#(memories etc. surfacing that I haven’t worked through at ALL but I thought I’d at least repressed them well enough) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bubonickitten · 4 years

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

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 14 full text & content warnings below the cut.

Note: There are text messages in this one. The AO3 posting uses a custom work skin to format them. I’m going to upload them as images for the Tumblr post. Might be easiest to read on AO3, though. (Particularly if you use a screen reader or have difficulty reading white text on green backgrounds and need to highlight those portions of text.)

Content warnings for Chapter 14: Buried-typical elements (claustrophobia, inability to breathe/move, etc.); mention of past suicidal ideation; some anxiety/panic symptoms; brief description of a past depressive episode; relatively mild blood/injury; swears; some Unsettling Spider Trivia (personally I think it’s fascinating but if you don’t like spiders maybe just skip a bit ahead when you get to that part). SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 14: Up and Out

Much like the ebb and flow of the Buried, that sensation of being pulled vacillates. A few times now, it’s disappeared almost entirely, leaving Jon disorientated and suddenly doubting whether he’s headed in the right direction despite being certain only moments before. It always comes back before long, but each time it’s happened, he’s had to pause to fight down the knee-jerk influx panic.

Right this moment, he’s stopped – both because that sensation is dwindling again and because he’s simply winded. They’ve been in a particularly tight squeeze for quite some time now, and he’s aching and exhausted from the struggle.

“Jon?” Daisy prompts, panting even more heavily than he is. Nearly eight months of muscular atrophy and restricted lung capacity haven’t done any favors for her stamina. “A-are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just – just taking a break. Getting my bearings.”

“Anchor f-fading again?” He has a feeling she was aiming for casual, but the trepidation creeps into her voice anyway.

“Yes. But don’t worry, I’ll find it again. I just need to catch my breath.”

Daisy laughs. It comes out as some combination of a wheeze and a whimper.

“I d-don’t think I’ve been able to catch my breath in… I – I don’t know how long.”

“You will soon,” he promises, rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

“I – I c-can barely remember what that’s like. F-feels like I’ll never know it again –”

“I know,” he says gently, “I know. I – I know it’s worse for you – you’ve been here longer – but I do remember that feeling. I promise I’ll get us out of here.”

“And – and then what?” she says in a near-whisper. “The – the Hunt, it – it’s going to come back, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. But – but you’ll still be you, and I’ll still be me, and we’ll – we’ll both fight to keep it that way.”

“I – I never thought about it, b-but – I’m prey too, aren’t I?” Daisy makes a noise that straddles the line somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “It – it’ll always chase me down, and it’s – stronger, f-faster –”

“Maybe, but I think you might be more stubborn.” Daisy gives a weak chuckle. “We all are, aren’t we?” Jon continues, emboldened by her reaction and intent on distracting her from her burgeoning panic. “Wonder if it’s somewhere in the job requirements: must be stubborn, curious, and preternaturally unlucky.”

This time, Daisy actually does laugh – clipped and wet with barely-contained tears, but a laugh all the same. For a minute she’s quiet, before sniffling once and clearing her throat.

“Can you tell me what happened last time? Did I – was I able to…”

“You fought it, yes,” he says slowly. “The call of the blood was always in the background. Distractions helped to take the edge off, sometimes. You spent most of your time with Basira. You and I spent a lot of time together, too. Tried to listen to the quiet. Both of us.”

“It sounds like there’s a ‘but.’”

“There is,” he admits.

“It caught up to me,” Daisy guesses, sounding resigned.

“It did. But… you refused it right up until the point where it was your last resort. The Institute was under attack, and Martin was in danger, and the two of you stayed behind to deal with the threat to buy me time enough to find him. A pair of Hunters cornered you. Basira couldn't take them both, and you… were too weakened from resisting the Hunt to stand a chance against either of them. You let the Hunt back in because it was the only way you could protect Basira. You made her promise to find you and kill you when it was over, and you told her to run.”

“Do you – do you think if not for that, I would have kept resisting? Or was I just – using that as an excuse to give in?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. He hesitates, attempting to balance honesty with tact. “You were wasting away. We all thought that refusing to feed the Hunt might kill you eventually. But whenever the subject came up, you said you were willing to die rather than let it back in. You were – adamant. And I… think you would have followed through on it. Resisting, I mean. Even if it meant dying.”

“I see,” she murmurs.

“Actually, it’s – probably morbid to say, but I envied your resolve. You didn’t want to be a predator again. You thought death was preferable to being lost to the blood. Right up until the end.” He shakes his head. “But – but maybe we can find a – a different way. Me coming back has already changed some things that I thought were inevitable. Just – don’t give up hope?”

Daisy makes a noise of acknowledgement, but Jon can’t glean anything else from it.

“I know it sounds bleak, and – and maybe it is. But for what it’s worth, I’ll be right there with you. I’m not taking live statements this time around, and it – has similar effects on me that refusing the Hunt does for you. Reading old statements takes the edge off, sometimes, but based on past experience, it… won’t be sustainable, and I’ll – have to cross that bridge when I get to it, I suppose. It’s not exactly the same, obviously – our patrons operate in different ways – but it did… help, last time, having someone nearby who knew what it was like.”

“You�� know things now, right?”

“It’s… complicated. There are a lot of constraints and” – he huffs – “I don’t have as much control over it as everyone wishes I did, but… yes.”

“Any educated guesses on our chances?”

“None,” Jon says with a grim half-smile. “The Beholding tends to be uncooperative when it comes to concepts like escape and recovery. I won’t lie – marks don’t fade, and as far as I can tell, once someone is fully an Avatar, there’s no undoing it. You embrace it, or you wither away. You feed it, or it feeds on you.”

“Sounds about right.”

“But,” Jon says emphatically, “you should also know that no one had ever escaped the Buried before we did. And we’re about to do it again. So… who knows. Maybe there’s a third option and we just haven’t found it yet. I can’t promise there’s another way, but if there is… we’ll find it.”

“Or die trying?” Daisy replies, a wry edge to her tone now.

“Suppose so. But not without making a nuisance of ourselves first. I still don’t Know if the Fears are sentient, but on the off chance they are, I find that spite is a decent motivator.”

“Naturally.” Daisy snorts. “I wonder what annoys the Hunt?”

“Don’t know. Fraternizing with someone who was marked as prey, maybe. You told me once that on bad days, my blood was the loudest thing in the Archives. We theorized the Hunt wasn’t too keen on you letting me go.”

“You… weren’t you afraid I’d turn on you?”

“No.”

“Is that because you were suicidal, or because you honestly thought I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I wasn’t –” Jon sighs. “My mental state aside, I trusted you. You were as stubborn as I was. Maybe more. Even if we weren’t friends, I imagine you’d have snubbed the Hunt anyway, just on principle.”

Before Daisy can reply, the earth around them begins to shake again, soil coming loose and raining down on them from above. They both hold their breath, waiting for the impending crush – but it doesn’t come, and after a few seconds, they exhale simultaneously. Jon’s comes out as something of a cough, jolted out of him by the now-familiar sensation of an insistent upward pull.

“Anchor’s back,” he gasps out. “Ready to move?”

As they move forward – up, Jon assures himself, we’re making progress – the perpetual squeeze begins to open up into a narrow passageway. Sometimes they need to dig to bypass blockages and widen their tunnel, but the closer they draw to the surface, the hard-packed earth gradually gives way to looser soil.

Between one moment and the next, Jon’s fingertips – already raw and bleeding from burrowing through the debris – scrape against something much harder and rougher than packed earth. Solid rock, hidden by a few inches of soil. He hisses as he feels another layer of skin peel away at the abrasive texture, but he brightens at the memory of the stone steps and walls at the entrance to the Buried.

“We’re getting close, Daisy,” he says excitedly, tugging on her hand. “We’re almost there –”

The Buried compresses in a blink, crushing them up against one another.

“Shit,” Jon hisses. “Shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

“Jon?” Daisy says, her voice pitched higher than usual, shot through with barely concealed panic.

“It’s okay, Daisy. This happened the last time, too. Just” – the earth contracts further, forcing a whine out of him – “wringing one last bit of t-terror out of us before we leave.”

“Th-that’s – greedy of it,” she rasps with a nervous chuckle.

“I find that – a-all the Powers tend to be – like that. Needy, spiteful things, all – all of them.”

So do their Avatars, for that matter. He thinks of how Helen couldn’t resist frightening him one last time before parting ways at Hill Top Road; of how Jude Perry knew she was going to die and chose to spend her last moments pulling him down to her level; of how Manuela Dominguez knew she had failed, but still wanted to take someone out with her; of how Peter Lukas couldn’t lose a bet gracefully, how he dragged Martin into the Lonely and tried to trap Jon there as well; of how Jonah wasn’t content to just have Jon read out his ritual, but had to hijack Jon’s voice to monologue first.

And Jon himself isn’t all that different, is he? Didn’t he force himself to confront Jonah in the Panopticon, even though he knew it would have no impact on anything? Doesn’t he regularly provoke the Eye with small acts of rebellion? How many times has he mouthed off to an assailant threatening his life? He just said it himself: spite can be a decent motivator. Failing that, sometimes it just feels satisfying.

“It’ll – let up,” Jon says, for himself as much as Daisy. “J-just – give it a minute.”

As if to be contrary, it actually takes several minutes before the pressure begins to withdraw. Slowly, so very slowly, the collapsed tunnel begins to expand again, releasing another downpour of dirt in the process. The passage is still tight and they have to squirm through in small increments, but after some of the squeezes they passed through on their way, even a few extra centimeters of wiggle room feels like a luxury.

That said, Daisy’s breathing is increasingly labored, punctuated by soft whimpers.

“You doing alright, Daisy?”

“Y-yeah, ‘m fine.” Her breath catches and comes out as a pained groan. “Chest hurts,” she says brusquely, before Jon can express concern.

“Your lungs aren’t accustomed to having this much room to expand,” he says instead, striving for a bland tone.

“W-well, they’ll just h-have to – get used to it.”

“They will, but – take it slow? Last time, you had a fair amount of bruising. A few cracked ribs as well. We both did.”

In fact, he thinks they might just be the exact same ribs he injured last time, if the pain is anything to go by.

“Listen,” he says, “I – I think we’re coming up on the exit soon.”

“Soon soon?”

“Fairly certain, yes. Before we leave, I should tell you – Elias doesn’t know that I’m from the future, doesn’t know how much we know, and I’d prefer to keep it that way as long as possible. He can’t See us while we’re in here, but as soon as we’re out – the only safe place is the tunnels, like before.”

“Got it.”

“And also, I…” Not much for it, he tells himself. Make your peace with it now. “I might lose my voice again as soon as we’re out. Maybe – maybe even before then.”

“Again?”

“I – I mean, I’ll be able to talk, just – not in my own words.” Jon tries to wet his lips and immediately regrets it, succeeding only in drawing more dirt into his mouth. He grimaces and sputters a bit, to no avail.

“Jon?”

“Y-yeah, sorry. I, ah – remember what I said, about – about the Archive? I’ve – outside of here, I’ve only been able to speak using the statements in my… library, I suppose.”

He says the last part with distaste, all but spitting the words out as if they’re poison.

“Huh.”

“It started partway through the apocalypse, and it followed me when I came back. Being in the Buried’s domain has cut me off from the Archive for now, but once the Eye can reach me again, I – there’s a chance it’ll take over again.” He sighs. “More than a chance, it’s – probably more of a certainty. I just wanted to let you know now, I – I’m still me, it’s just – the Archive puts limits on how I communicate, and it can be – off-putting. And annoying. And… abhorrent.”

“Abhorrent?”

“I mean… appropriating other people’s trauma any time I want to speak? It’s…”

There’s no succinct way to capture just how – how perverse it is, exploiting the words of the people who lived through the horrors retold in the statements. Some of them, Jon himself victimized. More than some, if he considers the billions he condemned in his future. Claiming their terror for his own use doesn’t feel all that different from actually taking statements: dehumanizing, objectifying, degrading. It’s all on the same ghoulish spectrum of monstrosity, just… slightly different shades of wrong.

All he says aloud, though, is the last part: “It’s wrong.”

And yet, you do it anyway, he thinks, disgusted with himself.

“Like going from one hell to another, isn’t it?” Daisy says after a pause. “Getting out of here, only for the Eye and – and the Hunt to be waiting on the other side.”

“Yeah. As much as I want to get out of here, I’m… not looking forward going back to – to that.” He sighs, then rallies himself. “But fresh air and a drink of water do sound nice, don’t they?”

“And a bath,” Daisy says, as if it’s the most beautiful word in the world. Jon laughs quietly.

“The Institute only has the one shower, I’m afraid. No tub, terrible water pressure, occasionally –”

“– occasionally runs cold without warning mid-shower,” Daisy finishes, an audible grin in her tone. “I recall. You won’t hear me complaining, though.”

“Nor me. Not for the next couple weeks, anyway.”

“Mm. Yeah, I’m sure you’ll hear me swearing up a storm at four in the morning about water temperature at some point.”

“Assuming that trivial detail hasn’t changed since I was last here, yes, I will,” Jon says with an amused chuff. He readjusts his grip on her hand and tugs gently. “Come on, we’re getting closer.”

Martin sits in his office, head in his hands and the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes.

Eight days. It’s been eight days since Jon went into the Coffin, there have been no signs of when – if – he’ll return, and there’s nothing Martin can do to reach him.

Stupid, he thinks fiercely, to think that sitting there and talking to a – a box of dirt would do anything.

Keeping vigil at Jon’s bedside at the hospital for months had done nothing to bring him back. Why would this be any different? When Martin’s predictions panned out, he felt almost vindicated that he was right – comforted by the confirmation that he is still all alone in the world, relieved by the reassurance that nothing will disturb his solitude after all.

There’s a part of him that still has the decency to feel ashamed at that impulse, but it’s small and distant and shrinking by the day. And yet… it’s still there, withered though it may be: a sentimental sliver of attachment that stubbornly refuses to die, both to his dismay and – to a lesser but nonetheless undeniable extent – his relief. No matter how pessimistic his outlook has become these days, he had still hoped against all the odds that reaching out to Jon would have some sort of effect.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That sort of hopeless romanticism is for fairytales. Sure, given the existence of extradimensional fear entities, it isn’t inconceivable that some sort of… long distance psychic bond, or link, or – or whatever could exist. But Martin has yet to see any evidence pointing to the existence of powers like hope and love to balance out the existence of Smirke’s Fourteen.

That admission alone is enough to whittle away at that stubborn sentimentality of his just a little further.

And that’s for the best, he tells himself.

He can feel a bitter smile flicker at the corner of his mouth. The Lonely’s really got its hold on him, hasn’t it?

But no matter how well-suited he is to the Lonely, no matter how resigned he is to the idea that he’s destined to be alone, and that that’s exactly as it should be… Martin still cares for Jon. His emotions feel dulled most days, as if they’re happening to someone else, but the act of caring… he doesn’t have to feel in order to go through the motions. It takes effort and thought, certainly, but the impulse is second nature.

Peter tells him that he’ll be free of it before long. Martin doesn’t know how he feels about that. Nothing, usually, or something adjacent to it.

Apparently he hadn’t cauterized his feelings as much as he’d thought, though. For the past week, the sense of detachment he’s built up over months of practice and resignation and goal-oriented focus has been interrupted. The calm and quiet that have become so comfortable to him have been punctuated by windows of raw, wild emotion and sensory overload and sharp, racing thoughts, and it’s too much – especially all at once – after months of fog and cold and single-minded resolve.

He still doesn’t know what he feels, but it’s something rather than nothing, and it hurts.

“Brooding, are we?” comes a voice from right behind Martin, sending an icy chill through him.

“Peter!” Martin nearly snarls, glaring over his shoulder at him. “I told you to stop doing that –”

“So, Martin,” Peter continues, smoothly overriding Martin’s complaints, “I can’t help but notice you’ve been quite… distracted recently.”

Martin looks away, clenches his teeth, and says nothing.

“Oh, I’m not upset, Martin. I’m simply curious to know where we stand. To gauge the magnitude of this… little setback.”

“Setback?” Martin whips back around, incensed. “You really think I care about – about my progress right now?”

“Judging by your tone, I imagine not.” Peter smiles, that customary aloof smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not very reassuring, but I thank you for your honesty. It shows that we do still have our work cut out for us.”

Martin should keep his composure. He should keep his mouth shut. He should feign indifference and continue playing the long game to which he’s committed himself, but he can feel his heart hammering in his chest and he can hear his blood rushing in his ears and all the words he cannot – should not – has to say are brimming in his throat and –

He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice when the outburst claws its way out.

“I don’t care, Peter. You promised –”

“That I would protect your coworkers from external threats,” Peter says mildly.

“You don’t think one of the Circus’s monsters just – waltzing unnoticed into the Archives hauling a bloody gateway to the – the literal manifestation of claustrophobia counts as an external threat –”

“By the time the intruder’s presence came to my attention, it had already been dealt with. Quite handily, in fact. As for the Coffin itself, our agreement did not extend to saving a self-destructive Archivist from his own foolhardiness. There’s only so much that I can do.”

“Then apparently I need to pick up your slack.”

Once again, Peter ignores him and steers the conversation to his liking.

“I will say, I was pleased to see that the Coffin’s call has no effect on you. It shows that your connection to the Forsaken is still intact.” Peter begins to pace slowly, hands folded behind his back. “I am interested to know why you’ve been spending so much time so close to it in the first place. Why you were… speaking to it.”

Martin huffs irritably. “I thought it might help.”

“I wonder where you got that idea.” When Martin doesn’t reply, Peter stops his pacing and sighs. “I don’t mean to be invasive” – Martin snorts derisively; Peter continues without pause – “but I notice you’ve spoken to that – woman quite a few times.”

“She’s no one,” Martin says hurriedly, hoping that Peter doesn’t notice his momentary nervous flinch.

