soon you forgot all about him, the images on the screen in front of you transporting you to a place far away. You loved that about movies. How you could forget who you were for the span of a few hours and live something completely different. Though you had to admit, it was a bit hard to immerse yourself in something you had acted in, seeing yourself on the screen broke the fragile illusion, making you remember on and off that all you were doing was watching a movie. Nonetheless, you loved it. And to your relief the people around you seemed to love it as well. And for a moment, a split moment, hope reignited in your heart.

You didn’t want to, but the feeling had formed without you knowing, the voice in your head switching sides, whispering the possibility that your stranger might be there, watching your final scene as you were doing.

And suddenly it all became too much. Your heart pacing at the idea of it. If he was there, what was he thinking, had he enjoyed it as much as you did? As soon as the credits rolled in and the lights came back on you were brought back to the present moment in full force, and as your audience applauded and you shared smiles with the people sitting next to you, you excused yourself.

You didn’t want to be rude, but you needed fresh air, and you didn’t think you would last during the creator to creator panel that was going to start very soon. So in the midst of the applause and ruckus you took your small bag and got your jacket, assuring your colleagues you would catch them later.

But you weren’t so sure you would.

The empty red carpeted corridor was all blurry as you quickly made your way through it, your hands bracing the glass door as you pushed it open almost desperately. When the brisk air hit your flushed face you sighed, smiling. The buildup of your emotions subsiding. You didn’t know why you were feeling so overwhelmed, but you didn’t blame yourself for it. You just waited for it to fizzle out as you stepped to the side of the theatre’s entrance, rummaging in your small bag for your cigarettes.

And once you plucked one out and placed it in between your lips you felt a calm wash over you. And finally, your mind was quiet.

“Need a light?”

Jumping slightly your head snapped to source of the voice, and when your eyes focused on the person who snuck up on you, they softened.

And there he was, your stranger, making quite an entrance as he always did. You couldn’t help the absolute star struck expression that happened upon your face when you took in the sight of him. He had dressed up, and he looked like a completely different person.

It looked like he was glowing, and as he approached you to light your cigarette you couldn’t contain the way your eyes followed his every movement. Dropping down only for a moment to look at where the flame met your smoke.

“Much obliged,” you reenacted your first encounter with a small laugh, still eyeing him incredulously “What are you wearing?”

“Oh this?” he asked, looking down at himself and matching your amusement “There was a possibility that the star of tonight’s film would show in a beautiful dress, I had to come prepared.”

You hummed in response, not being able to wipe the cheeky grin that had settled on your face. And he just rubbed the back of his neck nervously as you looked at him from head to toe.

“So? Any thoughts on tonight’s performance?” You lulled, bringing him back from his bashfulness.

“Well, having had no expectations whatsoever I have to say I was pleasantly surprised.” He mused, your eyebrows rising dramatically.

“Really? And what about the final scene?”

He hesitated. And so did you, not expecting your question to make him falter in his playfulness. But he seemed to really think about it, and somehow you got nervous all over again. You didn’t really want a serious answer, heck your question wasn’t even all that serious. But now too much time had passed to take it back.

“It was…sad.”

“Yes?” You quickly spoke, furrowing your brows “That was the point.”

“No, I mean- It was supposed to be the moment in which you realized that everything was okay, that everything was going to be okay despite all the hardships you faced. But somehow instead of being proud of yourself you just seemed so- so sad.”

You looked to your feet as you took a quick puff of your smoke, nodding a bit as you listened.

“True,” You spoke after a moment “then again, she was alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sure, its empowering to know you have the strength and resilience to keep going all by yourself, to not need anything from anyone and still be able to make it through. But isn’t that all kind of sad? Isn’t it sad that she had to go through all of that by herself?” You spoke softly, your gaze wandering to an uncertain point in front of you, and for a moment you stood there. Then you shook your head lightly and looked back at him, finding his eyes already on you.

“I feel like it was reassuring, but at the same time she came to the realization that she was all alone. That she had been all alone the whole time. Even when she met the one person who didn’t make her feel like it was her against the world, ultimately he left too.”

“Do you think he’d come back for her?” He asked, so quickly it almost took you aback. And you smiled, looking up into the night sky in thought.

“Who knows? I guess we’ll never find out.” You lulled, looking at your stranger with curiosity. He didn’t seem to share the same sentiment, he just looked back solemnly. It was like seeing a whole new side of him, how he could get so invested in a film made you all warm inside. Because you were just like him.

And suddenly you noticed something you hadn’t before. How had you not seen it before? With an exaggerated gasp you held a hand to your mouth “This is the first time I’ve seen you without those godforsaken sunglasses!”

For a moment it looked like he was expecting something else, a small stupor in his eyes, he was a bit surprised at how quickly you switched the topics of conversation. But then he smiled, doing a ridiculous spin on himself.

“And? Was it everything you hoped it’d be?” He flaunted, making you chuckle at his boldness. Two could play that game.

You quickly threw your cigarette in the trash next to you, not caring that you hadn’t smoked it at all, and stepped closer to him. You tentatively placed your hands on his face, and for a moment his smiled faltered. He gazed into your eyes as you took in his features, your thumbs brushing on his eyebrows and settling on his cheeks. Holding him there for a moment as you studied him. Every line, every crease, every aspect of his face entranced you. And as your eyes wandered down his nose to his lips, scurrying over his chin and back at his eyes you noticed he hadn’t stopped staring at you.

How could he, when you held him so gently? As you were taking a mental note of each one of his features, he was permanently burning your face in his memories. The curve of your nose, how your lips looked unbearably soft, he wondered how they tasted, if he only dared to close the space between you.

But his thoughts were interrupted when you let out a light huff of laughter. “Well you certainly clean up nicely, though I have to say I kind of miss the laundromat look.”

His hands reached up and rested on your arms, and just when you were thinking of letting him go, as if he had known you wouldn’t keep him there for much longer. The proximity settled in, your face feeling hotter by the second. Where had your boldness run off to?

“I don’t know, I’d have to say this is my favorite look of yours so far.” He spoke softly, so unbearably soft you almost trembled at the low reverb of it. Not even a day had passed, and you realized just how much you missed the sound of it.

“Yeah, I-” you swallowed “I lost a bet you see.”

“Oh? What were you betting for?”

As soon as his gaze left your eyes and dropped to your lips all reason cleared from your mind. It was the moment in between words and a glance where you had a very important decision to make. And without thinking twice, you placed your lips on him. Your hands bringing his face slightly down to meet yours, but you didn’t need to do much, for he was already moving on his own.

And as you stood on the tips of your toes, his arms sliding down your sides to steady your unbalanced position, you felt all the sounds around you drown out. The street fading to black as you both fluttered your eyes shut, no space or time existing in the moment you were having. It was like every fiber of your body was concentrating on the feeling of his lips on yours. Moving gently as he kissed you. It was full of desire, of hunger, but also restraint. As if he was worried that if he did too much, you would slip from his grasp. And suddenly all the soft gazes, all the secretive glances, the close proximities, every moment you had spent together came to its culmination.

And you couldn’t even believe it was happening.

You had never gotten so lost in a kiss before. You had lived many kisses; sad and sweet, rushed and chaotic, but never one quite like this one. No matter how much he pulled you against him it wasn’t close enough, no matter how much your hands brushed his hair you couldn’t ease the burn that coursed through his body.

You had never felt so…alive.

And as you parted from him, your bodies flush against each other, you let out a shaky breath as you watched him open his eyes in a daze. A cheeky grin forming on his face. And for a moment you wanted to kiss him again. Again, and again. But a bet was a bet, and you were a person of your word.

