#God that fucking post is so noxious

[kyliafanfiction]

Padme didn’t just “lose the Will to Live” because Anakin fell.

She was witness to three years of horrible war, while she constantly and desperately tried to hold a government she loved and had dedicated her life to defending together, in the face of creeping autocracy and systems breakdown. She endured the stress of maintaining a secret relationship, hiding it from friends and family and all the people in her life.

She then not only saw the man she loved turn to fascism, but murder hundreds, thousands of people, including people she knew, and watched the Senate fucking applaud the death of liberty and the rise of the Empire - organized by a man who, whatever their political disagreements, had once been a treasured mentor and even probably a friend once.

She watched her life’s work burn, and then - and THEN her husband, the man she loved, not only turned on her, but tried to fucking choke her to death and nearly succeeded. THEN after all that, she gave birth in what appears to have been a particularly difficult birth (I can’t imagine nearly dying helped), and the compound psychological and physical stresses killed her.

It’s really not fucking hard. 

But no. It’s just ‘George Lucas is baffled by the Uterus’. Because it’s so much easier to say that than to engage your brain for five seconds.

[the-punforgiven]

God I wish there was a way on spotify to be like "Save this song to my library because I like listening to it, but also it sucks shit and I hate it, don't recommend this shit to me again"

[eddiezpaghetti]

It has come to my attention that SOME OF YOU who read my last Byler post remain UNCONVINCED. So I'm gonna tack onto it this:

I'm older than fucking God and air, and I've been out and proud since 2007. Yes, I know what homophobia is, and yes, I know what queerbaiting is. I know about Supernatural and Teen Wolf and Sherlock and blahdyblahdyblah. No new ground is being covered here. I thought I made that clear in the original post, but, clearly, I did not.

I am aware of queerbaiting and homophobia, and I'm still wholeheartedly certain in Byler being canon anyway.

Okay, so there are three types of relationship I want to discuss when it comes to queerbaiting. They're all, like, "queer relationships that could have happened, but didn't".

First off, queer-coding. This isn't really a thing so much anymore, but it still crops up every once in a while. I'd argue it probably happens most with male-male relationships in family shows these days. First example that comes to mind is Mr. Smiley and Mr. Frowny from Steven Universe. You can't make a relationship canon because some shitty overhead bastard overhead said no, so you get as close as you can without compromising the show. Can't make someone gay? Well, now their comedy routine is a blatant allegory for a romantic relationship. Boom-shaka-laka. This is something I don't see being a problem with regards to Stranger Things, but I want it to be there as contrast, a demonstration of one of many things queerbaiting is not. However, one could argue that, thus far, Will Byers is, canonically, queer-coded. It's pretty fucking heavily implied in the show, and the creators have confirmed it, and you're gonna be able to see it if you're not FUCKING BLIND, but word of god is not technically canon which means that interviews don't technically make something canon, blahdyblahdyblahdyblah, technicalities, Robin has been explicitly stated in the text to be queer while Will has, thus far, not, outside of good ol' Show-Don't-Tell. Of course, anyone with two brain cells to rub together can tell that that's going to change by the end of Season 5, but, hey, for what it's worth, I'm throwing this out there.

Alrighty, Thingamajingama Number Two: "Oops, I accidentally made the greatest love story known to man." AKA, a genuine, honest-to-goodness mistake. Unfortunately, we do live in a heteronormative society. Sometimes people who don't think about being gay much write a friendship that's incredibly compelling and don't even consider the possibility that it could have been read as romantic. Something something Top Gun something. This is, again, not queerbaiting. This is Steddie, this is Ronance, this is Elmax, this is your favorite flavor of non-canon ship this week, this is not Byler. The creators know DAMN well what they're doing. They've talked about it. We know this. Nothing new here.