“Is that so?” Peter gives a contemplative hum. “If she’s trespassing on Institute property and interfering with day-to-day operations, perhaps I should have her… removed.”

All at once, the world around Martin rushes into focus: clearer, sharper, brighter, louder, more real – every sensation more immediate, every thought more acute. He feels his spine go rigid as he sits up straight and locks eyes with Peter.

“Peter,” he says, balanced on a razor’s edge between firm and furious, “we talked about that. You agreed to let me handle –”

“Workplace disputes and employee conduct,” Peter says. “Not interlopers.”

‘Interlopers’? Martin thinks. Really, Peter?

“Here I thought you might be glad to have someone like her around,” he says, forcing calm back into his voice. “Give me some practice pushing people away.”

“Perhaps. But if she’s posing a distraction in the workplace –”

“Like the Archives aren’t a distraction all on their own,” Martin seethes, his impassivity quickly teetering into agitation again, “what with the – the spooky murder tunnels, and monster attacks, and clandestine coffin deliveries, and the watching –”

“You know what I meant. If she’s distracting you from your work –”

“When have I ever left any administrative tasks unfinished, hmm?”

“Martin.”

“Yes?” Martin says, meeting Peter’s eyes with a level stare. There’s a muscle twitching almost imperceptibly in the other man’s jaw. It’s not easy to provoke that sort of response from Peter, and Martin would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t feel just a bit gratified.

Peter takes a breath and when he speaks again, he’s regained his usual mild manner – but Martin can still detect just a hint of tension underneath.

“As I have told you before, you are the only one who can do this. The plan –”

“Which you have yet to explain –”

“– requires a servant of the Eye, imbued with the power of the Lonely. And the cultivation of that power depends on your voluntary isolation. I can’t force you to cooperate, Martin. I can only tell you of the consequences should the Extinction emerge – and if it emerges because you choose not to act, then, well…” Peter shrugs. “You can’t keep anyone safe from that sort of power, and that includes the Archivist.”

“You still haven’t convinced me that your theories regarding the Extinction are true.”

If anything, Martin is less convinced than ever. Jon didn’t exactly elaborate on what he knows, but he seems certain that the Extinction isn’t a threat. If that’s the case, the only other reason for Martin to cooperate with Peter is to keep Jon safe – or, barring that, to at least keep Peter away from him. And if Jon is gone, then… what’s the point of any of this?

Peter takes a step closer and slides a folder onto Martin’s desk. Judging by how thin it is, Martin doubts there’s much follow-up or supplementary material within.

“Then you’d best get reading,” Peter says amiably, backing away again.

“Peter,” Martin says, stopping him before he can take his leave.

“Hm?”

“If she disappears,” he continues, mirroring Peter’s faux-pleasant tone, “you can count on my non-cooperation going forward.”

“Come now, Martin. We both know you wouldn’t allow the Extinction to emerge over a single life.”

Martin lifts his chin defiantly and gives Peter a hard look.

“I’d do it for Jon.”

“And he’s gone.” There is an almost hungry glint in Peter’s pale eyes. The temperature plummets a few degrees as thin tendrils of fog begin to unfurl from around his feet. “You’re alone.”

“Exactly.” Peter’s smug expression wavers at Martin’s non-reaction. “You’re a gambler. Shouldn’t you recognize when you’ve shown your hand?” Martin shakes his head with a thin, humorless smile. The mist creeps closer: wispy eddies and grasping coils stretching across the floor to pool at Martin’s feet. “If Jon’s gone, you’ve lost your best bargaining chip. I’ve nothing left to lose. At this point, you really should be thankful for whatever leverage you can find.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

Peter simply chuckles, but Martin can detect the faint uncertainty laced through it.

“I mean it. If my work performance is unsatisfactory, just feed me to your patron now if you can’t resist. Seems a waste to do it before you’ve gotten what you need from me, but it makes no difference to me; I’m Forsaken either way.” He leans back in his chair. “The only one who stands to lose anything is you.”

“And the entire world, should the Extinction evolve unchecked.”

“In that case, let her – let everyone connected with the Archives be. And don’t disappear any more staff, either.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds: “Or statement givers.”

There is a long silence in which Martin stares into Peter’s eyes, willing himself not to blink or falter. Eventually, the fog recedes and Peter’s fake, plastered-on smile reappears.

“Well, I think I’ve kept you from your work long enough.” Peter nods at the statement folder. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The moment the telltale static of Peter’s departure fades, Martin lets out a heavy exhale and rests his head in his arms on his desk. Every encounter with Peter tends to leave him feeling drained, but that one was more intense than usual.

“Prick,” Martin mutters to the empty office.

It takes a few minutes for him to register the low whirring coming from underneath his desk.

“Were you listening the whole time, then?” Martin scoops up the tape recorder from the floor. “Or,” he sighs, his eyes flicking to the waiting statement, “are you just hungry?”

Martin still doesn’t know what to make of the recorders. On the one hand, supernatural artefacts never bode well. There’s no telling what’s they are, what’s listening on the other end, what controls their spontaneous appearance or why. Eavesdropping and surveillance are on brand for the Eye, but Jon had a point when he said that the Beholding would have no need to use tape recorders to listen in, especially within its own temple. They weren’t Elias’s doing – apparently all of his spying is done through eyes. The Web, maybe? But to what end?

On the other hand, Martin has grown so accustomed to their presence that he was actually unsettled by their absence while Jon was – away. When they started manifesting again, Martin was… relieved, almost. It isn’t the same as having Jon nearby, but it feels like having a connection to him all the same. They’ve almost become a welcoming, comforting sight – at least for the first few seconds after their appearance, before they start making their usual demands.

Sometimes, Martin wonders whether Jon might be subconsciously manifesting them himself. Even before his paranoid episode, he seemed keen to document and catalog the world around him, as if it was the only way for him to make sense of it all. It made Martin's heart ache, how Jon could never seem to relax, to let himself just be in the moment. His hypervigilance was exhausting by proxy, and it’s only gotten worse as time goes on.

In any case, ever since Jon’s coma – half-death? – proved that the recorders’ existence is dependent on his, Martin has started to see their regular appearances as decent indicators as to whether Jon is alive at any given moment. And here they are, still showing up. Which means… what? Martin already knew that Jon is still alive. The Coffin doesn’t let its victims die; death would be a release, and it's incompatible with a realm predicated on unending pressure, on the experience of being trapped with no hope of escape. But if Jon was entirely cut off from the world, lost and unreachable, wouldn’t his connection with the recorders be severed as well? So, if they’re still here, does that mean Jon isn’t gone yet? That there’s still a lifeline tethering him to the surface?

If so, it’s a useless lifeline, isn’t it? The tapes always make their way to Jon in time, but what good does that do in this situation? It’s not like they’re two-way radios; Martin can’t communicate with Jon in real time.

Unless…

No. No unless. It’s not even a long shot, it’s just – daft.

But hasn’t he already been treating them as stand-ins for Jon for the last few weeks? And is it really any more foolish than talking to a coffin?

Martin sighs as he eyes the tape recorder, its reels still insistently spinning. It isn’t going to leave until it gets a statement. He waits it out for another minute or so, but in the end he gives in, just like it knew he would.

“Hi again, Jon,” he starts, picking at his cuticles as uncertainly as he picks through his words. “I doubt you can hear me. At least not right now. But I know you listen to all the tapes eventually. Don’t know if you’ll ever get to hear this one, though. If not, I suppose this is rather pointless, isn’t it? You’re always so diligent about listening to them, too.” Martin huffs. “Well, if you want this one, you’ll have to come back and get it. I’m very cross with you, and I’d prefer to tell you in pers-”

Shut up, shut up, what are you saying?

The recorder lets out a short burst of static, as if protesting the break in his confession.

“Oh, shut it,” he grumbles. “Not – not you, Jon. Sorry. I mean, not like you’re hearing this anyway, right? Whatever, just – you’re needed here, alright? It’s been too long. It’s time to come home.” Martin shakes his head and smiles weakly. “Funny, I – I remember when I used to have to nag you to go home at night. The more things change, the more they stay the same, right? Don’t know what good a persuasive argument does in this case, though. It’s not like you need convincing –”

Martin stops short, a sudden thought crystallizing cold and heavy in the front of his mind. For all he knows, Jon’s gotten it into his head that he needs to stay in there to keep the rest of the world safe. It sounds like the sort of conclusion Jon would reach.

“I mean, I – I – I hope you’re not willingly staying down there out of some misguided belief that it’s – safer, for everyone? Jon?” Martin laughs nervously, on the edge of hysteria. “I – I don’t know why I’m talking like I’ll get a response. Anyway, it’s – it’s probably more likely that you want to come back and you can’t, right?” He chuckles again, and realizes too late how teary it sounds. “I don’t even – I don’t know which of those options is worse, but – but it’s not like there’s anything I can do in either case, so – what’s the point of this, of any of this?”

Martin clamps both hands over his mouth to stifle his abrupt, stuttering intake of breath – the precursor to sobbing, if he isn’t careful. He takes a long moment to compose himself, swallowing back tears and slowing his breathing.

“W-well, in case you do need to hear it… things are not better with you gone, okay?” His voice still sounds thick with emotion. In an attempt to steady it, he ends up overcorrecting, his next words coming out far more vehemently than he had intended. “They aren’t. And I don’t know how to make you believe that, but – but – if you don’t come back, you’ll never get a chance to learn, and it’s not like you to pass up a chance to learn something, right, so – so just get back here, will you?”

He stops again. After months of suffocating, deadening quiet, raising his voice even slightly feels like shouting. He finds himself leaning closer towards the tape recorder, as if he’s sharing a secret. Despite the conscious effort to lower his volume, it does nothing to temper the intensity of his speech.

“Jon, you’re late, and everyone’s waiting. Georgie’s worried. Basira spends most of the day camped out in front of your office, just… listening for any change. I – I don’t think she’s been sleeping much. And Melanie, she –” Martin flounders. He hasn’t spoken to Melanie in weeks, but he has no reason to assume her feelings towards Jon have changed. “Well, she – she’ll be angry if you break a promise to Georgie, yeah? And I’m – I…”

Martin doesn’t know what he is.

“Look, Jon, you – you need to come back now,” he says, more softly. More like a prayer than a demand. “Come home, and we’ll… we’ll figure things out.”

He wracks his brain for more, but comes up speechless. There was a time when he could have spoken volumes about what Jon means to him, and the words would flow from him easily. Now, anything he could possibly say feels shallow and jumbled and meaningless. Absolutely useless. But since when did words make any difference anyway? Jon has always been resistant to an outstretched hand. He rarely accepted any offers of help or invitations to talk; could barely handle a kind word or comforting gesture some days. He seemed to be opening up in the weeks prior to the Unknowing, but then –

Martin lets out a sigh and shuts the tape recorder off. Almost immediately, it clicks back on.

“Seriously?” He stares daggers at the thing. “That wasn’t enough for you?”

He depresses the button again, perhaps a little harder than necessary. The moment he removes his finger, the reels resume winding.

“Can’t you just – piss off and let me have some quiet for five minutes?”

It can’t, apparently. After several more foiled attempts to stop its droning, Martin gives an aggravated groan. As tempting as it is to hurl it at a wall, all the archival staff know from experience that the recorders are practically unbreakable, taking only superficial damage regardless of the attempted means to destroy them. Martin could toss it into a bonfire and at most it would come out a bit worse for wear; the casing would never melt or warp so badly as to render the buttons entirely nonfunctional.

More than once, Martin has caught himself wondering whether they get their durability from Jon. It’s a morbid thought and Martin is always quick to shut it down, but, well – there it is again.

At least Jon’s persistence is – charming. Martin glares at the tape recorder some more. Unlike –

The recorder crackles with another impatient uptick of static.

“Fine!” He flips open the folder on his desk, seizes the statement roughly, and gives himself a papercut in the process. Another hiss erupts from the recorder when he swears. “Yeah? Well, I don’t care if personal commentary is unprofessional,” he snaps at it. He doesn’t know who he’s talking to.

When he finally turns his attention back to the statement in his hands, he makes no effort to hide his foul mood.

“Yet another statement about – I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s bleak and horrifying, or else it wouldn’t be so keen for me to read it. Recording by Martin Blackwood, Assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute…”

Daisy draws in a sharp breath and stops short.

“Daisy?” Jon tugs lightly on her hand. “You alright?”

“Jon, I – I feel something, like a – like a pull, I –” Daisy laughs breathlessly. “There’s an up.”

“What,” Jon says, grinning to himself, “didn’t you believe me?”

But Daisy isn’t listening to him, instead continuing in an awestruck tone: “I’m – I – I’ll get to – to see Basira again.”

Her voice pitches up ever so slightly towards the end, making the statement sound almost like a question – as if she didn’t believe until this moment that seeing Basira again was even a possibility, as if she still doesn’t quite dare to believe it.

Jon has repeated the same promise dozens of times now along their trek to the surface. Once more can’t hurt: “She’s waiting for you.”

“I know,” Daisy whispers, almost reverently. Then, louder, her mounting anticipation crowding out the remnants of disbelief: “I can feel it.”

So can Jon. For quite some time now, that feeling of being pulled along – almost like he’s an anchor being reeled in, oddly – has been relatively consistent. The strength of the sensation still fluctuates from time to time, but it’s been awhile since it last disappeared entirely.

Of course, now it’s also shot through with a far more unwelcome pull. He swears he can feel the Archive drawing closer the more they near the exit. Maybe it’s simply his imagination, increasingly overactive as his dread intensifies, but the outcome is the same either way: the Eye will have him again, and soon.

“Come on, then,” Jon says, suppressing the grim edge threatening to creep into his tone. There’s no point in worrying Daisy just when she’s started to feel hopeful. “Almost home.”

Not long thereafter, the passage widens again. They still have to walk single file with their shoulders angled, forced to sidle through a few tight spots sideways, but the soil has finally transitioned entirely to solid stone walls and there is a noticeable upward slant to their path. All the while, Jon doesn’t let go of Daisy’s hand.

He grits his teeth against the lancing pain surging through his leg with every step as the incline grows steeper. From the sounds of Daisy’s labored breathing behind him, she’s having a far worse time of it. He’s just about to reassure her again that they’re almost there when his foot connects with something and he stumbles, pitching forward and nearly pulling Daisy down with him. His free hand flails in front of him to break his fall, and that’s when he recognizes –

“Stairs,” he whispers, feeling the shape of them, their flat surfaces and angles.

“What?”

“Stairs, Daisy.” After pushing himself to his feet, he places his free hand against the wall as a guide. It’s still pitch dark, and it will be until they manage to lift the Coffin’s lid. “Not much further now. Watch your step, and go slowly. They’re uneven.”

Despite an abundance of caution, they both end up tripping several times on the way up. The steps are all different heights and depths: some short and wide shelves, some steep and narrow ledges nearing two feet high – which may seem negligible were they both not so weakened, winded, and wounded. Occasionally, a step that felt solid moments before would crumble underneath them, giving way like gravel; a few times, Jon could swear a step disappeared entirely just before he put his foot down.

He’s so focused on keeping his footing that he forgets to be wary of his head. When he places a foot on one particularly sheer step and propels himself upward with the other leg, his head collides violently with something just above him. The pain races through his skull, his neck, his spine, and he nearly topples backward in the momentary daze of the impact. He has just enough presence of mind to throw his weight forward so that when he loses balance, he collapses against the stairs instead of tumbling down them.

For a few seconds, all he knows is a high-pitched ringing in his ears and fireworks in his vision. He’s dimly aware of Daisy’s hands patting at him blindly, frantically; her voice is muffled, but he can detect the urgency there.

“‘M’fine,” he slurs. He tries to tell her to just give him a minute, that he recovers quickly from this sort of thing, but he’s pretty sure it comes out something more like gim’nit.

When he finally starts to come around, Daisy’s words, once fuzzy and indistinct, start to break through the haze: “Jon? Jon, are you alright?”

“Will be,” he groans. He pushes himself up with one hand and reaches up with the other, groping blindly. Either it’s closer than he thought or he put too much force into the gesture in his disorientation, but his knuckles collide with rough wood and he hisses when he catches a splinter.

“Jon?”

“Lid’s right above us,” he says unnecessarily. “Watch your head.”

Daisy snorts. “Noted.”

“I – I might need some help lifting it,” he says, his vertigo gradually fading. He places both palms flat on the underside of the lid. “Last time, it was a lot heavier on the way out than it was going in.”

“Got it.” Daisy crawls up a few steps to kneel next to Jon, and he can feel her hands brush against his as she reaches up to find a grip.

“Feel it?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Ready?”

“On three. One – two – three –”

As expected, it offers more resistance than it should, as if a force is pressing down from the other side. For a terrifying few seconds, it refuses to budge. Then, with a prolonged creak of protest, it starts to give. Even just the dim light of Jon’s office filtering through that first tiny crack is enough to hurt. Judging from the startled yelp next to him, Jon assumes Daisy is shutting her eyes as well.

Jon can hear the low chatter of the tapes he left behind, as well as something louder and clearer cutting through the white noise.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this on my own.” Basira’s voice, overlaid with the crackle of radio static. “I’m here, Daisy. I need you to be here, too. I need –”

As soon as the opening is wide enough to stick a hand through, the pressure lets up all at once and the lid swings up the rest of the way. Jon scrambles over the side and grabs both of Daisy’s hands, dragging her up and out. He winces sympathetically when she cries out – she hasn’t properly stretched those muscles in months, and it must be agony.

The moment she’s completely cleared the lip of the Coffin, Jon drops her hands and eases her to a kneeling position on the floor. Rising unsteadily to his feet with a pained groan, he takes hold of the lid and drags it back into place. He stumbles the short distance to his desk for the key and hastens to replace the chains and reaffix the padlock. On the way, he kicks a tape recorder and it goes sliding across the floor; an instant later, the knowledge comes to him: Not a tape recorder. A two-way radio.