So, in a warm whisper, you told him your name. And it was like he had almost forgotten all about it, but as soon as your name left your lips he dipped once more, kissing you and making you forget all about the first one. It was a much shorter kiss, but it was filled with gratitude, and when he parted he tasted out your name for himself, as if he needed to say it out loud to mark it on his tongue.

“Is it everything you hoped it would be?” You quipped, using his own words against him as you so often did, and he chuckled.

“Even better.” He whispered, pulling you closer so he could kiss you once more. You both knew that when you would stop he would finally tell you his name, and you would not be strangers anymore.

And maybe you never were, maybe you were meant to meet him outside of the bar that night. Maybe you were meant to leave your lighter at home so he could offer you his. Or maybe it was all just a blissful coincidence, one that you would never forget. As you smiled in between kisses, in between glances and breaths, you couldn’t care less what you were.

Because even if there was no going back from this point on, he would always be your sweet, dear stranger.

[sasster]

Blow Out

Can you believe no one asked who his doctor is?

[Here’s the doc!]

--

Trollkind is remarkably advanced across a variety of fields, but all that galaxy-spanning innovative thinking must have stopped just outside the doors of every medical waiting room. The one the purple blood sits in is no different than any other one on or off of Alternia.

The fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling buzz in time with a bare gray wall that seems to pulse with the heart rate of a patient circling the drain. If not for a television that droned on some news channel rattling off its heavy dose of fleet propaganda, muffled by distance, and the sheer veil that covered his face, it would have all been entirely too much for Retcon to handle. It is all quite the scene for the waiting room’s three denizens; The one receptionist and the two worse for wear psions awaiting their teal blooded savior to deliver them from their respective agonies.

In the furthest possible seat from the other two, Retcon fidgets idly with a loose string that juts out from the uncomfortably firm chair he occupies. He works hard to focus on the diluted voice that comes from the television, but can’t seem to make the information fit into his head in a way that even pretends to make sense. To say nothing of the tinnitus like ringing that has plagued his ears for the last handful of days.

In some attempt to prevent feeding into his migrane, which interestingly throbs at the same pace that the lights and wall move, he delegates his attention to the loose thread that he twirls around his index and middle digits. He allows this to be his tether to the breathing waiting room.

Across the room, suddenly louder than the droning of the news channel, the receptionist belts out an unintelligible string of words. Through the filter the ringing in his ears has become, it sounds more like someone in the middle of drowning calling out for help.

Retcon’s attention stays on the stray string. He coils it around his fingers tight enough that their tips begin to pale from the lack of blood flow.

The receptionist speaks again, an even louder version of her best impression of a fish out of water, but an anchor on the TV says something about a rebel syndicate taken down a few days ago and issues a warning to anyone that has ever rubbed elbows with them.

The lights buzz louder.

A door opens.

A conversation joins the choir of noise that slams into him like a truck, about five hundred miles away, at the receptionist’s desk.

Now someone somewhere in the room sighs.

Not being paid enough for this, the woman then says something that sounds suspiciously like someone shouting “Webcam,” from the bottom of a well.

He winces at the sound and focuses instead on the light gray the tips of his fingers have become.

Miraculously, a familiar voice strikes through the white noise that the world has become.

“Ten forty-nine?”

Within a second of his identification numbers hitting his ears, Retcon’s attention snaps up to find the source. Partially obscured by the sheer of the veil, he can just make out the shape of the doctor, staring directly in his direction with a smile on his face.

“There he is, come on back with me.”

He stands.

Somewhere between ten seconds and three hours pass in how long it takes him to traverse the twenty-five feet that separate him from the doctor.

Alaska waits patiently; his unwavering smile makes it impossible to tell how long that wait actually is. In the meantime, he does turn his attention to the news broadcast very briefly before giving a thoughtful hum and switching the channel to something a little easier on the brain.

Soft instrumentals fill the waiting area, quickly alleviating some of the pressure building up behind Retcon’s eyes.

When he does get to the doctor, a hand claps gently over his shoulder and leads him the rest of the way to the examination room and onto a table.

The doctor takes his own seat on a very lively rolling stool that he scoots over to the counter his bag is on and starts to dig into it for his equipment. “Talk to me, Retcon,” he says from within the depths of the bag.

“It’s too loud in here.” The psion manages, indicating the harshness of the much brighter light in this room than the previous one.

“I can’t exactly work in the dark here,” he replies, wheeling back over to him to hand off a pair of light filtering glasses. “Did you lose the last pair?”

Retcon nods and lifts his veil just long enough to put the glasses on and drops it again.

“Is that better?”

“It’s better.”

“So, I take it you overdid it again?” The question is more like a statement of fact delivered with a soft chuckle.

He does not wait for a response as he starts to set his instruments in a prep tray next to him. Odds and ends Retcon wouldn’t be able to name in his right mind, let alone his current condition, clang into the metal tray despite the doctor’s best efforts to lay them in gently.

Retcon winces.

“I think I broke it again.”

“You think?”

“I definitely broke it again.”

Alaska nods, his demeanor does not shift. He takes a second to inspect the blade of a tool that Retcon does not know the name of before turning to fully face him again. “Do you remember what I told you that your limit is?”

“Twenty, twenty-five. Depending. I could get away with thirty if I don’t do them all at once.” He recites what must have been his mantra for the last couple hundred sweeps as easy as breathing air. “More if I spread it throughout a week.”

“Right. How many did you do this time?”

“Fifty.”

“Fif--” The doctor swipes a hand over his own forehead, the motion largely conceals it if his expression shifts on any perceptible level. “Fifty? All at once?”

He nods.

“You definitely broke it.” Alaska echoes his earlier sentiment.

Retcon swings his legs idly and watches the floor pulse toward and away from his feet, choosing the nausea that comes along with it over tuning in to the lecture he is about to receive.

The chiding will no doubt be a gentle one, but when you’ve been someone’s patient for long enough, after the first half century, the lectures start to sound the same. They always seem to sound to the tune of: You’ll fry your brain. The device does not have the memory for that. We really need you to stick to these restrictions. Are you listening?

Are you listening?

Are you listening?

Retcon is brought back by the doctor snapping his fingers just within his field of view.

“Ten forty-nine, can you hear me? Remind them of your limits next time.”

“Can’t you just make it stronger? That’s what they want.”

Alaska’s gaze turns into a sympathetic one.

“We’d both like it if I could just slap a fifty petabyte block of memory in your head, but the technology’s not there yet Retcon,” he starts, gentle hands moving to assist him in laying back. “Frying your brain every couple of perigees doesn’t look good on applications for funding towards it, either.”

The doctor wheels his chair over to the usual blindspot, and quips something obligatory to Retcon before pushing a needle into the soft spot behind his earlobe. Retcon hardly reacts as the sharp pain starts and then subsides, his head flooding with a numbing agent he must have heard the name of some sweeps ago.

“I need you to help me help you, alright? Now, hold still.”

[dingbatnix]

Venture

Chapter 7

Yeah not much to say here, other than the fact that I'm super excited. The story is finally gonna start picking up! Yes! Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 1

Chapter 6

Dream + Tommy reference

Word Count: 4,800 (exactly!)

Warnings: Spiders and yeah that's about it.

Tommy hit the ground hard. He managed to bring his arms up in time to cushion his head, at least, but his knees and chest and elbows cracked painfully against the unforgiving stone ground. The world swirled for several moments as his mind caught up with his body, and after about a minute or two, he pushed himself upright with a groan and a wheeze. His body hurt, accumulated scrapes and bruises throbbing in random intervals all throughout his skin.