Which brings us to the topic of discussion here. Actual queerbaiting. This usually starts out as an "accidental greatest love story", and then reacts to fan response. And when I say "reacts", I mean like a goddamn chemical reaction. Like bleach and ammonia, bitch. It's noxious and it's gonna kick your fucking ass without mercy. This is when a creator is like, "Hey, let's get our queer audience invested, but we're not actually going to give them what they want because our straight audience isn't here for that/we personally think it's gross/we don't give enough of a shit to want to research a goddamn thing to write a real gay character," blah blah blah whatever excuse they want to come up with this time.

And when you think "queerbaiting", I want you to think "bullying". Because that's what it is. It's lucrative bullying, like beating us up and taking our lunch money, but it's bullying all the same. And it's a real goddamn thing, even if people misuse the word a lot, often when they mean one of the two above, sometimes when they mean "bury your gays", which is another homophobic thing entirely that I'm not going to get into here. Queerbaiting is the thing we're focused on, and it's real, and it's bullying. And here's the reason I want you to think of it as bullying:

They

Think

It's

Funny.

They are actively making fun of us.

That's why Dean had the "Cas, get out of my ass," line in Supernatural. It's why the "Do you like boys?" line happened in Teen Wolf. It's why "Lie with me, Watson," happened in the RDJ Sherlock Holmes movies. Because "It's just a joke, mate." "It was just a prank, bro." "You didn't really think it would happen, did you?" "You should see your face."

So here's probably the biggest reason I don't think it's specifically queerbaiting in this specific instance of Will Byers and Mike Wheeler.

Stranger Things has never, not once, made a gay joke. Ever.

Every single time queerness comes up, it's dead serious.

Lonnie calls Will a fag, and the show is not at all reluctant to show what a goddamn horrible person he is. And when Hopper latches onto that, it's not as "Hahah, is he gay, though?" It's because he's trying to determine a potential motive for Will's disappearance, and even if someone had interpreted it as a joke, Joyce immediately has a line that functions as snapping her fingers in front of the audience's face and yelling "FOCUS" when she says "He's MISSING." Basically outright saying "This isn't funny!"

Troy calls him a fairy, along with targeting Lucas and Dustin for their skin color and disability respectively, and Mike gets damn near murderous. Troy is portrayed as a goddamn monster and the show portrays it as justice when El makes him piss his pants and later breaks his arm.

Steve calls Jonathan "queer" as a slur and gets the shit beat out of him for it.

Billy's father is revealed to be homophobic and abusive in the same breath.

Mike says "It's not my fault you don't like girls!" and we're shown how devastated Will is and Mike immediately follows him to beg for forgiveness.

There is a joke in Robin's coming-out scene, but it's not at Robin's expense. It's at Steve's. Specifically for being heteronormative.

Jonathan has multiple scenes where he's trying so hard to tell Will that he's always going to love him as he is, whether he's gay or not, without pressuring him to come out before he's ready.

Even when there's a little bit of ribbing at Robin's expense, it's always because she's an awkward nerd who's nervous around pretty girls, just the same as Lucas and Dustin are teased when they both first develop crushes on Max, and even then, even then, it always comes as a package deal where they make fun of Steve's girl problems at the same time.

Stranger Things is an emphatically pro-gay show. It may not be the core point of the show the way it is in, say, Our Flag Means Death, but there is nothing less than respect for its queer characters. Its queer characters are always taken completely seriously. No one is making fun of us. They never have. That's why I have serious doubts that this is queerbaiting. It would come completely out of left field for the bullying to start in Stranger Things' final season.

So it's not at all likely to be queerbaiting because queerness is taken completely seriously. The creators have talked about Will's queerness, at least, so it's not an accident. And queer-coding would be silly to expect from this show when it's already on its final season. Like, what is Netflix gonna do? Cancel it? Not to mention all the explicit queerness that's in there already. And no one's gonna "What about the children?" a show that's had sex scenes in it since the first season.

There's no fakeout here. It's gonna happen. Breathe.

[kingofthecotas]

ivy

post-aragón, vale & pecco & the ever-present spectre of marc | ~900 words

hi hello i write things sometimes

———

Valentino doesn’t call until Monday, when the heat of anger has faded and the dust has been washed from his hair, seven hours behind and six hours spent on track—one of Marc’s tracks, irony of ironies.