His hands are shaking so badly that he fumbles the key four times before he manages to fit it into the lock. He’s so absorbed in that simple, seemingly insurmountable task that he barely notices the swearing and clattering coming from just outside the office as someone on the other side goes through the exact same struggle to unlock the door. Just as Jon turns the key, the office door swings open to reveal Basira, panting and wide-eyed, the radio in her hand dropping to the floor as her eyes rest on Daisy, shivering and gasping for air.

“You’re back,” Basira murmurs, frozen in place.

“Hi,” Daisy says with short, almost giddy laugh, before promptly collapsing forward onto the floor. It’s enough to spur Basira into action, lurching forward and going to her knees next to her.

“Daisy,” she says urgently, shaking her shoulder. “Daisy, please –”

“She’s – she’s alright,” Jon says breathlessly, on hands and knees in front of the Coffin, gulping for air to fill his screaming lungs. “Just – needs to –”

He freezes.

“Jon,” Basira says, disbelieving. “Your voice?”

“I – I – I thought I would – I would lose it again,” he stammers. He begins to move his hand up to his throat, but stops when his other arm trembles violently, unable to hold up his weight on its own. “I don’t – I don’t know, I – I might still, it – it –”

The thought turns to static and the words dissolve on his tongue.

“…it barely even sounded human as it – as it spoke in a strange monotone –”

Jon shakes his head frantically, bringing the lingering pain from his earlier head injury back into the forefront.

“…it was then that I became aware of them – hundreds of glossy dead eyes staring at me from all directions –”

“– a tremendous eye – turning to focus upon me –”

“– staring into me, acutely scrutinizing my reaction –”

“Jon!” He stops and looks up at Basira, suddenly realizing that she’s been repeating his name for several seconds now. “You’re hyperventilating. Just – breathe?”

He latches onto Basira’s voice, forcing himself to breathe – oh, god, he can breathe again –

“Good,” she says after a few moments, calm and steady. “Okay. Can you try talking again? No, Jon, listen – look at me,” she says when he shuts his eyes and starts shaking his head again. “Try talking again.”

“…but my inability to speak –”

“Humor me.”

“…it’s still there, still watching me. There’s nowhere I can go, a place I can hide that it doesn’t keep looking at me – I can’t sleep because they’re watching me – those unseen eyes that hover everywhere and won’t let me rest –”

“– I’m sorry – it won’t let me say the words –”

“Yes, you can,” she says. Firm, but not cruel. Authoritative, self-assured, decisive – a solid presence to fixate on. “You’re just – too in your own head. Focus on me and try again.”

“I –” he begins, then stops short. Not the Archive. He gives Basira an uncertain, panicked look.

“Keep going. Try – try something simple. Tell me your name.”

“My name is…” His voice quivers as he forces the words out one syllable at a time.

“Go on. Who are you?”

“The Arch –”

The Archive, he almost says, before a fearful part of him remembers that Jonah might be listening. Besides, right now it would be inaccurate, wouldn’t it. The Eye does not typically dispense outright falsehoods, and its Archive has no use for fictions. Deception is for the Stranger, for the Spiral, for the Web –

“Try again,” Basira says patiently, drawing his attention back to her. “Who are you?”

“The Archivi –”

“No. Who, not what.”

There is a long pause in which he cannot parse the instruction.

“Full name.”

“Jon,” he says slowly. The sound feels strange on his tongue. “Jonathan Sims. The Archivist.”

“Could’ve done without that last bit, but good enough.” Basira relaxes her posture. “You alright?”

“I – I don’t understand.” Lightheaded and trembling, Jon releases a shuddering breath and leans back on his heels, slightly hunched over with his hands on his knees. “How did you know that would work?”

“I didn’t. But you were spiraling, and I imagine that’s exactly what the Eye wants.”

“R-right. I, ah –” Jon runs a shaky hand through his hair. “I don’t know how long it will stay away, the Buried severed the connection temporarily, but now it –”

“Don’t dwell on it.” At his blank stare, Basira sighs. “Yes, I realize that’s not quite your speed, but try anyway.”

“But –”

“We’re dealing with things that feed on fear and can rewrite reality as they please, right? You said yourself that the feeling is all they care about. Maybe feeding it your fear just makes it easier for it to write your reality – in which case, accepting a hypothetical bad outcome as an inevitability is just creating a self-fulfilling prophecy for yourself.”

“That’s… certainly a theory,” he says cagily.

But it’s a theory that Basira must be invested in, because she leans forward, her eyes as bright and interested as when she’s engrossed in a good book or pouring over some compelling research.

“Yes, it is, but I don’t think it’s too far-fetched. Georgie and I have been pooling ideas, and – I don’t think ‘mind over matter’ is a panacea, but mental state does seem to factor in. I was studying the statements you left for me, the ones involving anchors, and – I’m still not sure about the exact mechanics, but would an anchor help someone survive one of the Fears if state of mind wasn’t a key variable? It might not be the most important aspect, but it does seem significant enough to affect the outcome. Not all the time – not even most of the time – but in some cases, at least. Under the right circumstances.”

“And the Fears wouldn’t even exist without minds to experience them,” Jon says, brow furrowed. It’s uncanny, hearing some of the same ideas he bounced off of Daisy to pass the time in the Buried parroted back at him by Basira now.

“Exactly,” she says excitedly, then closes her mouth just as she’s taking a breath to start on her next thought. She clears her throat, looking slightly self-conscious. “I’m getting sidetracked. We can talk more about it later. For now – priorities.” Her expression turns sharp and focused again. “What should we do with the Coffin?”

“Artefact Storage. Tell them – tell them about the compulsion, make sure they take special precautions. Maximum security. No interaction or hands-on research.” He forces the words out rapid-fire, still expecting the Archive to take over any moment. “Store the key separately, same restrictions. No public cross-referencing, keep the link between the two on a need-to-know basis, preferably restricted to the head of the department. In – in fact, refer them to case number 9982211. Joshua Gillespie had a rather – creative way of containing the key. Simple, but” – Jon laughs, shaking his head – “incredibly effective.”

“That’s…”

“The best we can do without –” Jon huffs. “Well, burying it. Sealing it in concrete.”

“Not a bad idea,” Basira says thoughtfully. She raises an eyebrow when Jon doesn’t reply. “Is it?”

“I – I don’t know. We got out, and it seems – wrong, to completely eliminate that possibility for all the other people trapped in there.”

“You think you can help them?”

“I… I doubt it,” he admits, voice dripping with guilt.

He could try, but he suspects he was only able to reach Daisy because he had a personal connection to her, plus the recording of her voice to help him navigate. Finding anyone else in there would mean wandering around aimlessly until he eventually crossed paths with someone by chance, hoping he could reach them before the Buried whisked him away again.

“But if someone else does make it this far,” he says, “I – I don’t want to be the one responsible for the moment they try to lift the lid and find it cemented shut. The chains will still be there, but at least there’s a chance of someone hearing them, helping them? Probably not, but – sealing it off entirely feels… I don’t know, final? Like we would be condemning them personally.”

“Yeah, okay.” Basira sighs heavily, absentmindedly stroking Daisy’s hair. “Point taken. Can you stand?”

“Not yet. Give me a few minutes. I’ll – I’ll be fine here, though, if you want to move Daisy. Put some distance between her and the Coffin. It’s a good idea.”

“Don’t read my mind, Jon.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay? I don’t feel right leaving you alone after…”

Jon meets her eyes again, tilting his head to the side slightly. Last time, she had no qualms about ushering Daisy away from the Coffin the moment she got a chance. She didn’t leave him alone for long – she wasn’t cruel – but still, he was undeniably a lower priority. He clears his throat and tries to look less stunned.

“I’ll be alright, I promise. Go ahead.”

Basira watches him shrewdly, frowning as she considers her options. Eventually, her shoulders slump and she relents.

“If you’re sure. I won’t be gone long.”

“Careful moving her,” Jon says. “Sorry, that – probably goes without saying? But just – mind her left side. She has cracked ribs on both sides, but two on the left are broken.”

A flash of sympathetic pain and vicarious anger crosses Basira’s expression.

“Thanks for the heads up.” Her voice is clipped, but not unkind. She’s simply trying to keep a tight rein on her emotions: deal with the situation at hand first, break down later – in privacy – if at all. “As soon as I have her settled, I’ll come back and – and help you move.”

He nods tiredly.

“Jon.” Basira waits until he looks back up at her. “Thank you – for… I really thought I’d never – I…”

“Basira, it’s okay,” he says as she fumbles for words. “I understand.”

“You know, or you Know?”

“Oh, uh…” Jon grimaces. “Maybe both? I’m sorry –”

Basira snorts and begins to gently position Daisy to be moved. “I was teasing, Jon.”

“O-oh. Right.” He shifts awkwardly. “Still, though, I – I apologize. I realize the Knowing can be – invasive, and – I don’t have as much control over it as I would like, but I should –”

“Jon, it’s fine.” Basira says it with an air of finality, but she doesn’t sound angry. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Sure,” he says, not quite knowing what to do with her lenience. “Thank you. I’ll just – I’ll just wait here.”

“Yes, you will. You’ve met your self-sacrifice quota for the month. No more pocket dimensions. In fact –” She stands and swipes Jon’s phone off his desk where he left it, handing it down to him. “Call Georgie, let her know you’re home. Keep you occupied until I get back.”

As Basira leaves with Daisy, Jon does exactly that. Georgie picks up on the first ring.

“Jon? Jon, is that you?”

Jon closes his eyes and smiles at the sound of her voice.

“Yeah, Georgie. It’s me. I’m back.”

“You got your voice back?”

“Seems so,” he says tentatively. “For now, anyway.”

Something about the tone of Georgie’s sigh tells him that she’s rolling her eyes at him.

“Why are you such a pessimist?”

“I’m not, I’m a –”

“Don’t you dare say ‘realist.’” He keeps his mouth shut. “Does Basira know you’re back?”

“Yes –”

“Are you hurt?”

“No – well, I mean, yes, but – nothing too serious. Nothing unexpected. I’m alright.”

“Okay. Did you find Daisy?”

“Yes. She’s with Basira now.”

“Good.” Georgie breathes a sigh of relief. “I was worried, Jon. Do you know how long you were gone?”

“I –” Jon pauses as the knowledge comes to him. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m – I’m sorry, Georgie, I really didn’t expect it to take – and it’s impossible to tell time in there, so –”

“It’s – it’s alright, I’m just – glad you’re back. Did you let Martin know?”

“Not – not yet, I – I’m not sure how he would feel about me contacting him.” Jon bites his lip. “Do you think I should?”

“Don’t know. He doesn’t seem to know what he wants. But I’ve spoken to him a few times now, and he seems to be – I don’t know. Thawing, I guess? Seems less cold. Easier to get through to him than it was that first time. Or – easier to get a rise out of him, at least. He’s actually got some fire in his eyes now.”

Jon smiles to himself again.

“Georgie Barker, are you annoying him out of the Lonely?”

“I –” She pauses, considers, and then chuckles. “You know – maybe? In my defense, it’s not difficult to do. He’s very moody.”

“O-oh. That’s…”

“Not necessarily a bad thing, Jon. I mean, it can’t be comfortable for him, but – at least he’s feeling something, interacting with the world around him? It’s like – well, he sort of reminds me of…”

“What?”

“Me, at certain points in my life? I think I’ve told you before, but – the lowest low of a depressive episode for me has always been when nothing can reach me. Feeling nothing, wanting nothing, being unable to envision any sort of future at all and not even caring about it.”

“You did, yes. I – don’t think I fully understood then, but now, I – I think I have an idea.”

“Well, when I start to get better, it can look like I’m getting worse to other people, because they can see the hurt, where before it was – quiet, subdued. All the things I couldn’t feel before, they all come out at once, and it’s – overwhelming, after so much nothingness. But it’s part of the healing. At some point, you have to let yourself feel again, even if it hurts. I know it’s not a perfect analogy, but – this might not be a bad sign, is what I’m saying. Sometimes recovery is messy. It helps to have someone to lean on for support.”

“But if he’s determined to be alone –”

“The thing is, I don’t think he is. But that’s something he needs to figure out for himself. I’m not saying you can’t remind him from time to time that he isn’t alone, but…” She exhales heavily. “You can’t force someone to accept help. You reached out to him. Give him the space to reach back.”

“So… don’t contact him? Because – because I want to respect his boundaries, but –”

Georgie gives an exasperated but fond-sounding sigh.

“Jon, if you want a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer, I can’t help you there.”

“But – but what do you think –”

“I think it’s your call. He might not respond, but… he’s been worried, and I do think he would appreciate knowing you’re back.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise.

“Well, you think on it,” Georgie says. “Listen, I’m walking out the door now, okay? Be there soon.”

“Oh, uh – right. I’ll – see you then, I suppose.”

“You’d better.”

When the call ends, Jon stares fixedly at a speck on the wall, debating whether or not to… what, send an email? That seems too impersonal, but a phone call might be too much. He could always text, but…

Glancing at the screen, he notices that he has several missed text messages. His thumb hovers uncertainly over the icon. It’s unlikely that any of them are from Martin, but he has an irrational need to prolong the confirmation one way or another, to put off knowing as long as –

The Eye informs him that they’re all from Naomi, and Jon heaves an agitated sigh. Not at the knowledge itself – he enjoys his interactions with Naomi, however sparse his side of the conversation tends to be these days – but at having the option of knowing removed from him. When he starts to read her messages, though, his sour mood rapidly evaporates.

“There,” he says with a private little smile. “One for each day I was gone. To start with.”

Once he sends the reply, he sets the phone aside. His mouth is dry, the taste of dirt clinging to his tongue. Luckily, he thought ahead and stored some water bottles here for when he got back, knowing it would take some time before he was ready to drag himself to the breakroom for a drink. Unluckily, he’d been so preoccupied with all his other preparations in the half-hour prior to entering the Coffin that he hadn’t had the foresight to put them within easier reach. As it is, they’re still stored in the hollow under his desk.

He’s still sore and stiff and lethargic, but the prospect of washing the grit out of his mouth is enticing enough to get him moving. Gingerly, awkwardly, he shuffles around to the other side of the desk. It’s slow going; he practically has to drag himself, and he spares a moment to be glad that no one is here to watch him.

Well. Except the Eye, he supposes. And possibly Jonah.

A noticeable chill shivers through him and his breath catches in his throat. Jon shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He really needs to stop giving Jonah Magnus real estate in his head.

Just as Jon gets a grip on one of the bottles, his phone dings from where he left it on the floor. He bumps his head on the underside of the desk when he starts – not as hard as he did in the Coffin, but enough to send a new wave of pain coursing through him from head to toe. The phone dings several times more in quick succession.

“Okay, alright, give me a minute, Naomi,” he grumbles, rubbing the sore spot at the top of his head. No blood, but there’s definitely a bump. It won’t be there for long. He should be glad for his healing abilities, he supposes, inhuman though they may be.

The text messages continue pouring in as he makes the return journey to his previous spot.

“Guess she really is sending a photo per emoji,” he says to himself. The alert goes off once more just as he reaches for it. “Or more than one.”

When he glances at the screen, it’s not Naomi’s name that he sees.

Martin is typing up the new rota that Peter requested when it happens.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a tape recorder drops onto his desk with a loud clack. Before he can think on its sudden appearance, another comes plummeting down, smashing two of his fingers against the keyboard.

“Ow! What the –”

Another collides with the top of his head, and on impulse he covers himself with both arms. Four more fall – one glancing his elbow, three clattering to the floor around him – and then there’s a lull. Cautiously, he brings his arms down and looks to the ceiling, half-expecting more to come raining down. When none do, he relaxes somewhat.

“Huh,” he says to himself, bewildered. “That’s new.”

He’s used to the tape recorders materializing, of course, but usually it’s only one or two at a time, and they don't drop from the ceiling. They just appear – sometimes within plain sight, but more often slightly hidden from view: under his chair, behind his computer, once in a potted plant in the breakroom. They always click and whir to announce their presence – as if they want to be found, as if to reassure him that they aren’t trying to spy unnoticed.

Martin rolls his eyes at himself. Why is he always anthropomorphizing them, assuming they have intentions?

In any case, being pelted with a tape recorder shower is unprecedented. He rubs his hand where the second recorder hit him, then his head. He’s bound to have bruises, and his fingers are already swelling up.

“What the hell, Jon?”

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he has his phone in his hand and he’s tapping out a text message.

He briefly contemplates taking shelter under his desk. When no more fall, he turns his attention back to his phone.

Martin leans back with a sigh, dragging one hand down his face. What is he doing? It’s not like Jon is waiting by the phone for him.

Maybe that’s exactly why he’s doing this. It certainly highlights the loneliness. He probably wouldn’t be texting Jon if there was any chance of him answering, would he?

In the span of a blink, that loneliness turns to frustration. For months, his emotions have been dulled, almost to the point of numbness. Things were quiet. It felt comfortable; it felt right; it almost felt safe, the fog blanketing the world and muffling all of its sharp edges, shielding him from all the things that used to leave him hurt and grieving and wanting.

Then Jon went and ripped that blanket off him, leaving him exposed all over again. Ever since, it's been nothing but sensory overload and raw emotion that doesn’t even have a name. All he knows is that it’s too much and it’s all at once and he has nowhere to put it, and it’s manifesting as irritability and mood swings and a pervasive, indistinct sense of hurt that he thought he’d left behind.

He feels everything after months of feeling next to nothing, as if all the things he wouldn’t allow himself to feel are being regurgitated all at once in a nebulous chaotic tangle, and he isn’t equipped to handle it –

“Alone,” he says aloud. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s too much to cope with on his own. He is alone, and for the first time in what feels like forever, that scares him.

Biting his lip until he tastes blood, he picks up his phone again.

He blinks back tears. It feels wrong, unloading all of this onto Jon, but he’ll never see it, so what does it matter? It has to go somewhere or Martin is going to shatter.