Despite his aches and pains, the teen clambered back up on his feet. Tommy glanced behind himself, at the ledge he had fallen off, and grimaced. It was slanted heavily towards him, leaving an outcropping high above his head, and he didn’t think he’d be able to climb back up. In reality, it couldn’t have been higher than a foot or two, but when you were only three inches tall…

Tommy turned away from the cliff, assessing his options. There was a way forward, thankfully, a yawning void that spanned for what seemed miles and miles.

“Hello?” He called, and his voice echoed for a long, long time before it petered out. The teen swallowed, glanced back up at the ledge he had fallen from, then started walking again.

As before, he stuck close to the wall, occasionally brushing a hand against it to make sure he was going in the same direction. He didn’t know how long he walked in the never-ending darkness, but a gnawing hunger grew in the pit of his stomach, and his mouth was dry.

Tommy kinda wished that he had grabbed his quilt before he made a break for it. The cave system was cold, and his worn, stained shirt was not doing its job in keeping him warm. The fact that he was wearing shorts wasn't really helping, either. 

Up ahead, there was the faintest glow of light. Tommy picked up the pace despite his aching legs, eager to be able to see his surroundings. In his rush to reach the light, he may have tripped over stray rocks and scraped his bruised knees more than once, but nobody needed to know about that. 

Nobody needed to know that being alone, in the dark, was making him panic, just a little.

As Tommy grew closer to the light, he noticed shapes pushed up against the walls, lumps of crushed up rock, coals, and even a rusty old pickaxe that he had to climb over. He finally got close enough to see the area clearly, blearily blinking his eyes in the light and gazing at his surroundings.

Massive wooden beams were set into the walls, bracing against the thick stone. Impossibly high over his head hung massive lanterns, the source of the warm illumination, suspended from the wooden rafters. Tommy’s neck hurt if he stared at them too long, the angle painful and awkward, so he set his gaze back down.

Not too far away, the stone floor was set with wooden flooring, which gave Tommy little issues when he had to climb up the slight ledge the plank made. The flooring spanned the whole way along the tunnel, and there looked to be offshoots of tunnels spaced along the walls.

Was he in an abandoned mineshaft?!

If that was the case, then that meant that there had to be another way out. No human would have fit through the hole he’d crawled through, so that meant that Tommy had some hope of escaping this massive cave.

He eventually came up to a chest, over a dozen times his own height. He stared up at it with wide eyes before his expression darkened into a glare. There was no way he'd ever get it open on his own, no matter how much he wanted to see what was inside.

Something hissed behind him, making him jolt with a yelp. He whirled around, heart stopping at the sight of the massive arachnid creeping up behind him. Tommy shrieked and bolted, sprinting away from the gigantic spider. 

He could hear its legs clicking against the wooden planks of the floor as it skittered after him, which only spurred the blond to run faster. Tommy glanced over his shoulder and saw eight red eyes blinking one-by-one as it took casual steps after him. Tommy clenched his jaw. He wasn’t even fast enough to run away from the thing when it walked! How the fuck was he gonna survive when he couldn’t even outrun the damn thing?

His foot suddenly met air, and he fell for the second time that day, still screaming.

…

..

.

°°°°°°

Dream was…Dream was panicking, just a little bit. He had made a mistake, turning his gaze away from Tommy for just those few seconds to dig up a clump of yarrow (it was good for infections, and he liked to collect herbs he could use in place of healing and regeneration potions,) and in the next second, when he glanced over at the teen to check on him, he was gone.

He called out for the teen, and then cursed when he didn’t get an answer. He hadn’t heard any animals approach, nor any screams from a teenager being mauled by a raccoon or something. There weren’t any animal tracks that Dream could see, which meant only one thing. Either Tommy had wandered off, or he had run away. Dream was willing to bet the teen had done the latter. He didn’t seem like the type to just wander off without a purpose in mind.

The assassin swallowed down a swell of anxiety and crouched to the ground, scanning it for any sign of where Tommy had gone to. If he was lucky, he would catch up to the teen before anything bad happened. If not…Dream didn’t want to think about what would happen if not. He cared about Tommy, and he’d be crushed if anything happened to the loud-mouthed teenager.

It took him nearly an hour of meticulous nose-to-the-ground searching, but he finally found a trail of tiny, smallfolk sized footprints leading away into the undergrowth. From there, it didn’t take Dream long to follow them and find a small cliff blocking the path not even thirty meters away. There, the trail took an abrupt left turn along the wall for several paces, where it stopped at a crack in the stone about as wide as Dream’s hand. 

He crouched down on his hands and knees to peer inside of the crack, hoping that he would spot a miniature teenager huddled up inside, but he had no such luck. Instead, a gaping pit of darkness met his gaze, making Dream’s brow furrow behind his mask.

“Hello?” He called into the hole, voice echoing through the small entrance. “Tommy? Hello?” There wasn’t any answer other than the reverberation of his own words. Dream bit at his lip before shoving his arm into the hole. It didn’t get very far, about a third of the way up his forearm, and the rough edges of the stone caught on the wrap around his skin, but it was enough for Dream to tell that it opened up into a wide space behind the wall of stone.

Dream pulled his arm free and sat up, casting his gaze around in search of something to break the crack open further. He didn’t usually carry a pickaxe with him (he wasn’t exactly The Blade, he was more skilled with an axe or a sword) so he had to find something he could use in place of the aforementioned tool.

His eyes settled on a branch of a tree that looked sturdy enough, relatively thick along the whole length and low enough to the ground that Dream could break it off safely. He pushed himself to his feet and made his way over to the tree, reaching up to the branch and giving it an experimental tug. It didn’t budge, so Dream drew his sword and reared back, winding up to chop at the base of the branch. It took several heavy blows for the limb to be loose enough for Dream to break it off. He wiped the oozing tree sap from his blade, sheathed it, and snatched up the dismembered tree branch with a huff.

Dream wedged the thicker end of the branch into the crack and shoved against it, wood scraping against stone as he strained to break open the wall of the cliff. It only took a couple of harsh shoves to break the crack open wider, and then it was only a matter of leveraging the branch against the edges to make the hole large enough for him to squeeze through.

The assassin dropped the somewhat-mangled branch to the side, panting slightly, and ducked inside of the gaping, dark hole he had made. It took a bit of shimmying, but he managed to stumble out through the other side into an open space. He wrinkled his nose, breathing in the familiar scent of stale, musty cave air. He wasn’t a fan of being underground. It brought up unpleasant memories that he’d rather not dwell on.

He rummaged in one of his pockets for a moment before bringing out a torch and lighting it in one swift motion with the flint. Light flared up, flickering and illuminating the relatively large cavern. Dream examined the ground, searching for any more obvious trails to follow.

Unfortunately, Dream’s demolition of the stone wall had erased any evidence of anything passing through the cave. The flickering torch light wasn’t helping either, casting down shadows that danced and jittered against the jagged rock of the ground.

Humming slightly, Dream straightened and glanced around. He could always try calling out again…

He did so, voice echoing in the small cavern, worry evident in his tone even though he tried to suppress it. "Tommy? Hey, are you in here?”

The faintest echo of a scream was the only thing he got in reply, bouncing off of the walls and piercing into Dream’s ears. The sound, barely even a whisper, broke the heavy silence of the cavern and spurred the man into motion, legs already striding towards the origin of the noise. Worry flared in his chest, and he actively had to stop himself from sprinting through the cavern, lest he run past Tommy, or worse, run him over.

As he walked, the evidence of past mining began to appear. Lanterns illuminated the way, thick support beams braced into the walls, planks of wood bridging across gaps and ravines, even the occasional abandoned minecart or chest passed by as he moved. A part of Dream wanted to stop and search through the chests for any forgotten valuables, but he pushed that part of his mind aside. Finding Tommy was exponentially more important, especially since the teen might be in danger.

A short dropoff spanning a few feet ended the path abruptly, and Dream slid to a halt, glancing down at the short ledge. Down below, a massive tangle of spiderwebs was strung out between the stone walls, blocking the way forward in a sticky, inconvenient mass. Had Tommy slipped past the webs…? Shit. If the teen was in immediate danger, it would take Dream too long to cut through all of the spider silk to get to him in time.

“Tommy…? Can you hear me?” Dream called out, searching for the least dense section of webbing. He could burn the silk, if he needed to, but he’d use that as a last resort. If Tommy was underneath the mass of webs, that would only end badly.

“Dream!” A tiny, breathless voice shrieked, so close that it made the man startle. Dream sucked in a gasp, eyes searching for the source of the small noise. Tommy? But where the hell was he? All he could see were the spiderwebs, bathed in an orange-yellow glow from his flickering torch and the distant amber light of the lanterns overhead. 

It took him longer than he’d like to admit, but finally, his eyes settled on what must have been Tommy. The poor teen was so tangled and twisted in a mass of webbing that he blended in with it, clumps of sticky silk globbed up around his tiny limbs and body. Dream breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Tommy!” He called down, sinking down to his knees to get a closer look at the borrower’s predicament. He braced his free hand against the edge of the drop, bringing his torch down closer to Tommy’s position to see him better. “Are you alright?”

Tommy’s miniature face was screwed up in panic, and he writhed, tangling himself even more in the spider’s silk. “Do you fucking think I’m alright? I’m fucking stuck, and there’s giant spiders down here!” His voice was shrill and full of terror, and his breathing seemed short. 

Dream chewed at his lip again, already trying to puzzle out a way to get down to Tommy. The teen was too far down for Dream to reach, so he’d have to drop down into the pit of webs. He grimaced.

“Stay there, I’ll get you out. Just give me a moment,” he assured the teen, who shot him a dirty look. “Where the fuck am I gonna go? The market? I can’t move, you twat!”

Dream bit back the grin that formed at the blond’s remark and shifted so that he was sitting on the edge of the drop. His torch was set down on the edge, slightly hanging over the precipice to provide light. Dream slung his legs down, sitting on the ledge, and eased himself down until his feet met the ground. There was some resistance as his boots broke through the spiderwebs, but he weighed more than enough to easily snap through the thin strands. It was moving through them that was going to be the problem. 

The webs came up to about mid-thigh, sticky strands immediately clinging to his pants and boots. Dream grimaced, pulling out his sword and slashing through the webs in front of his path. Tommy was just a few feet to the side, so it wouldn’t take long to reach the teen.

“Dream!” Tommy yelped suddenly, and there was the slightest shff of movement behind him. The assassin’s body reacted before his mind could. His sword was buried in the black exoskeleton of the spider’s body before he realized, instantly killing the arachnid. Its eight legs twitched in its final throes, and then it fell still.

“Damn,” Dream murmured, yanking his sword from the spider’s carapace with a sickening crack. He shook the blood from his sword while holding back a gag. He wasn’t a big fan of spiders, either, big or small.

Further down the mineshaft, a cacophony of angry hissing echoed, and dozens of furious red eyes flickered open. Dream choked, eyes widening as the sound of many, many legs skittered into the light from various cracks and crevices in the walls. Crap! They needed to get out of the cave!

He lunged for Tommy, wrapping his fingers around the teen’s little body and yanking him free, webs and all. Tommy screeched in surprise, struggling in Dream’s fist, but the assassin was too preoccupied with the wave of spiders skittering towards them to care.

Dream thought fast, heart pounding and adrenaline rushing through his veins. He had a pocket, a very, very safe pocket on the inside of his cloak that he could put Tommy in, but he didn't think he'd have the time. The spiders were barely a dozen yards away, and we're closing in fast.

One of the forerunners of the pack, faster than the rest by a mile, broke free of the group and charged at them. It hissed, red eyes blinking one-by-one as Dream leveled his sword at it, a ferocious expression decorating his face underneath the mask. The arachnid made a false lunge, Dream's sword swiping the air where one of its legs had been moments prior.

Dream curled his fingers a little more securely around Tommy’s small, fragile form and backed up a pace, bringing his hand closer to his chest. Shit. He did not want to fight while he had Tommy in his hands.

Webbing tangled and clung to the backs of his legs as he stepped further away, slowing him down an alarming amount. Dream bit his lip, tossing a quick glance at the ledge behind himself. It shouldn’t be too hard to climb…

The sharp hiss of another spider growing closer spurred him into action. He turned and threw first his sword, then, much more gently, Tommy, onto the ledge that rose an arm's length above his head. The web-bound teenager shrieked, unable to even flail as he fell the short distance through the air and hit the stone ground.

Just as he felt spindly claws snag his boot, Dream leapt and caught the edge of the rock, scrambling wildly to clamber upwards, hooking his elbows over the shelf of stone and heaving his body upwards. Tommy came into view, nearly directly underneath Dream, and the man had to throw himself to the side before he hit the ground and crushed the miniature teenager. His shoulder hit the stone first, a dull impact that would leave a slight bruise in the morning. 

Dream rolled onto his back, shooting a hurried look back at the dropoff. Already, black, shining claws were poking up over the edge of the drop. Dream scrambled to his feet, snatching Tommy from the ground in one hand and grabbing his sword in the other, then took off in a dead sprint, mind already whirling with plans. He could head back to the entrance he had made in the side of the cliff, but the gap was small, and he was afraid he wouldn't be able to squeeze through it in time. On the other hand, he didn't know how likely the possibility of finding the mine entrance would be.

The appearance of more cave spiders crawling out from one of the side tunnels in front of them made his decision for him. Dream shoved his sword into its scabbard with little regard for the strands of webbing still clinging to it and booked it through one of the paths on the side of the wall, sprinting away from the sounds of the two masses of spiders crashing into each other.

Dream spared a glance down at Tommy, worried. The teen had been cursing the whole way, wriggling and trying to break free of the spider silk wrapped around his body. The blond seemed fine, but Dream was still incredibly worried. A bite from a cave spider, while non-lethal to bigger folk like himself, would be fatal to an inchling. He had to hurry.

The entrance of the old tunnel spewed out at him suddenly, the bright wash of light nearly blinding him. Dream threw his free arm in front of his face and dove through the opening, blinking rapidly to try and get his eyes to adjust. He didn't stop running for a good long while, wanting to put some distance between himself and the cave.

“Fuck,” Dream finally groaned as he stumbled to a stop. He slapped his free hand over the eyes of his mask and slumped against the rough bark of a tree, chest heaving. Despite his wishes, his hands were shaking, and he couldn't get them to stop. Dream hated being underground, more than anything in the world, and the adrenaline and fear induced by the spiders had done him no favors.

Taking in several deep, calming breaths, he turned his attention to Tommy, who was cursing up a storm and still attempting to struggle out of the mass of cobwebs that were roping his limbs together. Dream brought his curled hand away from his chest and flattened out his palm, scrutinizing the blond to make sure he didn't have any injuries. When he was satisfied that the teen was fine other than a few new scrapes and bruises, it was like a switch was flipped, and a hot seed of anger sparked in his stomach.