Martin stops mid-rant, mind going blank when the typing indicator pops up. For a seemingly interminable amount of time, he holds his breath, watching as it stops and starts and hesitates before finally –

And before Martin realizes it, there’s a tearful, slightly manic laugh bubbling up in his chest and out through his mouth and he’s crying, when did he start crying? He's giving himself whiplash with his own erratic mood swings, but it doesn't matter, because he can just picture how frantic Jon is right now, stumbling over his words, mussing up his hair and muttering to himself. Martin probably shouldn’t find it so endearing, but when has that ever stopped him?

Martin rubs furiously at the tears streaking down his cheeks, sniffling. He’s debating on responding to save Jon from his own self-consciousness when another few messages come through.

Martin can’t help it: he starts laughing again. Then immediately feels a bit bad about it. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before the next message comes through.

“Jon,” Martin says, shaking his head in fond amusement.

This is a side of him that Martin has always adored: how easily he gets sidetracked and carried away with his rambling, his tendency to trip over his words when he’s excited, the informational diatribes he launches into at the drop of a hat.

And now Martin’s tearing up again.

“God, what’s wrong with me,” he sniffs, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve again.

It’s the heart that does it. Martin doesn’t know why – it’s such a little thing – but that last ounce of doubt evaporates and his reticence crumbles, just like that. The transition is unexpectedly gentle: an easy slip from one state into another, like stepping into a well-worn shoe, a stark contrast to the dramatic, jarring shift he would have anticipated.

He begins typing out a response.

Martin smiles into his hand, pressed to his lips. He’s always found it cute, if a bit silly, how stilted Jon can be sometimes, even when speaking through such informal medium.

And the idea that an emoji is somehow more forward than an overt declaration of love is just…

Martin’s heart glitches at the reminder of what Jon must have just gone through. If he really is more receptive to help now, maybe he can be persuaded to actually rest and recover for once, but Martin doesn’t have his hopes up.

Martin can feel the flush creeping up his neck and onto his face.

“Wait,” Martin says, squinting down at his phone screen. “Is he still…”

“Unbelievable.” Martin huffs an incredulous laugh. “He is unbelievable.”

Martin groans when the three dots repeatedly disappear and reappear.

“That’s a lot of typing for just fixing a typo,” Martin says, tapping his foot impatiently. “Go on, Jon, spit it out.”

Martin rubs the back of his neck and tries to ignore the heat pooling in his cheeks, on his neck, along the tops of his ears. One good thing about the Lonely: it all but eliminated his embarrassing tendency to broadcast his emotions to the world with a blush. Or maybe it just made it so that there wasn’t much to broadcast in the first place.

“So much for that,” he mutters sheepishly.

By necessity, Martin has learned to be adaptable. If circumstances have changed this drastically, he needs to reconsider his trajectory. Steeped in some disorientating mixture of emotion – mortification, giddiness, fear, relief, regret, and so much else he still can’t put a name to – he watches the clock and quietly starts to review his options.

End Notes:

hhhhhh hopefully you’re all okay with a slow-moving plot bc I have a feeling I’m going to continue drawing out the character-focused stuff?? (I know where the story’s going but my outline is extremely loose, which means my pacing has a personality of its own.)

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak: MAG 144; 054/020/083; 002; 060/019

re: Archive-speak – I do plan on explaining the newest development more, I just didn’t get to it in this chapter. But expect more original dialogue from Jon from here on out, with some Archive-speak mixed in.

I used this lovely guide to help me puzzle through creating an AO3 workskin so I could format the text messages properly. (On which point, I hope the texting isn’t OOC. I admittedly had a bit too much fun with it. Especially Jon’s. He said ADHD!Jon rights and I agreed.)

Fun fact: Naomi and Jon have a system wherein any cat emoji translates to “Duchess status update, please”. It’s good she takes a lot of photos, because Jon makes judicious use of the cat emoji. Having a bad time? 🐱 Can’t sleep? 🐱 Bored? 🐱 Just looking for something to distract himself from the mortifying ordeal of Knowing and being Known? 🐱 Of course, she sends a lot of photos unprompted, too, as any new Enthusiastic Cat Parent is wont to do.

#tma #tma fic #the magnus archives #tma spoilers

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dragonflymage · 4 years

Link

(This has taken me forever to write. Be prepared for a long answer! *kicks it out of the draft box*)

I don’t think I’ll choose a Type for this answer because I chose Types in similar questions. This time I’ll go with the word “ideal” and play with that for a while.

This answer will be about the steps to finding an ideal match. INFP style.

Everyone knows that INFPs are the dreamers. They dream their way through being a child, through the teen years, and yes right through adulthood. It’s unavoidable. If a potential situation creeps up on an INFP, it won’t be long before they have come up with all the imaginative ways to live it and make it their own. Within their minds.

I am going to reveal some things about myself as an INFP that aren’t easy to reveal. Tapping into this realm of idealism that INFPs seem to be known for.

What exactly does it mean when someone says that INFPs are idealistic? It’s more than just seeing the good in others and hoping for a bright future. There’s a side of darkness within it as well because this doesn’t always mean ‘realistic’. It can mean searching for qualities that only exist in our thoughts.

My topic within these imaginative daydreams will focus on “The Ideal Match”.

I have to say that the first sensation that comes to me while thinking of this topic is… wistfulness.

In my expansive INFP imagination, my ideal match is someone who wants to know me.

That’s it.

Okay, that’s not all, but that’s where it begins. With someone who has SEEN me. And not just seen me, but moved closer instead of shaking their head and walking away. Of course, that doesn’t make an automatic match, but it has to begin somewhere.

Can you imagine the elation of being truly seen? That tiny ray of INFP light shown outward has caught someone’s attention. What should be done now? It isn’t love yet. Right? This elation isn’t love. But what if it is? No, it’s much too soon. Maybe if the door is opened a little bit more. … What are they doing now? Running? Moving even closer? OMG. What should I do next?!

Breathe. This doesn’t mean they are devoting all of their eternity. It just means they are curious. Stay calm.

Does that sound like panic? It might be. There’s always the fear of doing too much too soon, yet wanting to reach out and touch. The unseen internal tug of war.

So, this is where the INFP stands now — Revealed some of their deep self and was noticed for it. Then the person stuck around wanting to know more.

This is a great beginning. But what’s next? It would probably be easier to know what to do if this took place in-person. Body language and tone of voice is clearer to decipher. Most likely this all happened online, where emotions and reactions can be filtered through the process I refer to as: “I’m doing my freakin’ best to explain myself with only text!” *flails*

I would say that being seen and someone wanting to get to know you are where new friendships and possible future-relationships reside.

Being seen is nice, but being understood is even better!

It looks like a connection is forming. This is where our INFP will decide what sort of sharing is appropriate.

There are all sorts of sharing:

💙 Surface sharing - which involves interests and everyday activities. Also known as “small talk”. Topics such as pets, job or school, hobbies, books, etc. This isn’t always an INFP favorite, but conversations have to begin somewhere. During the small-talk phase, an INFP will determine whether there is potential for a connection. And, yes, an INFP is more than capable of this discovery just from small talk. This could last for a brief time period or for many days, depending on the person’s comfort level. 💙 Test sharing - which involves emotions attached to topics. Such as the meanings behind this or that event in life. It could be another subtle test to see if the other person is still interested in talking. Or it could be a bit of desperation to have someone to finally discuss the deeper aspects of the world. Some of these emotion-laden topics might not be used by most people until later in a potential friendship-relationship, but INFPs may reach this level of conversation fairly quickly. This type of conversation could continue throughout the friendship-relationship, obviously while no longer in a ‘testing’ fashion. 💙 Personal sharing - which involves longer and more frequent conversations. It’s a bit like sharing your life in ‘real-time’. At this point, the INFP has decided this is someone who is interested because they haven’t run away, and maybe it’s okay to invest more of ourselves with them. These sorts of talks are like inviting them to our home and giving them a glimpse of what life is like for us. These discussions are saved for close friends and potential love interests. 💙 Deep sharing - which involves all those things an INFP shares with no one. And by ‘no one’ I mean ‘a rare and special someone’. I think many INFPs have an inner vault where they keep all the topics that have been too much for other people to handle - such as traumatic memories. Some INFPs, after being rejected in the past, may choose to never touch this level with anyone again. Other INFPs may decide that if this special person can understand what’s in the vault, then they are absolutely ‘the one’. Whether as a love interest or a very close friend.

🍵 There could also be a level 5 which may involve fantasies or the darkest of secrets they may never tell anyone, but some INFPs might lump those in with #4. It depends on the individual. 🍵

The difficulty with those Sharing Levels is finding an order that works and sticking to it. It wouldn’t work well to start with #1 Small Talk and then skip right to #4 Deep Sharing. (I mean, unless you’re talking with a therapist, then go ahead.)

Now that I got the informative portion out of the way, it’s time for some INFP idealism!!

INFPs are amazing humans. We care with our every breath and we want the best for those around us. We can also become stuck within our idealistic thoughts. No, that isn’t a secret.

We are called The Dreamers for a reason.

INFPs have a difficult time with this strange thing called Reality. We are flooded with violence from the media, and sometimes it exists in our personal lives. Reminding us of all the hurting souls we can’t help. We have potent plans of how we will change the world. Then Reality sneaks up from behind and whispers “you do realize no matter how hard you try, you can’t save them all…” Thanks, Reality.

It’s these realizations that can infiltrate all aspects of life - how we envision our future, how we envision our environment, and how we envision our Ideal Match or our Ideal Partner (in a potentially romantic sense).

I first started imagining a ‘love interest’ at around age 12. It wasn’t marriage or white gowns that I imagined. It was someone who cared by listening to me.

One of the first crushes in a love-interest way I had on a person (other than classmates I mentioned in a different answer) was Hawkeye from the MASH re-runs. ( I don’t know what it is about me and ENFPs, but anyway… I spent long hours daydreaming about somehow being illogically inserted into that environment just so I could sit and have long conversations with Hawkeye. 😅 I thought he was the perfect match for me. Of course, he had other issues going on, but I was willing to overlook them all! This daydream went on for a few years until I moved along to other potential unreachable love interests.

The important factor about the idealism and daydreaming is that I was internally forming a list of what I hoped to find in a future partner.

Attention and caring were important. Kindness to others. Devotion to helping people. Silly humor. Depth of character. Capable of understanding pain. Willing to imagine what could be.

Sadly, if an INFP isn’t paying attention, they can idealize themselves through life…even through the most painful events and can become addicted to this coping mechanism.

Like I did.

The downside was that since I never truly encountered a great deal of decent treatment personally, I didn’t know how to recognize it in others. It was unfamiliar territory (for many depressing reasons). So in my early 20s, what I did was latch onto a person who I thought had the potential and idealized everything else about him. He gave me attention, sure, but I think I consciously idealized everything else about him. Even when there were many clues that he wasn’t a good match for me.

I rejected every natural instinct I had and encompassed myself in flowery daydreams in order to survive the life I’d suddenly found myself in.

That is probably an extreme example of what idealism can do to a person. But I think that INFPs have the very real probability of slipping into this unhealthy internal mindset.

If we aren’t careful, idealism can turn into an INFP mind-trap.

I don’t want to turn this into a negative answer. Idealism has wonderful benefits if used in healthy creative ways. To imagine what could be. But there also needs to be a balance with Realistic thoughts.

Always stop and ask yourself “Is this truly a possibility? Is this actually what is taking place? Am I somehow coloring the truth from myself?”

Only then will an INFP truly find, not just an Ideal Match, but a True Match.

Without any of the rose-colored glasses interfering with what is Real.

#mbti #infp #infp thoughts #relationships #mbti thoughts #introvert #myers-briggs #hsp #emotions #emotional #sensitivity

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beauty-grace-outer-space · 4 years

Note

you mentioned something a little while back about trauma anniversaries? would you be comfortable explaining what it means and what its about?

Sure thing.

So.. trauma anniversaries are complicated, and vary from person to person, but the general idea is that when one experiences a traumatic event (or events, plural, centered around a specific time period), the brain/body stores that information and (as with other PTSD reactions) sometimes has an uncontrollable and unpredictable response to it.

“Many trauma survivors experience challenging “anniversary reactions,” which are defined as ‘unique set[s] of unsettling feelings, thoughts or memories that occur on the anniversary of a significant experience.’ When a survivor finds themselves in the midst of a trauma anniversary, they often are forced to re-live feelings from the traumatic event, causing symptoms like increased anxiety, depression, trouble sleeping, loss of appetite, nightmares, and irritable outbursts.”

Our bodies hold on to trauma in an effort to protect us, but sometimes those signals get mixed and bad feelings get tied to a time period, which is not particularly useful in most cases.

This time of year makes me a bit wonky in general, with the changing of the seasons and the temperature drop, but October is also an anniversary for an event that changed my life and dramatically impacted my mental health... and I didn’t realize that it was affecting me until I was already deep in it this go round.

I hate talking about it like this, because of the age old dichotomy of “it wasn’t that bad” and “it was bad enough and it’s affecting me”. I’m still working on accepting this stuff without falling into the mental trap that I’m “whining about nothing” and that “other people have it worse”. They do. Someone always does. But that doesn’t mean that the stuff that’s happened to me isn’t bad.

I don’t know how much information you’re looking for, or if you’re asking about my experience specifically, but I’m still a bit off so what the hell.

I already have issues with fall and the beginning of the school year for various reasons that I won’t go into. So this time of year is always tricky. But...

For those who don’t already know, five years and fifteen days ago, I called my grandmother and she told me she was going to kill herself. I was the only one home, I had just turned 23 years old two weeks beforehand, she had told me she was having a hard time affording some things, and I had offered to make her an appointment with a therapist and with a new primary care physician and to pay for it all so she could keep taking her medication.

I called to ask her what day might work for an appointment so I could take the time off work, pick her up, take her to lunch, and then drive her to the appointment, and she told me she was going to kill herself. She told me she had been saving up her pills, and that’s why she hadn’t been taking them. She told me she had discussed it with my grandfather, and that he knew and was ok with it, and they were going through their belongings so there would be “less for him to deal with” once she was gone and that she was “surprised I hadn’t caught on sooner”.

I kept her on the phone, kept her talking on my cell, and grabbed the home phone to start calling anyone I could think of. My mom, my dad, my aunt (with whom I had only reconciled five days before-- big misunderstanding, but still a lot), my mom’s cousin... no one would answer.

By the time my mom got home, I had been on the phone with my grandmother for over an hour, mid panic attack, and I was hyperventilating so hard I couldn’t see and I couldn’t stand. Your limbs go all tingly when you don’t retain enough carbon dioxide, and I remember trying to walk to her and collapsing. I gasped out an explanation, my mom took the reins, and we were able to get in touch with my aunt and get the necessary medical professionals on hand to give my grandmother a psychiatric evaluation and put her on a 72 hour hold.

We were at the hospital until nearly 4 in the morning before a nurse told us that they legally couldn’t release my grandmother because the doctor had mandated a three day safety hold, and that we should go home and get some rest. By the time we made it home, there was a message on our answering machine that a county examiner had released her and there was nothing more they could do.

I found out later, much later, that she had never stopped taking her meds. She’d never said a word to my grandfather. She had no intention of killing herself. She wanted a reaction from me, and she got one. She called my cousins and told them I was a liar. She called family members who have never even met me and told them how awful I am, and that I make things up for attention.

I waited a little over a week to call her. I recorded the call, so that I’d have proof if I needed it. It’s still on my harddrive somewhere. Two plus hours of her calling me a liar, telling me that conversation never happened, telling me that she’s ashamed of me, that she hopes no one in their right mind ever loves me because I’m a monster, that she pities my friends and anyone who has the misfortune of knowing me because I’ll stab them in the back too as soon as I want some attention. The list goes on and on.

That continued for a while. Whether or not it’s true, when someone you love tells you things over and over again, you can’t help but wonder.

I started having dreams that she was hitting me, and that people were letting her do it. I started having dreams that I was in a loving, committed relationship but came home one day to a seething partner who had just gotten off the phone with her and realized I was a worthless liar, and of them, too, turning abusive. I started having dreams that I was alone at the bottom of a deep, dark hole, and no one could hear me or try to get me out.

She decided one day that we were going to pretend nothing had ever happened, and I was forced to play along. All the while she’d still call and say awful things to me, then show up at family gathering like nothing was wrong. She’d say one thing to me, another to my family, and call me a liar to my face and behind my back. She kept telling friends and family that I was being abusive and manipulative to her.

It hit the point that I truly, genuinely couldn’t remember what she had said in that initial call, and I worried I had made it all up. Gaslighting at it’s finest.

It’s taken years to realize it, but every interaction I had with her following that date has been either abuse or manipulation. She spent months and months refusing to speak to me unless it was to tell me how horrible I am, then like flipping a switch one day I came home and there was a gift on my front porch from her. She’d ease up for a while, then suddenly be awful again. My entire life, she had always been the epitome of a perfect grandma... she’d take me on outings, buy me little gifts, bake with me at the holidays, sing songs with the grandkids, loved playing with us, we’d talk for hours on the phone, they came to dinner frequently. And now... it’s like a veil has been lifted and she’s unrecognizable.

I tried to maintain a relationship with her. She screamed at everyone at Easter a few years back that her silverware was more important to her than a relationship with me. I kept trying. She told a lawyer that my mom and I had “stolen her medical records” and were “forcing her to have medical procedures against her will”. I kept trying. She threatened to send a police officer to our house, accusing me of stealing. I kept trying.

And finally, last fall, I called to wish her a happy birthday, she began a tangent, and I realized I was so tired. I asked her outright if she wanted a relationship with me. She told me she couldn’t be bothered to think about it. I haven’t spoken to her since.

That one phone call cost me so, so much. I lost my relationship with my grandmother and my grandfather, by extension. Other family members have questioned if I’m lying to them, or if I made things up. I’ve questioned if I made things up.