"Don't run off like that! You could've died, Tommy!" Dream scolded as he oh-so-gently picked at the gossamer strands that bound the teen. Tommy sent a displeased scowl up at Dream's mask, little hands shoving angrily at the human's fingertips

"Well, nobody told me that there would be huge-ass motherfucking spiders wandering around!" He snapped, grabbing a strand of webbing with his free hand and yanking at it. It didn't even budge, souring his mood even further. Dream's lips twitched beneath his mask, and he nudged the teen's hands away from the webs with a careful fingertip.

While Tommy groused and grumbled, Dream worked to pull the sticky silk away from his body. After several minutes of meticulous work, Tommy was web free. Dream still had webbing that clung to the backs of his legs, but he'd worry about that later. It's not like it would inhibit him like it inhibited Tommy.

“I've told you not to run off. You should know, most of all, how dangerous everything can be for somebody your size.” Dream chided, lifting his hand up to his shoulder. Without a word, Tommy leapt from his palm and latched onto the fabric of his turtleneck. Dream tried not to twitch at the feeling of tiny limbs tickling at his skin. 

"The spiders would have ignored you, anyway. You're too little for them to bother eating." Dream grunted, pushing away from the tree and gingerly stepping through the underbrush of the forest. He didn't recognize where they currently were, but that would be fine. He could figure that out later.

“So I would’ve just starved to death in the webs, that’s so fucking reassuring, Dream,” Tommy grumbled, sliding down against the human’s neck and settling against the arch of muscle connecting the human’s head to his shoulders.

Dream sighed, rolling his eyes and turning his gaze to the sky. “It’s getting late. I’m, I’m gonna go ahead and strike up a camp. I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking tired.”

Tommy couldn’t help but agree with the bigger man’s statement. Failed escape attempt aside, the day had been rather exhausting in its own right. Tommy wanted to wrap himself in his quilt and doze off, but unfortunately, it was still in Dream’s satchel, far, far out of reach for the tiny teenager.

It took Dream maybe five minutes to find a good place to build a fire and begin cooking their dinner. Tommy stayed seated on the man’s shoulder, clinging to the side of his neck by the fabric of his shirt. The teen was about ready to drop dead, right then and there from the fatigue of the day. Too much stress and anxiety in too few hours, he figured.

Absent-mindedly, Dream reached towards the blond to pluck him up from his shoulder. Tommy stumbled back with a yell, shoulders hitched up and arms thrown up in front of his face in a readily defensive position. The massive hand faltered at Tommy’s sudden reaction, and the line of Dream’s back slumped down as he realized that he’d scared the teen. Again.

“I have…you-sized swords, if that would make you feel better,” The human offered, slowly pulling his hand away from Tommy. Tommy perked up immediately at the offer, before suspicion clouded his face. He squinted up at Dream, but was unable to discern anything past the blank smile on his mask. 

“Why do you have so much smallfolk stuff?!” He snapped, punching the side of Dream’s neck in a sudden flare of outrage. The skin beneath the dark fabric twitched, and Tommy scowled. “Normal people barely even fucking know we exist, and yet here you are, pockets full of items you shouldn’t have, not even the slightest bit curious about me or my kind, what we are, and what we fucking do. That’s not a goddamn normal response, Dream!”

Tommy was shaking, heart thrumming in his chest for about the third time that day. Many more of the ways Dream just was had been bothering him for a while, and he took the opportunity to spew his frustrations out at the human. At the very least, he was getting the words off of his chest.

"Um, well…" Dream trailed off, glancing up at the dusking sky, then slowly, he brought his hand up to his shoulder in front of Tommy, palm flat. “C’mon, let me set you down first.” He murmured, fingers twitching absently. Tommy frowned but obliged anyway, carefully hopping from his perch on Dream’s shoulder and onto the gloved palm. Tommy nodded when Dream asked if he was ready, the human settling down on the ground in front of the fire before lowering his hand to the dirt beside himself to let Tommy down as well. 

"I like to help you guys, y'know? Like, if I come across one of you in trouble, I'll help 'em out." Dream finally started with a small shrug. "And sometimes they give me stuff, and others…" He paused, before continuing morosely. "Sometimes I get there too late."

"Why, though? What good does it do you?" Tommy demanded, plopping down on the ground and crossing his legs. He crossed his arms and puffed his chest out, sending a firm look up at the towering form of the older man.

Dream's body seemed to loosen, and his voice went sad and vacant. "I…I had a friend, once. A smallfolk friend. A long time ago. He—I-I, uhm…" Dream bowed his head, looking to the side. "I-I'm hoping that I'll maybe find him again. One day. H-hopefully." The human fell silent, staring solemnly at the dirt and grass of the forest floor. The muted crackling of the fire filled the strangely mournful air, leaving Tommy to stew in the new piece of information.

Dream had a smallfolk friend…? He opened his mouth to say something, then, glancing back up at Dream's bowed figure, thought better of it and closed his jaw, pensively turning back to the brightly burning fire.

Considering, well, everything, it did make sense. The way the man behaved, the gentle, well-practiced manner he had when he had to pick Tommy up or walk with the teen on his shoulder, even his actions when Tommy was freaking out just a little too badly, everything pointed to a great deal of experience with smallfolk.

The teen could even accept the fact that the smallfolk items had been gifts and… findings that weren’t forcefully taken. Despite the fact that some of the belongings obviously hadn’t been willingly parted with (Tommy’s quilt came to mind, that thing was way too valuable to simply give away) the idea that the previous owners had passed, while still upsetting, was more comforting for Tommy to think about that the fact that maybe Dream had killed them himself.

Tommy exhaled silently from his nose, clasping his hands over his mouth and gazing into the bright, dazzling light of the fire. If…If Dream was telling the truth, then Tommy shouldn’t have to worry about being safe around the man. Tommy would really, really like that to be the case. He was tired of being scared, of Dream, of other bigfolk, of the world. If Dream was a good’un, and Tommy dearly hoped he was, maybe…maybe he wouldn't have to worry so much.

Maybe Tommy could get back home…

…

He did end up getting a sword from Dream. The human even spent a few hours teaching him how to use it (most of which Tommy already knew, thank you very much!) and had promised to continue the lessons in the future. Tommy had been ecstatic, swinging the inch-long blade with a slightly-less-than practiced hand. He’d never actually owned a sword before, (they’d never had any small enough) but he’d practiced enough with splinters of wood and slivers of metal to know how to wield it.

The sun had set, not too long after that, and Dream told them that they needed to get to bed. Tommy had agreed, physically and mentally exhausted from the day’s trials. Dream had held open his satchel for the teen, and closed it securely behind him after Tommy stepped inside. In the warm, nearly oppressive darkness, Tommy found his quilt and sank to the ground, already half asleep by the time he managed to drag the blanket up over his shoulders.

Outside there were the sounds of Dream settling down for the night, the slight sound of the movements amplified by the giant of a man that was causing them. 

Tommy drifted off, lulled to sleep by the drag of gravity, the heavy, rhythmic whoosh of Dream’s breathing and the low, muffled sounds of the night critters outside.

Taglist:

@brick-a-doodle-do @i-am-beckyu @da3dm @kayla-crazy-stuffs @local-squishmallow @skullsnbruises @munchkin1156 @gt-daboss

[siremasterlawrence]

Payback Is A Bitch (Literally)

Revenge is best served cold where that ne family, friends or foes then there is the Hart Von Al family my worst enemies through out my history.