In the midst of all of this, my father also completely shifted and I don’t know why. He started picking fights with me, almost constantly. If I tried to change the subject, I was too stupid to have a discussion. If I stayed silent, I clearly knew I was wrong. If I said anything in reply, I was lying. He throws things, when he’s mad. He kicks things. He used to punch walls. My mom has since said to me that if she had any idea that he would turn into this person, she wouldn’t have married him. Sometimes he’s great, sometimes he’s awful. I never know which version I’ll be dealing with.

I’ve spent nearly five straight years in therapy trying to deal with this. My original goal was not to hate my grandmother, or my father. It had to adapt to not hating myself because of what they said to me.

So October is hard. Because October is when my mind and body unconsciously remember things changing. Relationships I’d always counted on turned abusive. Nothing I said or did was safe. It’s dangerous.

I blew past the actual anniversary just feeling sort of... jittery. I’ve spent a few weeks feeling withdrawn and anxious and not knowing why. I had a noticeable uptick in old thought patterns and intrusive thoughts about self worth, self harm, etc.

Whether or not it’s logical, whether or not it makes sense... my self preservation has locked onto this time of year as unsafe, and it falls into old patterns in an attempt at protection. Old patterns include anxiety, difficulty eating regularly, issues with self worth, withdrawing from others, emotions very close to the surface, and a few other things.

And that’s where I’m at.

I’m ok, and I’ll be ok. I’ve got some experience dealing with this under my belt now, and I still see my therapist regularly. I’m talking to her next week. At the moment, I’m just trying to take care of me however it makes sense, and not doing anything dangerous or dumb.

So... that’s what I mean by trauma anniversary.

#trigger warnings #abuse #self harm mentioned but vaguely #trauma anniversary #I... really cannot control my words right now #I'm sorry for the word vomit #this is probably not at all what you were asking for

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battlestar-royco · 4 years

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here is part 2 of my sci fi recs masterlist! again, i could’ve gone on with even more recs but i decided to draw the line here. this set for the most part errs on the darker side, thematically, visually, conceptually etc. i personally find it super thought-provoking and intriguing but that’s just me. i highly recommend reading the tw under the cut if you’re thinking of watching, especially the matrix and space gothic slides. please view at your discretion <3

part 1/2

If you like WLW (um idk why I only made this slide based on identity; it just kinda happened lmao but I think it works):

Siren: (tw: parent loss, grief, thalassophobia) a mermaid surfaces in a cove town looking for her lost sister. Polyamorous relationship between a man, a black/indigenous woman, and the mermaid!!!! Environmentalism! As a person who has thalassophobia, I didn’t find this too hard to watch. There aren’t that many underwater scenes, thankfully.

Black Mirror: San Junipero: (tw: grief, but otherwise none that I recall; it’s pretty lighthearted) two women meet in a beach resort in the 80s and fall in love. Interracial wlw!

Orphan Black: (tw: suicide, infertility, rape implication, VB, language, drug use) a woman realizes she is one of several clones and uncovers an elaborate corporate conspiracy. This is one of my personal favorites with great rep of complex women of all ages and bodily autonomy. Several central queer characters and a black male secondary character!

Starfish: (tw: grief, a few jump scares and brief monstrous imagery, blood) after the death of her best friend, a young woman breaks into the deceased’s apartment and discovers a chain of music tapes that could save the world. Weird, subtle, and experimental. Not to sound like a surfer but you kinda have to allow yourself to be in the vibe. The main character and her friend were definitely a thing imo.

Annihilation: (tw: body horror, VB, disturbing imagery) a team of women scientists explore an anomaly that rapidly mutates genes. There are canonical and coded wlw and multiple (light-skinned) POC in this but the rep is short-lived. I put it on because although it should’ve been more ambitious with the casting, I think it breaks *some* ground for Hollywood sci fi with the all-woman team and more than one WOC. Wack ending though.

Mad Max: Fury Road: (tw: rape implication, violence) I think everyone knows about this one but: in the apocalypse, a woman breaks 4 younger women out of a harem. A badass car chase across the desert ensues. A bit light on plot/worldbuilding, but sooooo cool-looking and very thematic!!!!

If you liked STRANGER THINGS:

It: (tw: VB) don’t actually watch this lmao I’m serious. It’s really stupid, and not in a funny way. But I do think Stranger Things was inspired by this story overall. The modern It films are better but they’re also really kjslsklskls stupid? Stephen King in general is obsolete imo.

The Thing: (tw: VB) an alien that can take the form of others wreaks havoc on a scientific facility in Antarctica. It’s dark and vibey, but I feel like it’s just Alien in Antarctica with truly terrible special effects tbh?? Others feel differently. It’s also classified as sci fi/horror, so stay away if you’re easily scared! Not too good on representation.

Super 8: (tw: some language) a group of preteens witnesses an alien-caused train crash as they’re filming a home movie. Not diverse but I definitely think it inspired a lot of sci fi for the 2010s, ESPECIALLY Stranger Things. Not too scary either!

ET: (tw: it’s been a really long time since I watched so I don’t remember but it’s rated PG) I think everyone knows what this is about!

Alien: (tw: VB) truckers in space discover a deadly evolving alien. One of my favorite movies of all time! I love the aesthetic and the mood and worldbuilding so much. Ellen Ripley is one of the first Final Girls in the horror genre. I personally found this more of a sci fi than a horror movie but I’d say stay away if you’re nervous!!

Terminator: (tw: VB) a deadly android is sent to kill a woman who’s destined to birth the man who saves the world. Terminator 2 is way better imo because it centers on Sarah rather than the dudes saving her and trying to kill her. But it’s still worth a watch, you know, for the culture.

If you liked CONTAGION:

War of the Worlds: (tw: blood) pretty straightforward aliens come to Earth to take over. Sorry to rec another T*m Cruise movie but I really like the alien design and the apocalypsey feel of this one. Baby Dakota Fanning is in it too!

Falling Skies: (tw: VB, body horror, rape) alien invasion yada yada but the alien lore gets more interesting as it goes on. It’s kind of cheesy and yeah maybe I did discover it by looking up the iCarly boyfriend (and what about it??) but it’s nice to have on in the downtime. An Asian woman co-stars.

Knowing: (tw: blood) school students unearth a time capsule that contains a sheet from a girl who predicted all the tragic world events between 1959-2009. This is NOT a good movie but it’s SO hilarious to me because of the acting and contrivances. Fun to group-watch!!!!

10 Cloverfield Lane: (tw: VB, emotional abuse) a woman wakes up in a bunker to a captor who tells her that the world has fallen to alien apocalypse. I think this movie elevates the original Cloverfield in pretty much every way. Again, super tense and moody. The conflict revolves around whether or not the captor is being truthful.

Train to Busan: (tw: extreme VB and disturbing imagery) a man and his daughter are on a train when a zombie hops on at the last minute. It’s Korean with an all-Asian cast; Choi Woo-shik co-stars. I definitely wouldn’t watch if you’re scared of blood and gore. It’s very gross and violent.

12 Monkeys: (tw: ableism, violence) a man from the 2030s is sent back to the 1990s to prevent the plague that will end the world. I think the aesthetics of this are really cool but otherwise it’s not a favorite. But I think it appeals to people who like apocalypse and time travel stuff!

If you liked THE MATRIX:

Strange Days: (tw: rape, sex, nudity, VB, racism, police brutality) memories can be saved to hard-drives and sold on the black market for exorbitant prices. Very problematic and triggering presentation of rape, but young Angela Basset stars and there’s a condemnation of police brutality that’s still relevant 20+ years after its release.

Upgrade: (tw: ableism, VB, fridging) a disabled man installs an AI in his spine to help him move and investigate the murder of his wife. The premise is glaringly ableist and I feel weird even recommending it tbh but it’s got great visuals and a few good twists.

Altered Carbon: (tw: VB, weird interracial body switching, uhhh I haven’t finished this one IDK) in a society where human bodies are interchangeable, a man wakes up in a new body after 300 years of his mind being dormant. A Latina woman co-stars, two Asian characters in a subplot, a few other POC here and there as well. I think season 2 stars a black man.

eXistenZ: (tw: VB, anti-Asian racism, general weirdness? IDK it’s hard to describe. There are guns made out of bones and weirdly sexual visuals.) after someone tries to assassinate her, a video game designer and her bodyguard must play through her virtual reality game in order to save the only copy of the game.

Minority Report: (tw: VB, eye removal/insertion) all crimes are predicted and criminals reported before they are committed. The main character is preemptively accused of murder. This one is really white but it was one of the first movies that got me into sci fi. Early 2000s Colin Farrell <3.

If you liked WESTWORLD:

Humans: (tw: uncanny valley, objectification) androids are household helpers and public assistants throughout Britain until one day they start developing consciences. It hits a lot of the themes of Westworld without all the unnecessary pretentiousness, “edginess,” and “grittiness,” and it stars Gemma Chan and Colin Morgan!!

Blade Runner 2049: (^) an android is ordered to find and kill a human/android hybrid. It’s not without its issues but it’s one of my favorite movies of all time, right up there with Alien. So beautiful, so thematic, so thought-provoking (to me, anyway. I know a lot of people thought it was way too slow).

Ex Machina: (^) a man is invited to a private estate to help test the intelligence of an android. It’s kind of predictable imo but you know Oscar Isaac and Sonoya Mizuno are in it so we have to stan, and so is Domhnall Gleeson, for the SW fans! I like how isolated and quiet it feels.

I Am Mother: (tw: blood, gaslighting) after an extinction event, a young woman is raised by a lone android in a human repopulation facility until one day a woman knocks. It starts off slow and a bit generic, but I’m obsessed with the 2nd and 3rd acts of this movie---good acting, dialogue, and fantastic visuals. It has that same isolated feel as Ex Machina with only three characters, all of which are women/woman-coded!!!

If you liked ALIEN (space gothic):

Battlestar Galactica (2004-2008 reboot): (tw: genocide, war, colonization, VB, uncanny valley, rape, infidelity) space opera that follows humanity as it fights the ever-evolving and powerful enemy of their own creation: androids named Cylons. Um? I L O V E THIS SHOW SO MUCH and I truly do think it’s everything sci fi should be. There is a really unfortunate Miss Saigon-esque romance plot in season 1 and a lazily-written love triangle involving a black woman in season 3, but otherwise it’s one of my all-time favorites and I highly recommend. It’ll spin your mind and tug your heartstrings for years.

Black Mirror: Men Against Fire: (tw: genocide, war, nudity) soldiers in the near future protect citizens from mutant zombies, but one soldier starts experiencing strange hallucinations in the field. This is such an underrated Black Mirror episode starring a black man. There’s brief objectification of a black woman but it’s very anti-military and it has an interesting sterile aesthetic that reminds me of Alien.

High Life: (tw: rape, black holes/space anxiety, very disturbing) prisoners are given the option to join a space expedition and serve as experimental subjects en route to a black hole. Please please stay away if you are triggered by sexual violence of any kind. There’s almost no physical violence in this movie but it’s psychologically haunting imo.

The Faculty: (tw; VB, drug use) high schoolers discover their teachers are being possessed by an invading alien race. I LOVE THIS MOVIE LMFAOOOO. The cast is SO wild---Elijah Wood, John Oliver, Usher, Salma Hayek, Josh Hartnett??? And I’m probably forgetting more. The combination of the cast, the terrible dialogue, and shitty special effects is PEAK comedy imo. But bear in mind it’s bloody!!

Prometheus: (tw: body horror, VB, uncanny valley) a crew of scientists heads on a deep space mission to find the aliens who created the human race. A prequel to Alien, but I kind of view it as its own thing. Despite the plot holes, I love this movie too! It was one of my sci fi gateways and the visuals are stunning. It’s pretty gory though so if that’s not your thing stay away.

Life: (tw: extreme VB) a lesser Alien, but it provides all the space gothic tropes (jokey crew, shots of space, really pretty spaceship, everyone dies, creepy alien) with a well-known cast---Gyllenhaal, Reynolds, etc.

The X Files: (tw: a few episodes contain 90s racism, sexism, queerphobia etc but you can skip them) a lot of people have watched this so I barely have to explain, but it’s one of my favorites. Two FBI agents investigate multiple aliens and get involved in government conspiracies along the way. A good gateway!

A Quiet Place: (tw: child loss, VB, tension) I think most people know what this is about too. Alien apocalypse with aliens that hunt by sound. The daughter in the family is deaf, and so is the actress who portrays her. The representation of deafness was critically acclaimed.

#maxine talks sci fi #movie recs #maxine did you read/watch

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letsgofoletsgo · 5 years

Text

A Wander Through the Weald

(Heyo! I’ve wanted to write a Postwickshipping fic for awhile now, so I hope you like it! <3)

It had been one month since Gloria defeated the “Unbeatable Champion” Leon. The greatest champion Galar ever seen had been dethroned Sometimes Gloria couldn't believe it herself. It seemed like just yesterday that he had given her and his younger brother, Hop, a Pokemon in Postwick. Gloria remembered the journey alongside her next-door rival fondly, challenging each other and exploring the region.

While she relished in her victory in the semifinals, part of her heart ached when she remembered Hop’s face. He appeared to take the loss in stride, yet she couldn't help but notice the sorrow in his eyes. He did end up somewhat confiding in her about his new sense of misdirection in a battle of all things. However, he did find a new path after aiding in the Dynamax crisis; Sonia offered for him to study and help her in the Pokemon Lab, which he accepted. Gloria was happy for her friend, and was eager to see what discoveries he might make.

The new Champion hadn’t seen her friend in weeks, and was missing him quite a bit. So she decided to drop in for a visit one warm, spring day.

“Hop! You have a visitor!”

The boy looked up from his desk. He had a textbook open and was in the middle of jotting something down. He placed down his pencil and turned around to see Gloria enter his room with a bright smile.

“Gloria!” Hop’s own face lit up as he rose and hugged her. “It’s so great to see you!”

“Likewise!” The two let go. “I haven’t seen you in forever, so I thought I’d pay you a little visit.”

“Heh, you’re right, guess you’re busy with all your fancy champion business,” he teased.

“Well, it’s more like I’ve been training to take on the battle tower for the last few weeks, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh yeah! I remember you telling me about that. You recon you’re almost ready?”

“I think so. Gotta smooth the edges a bit with my team, but I’m pretty sure we’re nearly set.”

“Sweet! Well, I wish you luck!” He smiled.

“Thanks, mate. So, since I’m not doing anything today, do you think I could pull you away from your studies for a couple hours and go for a walk maybe?”

“Oh, uh, I’d really like to, but I kinda still have some work left-”

“Don’t worry about it Hop, you’ve been working pretty hard and I think you deserve a break,” Sonia chimed in, grabbing a notebook from a shelf.

“Er- Really? Awesome, thanks!”

“Hehe, well then, it’s a date!” Gloria said cheerfully.

Hop’s heart briefly skipped a beat when she said that, and a brief blush spread across his face. He caught Sonia giving him a brief smirk before heading upstairs.

“So, you ready?”

“Y-Yeah! Totally, let’s go!” He stuttered a bit, resisting the urge to facepalm.

The two headed South from the lab, walking down Route 1. The sun shone gently along the grass and leaves, which rustled from an occasional skittering Skwovet or fluttering Rookidee. There were scattered clouds in the sky, casting long, misshapen shadows across the distant rolling hills. Wooloo were peacefully grazing or sleeping in the surrounding pens, and the two made a game of trying to count them all. As they approached Postwick, Hop began to explain what sort of things he and Sonia were studying; the key differences between Dynamax and Gigantimax, what causes a Pokemon to change form during the latter, etc. They had formed a theory that it may be related to Mega Evolution in the Kalos region. He was about to go into the genetic specifics that he knew of, when they realized they reached the gate in front of Gloria’s house.

“Ah, seems we have reached the entrance to thy Slumbering Weald,” Gloria commented poshly, to which Hop giggled. “If you think about it, our journey kinda started here, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, you’re right; remember when we saw Zacian for the first time? And you tried to fight it?”

“I do! And we were knocked out for like, ten minutes. Imagine if your brother found us like that!” She laughed.

He laughed too, yet remembered how close his face was to hers when he awoke, and could feel a pink tint return to his face again.

“So… What do you say we take a stroll through the woods again? For old times sake?” Gloria suggested.

“Sure, fine with me.”

With that, she swung open the gate and proceeded through. She then skipped on ahead of Hop, then turned back to him near the entrance, looking at him with that familiar, glowing smile.

He wished he could tell her how wonderful that smile made him feel.

“Gloria, wait up!” He stopped a moment. “Woah, where did all the fog go?”

“I guess it lifted? It does feel weird being able to see farther than five feet in here.”

To their surprise, the thick fog that normally enveloped the Slumbering Weald had disappeared a fair amount. There was still a thin layer on the ground and rolling along the tiny hills, but it allowed the sun to shine through the leaves and reflected across the dew hanging on the foliage.

“Cmon, lets see what sort of things we can spot here now that it’s clear,” Gloria piped in.

“Hey, I bet I can find more cool things that you,” He challenged with a smirk.

“Oh, you think so? How ‘bout we see then?”

The two rivals proceeded to wander about the Weald, pointing out weirdly crooked trees, large rocks that jutted out of the ground, oddly-colored plants and berries, the like. While having fun with their little expedition, Hop found his eyes on Gloria several times. He saw how face eyes lit up as she found a pretty leaf, or how she laughed as she poked a cluster of funny-looking mushrooms. He noticed how her eyes marveled in wonder as she looked inside a split tree or turned over a rock. Seeing her having fun and exploring the world around her brought a genuine smile to his face. The sun beaming onto her pale complexion also happened to complement her face wonderfully, and he couldn’t help but stare...

“Yo! Earth to Hop!”

The boy snapped out of his trance with a dumbfounded look. She rolled her eyes slightly before walking up to him.