Who knew exactly eighteen years and three months exactly since they ruined my life back in collage him and his stupid horde of children.

Of course I had I known they would book my illustrious hotel on the sandy Florida resort of my creation which I did by the way the plan is perfect.

The moment I saw them walking onto the the fiery hot sandy beach radiating down on me when I came across them meeting my eye lines.

All I can do is take a deep breath before in order to calm myself down at the sights of the two of them being bitches as per usual to the core.

They enter back into the hotel to utter lack of function everything is in disarray It is in particular when the father Jack steps up to press the elevator panel.

The button lights up racing down the cart hit the first floor opening up with a lard whoosh sound something is off as his feet tilt falling forward.

His body hits the cart with the door closing on him enclosing him in a safe line spot that surrounds him in darkness the lights begin to flicker.

His two kids start to pound on the steel door screaming for him to escape but he could not hear them as a piece of classical music airy and mysterious burst through the speaker.

“The hotel is completely in dysfunction”

“The elevator shaft is in ruins “

“Five star hotel my ass”

“SET ME FREE”

“NOW”

“PLEASE “

“Fuck!”

“I am going mad in here “

“Shit! I am stuck in this shit hole of a hotel”

In the pent house suite miles above in the gigantic floor a young man watches his first major nemesis literally going insane trapped in plan he concocted.

If he had half a brain he while he slid by way of the wall onto the floor he might attempt to remember when he did that to me with Ill intent.

“Revenge is sweet is it not?”

“Who the fuck are you “

“Oh! The bitter taste of your demise “

“I will find you and”

“You will find me and then what?”

“Mwahahahahaha “

“Don’t worry you won’t go insane in fact you will be like brand new”

“A factor reset after all you are a bastard “

“FUCK YOU!”

Andrew Lyle is his eldest shifty son a twisted two time face brat with model physique built like a hanger, pretty smirk and clothes that match.

The helicopter lands on the roof top tower in a tier of gold, white and silver spanning the area and the door slides as he walks off and on to the helicopter pad.

There is state idiot smile plastered on to his face he removes his sunshades he closes one end of glasses brim and leaves it on his lapel.

One of my many hotel employees arrives to greet him taking his bags as they descend the staircase and exit the roof top area he thinks he is going to his room.

It is really quite impressive how he manages

to trick the world into believing he is some sort of God among men and I am about to put him in place.

The hallway empties leaving him in a naked white wall hallway the lights fade to black he starts to panic calling for help when he can hear foot steps approaching.

“Hello? Anybody here? HELP ME!”

“Answer me”

“Speak”

“Say something “

“This is creepy”

“Turn on the lights”

“I said quit it”

“What is going on?”

“How can this be happening?”

“I tell you mwahahaha “

“You are scaring me”

“Oh Well!”

“This is some strange shit”

“Asshole “

The man laughs happily snapping his finger the hallway spins in circular fashion sending Andrew into a tale spin of lust, fare and his inner desire.

The bitch thinks he has his way jumps from the top of the staircase he leaps on to the stairs below making his way attempting to escape.

“Where are you going?”

“I am about to break this place apart “

“How so? You don’t want to vacate this hall”

“I don’t “

“It’s is lush, comfortable and safe “

“So pretty”

“Why would you leave?”

“I don’t want to”

“It’s impossible to even ignore me”

Tom Harry Parker races up to the hotel room

in a passionate moment he slams the door placing his back on it in a panic pounding his fist on the door. His heart beat hitting

his chest he cries loudly sliding to the floor he resumes his dramatic fit then proceeds to shut the window and pulling done the shade.

“He can’t find me “

“I am safe here “

“Right? Right?”

“I am going crazy “

“Not as much as you think “

“In panic mode right?”

“I hate you all “

“So you think”

“You might want to kneel”

“Give up and obey “

“You will fall pretty to me eventually “

“You wish “

“Don’t worry soon you will”

“I will what?”

“Eating from my ass”

“Disgusting”

“So you say come to me”

“What do you want?

“Your total submission “

“Fat chance in hell that will happen “

“Why don’t you shut up and see?”

“Why I oughta “

“Kiss me then you alright destroyed me”

“Succumb to me”

“Inside you already have “

“Like a moth to a flame “

The end

[ultrakdramamama]

To size up the impact South Korean superstars SHINee have had on music is a difficult task. With a panorama that spans both K-pop and the world’s stage, the band’s dominance has grown exponentially since their debut 15 years ago. With their latest album, it’s also clear that SHINee’s future could only get even brighter. 

When someone goes around muttering, “Hard like a criminal, hard like the beat” under their breath for about two months straight, it’s bound to attract a few stares at the workplace. Especially when you yell, “We go HARD” when your colleagues enquire about your state of mind. But that’s SHINee’s effect for you. The lyrics from the title track of the legendary band’s eighth Korean language studio album, fittingly titled HARD, tend to imprint themselves on the listener’s temporal lobe. But this isn’t a new phenomenon for SHINee. Fifteen years since the band’s debut, it’s safe to say that they have created K-pop’s (and pop in general’s) most satisfying earworms and anthems, from Replay (2008) to Ring Ding Dong (2009), and Amigo (also 2008) to View (2015), to name a nanoparticle of songs off a daunting discography. ONEW, KEY, MINHO, TAEMIN – and the late beloved JONGHYUN – together form one of the finest, most well-rounded groups to emerge from South Korea’s competitive music industry, and their longevity speaks volumes about their talent and relevance. This includes solo projects, too – each of their individual offerings is a class apart.

So, how does one even begin to dismantle SHINee’s hypnotic hold on both their Korean and global devotees? To be honest, there is no need to divide them because once a ‘SHINee WORLD’ (the name given to the band’s beloved fanbase), always a SHINee WORLD regardless of age, gender or geographic distinction. With their vocal prowess, stage mastery, and dexterity of movement, they’ve filled stadiums worldwide through the course of a 15-year-long juggernaut. ONEW possesses one of the most iconic voices known to this oeuvre, with a dominant baritone and operatic tenor. KEY’s aura and presence is impossible to translate into words. MINHO’s a towering personality in terms of both talent and charisma. It’s also not hyperbole to state that TAEMIN is the king of movement – an unparalleled dancer, and a star. Together, they’re extraordinary. Solo, their personalities jump off the screen too. They’re each lovable matrixes of sass, humour, gravitas... clumsiness (the fans will attest to this). If one were to sum them up, ‘real’ would be the word to choose. Even though they’re revered in the industry, and active in all its different aspects – variety shows, musicals, performing on OSTs, solo projects, etc – they’re as humble as the day they started.

In this email interview, three of the band members dive into their music, providing perspective on the landscape they inhabit. ONEW, the leader of the band, is currently on hiatus for health issues. (However, he did send out a message to fans to reassure them of his rest and recovery and his imminent return.) One thing is for sure – it’s SHINee’s world, and we’re happy to be living in it.

You’ve always been completely ahead of the curve when it comes to genre, often blending several sonic elements in one album. In this album, for instance, you have wobbly drum and bass and soulful vocals on The Feeling, a really fresh take on the clear drum breaks of ’90s hip-hop on HARD, and dance-pop on Identity. Yet, you can tell a SHINee track from a mile away. How do you connect so many diverse sounds to the SHINee colour, and what – in the first place – would you say is SHINee’s colour? KEY: Rather than defining SHINee with one colour, I believe SHINee’s colour consists of all the colours each one of our fans sees us as. MINHO: SHINee is quite an interesting team because we have the ability to make any song into SHINee’s own colours. It’s our biggest weapon. We’ve built up this skill since our first album, and it only strengthened as we tried out various genres and concepts. Now, all our members know how to make any track SHINee-like. TAEMIN: SHINee’s colour is a combination of the various music styles we’ve experimented with. Without being limited to a specific genre, we capture several different colours and find SHINee’s own way of uniting everything into one.

Having said that, can you reveal the most “SHINee” song on this album for you, and explain why that would be your pick? KEY: For me, that would be the title track Hard, because it shows best all the efforts we’ve put into the visuals, performance, and recordings to demonstrate the genre of hip-hop. MINHO: It’s hard to select just one track. Many might say The Feeling but, rather than selecting one, I’d like to say this album in itself is “SHINee”, and it opens up our new chapter. TAEMIN: I’d say Satellite, because it shows the harmonious vocals of SHINee.

SHINee has a way of tapping into a collective sense of nostalgia – whether we go back to View,��Married To The Music, or 1 of 1 even. Yet, you somehow manage doing this in a future-forward way with both your look and sound. How do you access and communicate a wide spectrum of emotions for people across borders and gender? KEY: Songs and melodies are very effective in expressing emotions and conveying messages to different people and genders. Though the lyrics might be interpreted differently depending on one’s culture, I believe a melody has a relatable power for everyone. MINHO: We try to convey emotions directly instead of hiding them. One of those characteristics is being upfront about how one feels and not hiding one’s emotions. TAEMIN: Even if we do not speak the same language, it’s the energy we’ve poured into this album that makes it possible for us to connect and communicate with those who listen to it.

Often, when you’re with a group of people who end up knowing you inside out, it helps you to see yourself more clearly. How would you say the close bond that exists between all of you has affected or changed you? TAEMIN: I was able to learn a lot from my (fellow band) members since they are all very talented. The bond we’ve formed through our time and experiences together is such a valuable gift to me.

People say there is always one side of the brain that’s more dominant. The left brain vs right brain – largely the analytical vs the creative. The artistes in you must make use of the right brain, but, to navigate this industry and learn from it, the left brain has to come into play. Given your successful ongoing careers, how do you balance the two sides? KEY: Balance is something I’m constantly thinking about not only as SHINee’s KEY, but also as an entertainer on variety shows so that I can continue to better myself and grow. MINHO: This is an interesting question that I’ve never thought of before. I probably use my left brain more since I’m always thinking about things that others might not have done yet or tried before. TAEMIN: When I tested myself, I found that my right brain functions better than my left!

Is it possible, as an artiste, to be happy and satisfied at the same time? MINHO: I’m not quite sure if happiness and satisfaction can be felt at the same time, though it’s different for each person. Even if I’m happy, I might not be satisfied, but I think that’s because I’m a bit of a perfectionist [laughs].

Can you talk about how the performance aspect of music has evolved for you over the years? Does it feel more poignant being on stage together again after a break? [The members of SHINee fulfilled their mandatory military enlistment duties, staggered, over the last five years.] KEY: I’m not sure if this properly explains it, but I’d like to think of our growth as ‘still strong’. As the years add on, there is a sense of pressure from wanting to show our best selves and great performances but, through this album, SHINee was able to show persistence and strength. Whenever I step on stage, it’s an overwhelming feeling. MINHO: You can see just how much we’ve grown through our performances. Compared to before, we’re more experienced so there’s a sense of ease. Yet we do feel more nervous when we return to the stage after a long time. ‘Will I be able to perform well on this stage? What if I make a mistake?’ These are the kinds of thoughts that run through my mind but that’s what brings out a perfect performance. The most important thing in all of this is to look as if you’re not nervous! [laughs] TAEMIN: The K-pop market has grown, and we’ve also benefited from that. The lifespan of K-pop idols has also increased compared to before, but I believe it’s (everyone’s) hard work that’s made this possible.

What sort of music are you gravitating towards right now? Do you connect music and movement given how proficiently you link the two? TAEMIN: I usually listen to calm music. I also enjoy humming or dancing along to whatever I’m listening to.

Fifteen years down the line, what is something you know now that you wish you had known then? KEY: That I don’t need to have any regrets because I’ve done my best throughout. MINHO: There are many things I wish I had known but, since I didn’t know anything at that time, I’d want to keep them a secret [laughs]. TAEMIN: What we’ve learned throughout holds greater value and meaning because of the process. If I were to say one thing to my past self, it would be to travel around the world more and study English.

Does the desire to experiment and the ability to actually be able to follow through with ideas become easier with time? KEY: It becomes harder with time but that’s why I make sure to put in more thought and effort to bring out the best I can.

As the world evolves at an almost breakneck speed, music evolves with it; you’ve also been witness to the shift in the influence of K-pop. How would you say the K-pop industry has also changed over these years as it has become a global phenomenon? KEY: From training to performing, everything has become very systemised and specialised. There’s also a wider variety of messages that can be delivered through performances. MINHO: K-pop has changed rapidly and, as a part of the generation that has seen that process of change, it is quite fast. The best development is the fact that the whole world can see what I’ve uploaded in seconds! TAEMIN: As a person who has been in this field for quite some time, I am amazed by K-pop. There have been a lot of changes through the years, changes that I did not realize at the time!

Looking back to when you started, would you say you are where you want to be as an artiste at this stage of your life? MINHO: I’m getting closer to where I dreamed I’d be when I debuted, but there’s still quite a way to go to get there.

How does the future look? KEY: SHINee will always remain the same. MINHO: The future will always be SHINee. TAEMIN: I’d like to live a happier life by giving back to our fans with good music and maintaining the precious relationships we have together. And I hope to perform overseas more often.

Would you please send a message to SHINee WORLD in India – any thoughts you’d like to share? KEY: I’m very much looking forward to the day we’ll get to meet our fans in person. Thank you for always showering us with love. MINHO: I’ve been to India before, but have not had the opportunity to perform. I hope that chance will come sometime soon, so please wait for us! TAEMIN: I really want to meet our fans in India and I’m sorry we haven’t been able to visit. I promise you we will create precious memories together!

[spencerthespender]

Seeing how my other scotomaphobia post went so well, I feel like I need to highlight one of this game’s most incredible moments, and that is a simple conversation held on a balcony with you and Kindness.

“This city. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Even without lights or people. And it goes on for miles. I would love to explore it, and try to piece together what everything means.

Do you think they’d have the same things as us? Like barbers, corner stores, and malls? Or would they just have rooms full of weird cocoons that make them live forever or some other weird sci-fi junk.

I… They’re so advanced compared to us. It’s scary. It’s like we’re just ants, being sent down here to die. And we can’t do that, even though we want to.

…

I miss eating… Especially my sister’s homemade apple pie. I swear, she should’ve gone to culinary school instead of becoming a doctor, it was amazing… Trying not to drool now just thinking about it, ha…

…

I still try to eat from time to time, just to relive the sensation. But I almost always just puke it back up. Oh well, I guess that’s the price of… this. I heard it’s painful to starve to death.

…

I wish I had your tenacity, but I think this is where I stop, at least… until I feel ready. Maybe I can find someone else who doesn’t want to kill me. At least not on sight, heh. But keep that radio handy. Maybe we can keep in touch? Though I guess, it might not even work because of the distance…

Still, as a keepsake.”

The dialogue just hits me here. Call this headcanon, but the further he talks, I swear, you can slowly feel him break down quietly on that balcony. If not for the infliction, he’d definitely be crying silently.