“I wanted you to see this rock I found,” she presented a stone about the size of her palm; it has a typically craggy surface, but upon her turning it around, showed an almost rainbow-colored crystallization inside.

“Wow, that’s one heck of a geode there!” He exclaimed, admiring the hues.

“You got anything else cool yet?”

“Uhh, yeah,” Hop quickly scanned over his shoulder and dove for the nearest thing to him.

“Check out this leaf!” He brought a decaying, frail leaf to her face, and in the process half of it flaked off. The ensuing silence felt like a jab in the gut.

Gloria’s face scrunched a bit and she giggled. “You’re such a dork, you know that?” She said as she lightly hit him on the arm. “C’mon, if I’m right, I think we’re pretty close to the center of the Weald.” She turned and proceeded down the shady path.

Hop processed that moment for a second before following- caught between the fluttery feeling of hearing her laugh and mentally kicking himself for his stupidity.

After turning the bend on the faded path, he was pleasantly reminded of the splendid beauty of the hero’s shrine. The ancient structure stood in front of a still lake, only occasionally rippling gently when a wild Pokemon would take a drink. The sunbeams swayed through the leaves, rustling ever so slightly.

“You know, no matter how many times I come here, I don’t think I’ll ever get over how beautiful this place is,” Gloria stepped onto the shrine, looking over the lake.

As much as he agreed with her, Hop found himself more entranced with the girl in front of him. Her body looked illuminated against the lake, almost as if she was a legendary herself. The boy was speechless at her hauntingly ethereal appearance, yet wanted nothing more than to tell her how absolutely, stunningly gorgeous she was.

“Hey, how about we sit for awhile?” She sat down on the side of the shrine facing the lake, hunching over a bit to look into the depths of the lake.

He snapped out of his daze once again, following her and sitting next to her. He saw how the water reflected on her hazel eyes, creating a blueish projection onto her pupils.

“Hop, is there something on your mind?” She asked bluntly. “You’ve been rather tense all afternoon.”

“Have I?” He would usually deflect with an “I’m fine”, but something felt different. He felt like this was the moment to tell her. He felt like he could tell her.

“Well, there is something I’ve been thinking about,” he began. “I know you’ve heard this from me a million times, but all my life I’ve wanted to prove I could live up to my brother, that I could be something more than him. Even after I became a trainer for real, everyone always saw me as Leon’s younger brother, the kid who aimed to beat the unbeatable champion.”

He sighed, and turned his face to hers. “But you always saw me as me. Not the champion’s little brother, not just another rival, but as me. As Hop.”

She gave him an endearing smile. “Hop, you’re one of the most fun-loving, caring, zestful people I’ve ever met. You never let anything stop you, and you greet challenge and adversary with a smile. Even when things are looking down, you don’t give up and you keep going. I’ve admired that about you for as long as I’ve known you, how could I not?”

“Heh. For the longest time, I was wondering how anyone ever could.” He admitted with a slightly sorrowful tone. “What I’m trying to get at Gloria, is… Well, I won’t lie; You’re one of the best things that has ever happened to me.”

Gloria stared at him in shock. Hop just fixed his sight into the water, afraid to meet her gaze.

“Hop, I… I don’t know what to say, I’m…” A bit impulsively, she leaned against him, causing the boy to tense a bit.

“You know, our journey across Galar, I have a lot of fond memories of it. From meeting so many amazing people, learning things about Pokemon I never would have guessed, to building and training my team, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. That journey helped me see who I am and what I want. But, thing is, you were one of my favorite parts of it too. We always helped each other, and you wouldn’t turn your back on me no matter what. You were always so excited to hurry to the next town or challenge me to a battle. You made it all so much fun. And because of that, I’d say you’re one of the best things to happen to me too.”

Hop couldn’t quite describe the feeling in his chest. It was a mix of disbelief, anxiety, wonder- but mostly pure joy. He didn’t say anything, rather just wrapped his arms around her and held her close. She returned the embrace, and sighed contentedly against his shoulder. He placed his head atop hers, nudging her green hat a bit and nestling into the scent of her soft, brunette hair.

The two remained at the shrine until the moonlight glistened across the lake, neither wanting the moment to end.

#postwickshipping #postwick #trainer hop #trainer gloria #pokemon #pokemon sword and shield #pokemon SWSH #sonia #hopxgloria #gloriaxhop #hop x gloria #gloria x hop

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

#but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #but you can never leave #roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #queen fic #queen fanfic #queen fanfiction

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camillemontespan · 4 years

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ten years from now [AU. drake walker x camille montespan] [part eleven: whiskey & roses]

I really like this gif.. just everything about it.

Master List if you want to catch up

A/N: I think I’m not 100% happy with this chapter because a large part of this is taken from personal experience so I guess it kinda hurts. I’m actually nervous to post this!

My situation wasn’t exactly like Drake and Camille’s (like I’ve never been engaged lol or had an affair) but my ex boyfriend sort of inspired this fic. Our relationship was absolutely not like Drake and Camille’s, for one thing we weren’t best friends lol but we ended the way Drake ended things with Camille - he went to university while I was in my final year of high school. He just stopped messaging me back. I felt left behind. I was both Drake and Camille in that situation.

Three years after, he re-appeared in my life again. Camille’s confusion stems from my own personal confusion because I too felt adrift and unsure. Camille’s indecision, I hope, was written in a more realistic way. It’s not clear cut because it never is. She’s only human, she isn’t perfect. She is going to make mistakes.

So, Camille’s realisation in this chapter is inspired by my own thoughts.

FYI, I am now in a happy long term relationship with the best guy ever. Nearly 7 years! I’m starting to hint about weddings etc.. let’s watch him run for the hills! Lol I joke.

@moonlightgem7 @jovialyouthmusic @mskaneko @ibldw-main @katedrakeohd @pug-bitch @gooddaykate @princessleac1 @burnsoslow @loveellamae @pedudley @oofchoices @emichelle @simplymissjulia @dcbbw @sirbeepsalot @rainbowsinthestorm @notoriouscs @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @addictedtodrakefanfic @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @nomadics-stuff @gardeningourmet @marshmallowsandfire

**********************************************

Camille woke up to a text from Liam.

Thinking of you, darling. I'm sorry I couldn't come with you. I feel terrible. Call me later? I'd love to know how Gisele is doing. I've ordered flowers to be delivered to her FYI. She likes roses right? Who am I kidding, of course she does! She only gave me a tour of her garden! Anyway, I love you. Can't wait to see you when you're home x

********************

Drake dropped Camille off at the hospital that morning. She was very quiet, more so than usual. At first, he was worried he had done something wrong but after their phone call last night, when they had spoken about Jackson and laughed about past memories, he thought that perhaps she was just worried about her grandma.

‘Let me know when you’re out and I’ll pick you up,’ he told her gently. ‘You okay?’

Camille nodded. ‘She’s never been in hospital before.. Just nervous, that’s all.’

Drake squeezed her hand, reassured. ‘She’ll be fine. See you soon.’

Camille smiled bravely and got out of the pick up truck. Drake watched her enter the hospital, hoping all would be well.

*************************************

Gisele was awake, although slightly woozy from morphine, when Camille entered the hospital room. A bouquet of roses stood on the window sill. The note card had a message from Liam.

Keep smelling the roses. Get better soon, thinking of you. Liam x

Camille had fought back tears as she read the message. Forcing down the lump in her throat, Camille turned her attention to Gisele.

‘Mon petit chou..’ she croaked, reaching out to take Camille’s hands. ‘You’re so pretty, like my roses.'

Camille kissed her grandma’s hands and sat down close to the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

‘Pfft, fine,’ Gisele said. ‘Fine, fine, fine..’

Gisele eyed Camille. ‘You don’t look fine though. What’s wrong, mon cheri?’

Camille waved her hand but Gisele narrowed her eyes, not believing her. ‘Camille..’

Gisele never called Camille by her first name. She always called her granddaughter by pet names, such as little sunflower, little mushroom, little flower, always in French.

Swallowing, Camille shook her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Anyway, Drake was telling me about your fall. You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you? Silly grandma.’

Gisele brightened at the mention of Drake. ‘Oh yes, he helped me! He called the ambulance, such a kind, good man..’

She smiled wistfully. ‘Liam is also kind and good.. He sent me roses.. '

Camille's heart beat a little faster at Gisele mentioning Liam. But then, why wouldn’t she? The two of them got on like a house of fire when they met properly. Gisele had flirted with him, for God’s sake.

‘Two young men, both so loyal and kind to you, mon cheri..’ Gisele whispered, smiling wider. ‘One from your past, the other is.. Well, he is your one, isn’t he? He is your present and future..’

She was really doped up on morphine.

‘Grandma..’ Camille muttered.

Gisele pointed her finger in the air. ‘Drake and Liam.. Both so good.. Past and future collide.’

Camille blinked back tears as the heavy weight of reality bore down on her shoulders. Indeed, Drake was her past. The past had already been written. So why was she going back to it? Why was she opening the door to the past when her future looked bright? Why was she hurting the man she was going to marry?

Camille knew why if she really thought about it. Drake made her feel things. He made her feel like fire. He made her feel alive.

Their history was a well written and comprehensive book made up of volumes. Each page was filled with their words, spoken and unspoken. They had been together through everything. They had supported each other and loved each other. Nobody else could read their book and understand it. It was the book of Drake and Camille.

But Drake had left her all those years ago without warning. He had taken her heart and crushed it into pieces, not even bothering to give her an explanation. He had left her life without saying goodbye. He left her suspended, floating in the air, unable to fall to earth. Life without Drake had left her without an anchor to keep her grounded. Without Drake, she hadn't known who she was. Who was Camille Montespan?

Of course, she knew now what Drake had gone through. Why he had stopped talking to her. But if he had truly loved her, he would have treated her heart like fine china, like Liam did. He would have kept it safe. He would have realised what he was dealing with. The fifteen years that shaped their relationship should not have been so easily discarded.

Camille didn't want to hurt him. She really didn't. But their relationship had already been fractured by hurt and pain. It was complicated, too complicated. Seeing him again had only made her doubt everything she had; she felt untethered again, suspended in the air, floating like a balloon, unable to drop back to earth. Camille was sick of this feeling.

For ten years, Camille had unknowingly been keeping the door open for him. Drake could have re-entered whenever he wished.

Enough now.

Camille needed to return to earth.

**************************************

Drake noted how quiet Camille was when he picked her up an hour later. ‘How was she?’ he finally asked when they were driving through town.

‘Doped up on morphine, could barely get a coherent sentence out of her,’ Camille muttered, looking out of the window.

Drake sighed and stopped talking. He knew that when Camille was in these uncharacteristic moods, he should let her be. She would come to him eventually.

They reached her grandma's house. Clambering out of the truck, they walked up the path to the house together. Camille unlocked the door and entered, Drake close behind.

'I need to water her roses,' Camille said softly.

Drake sank down at the kitchen table and watched Camille as she filled a pitcher with water. She went outside and started to water the roses that her grandmother loved so much.

Drake watched Camille as she crouched to inspect a rose bush. In her unguarded moment, she looked like she might crumble. Drake saw with alarm that tears were starting to trickle down her cheeks.

He was on his feet instantly, rushing outside to comfort her. Drake got to his knees and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

'Don't worry about Gisele, she'll be fine..' he soothed. 'It's okay..'

Camille let out a harsh sob. She burrowed her face into Drake's neck, crying openly, her tears sliding down Drake's throat.

'Shh honey, it's alright..' he murmured.

'It's not,' Camille choked out. 'It's really not.'

'She'll be out of hospital soon -'

'I'm thinking about us, Drake,' Camille interrupted, her voice thick. 'This situation. It's getting hard. Really fucking hard.'

Drake went silent. His heart sank as he realised that she had been quiet because of him. She had been thinking.

'Okay,' he said, keeping his voice steady. 'What do you want to do about it?'

Camille exhaled. Her eyes met his. 'I'm getting married, Drake,' she whispered. 'It's not clean cut for me-'

'Do you still love him?' Drake interrupted.

Camille went quiet, her jaw setting. Drake closed his eyes. 'Camille..'

Camille nodded, mutely answering his question.

'So you've just been stringing me along then?' Drake asked. His heart was hammering inside his chest. 'You see your ex and thought it would spice things up if you had some fun before you settled down? Is that it?'

'No!' Camille burst out. 'I'd never do that to you!'

'Then tell me how it is then!' Drake cried. 'How can you kiss me in mazes and sleep with me? How can you talk to me about your deepest thoughts and have phone calls with me late at night reminiscing? How can you do all of that while still loving him?'

Camille struggled to her feet. Drake followed suit so he stood over her.

'You confuse me!' Camille said, her voice rising. 'You remind me of everything that has happened with us. The good and the bad. The good is fucking incredible, Drake, but I feel like we're just picking up where we left off. With Liam in the mix, I feel like I’m free falling. It’s gotten too hard!-'

'I get it!' Drake interrupted. 'Look, I've tried to be your friend but it's not working. There's too much under the surface. So yeah, it is complicated. But maybe it's complicated because really, deep down, you want me. You want us. If you didn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation!'

He was aware he sounded desperate now. It was pathetic.

Camille took a deep breath. 'Do you want me to break up with him? Cancel my wedding? Throw away everything I've worked for?'

'You're not happy,' Drake said, his eyes boring into hers. He took her by the arms. 'I know you're not. You're not the same when you're with him. You fit into this mould that's been made for you, this sophisticated New Yorker with the job, the lifestyle, the fiancée. But that's not you. Camille, everything you have worked for is just a facade. It's smoke and mirrors - '

'How dare you!' Camille shouted, pushing him away. 'You know nothing about my life! You know nothing about Liam! You were out of my life for ten years, Drake. Ten years!'

'Camille,' Drake ground out. He was losing patience now. 'If you go back to him, you’re settling. You’re settling for a life of comfort and safety but that’s not the way to live-'

'I stand to lose everything while you don't put anything on the line,' Camille told him, raising her chin defiantly. 'You want me to break his heart.'

'Someone's gonna get their heart broken, Camille,' Drake muttered. 'And right now, you seem more keen to break mine.'

Camille stepped back. She swallowed down the lump in her throat.

'Liam is a good man,' Camille told him. 'He's never hurt me. He loves me. I can't keep doing this, going behind his back and lying.'

'So you're ending this?' Drake asked in disbelief. Camille looked up, willing the tears to stop falling. Drake stared at her, his eyes narrow. ‘Camille, fucking talk to me.’

Camille wrung her hands together. 'Given our track record, Drake, surely we should be used to leaving each other by now.'

Drake looked away. Camille stepped forward. 'Drake, it's getting too messy.'

'So you've made your decision?' Drake asked, still not looking at her.

'I'm taking the space you gave me,' Camille whispered.

Drake nodded mutely. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

'Nothing more to say then, huh?' he said quietly.

'Drake -'

'Don't, Camille,' Drake interrupted, looking at her now. She looked distraught. Drake imagined he looked the same. 'I'll give you your space. Enjoy life with Liam.'

Camille watched as Drake shoved past her. She heard the front door slam and she knew that he had left her life for the second time, but this time, from her own making.

************************

That evening, Drake sat on the jetty with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was intending to get black out drunk and sink into oblivion.

He felt empty. His life had become brighter with her in it. Camille had a way of making him feel light, happy and content. He felt like he was worth something when he was with her.

Drake regretted how things had ended between them. He always did. If Drake had his way, things between him and Camille would never end.

Drake loved her.

He closed his eyes. 'I never told her I loved her..' he whispered to himself. 'I told her everything else except that.'

Realisation dawned on him. It was true. Not once had he told Camille those three important words while they had reunited this past month. He had been too caught up in the heated moments with her. He had been drowning, unable to come up for air. Now, he had reached the surface, breaking the still waters.

'I love you,' he said out loud. 'I love you. I love you.'

Drake let out a breath and clenched the bottle of whiskey.

'I love you.'

Drake needed to tell her. He needed to show her what life with him would be like. Endless summers in Texas. Coffee and pancakes in the morning. Complete and utter adoration. Babies. 4th of July. Fireworks. Whiskey. Love.

He had grown up now. He was older and wiser than he had been ten years ago. He could offer her a future he hadn't been aware of before. Drake could see clearly now, crystal clear.

Camille still saw him as her ex boyfriend. Drake hadn't done anything to show her that he could be more than that.

He couldn't make the same mistake twice. Swigging his whiskey, Drake made a decision. He was going to fight for his future. He swore to himself that ten years from now, Camille would be in it.

She was his past, present and future and there was no way he was giving that up so easily.

***********************************

In the pit of her stomach, Camille felt pain. Sheer, blinding pain.

She had hurt Drake. She hadn’t wanted to. But she had to get back to reality and own up to her indiscretions. She had to move forward, even if that meant doing the hard thing.

Camille drafted a text to Liam now.

I’ll be flying home tomorrow. Grandma is alright. Can we talk? x

She sent the message.

Camille was back to reality, colliding with the earth, bracing for impact.

#drake walker #trr fanfic #the royal romance

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shamelessselfpromotingsite · 3 years

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Free Read I hope you love my short story below. If so, please review it on my twitter account or here. @lindeenen. Enjoy THIRTEEN By Linda Deenen Thirteen claps, fingers fully extended, not to fast, not too slow, followed by thirteen emphatic blinks. This is how I start every new activity. It’s not lost on me how ridiculous I appear to anyone forced to watch this senseless ritual. Hell, I don’t want to watch this senseless ritual, let alone perform it, but I’m powerless to stop. Two years ago, after the death of my husband, the clapping started. Thirteen, no more no less. Yes, of course, I saw my doctor. (My boss politely insisted.) Doc assured me it was a traumatic stress disorder manifested from my grief and said I should give it time. Time didn’t help. Instead of getting rid of the clapping, my routine expanded to include thirteen comically precise blinks, performed immediately post clap. This new affliction didn’t garner as much sympathy,as you might think. People around me, now suspecting it was an attention getting tactic, were becoming annoyed. My physician soon recommended I speak to a psychiatrist to help resolve the internal conflict I was having. Personally, I think she was incapable of sitting through one more appointment with me and passed me on for another to bear. Thirteen claps and thirteen blinks. The psychiatrist found it fascinating. The specific number and precise aspect of my affliction were things he hadn’t encountered before, but was certain we could figure out together. “Do you feel uneasy if you don’t clap thirteen times exactly?” he asks me, inquisitive eyes boring into mine. “Have you tried twelve times to see if that would work as well?” A lock of dark hair breaks away from the carefully coiffed style and slides attractively over his arched eyebrow. His lips are pursed, expression concerned, his head nodding encouragingly as I explain I’m unaware of when the clapping will start or stop. He appears less sympathetic when I reveal that the act leaves me no more or less satisfied than I’d been before. Neither did it relieve stress nor create euphoria. His jaw drops with outright disbelief, when I mention that the episodes occur even while I’m sleeping and actually wake me up. “Most, uh, no, that’s not right.” He struggles “Really, I have to say all of the syndromes I’ve treated over the years were initiated by the patient. They might be in denial and blame something else, but ultimately, with my help, they realize they’ve created these behaviors to counteract a buildup of anxiety within them. “ He shifts his bulk uncomfortably in the massive black leather chair and feigns interest in a small squeak from the cushion. I assume he’s searching for the correct words to tell me I’m crazy. Not a surprise really, I suspected as much and would actually be happy with a confirmation. “Ahem” Having given up on the inscrutable creak, he clears his throat and pontificates. “The subconscious mind is quite capable of bringing things to the surface when we aren’t paying attention, for example,” he gestures sideways, “sleeping. Thoughts, memories, that kind of thing, but initiating gross motor movements, like clapping, shouldn’t happen.” He lowers his chin and peers at me from under his bushy eyebrows. I smile and shrug. “You’re likely waking up anyway when you start the clapping routine.” The corners of his mouth turn up as he intertwines his fingers and rests them on his plentiful paunch certain the mystery is solved. “Do you understand?” I understand. He thinks I’m either faking or exaggerating. Been there, heard that. I smile and shrug. He glances at his watch, probably hoping my session is finished. It isn’t, there’s still an hour left. He emits a loud sigh. “I won’t be able to help you if you aren’t open with me and since you either can’t or won’t discuss your feelings, I think we should try hypnotherapy.” He stands up smoothing out the wrinkles in his tan linen pants. “Why don’t we move to the couch so you can lie down.” I knew I shouldn’t be flip, but given his pompous attitude, I can’t help myself. As soon as the clapping and blinking stops… I smile and shrug. He rubs roughly at his scalp as if something there is bothering him. Mission accomplished, I stand up and move to the couch. When the clapping and blinking allows, I close my eyes and focus on his voice directing me to relax. I’m just acknowledging that the tone and cadence of his voice might actually put me to sleep, when I hear him insisting that I open my eyes. When I do, he’s standing above me, forcefully snapping his fingers and calling my name. I want to sit up in response to his emphatic request, but I’m unable to comply. None of my muscles respond, not even to clap or blink. I’m not unsympathetic to his distress at my not obeying his demands, but this is something I haven’t experienced before… inertia. My life has changed dramatically in the two years since my husband’s death, and not for the better. I lost my job for spending too much time performing a ritual that not only disrupted my performance but that of all those around me. Worse than the job was the loss of my constant companion, my beloved Australian Sheppard, Kitty, who stood by my side at the funeral home and the gravesite, giving me support. Yeah, that one sucked, but my clapping and blinking was eating up so much of my time, I had none left to take him on walks or even feed him. Grab his bowl – blinking – get the leash – clapping – put on a shoe, blinking, etc., you get the picture, and It’s not like I just left him on a street corner or something. Hmm… well I guess I kind of did. I gave him to the homeless guy who had installed himself at the off ramp near my home. It seemed like a win – win to me. Kitty would get walked back and forth all day and the homeless guy would attract more sympathy because he had another mouth to feed. My point being, it seemed to the doctors and even to me, that at least some of these events should have caused me stress, but, not so. Except for the clapping and blinking, I’m having the time of my life. Of course, I am using the life word loosely, because the here and now is where I am. Sleeping, I don’t dream, awake, I have no memories or regrets and I don’t waste any time looking forward. Emerging from my self-indulgent reverie, I notice the psychiatrist is red in the face and has given up snapping. Maybe his fingers cramped? But he still, obviously wants me to get my ass off his couch. I give it a try and, surprise, surprise, the clapping starts, only this time, it’s not thirteen precise claps, it’s a frantic slapping of limp palm flesh against limp palm flesh, in a flurry of unstoppable blows. What the hell, this is fantastic. I can hardly wait for the blinking to start. The psychiatrist, apparently unwilling to wait for the astonishing show my blinking will make, grabs my hands, which immediately puts a stop to the clapping. I wait. I wait. Nope, no blinking starts. A shiver of disappointment at having been denied this heretofore unseen spectacle, rushes through me. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I’ve obviously given up control to the seriously stricken psychiatrist, because he has raised me up from his couch, taking time for a quick glance to make sure I haven’t soiled his lounge, and moved me forward to my previous perch by his desk. Suprisingly, he doesn’t reclaim his position of authority upon his leather throne, but maintains his unwelcome hold on my appendages and kneels before me like a peasant in supplication. I want to look away but for the first time in recent memory, I have a shaky, queasy feeling I assume is the one called, anxiety. Fearful now, my heart beats fit to burst, and I desperately try to pry my fingers out of his sweaty grip. “Don’t panic,” his warm breath flutters on my cheek and he moves his hands on top of mine, pressing them heavily into my thighs. I’m positive if he releases them, thirteen claps will appear, but he doesn’t give them a chance. As if reading my thoughts, he presses harder into my legs. “I can see you’re feeling uneasy, but I would like you to do something for me” his insipid, half smile looks hopeful. Not likely, my inside voice quips, but focusing is getting tough. Another time, I might have enjoyed the wobbliness of feeling semi drunk but now, I am concerned. Uneasy? I’ll see your uneasy and raise you one hysteria. Heat is streaking up my limbs, threatening to vaporize me. I have a primal urge to flee. I order my legs to stand, but not one neuron makes an effort to perform this feat and I remain a prisoner in my body. “Can you picture your husband, before he became ill. While his body was being ravaged by cancer, you had many conversations with him about his impending death and how much he wanted you to survive.” I could feel the hair on the back of my head moving softly back and forth. Was he patting me? I really need to leave. Even the years of clapping, blinking, clapping, blinking, did not distress me llike this, in this moment, I’m terrified. I don’t know why, but I can definitely identify this emotion as terror. What’s happening? Dully, I understand that while I have been focusing on my terror and need to get out of here, a sticky, heavy haze has oozed in my right ear and is blanketing my thoughts. Nope, not happening, no friggin way. I’m in control and I ‘m going to leave. I see now, I made a huge mistake coming here today and as I am apologizing to the doctor for taking up his valuable time (huge effort expended vocalizing that lie by the way), he interrupts me. “Julie, you know this body is not yours” he proclaims loudly as he stands, hands on hips, legs spread defiantly. “What the #**k? I don’t have to sit here and listen to these ravings.” Well, ultimately I do, because nothing works yet, no feet, no legs and definitely no arms or I’d clock him up the side of his head - no hollow apology to follow. “Julianna, now is the time to assert yourself.” He looks remarkably like a tent gospel healer ,raising his arms over his head while making this proclamation. I wonder stupidly if my smiling might help him out. He seems pretty upset. “If you don’t at least try, you’ll remain a prisoner of this pseudo-personality for the rest of your life.” I’m having trouble figuring out who the heck he’s talking to, or about, since my focus is still slipping. I don’t like being called Julianna. My name is Julie. Why’s he not calling me Julie? “Your husband showered you with his love and trusted you to recover. You’ve let him down.” The doc is sitting on the side of his desk now accenting his points by pounding on the dark wood. I’m furious. “Stop it. Stop talking to me! We’re happy the way we….” What? What did I say? We? We who? “No, I misspoke, I meant I. I’m happy the way I am.” But still he continues. “Under hypnosis, I met the real Julianna. I know you want to be free. You told me that when Tom died, it felt safer to let Julie take over, and I understand that impulse.” His voice feels cool, like a summers rain, soothing, but dangerous, as if concealing a shaft of lightening, waiting to strike. I just know this train isn’t stopping any time soon. The doctor adjusts his tie, tugs on the gold tip of his belt, confident, and gaining momentum. “Julianna, you didn’t just hide, you disappeared and when you wanted to come back, it was too late. Julie was too strong. She has no interest in your life and does whatever amuses her day to day. “ “One day you managed to push through enough to make your hands clap. Thirteen times. One for each year you and Tom were married. But no one paid attention and focused on the other signs Julie was exhibiting. They couldn’t know clapping was just the tip of the iceberg. You got a little stronger when Julie’s boss forced her to see a doctor and you were able to move your eyelids as well.” He slides down to a squat in front of me and I see him touch my knee, but I don’t feel it. Funny. “You’d have won this battle eventually Julianna, but it might have taken years. Now, with hypnotherapy, I’ve seen you and I won’t let that happen. The time is now, Julianna, now, please.” I’m using all accessible effort to keep my sluggish attention on the shrink because I deem him to be the immediate threat. Wrong! All this time, covertly, I’m being pressed gently, but steadily out of the light and into a dim corridor of interminable length. My heart rate quickens but then I realize, it doesn’t feel that bad, being in the cool dark, and for a second or 2, I’m seduced into relaxing the emotional control I’ve maintained for two years. With my eyes closed, I see a crack has appeared in my wall. I know I need to shore it up but a friendly soft breeze floats across my cerebellum and feels amazing. I succumb and allow myself to be beguiled and soothed. When the sensation ends, a deep sigh escapes my lips and I try to raise myself to my former level of attention. It’s not there! I try again, squinting my face with effort, but I can make nothing work. Within that brief respite, I allowed myself to be conveyed. Now you’d think I would have an answer to “Conveyed where?” but I don’t. I’ve no sense of what or where I am, except for the certainty that I’m in a confinement. Am I doing this? I whisper to myself. I attempt to sense the edges of my inky cubby; it feels the size of a postage stamp. A tiny stamp hidden away in the corner of some museum, never to be found. Sounds are all dampened and dull, as if the energy has been sucked out of them. Adrenaline floods my system in fear of my invisible shackles; it pumps and beats looking for a way to escape my body. I can scarcely make out the form of the psychiatrist now. He appears to still be talking. No surprise there, I reassure myself as I impotently battle to maintain control. With no limbs available to me, my battleground is the grey matter nestled in my skull. With sticky toes, I climb one wiggly hill after the other, moving forward to the front, where I used to live. Each footfall squishes deeper, preventing me from gaining ground. I rest, trying to sense the doctor. I find him, an indistinct presence, very close. But now, I discern he’s got a smile on his face, and he’s holding someone’s hand, saying “Welcome back Julianna.” My vision goes black, I want to reach up to see if my eyes have been gouged out, but my hands are stuck in the viscous guck separating the lobes. The effort is too much. It’s all too much and as I allow my cheek to finally rest on the neural tissue and dendrites that surround me, I hardly notice as I disappear.

#writingcommunity #writing #writerslift #my writing

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demolover · 4 years

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ive seen ur posts mentioning u have thoughts on queer perspective towards death and how mcr fit into it so. if u ever decide to share other ideas on the topic id love to read it! (i think ur really good at getting your thoughts accross) (u dont have to answer btw i just wasnt sure abt shooting a dm abt this)

it’s been so long i’m so sorry um i have a lot of thoughts idk if u still want them here’s an attempt at a short version...

edit: changing this to under a cut cuz it’s insanely long. if u don’t feel like reading almost 1.5k words probably don’t read it.

basically i think that mortality and death are very common things for all humans to think about and make art about because we’re kinda... obsessed with and extremely afraid of death. which (i think) stems from how death is one of the few things we know is going to happen to us, and yet we can’t understand it really. we know it is the end but we cannot know anything about it because it is the end. so that intrigues us (and makes us afraid) and then u can add in how we see other people in our life die before we do... basically it all adds up to us being obsessed with understanding and defying our own mortality somehow.

we can see this theme in mcr a lot, the interplay between mortality and defiance and hope... i call it hope vs inevitability and i think it’s especially noticeable in bullets and danger days, because in the other two they’re not really fighting so much as existing side by side... i wrote in notes once that in those albums, the hope is in the inevitable...

in black parade it’s pretty much totally like this; after you die you join the black parade, and your memory will carry on. there is fear going into it, but it very much feels like an album accepting and even embracing the end, not fighting it. accepting it and embracing it with this crazy tone... come one come all to this tragic affair. wipe off that makeup, what’s in is despair... (note: i used to think that line was what sin is despair and i still wonder if that was on purpose). revenge is a bit more complex but i have always thought that beyond the hope of getting the girl back, of bringing her back to life (against the end, against death and mortality) there must also be some relief in death for the guy demo lover... if you would kill a thousand men to get your lover back from the dead, would you die to meet them there? <- maybe i’m wrong; there is still hope vs inevitability here.

in danger days and bullets, though, is where i feel like we see those things ultimately fight; in bullets we have this desperate desire to be immortal and mean something, coupled with the strong feeling that you will die with nothing. that you will die. (i have a post on this theme in the song demolition lovers). then, in danger days we see this theme come with this absolute denial of mortality (killjoys never die) coupled with this intense fear of death and being remembered wrong or not at all. and of course this culminates in them dying. (here is my post on this theme in danger days it’s kinda a mess but so is this post so whatever).

right so we’ve established mcr (and humanity in general) is obsessed with mortality we already knew that though. what does it have to do with queerness.

basically there’s a couple things.

1. the connection of both otherness and love with death (note: this also applies to a lot of minorities but queerness is what’s really applicable to mcr specifically). the extent to which mcr intertwines narratives of love and otherness with death and violence is.... a lot. we see it in every album, i believe; it’s most noticeable in bullets in drowning lessons and demo lovers, in revenge in so many songs i’m not going to try to list them, in black parade in cancer, wttbp and my way home is through you, and in danger days in save yourself, only hope for me, and scarecrow. this was just off the top of my head; there’s probably more songs with examples of this.

this is very queer (at least when done by mcr; as most of mcr is white the issues that come with things like the history of interracial marriage, etc. don’t really apply) because of how for queer people our identities and love can be deadly to us... the history of queer love and identity is obviously marked with violence against the people displaying that love and identity.

straight cis white guys don’t usually talk about death with the connection with love at the forefront, at least not that i’ve seen. every once in awhile they do, i guess, if they’re talking about grief, but otherwise, no. demo lovers is my favorite example of the connection of love with death; especially in the first couple verses, the two seem so linked. the first 2 mentions of death or the end in the song are immediately followed by “with you”... “i’d end my days with you in a hail of bullets,” and “i would drive on to the end with you.”

in the whole demo lovers arc, through bullets and revenge, the themes of death and love are so intertwined it’s impossible to untangle them. if i tried to make a post of all the times in revenge death and love are talked about in the same lyric, as if one thing, i would be screenshotting lyrics all night. of course, if we bring in gwgt theory, and start thinking about how the girl and guy demo lovers are a metaphor for gerard’s relationship with his gender, we can go way further with this too. the simultaneous love story involving these parts of himself, and intertwined violence and death. the fear present... the lyrics that talk at the same time about hurting yourself and being hurt by others... but that’s a different post, really. i’m gonna try to stay more surface level. no speculating on metaphors (today).

in black parade i think we see the connection of otherness with death a lot more than the connection with love, although they’re both still present... in danger days the concept of otherness when associated with death is super clear: killjoys defy the city and become something “other,” which is scorned and hated by BLI/nd, and they get killed for it. love is also a pretty common theme in danger days songs, often intertwined with death, though less obviously than in revenge.

2. just... the extent to which this idea of mortality and death and immortality and memory is talked about is interesting in itself i think. this obsession with our legacy and our mortality is present in a lot of stuff, not just queer stuff, but it’s just everywhere in mcr’s discography (and a lot of the subsequent groups of music related to/associated with mcr, which are also often known for being queer). they constantly talk about how they’ll die, and how they’ll die sooner rather than later, and can they live forever anyway, what does immortality mean after all, will they be remembered, what will their legacy be... etc.

memory and legacy is something i haven’t really talked about, but i think it’s also essential to the conversation. for obvious reasons queer people (and people of a lot of other minorities but i’m only talking about the queer part cuz it’s the most/the only applicable thing here) have a more complicated relationship with how we’ll be remembered and whether we’ll be remembered than cishet people do. how mcr talks about this reminds me a lot of the sappho fragment tumblr passes around ever so often... “someone will remember us / i say / even in another time.” (comparison/parallels post of mcr lyrics and that quote by @milfygerard (and added onto by me) here.)

and that brings us back around to the theme of hope vs inevitability... as i mentioned earlier, this theme isn’t necessarily totally queer on it’s own, but as with talking about memory and legacy the way mcr does, if you talk about it so much that it becomes a core theme in all of your albums it ends up feeling a lot more queer than before. hope vs inevitability in mcr’s work connects to love and death and both at once and is just everywhere. and it ends up connecting to the way a lot of queer people think about our death and our mortality and our hope. and how the future and the past are thought about in connection to these themes i think is kind of queer too — when your history is barely spoken and your present is in hiding, of course you look to the future. despite that that means looking towards the ending. and maybe you embrace that ending, because what else is there to do?

i’m very sorry. this was not short. if you have questions, or want to tell me how i’m wrong, or have your own thoughts, do not be afraid to dm me or send me asks please... fascinating topic.