And I don’t blame him for crying because when he talks, I think thats when the reality of everything sets into him. Mankind Earth, in its entirety, has fallen. And if that wasn’t enough, he’s been forcefully stripped from his families to go on some… stupid journey. He’s been isolated for so, so long in the dark, and just when he finds a way out of his void-like prison, he finds himself in a place built by aliens. There’s been so much for him to grapple with, and so little time.

It must have been hell with him knowing he’s been robbed of closure from his sister. He will never know what’s happened to her since the expedition, he will never get to speak another word to her, and he’ll never get to have that simple, human part of his life back.

His humanity. He’s been robbed of that too, but not just from his sister. He’s been inflicted with this impossible disease. The body becomes more crystal than human, his speech has been permenantly hindered with that cough of his, and he can’t even eat. He can’t even die. Is he even human anymore? If some stupid cure even was found, would Earth ever be the same? What about the aliens? Would they just go away once everything’s solved?

He is so small in this situation, so unimportant. The entire god damned planet itself is dealing with a crisis, aliens somehow are involved, and among that is a single man. There will not be any major help for him.

Despite being broken and broken and broken several times over, experiencing a myriad of emotions all in the span of a few minutes, he remains standing and somewhat cheerful. I know Kindness compliments our tenacity here, but nobody seems to acknowledge his tenacity here.

In two and a half minutes, we not only get insight on Kindness’ personality and life, but we get to see his current thought process, how he’s handling the situation, see how most people have probably reacted to the infliction, and experience him slowly break down mentally.

I know I’m not in this game’s discord server (assuming it has one), but I really hope people understand just how good this dialogue is. It’s incredible.

[wyrmalien]

House vs House. Who wins

THIS IS SO HARD YOU CANT DO THIS TO MEEEEE

In the barebones. House wins. because the original House (and all subsequent adaptations) don't actually go beyond "fucked up ceiling", in fact most don't even go beyond "this corner has 3 angles. creepy!" House is established as an IMMENSE superstructure that will drive you mad from the dark and the space and the impossible-ness of it alone. There is no Keziah Mason or ultimate sacrifice, there is just the house. And as HoL says, "God's a house. Which is not to say that our house is God's house or even a house of God. What I mean to say is that our house is God." Also HoL is written infinitely better than any existing witch House adaptations that's just a fact as much as I desire to change that

In my heart, of course, the House is sooooooo much more fucked up. my mind still battles between "impossible rooms that span for miles and contain other rooms" and "this House is made of meat and bleeds and if you press your hand to the wall its warm and you can hear it breathing". Is the House Azathoth or Nyarlathotep to me? yes and no. my relationship with it is complicated. I need each of my ideas to be made into a cabinet of curiosities-esque miniseries but of different, valid witch House interpretations. u understand. in my heart I favour the House because I have insane autism about this shitty little story. I also personally enjoy the characters that inhabit the House more than the characters who inhabit and are involved with the house.

Now if we're pitting two bad bitches against each other in a fight I have no idea which house would win against the other. The house is dark, endless, and there is a physical darkness that injures Johnny at one point that could be the house or something that resides in the house. this house hates you. The House is also endless, but only around May Eve to me. The House grows and gets Worse as Walter gets Worse; it's angles sag and twist as Walter grows more fatigued, and the wood fades as his hair loses its colour from the stress. The House and Walter (and to an extent all its inhabitants) are intertwined on a metaphorical level. The House also acts as an intersection between reality and the higher dimensions, by its very nature it si a gateway and a place where the veil is so thin Walter can be heard through the walls. Both are very old, the house has hallways made of stone that is as old as the Appalachian mountains and the House contains dimensions that lead to the homes of the forgotten Elder Things. Both are fucked up. Both, it could be argued, are Gods. I think if you put them in a ring to fight it out they would have fucked up house sex.

The house fucking hates you but I'm not sure about the House yet. it hates you. it loves you. it's an animal. uncertain. if we're being funny it Despises Elwood and enjoys mildly inconveniencing Walter. God dammit I wish the cabinet witch House had done so much more with it

Mythos friends mutals and strangers please share your fucked up house thoughts, ideas, headcanons, etc in the reblogs or replies I love architectural horror and I love seeing lots of takes on it :)

[strangermoons]

The Beat Has Just Begun: chapter 5 extras

Happy birthday to this story! We've come a long way, baby. First fic I ever wrote that made it past the 5K mark, and only the second one I've finished.

I don't have anything research-related to say about this chapter so instead I'll ramble behind the cut about my general approach to the geography of Hawkins.

There is, to my knowledge, no official map of Hawkins. There are prop maps, but they differ from season to season. I found a reddit post that tried to place on-screen locations on a map based on various clues given in the show, and that generated a map unlike any of the prop maps I've found. What, then, is a literal-minded pedantic little nerd to do?

Well, I ended up taking the season 3 prop map that Hopper steals from the mayor's house in episode 4 (mostly because I found a nice scan of it early on when writing this story) and built my own version of Hawkins on top of it which I try to keep consistent. During my note-taking rewatch I made sure to note down every mentioned address and every legible street sign, and jotted down the name and approximate location of every business that appeared on-screen. I then reconciled this with the prop map, where possible.

I ran into issues pretty early on; for one thing, the route to Hopper's cabin goes from “take Denfield, then you’ll see a large oak tree. You’re gonna swing a right. That road is gonna dead-end. And it’s about a 5-minute walk from there.” in S2E9 to Hopper driving right up to the porch in S3E2. The Mayfield-Hargrove home mysteriously relocates from Old Cherry Road (S2E2) to 4819 Cherry Lane (S3E8). In S2E9 Hopper meets up with Sam Owens at a diner - or is it a bar? there are pool tables - called The Hideaway, but in S4E1 Eddie's extremely improbable* Corroded Coffin gigs are at a dive bar called The Hideout. Now, it's not impossible that two establishments in a small town would have such similar names, but it does seem a bit silly. If they're both supposed to be the same establishment it's kind of a sloppy mistake.

And then there are things like: Forest Hills trailer park is apparently seven miles away from the Wheelers' home on Maple Street. How big is Hawkins even supposed to be?

In the end I figured the most important thing was to have an internally consistent version of the town in my head that I could draw on when I'm writing, just so I don't end up making something a 10-minute walk in one scene and a 20-minute drive in another. I've tried to use street names from either the show or the prop map where possible, and supplemented by googling "Indiana native trees" and "Indiana historical figures" when necessary. When it comes to state-level geography I've plopped Hawkins more or less on top of Muncie because it's just easier to drop a pin in a real location and get google maps to spit out how long it would take to drive to Cincinnati, or whatever. Also, the S3 prop map has a little dot giving an approximate location in the state of Indiana that more or less lines up with where Muncie is and the throwaway WJRB 9 news report at the end of S4E9 where they say “the quaint town of Hawkins, 80 miles outside of Indianapolis.”

If this all seems like a lot of work: I don't know what to tell you. It feels necessary to my process? Like, you should see the spreadsheets. I have one that's just a list of all the tertiary characters that've appeared in my stories, with notes on whether they're canon (or canon-based) or full-on OCs, their approximate age, which stories they've appeared in, first or last names I've assigned canon characters that don't have them, relationships with other characters and any other relevant details. I have another one that's got a sheet with the timeline of TBHJB complete with which day of the week it is and notes on what happened when, and a separate sheet with a rough shift schedule for Family Video spanning several weeks. I honestly don't know that I could write anything at all without using these documents.

If you read this far: Wow, really? Thanks for reading 💀

*Corroded Coffin is a high school band, why on earth would they have a weekly standing gig? They don't even draw a crowd! The bar has zero incentive to let them keep playing!