#long post #nonsense #love and death #mcr thoughts file #gender hours once again #asks #hangernhigh #i like ur profile picture!!#death mention #violence mention #ask to tag ???#natasha writes #q slur

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the-nysh · 4 years

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At what point in the story you started liking Garou as a character? What was his first impression on you and how did it changed later as the story progressed?

Oooh! What a GREAT question, I’m so glad you asked! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ (Cause yes, my perceptions of him certainly did change over time! And that’s one of the fun things I love to see happen with other opm fans too.) So let’s see…*pulls up a chair and shovel to dig thru nearly 5yrs of archives* where to begin~

It was definitely a gradual process (so buckle in, this is gonna be a looong chronological trip thru memory lane. About 3500~ words!)

First impressions

Early on (and cause I’m skeptical to most new characters who I don’t ‘know’ yet), I remember feeling kinda like ‘huh? Who the heck is this guy? This wannabe Hiruma-lookalike (recognizing some of Murata’s recycled Eyeshield 21 char design elements for him) with some silly double Vegeta hair? The hell does he think he’s doing??’ Beyond being kinda incredulous about him, I honestly didn’t really give him much passing thought or attention either, and definitely not anything on a deeper level yet. He was just kinda there (I suppose?), but also out there forcefully (cockily and somewhat annoyingly?) inserting himself as the ‘villain’ into the story at times (which wasn’t really my thing), seemingly WAY in over his head with reckless antics and overambitious about what he was claiming to be and challenging himself to do (which I thought seemed both ridiculous and ironic to set up like that when characters like Saitama exist to directly check/refute his aims).

So at the time I wasn’t fully ‘on board’ or invested much in his story/concept yet cause I hadn’t really seen him…define himself (beyond those first impressions) into his own fleshed-out character. Because he still kept reminding me too much of other characters (I even heard him with Hiruma’s voice) rather than breaking out on his own. Murata’s early art also had yet to really evolve and settle him into his own distinguishable ‘face’ for that matter too (he would though later, when he’d draw ‘Garou’ recognizable as himself and not like…‘Hiruma’s shadow’ anymore). So with all that coming in, it’s hard to ‘see’ or genuinely ‘like’ a char at first when they haven’t done much yet to distinguish themselves from others and grow into their own. (Oho, how time will tell~)

This impression of Garou hadn’t really changed much and continued all thru the Metal Bat fight, by the way. (I actually caught up to the manga around the time Murata introduced MB with the centipedes and was about to start his fight with Garou. Events which weren’t on my highest priority to see either, cause I still mostly preferred seeing Saitama + Genos interact instead.) But on a surface level, I at least knew Garou was fun/impressive to watch and his excitable/feral energy was infectious and entertaining (Murata really knew how to hype him up too), but other than that, I’d yet to really ‘like’ him on his own (enough to talk/blog about) still.

I first eased into reblogging stuff with him back in Oct 2016, which included the first reblog of his back muscles (lol) appreciating how Murata drew him facing Watchdog Man so ksjggh that part of the story (when Murata was teasing their fight) was also when Garou starting having a presence on my blog. :O

First turning point

However, I distinctly remember the first ‘aha I see now’ point in understanding him better was when I did a second reread of the webcomic. (I don’t exactly remember when that was, but probably sometime during the tournament arc when the pace was kinda dragging, so I prob reread the wc around then for fun.) It was around early-April 2017 when I later admitted that (in the tags):

I’ve come to really like Garou, a second read of the webcomic made me fond of him, of his background and ideas he wished to set out and change, his heart was in it and he had his set of morals, but he was young and brashly took the wrong path, I really want to see him return someday now that he's learned better

Cause following the big webcomic reveal at the end of his arc (when Saitama calls him out), going back thru his entire story again you could totally spot all the consistent hints and signs (from both his backstory and actions) ONE sprinkled the entire time, making everything revealed about him true, and not suddenly sprung up outta nowhere. It was finally like ‘aaah, I understand what’s up with him and can sympathize where he’s coming from. Yes that makes sense. :O’ However, this clarity/acknowledgment had yet to shift from simply ‘seeing’ or understanding a thing as knowledge, to actually feeling it (connecting on a deeper/personal level) later. That’ll remain a big distinction.

May 2017, I first started writing some early meta break downs about him, starting with his end-arc parallels in Suiryu’s despair moment and from this, there was acknowledgement how all ONE’s manga additions (up til then this was still all tournament arc stuff) were only building further context towards what’s to come much later on in the webcomic.

June 2017, I started posting stream coverage about him (vs Watchdog Man stuff when he intercepts King and Saitama.) Around this time I also admit this kinda stuff in tags ‘goodness how I love that this nerd has a soft spot for that kid (truthfully he's not monstrous at all)’ for appreciating the manga’s wholesome extra Tareo moments.

Second big turning point

Around Sept-Oct 2017 was when post content/stream coverage kinda started exploding during the whole vs A/B heroes + shed fight. This whole sequence, following the tournament arc, was the first big long-awaited return back to the wc’s script (with style!), but with significant expansions (esp to his character) never seen before. In particular, the bullet shielding moment was changed/revised from him simply standing there in the wc, to Garou protecting Tareo in the shed.

Truly awesome and moving because dang, he selflessly put his life on the line for that ‘Garou the determinator fending off the impossible while protecting a kid ;o;’ Firmly standing up to (injustices) and revealing his solid moral core, like wow, what a guy. <3

Murata’s stream output picked up significantly back then too (compared to his slower pace drawing the previous arcs), so I also admitted: ‘gosh been cheering for Murata's hard work just like Garou's in-chapter determination!’

But also cause this whole fight was like the first actual, legit demonstration (shown, not told) of Garou’s prodigious fighting skills, intelligence, tenacity, resourcefulness, perseverance, etc. Like this is what he’s actually capable of when pushed to the brink; testing the actual quality of his character (showing his true colors) and allowing those merits to shine while under unfavorable, difficult, and desperate conditions. And all impressively done in a way to make the audience both believe it and root for him (presented from his side much like a protagonist? Wild! 8D) It was extremely thrilling and badass (truly that whole shed part was brilliant, narratively and spectacle-wise. As I’ve repeatedly gone back to write about many times and again. :’D) My impressions of Garou around this time:

yoooo boi see I really like Garou, the wild prodigy determinator with a misguided goal, going all out and demonstrating his talent and prowess (even tho he gets in over his head), PROTECTING CHILDREN WHEN HE PRETENDS HE DOESN'T CARE, omfg what a softie (as Saitama would say) :'D, yaaa see he was never a 'real' monster at all, Saitama can see straight through him, and what he REALLY wants to achieve

Dec 2017, first started getting some sporadic Garou anons after the whole epic manga spectacle vs Genos + Bang + EC fight with everyone.

Jan 2018, back when Garou was captured in the MA base and then left to his own devices above ground…things started getting really interesting. Including noticing ONE’s more careful (or perhaps more transparent?) approach to writing Garou’s manga portrayal this time around. Different and more nuanced from the wc for instance, so there were many fascinating contradictions and complexities to uncover (break down meta-wise) about his convictions, beliefs, thoughts, feelings, and how he applied those thru his actions and behavior (revealing decisive acts of character). This was when @gofancyninjaworld also started joining in to discuss and explore Garou’s ongoing dilemma with his goals and mindset. “His heart is in the right place, but his means are not, because at his core, he’s not a monster.” I admitted ‘Garou’s one of the most well-written characters in the story, I feel.’ And I was really looking forward to all the significant changes ONE was doing to make his manga story all the more defined and cohesive than it already was in the wc. That made things extra engaging (when there’s a desire to look deeper into things for fun and excitement for more).

Third turning point

Feb 2018 Oooh man. It was around here, (when Garou saves Tareo from the bullies and confronts RR and Bug God) that I was really starting to feel that shift happening (the impression of him turning into something more), so I had to comment on his ongoing characterization presented thus far (budding into a well-rounded, 3 dimensional character) and how ONE was (re)writing him in a more personal, sympathetic light that made him so easy to root for and genuinely likeable. I was fully AWARE of this happening and what both Murata and ONE were doing to increase his appeal. Admitting the more they revealed of him the more I was falling deeper for him, and fully welcoming it by narrative design. (Like alright let’s goooo! 8’D) Cause it was obvious how much differently and expansive he was getting portrayed vs the wc (with much less moral ambiguity). I said:

“Garou’s not simply a rogue, prodigious teen going on a spiteful rampage with an overconfident, slasher smile. Consistently, he’s been shown what really makes him tic: what gets him serious, passionate, sincere, and desperate – things that force his hand to either fight or defend against, with standards and ideals that he’d put his life on the line for. All of it is great: a variety of expressive emotions and definitive acts of character that all build towards the whole. Which we’re then left to ponder exactly what that is. Is he truly a villain or a hero? Is he really a troublemaking bad guy or actually a misguided ‘nice guy’? The answer isn’t so black and white; it’s more like a mix of ALL of the above. And I LIKE that. As ONE has presented him, Garou is Garou, and not really someone to align or classify as simply one or the other. He’s in that kind of delicious gray zone where he’s getting put to the brink to show his true colors. And it’s so GOOD and refreshing to see.”

That plus the manga showing his deeper bond with Tareo, his gruffly protective qualities (ok but that’s kinda hot?) and a more sincere showing of his morals (which he refused to budge on no matter what anyone else ordered him to do), brought on all the feels. :’)

Stream coverage + ch commentary devolved to like unintelligible screaming, with some ‘man he’s so fucking cool,’ or ‘damn protective Garou’s SOO good,’ or ‘I swear the more Murata draws of him the more I fall for him like wtf,’ or even the flat out ‘GODDAMMIT MURATA ;A;’ types of suffering reactions, ahaha.

At this point I was all ‘bring on the Garou appreciation; he deserves it; I have a mighty NEED’ but was kinda annoyed/frustrated with the fandom cause there was hardly any recent fan content of him (relevant to his current plot progression, it was all suspiciously dry or old ship-related content I wasn’t interested in cause the plot had moved on, so I was like omg where is everybody, hello?!) It was already a dry spell in between seasons so overall fan content was slow anyway, but it seemed like there were so few actual fans of him (to my confusion?!) So I started making my own content (beyond just the stream coverage and ch reactions/commentary + meta) with the expression posts appreciation.

March 2018. U-uhoh, things (and posting frequency especially) were starting to escalate. His reaction to literally getting backstabbed by the monsters and losing Tareo (his quiet but seething controlled feral rage) definitely had me feeling™ things.

Final nail in the coffin

April 2018 Oshit;; Garou forcefully storming and bulldozing his way thru the MA base, his awesome BIG DAMN HEROES moment rescuing Tareo from Royal Ripper, to his hilarious absolute tsundere™ moment denying it (before running into Rover and immediately protecting the kid again) pretty much destroyed me. This was also like the first time I’d seen ONE make a character go full tsundere mode and pull it off in a genuine comedic way (with the classic ‘it’s not like I came here to save you or anything baka’ line and all) so pfft, that was so much endearing icing on the cake. :’D

At this point someone even asked me who’s my favorite opm character, to which I was all, ‘Garou’s current manga content has been on fire so he’s been quickly skyrocketing into my favs (if he wasn’t there already)!’

But then Murata soon dropped THIS ‘protect the child’ page all with perfect timing, and I was…fucking doomed.

'sugoi ojisan' was pretty much the moment of instant death for me ;A; my constant reaction to the streams has been that gaijin 4koma meme with laser heart eyes for emphasis, and I'm pretty much losing my ability to articulate much beyond screaming at this rate

Garou’s behavior could then be summarized as ‘a very stubborn and in denial asshole tsundere little shit nerd. <3’ But there was classic ONE heartwarming irony in there too, cause Garou hadn’t fully ‘lost’ his battles either…during those critical times where he actually assumed the role of the ‘hero’ for Tareo instead. (Oho~)

basically Garou is a great character, the more you look into how ONE has built him the more meta af it gets

May 2018 (the long-awaited debut of the wc ‘scarf’ vs Rover towards Garou vs Orochi’s epic wtfshitstorm) lolwhoops~ I finally made the inevitable back muscles compilation while also writing longer, more in depth meta posts about him.

Murata delivered some of the best stream content we’ve seen of him. (Completely on FIRE, both literally and figuratively. And looking back, this was probably some of the most fun Murata’s stream sessions ever got. :’D Was awesome to be a fan tuning in during this time.)

even Murata was doodling chibis of himself freaking out in the margins XD

Delivering content from the pose of peak badassery…to dropping stream doodles of peak heartwarming/cuteness (Garou & Tareo in suits) on the fans for good measure.

bam Murata’s out to kill us with his art ...Murata can you like -maybe- chill? ABSOLUTELY NOT

Basically Murata knew exactly what he was doing, always delivering and servicing the fans (drawing the coke bottle was a fan suggestion too) yet also remaining a huge tease~

Towards S2 and beyond

June 2018, following the Orochi fight, Garou was put on a bus and absent from the manga for a while, so I went back revisiting older content again (rereading the manga for fun) and realizing/noticing/wondering stuff I hadn’t really caught about him before like…oh no why is he cute?? Was he always this way or had my eyes finally opened after everything??? (Cause aside from him being a little shit or a cool badass, he was also a complete dork and a nerd, and an oblivious dummy, and just…that was so…wtf endearing, a full package of fun to enjoy.)

But we soon got clips of Midorikawa’s voice reveal (from the opm drama cd) and all hell broke loose among the resident Garou fans. 8’D Especially cause his voice was ‘dark/smooth/mature/sexy’ as opposed to a higher-pitched, unhinged teen voice many had expected (remember that old Hiruma voice I first thought for him? So interestingly many fanboys were disappointed with this deeper voice casting). But also cause Midorikawa said “I’ll do my best to make Garou even more charming than before,” so we were excited to see Garou’s popularity spike even more cause of s2.

Aug 2018, the s2 key visual revealed with Garou prominently featured up and center and I WAS NOT PREPARED!!! I remember having like a full hyper-incoherent breakdown because of this so…yeaaaaah. 8’D I was all rationalizing,

If anything it’s all Murata and ONE’s fault that (the hype and appreciation for him) feeling’s grown even stronger. He was already a thoroughly fun walking meta source, but the manga made his softer/compassionate moments much more obvious (than in the wc). Just watch as this badass dorky nerd becomes even more hugely popular than he already is!

April 2019 was his anime debut…coincided with his post-arc WEBCOMIC DEBUT AFTER 5 FUCKING YEARS (before he even returned in the manga even) IMPECCABLE timing from ONE, holy shit people lost their minds. Including Murata, who had to draw him too! With all that and the anime airing (adding even more wholesome cute Tareo interactions not seen in the manga), fandom participation (+anons) really started to kick off.

I remember seeing the influx of new fans and how so many (who didn’t ‘know’ him yet either) would unironically label him as genuinely ‘evil’ or a ‘heinous villain’ at face value, which….uhhhhhh were the kinda takes that were hard to take seriously, but I appreciated how ONE’s writing allowed the readers to see and think for themselves as the narrative revealed more (rather than believing everything the characters said or claimed), so it’d only be a matter of time until they ‘saw’ the truth about him too. :’)

May-July 2019 the anime continued airing with fandom activity popping, until August when he finally reappeared and ‘awoke’ in the manga! ;A; After like an entire full year of him mia too. This was also the time frame when all the thirsty (and interestingly meta-hungry) Garou anons started (finding me???) regularly chiming in with fun participation. I was grateful though, cause they prompted certain takes I couldn’t have come up with on my own, and allowed me to think, examine, and explain things much more closely and thoroughly than I had ever posted before. (Yaaay~) Such as looking into just what IS it about him?!

“Garou wouldn’t be as compelling, engaging, and appealing as a character without (all) those other interesting layers and nuances to talk about too! :D It’s even better that way! Cause Murata can draw everyone looking drop-dead gorgeous and conventionally attractive, so just having a pretty face and impressive muscles isn’t enough to make him stand out in a special way from the rest of the cast. Already all those things (about him) are certainly impressive, so just what is it about him in particular? (That makes him unique.) The fact Garou has all that AND those other compassionate & interesting qualities to him just makes it the icing on the cake for a complete, well-rounded package. The fact we can know him, for all his feelings and attitude why he behaves and acts the way he does, such as when he’s contradictory, troubled and tsundere-like sometimes, to hardcore and badass other times, to softer and empathetic to fiercely righteous, protective and determined other times, and all portrayed in the way he’s capable of the range (and makes us feel) the entire spectrum of emotion too. …Like whoa (I could keep going but I’d be preaching to the choir at that point aha), all that only enhances what’s already there. In this way, I feel the Garou we’ve come to know by now is much more endearing and appealing than the one we were introduced to at the start. Because as he appeared then, he may have seemed like just another wannabe thug-of-the-week we might not have given much passing thought & attention to. But now…uhoh, you could arguably say he’s grown to the point he’s almost taken over the rest of the manga (within good reason!) by challenging our perception of who’s even the active protagonist. :O Who keeps us engaged and tuned in to see more. Buaha, just what the hell happened?! Now that’s quite the impressive feat from both ONE and Murata to create a character with a lasting impact like that!”

…So that’s what happened. :’D In my opinion, I feel Garou’s best moments where we (or really, I) got to know him better (shed scene, Elder Centipede aftermath, dine n dash, rescuing Tareo, all up towards his fights vs Rover & Orochi) mostly only happen until after s2 so… Since those were some of my absolute fav manga moments (which only enhanced my perceptions of him), those’ll be the moments I’m really looking forward to see animated in s3. But most of all, I’m hoping to witness some of that same ‘aha!’ gradual realization process happen to newer fans who come to appreciate him too. :’3

#Anonymous #replies #opm #garou #commentary #long post #(readmore pls actually work! ...i think it broke after editing it once)#anyway THIS took plenty of time to put together and relive/remember all those moments from years ago 8'D #how things certainly changed (and escalated!) but here's a breakdown of everything; enjoy~

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