(Sometimes he wonders if he can ever extricate himself from this, from them, from the noxious tendrils that have wound themselves into the sport’s neurones and synapses, an incurable infection of the central nervous system.)

Pecco almost hesitates to answer—still afraid of disappointing him, even after all this time—but his shoulder throbs when he reaches out to pick up his phone and he suddenly wants the sound of Valentino’s voice, even if it carries judgment.

“Hello?” he says, cautious.

“Are you okay?”

“Sore. Will bruise, but fine. I’ll be okay for Misano.”

Valentino hums. “Good.”

Pecco searches for something, anything, that doesn’t remind him of gravel crunching, his head snapping forwards as one hundred and fifty kilos of aluminium and rubber collided with the back of his helmet. “Sorry about your race. It was going well.”

“It was. It was fun.” He can almost see Vale waving his hand. “I have already complained to Maro. I want to make sure you are okay.”

“Fine.”

There’s a pause, silence loaded with something Pecco can’t quite identify. “And Álex?”

Ah. “Fine as well. We both got checked over.” Pecco swallows. “I, ah, spoke to him. Or—he asked to speak to me, in private, so we did. I—I am still pissed off, but it was not deliberate. I know that now.”

Valentino hums again. “But you said it.”

So this is what he really called to talk about.

“I was pissed off. Martín—”

“I know,” Valentino says, and there’s something there, not quite the disappointment Pecco feared but something like it. “Be—just be careful, Pecco, yes? If you are going to start this, be ready for where it might take you.”

“I am not starting anything.”

Again, it’s, “I know.” Then, “I know it is hard when you are hurt and angry, and there are points slipping through your fingers. But think about what you are saying.”

“Yeah.” Pecco would be more annoyed if this wasn’t coming from experience.

“Ah, maybe you do not need my advice anymore—”

“Of course I do,” Pecco interrupts, chest fluttering at the mere idea of Valentino ever becoming superfluous to him.

“Get into it with Marc all you want. He is expecting this. The team are expecting this. He will give it back to you, and somehow, he will be ready to forgive.” Valentino pauses. “Do not make his brother part of it. That—that is where there was no coming back for us, truly.”

Pecco’s breath catches, because Vale sounds—unsettled. Sad, even. “I—”

“Do you understand?”

He does. “Fucking—the week before Misano, as well. It will be messy.”

“Not too messy. Not yet.” Still fixable, is what Vale doesn’t say, but they both know anyway. “But—you can handle it. You will do better than I did.”

Quietly, Pecco thinks there couldn’t have been many worse ways to handle it all. There are certainly better ones. He can’t remember when that thought first came to him: maybe when he’d won, that first time, Aragón of all places, the king of Marc’s castle, and Marc had been—disappointed, yes, but still there with a smile and a congratulatory word. Not what Pecco had been expecting, from everything Vale had said. Maybe Vale had been wrong.

Marc has done many things to Pecco since then, but that first doubt, the first fallacy of his god, was the most earth-shattering.

“I should speak to Marc—”

“Don’t make it about him.”

“I already have.” It’s like pulling a barbed thread out through his throat, admitting that, reminding himself what he said to the cameras and microphones when he was aching and exhausted and too hot with it all to think about the consequences. “They already have, because if it is me and Álex then it is you and him.”

The silence is long this time, presses in, a storm cloud rolling over before the heavens open and lightning shatters the sky. Pecco almost stutters out an apology, except Valentino must know, because he was the one who wanted to talk about it in the first place.

When Valentino sighs, it hisses in Pecco’s ear. “It will always be about us somehow, Pecco. You will have to hold it.”

And here is what Vale did not tell them when they vowed to carry his legacy, unmistakable yellow in their young faithful hands: it would always be entwined with the ivy-choke of Marc.

Us, Valentino still says, not me and him. If he has still not managed to free himself, what hope does Pecco have?

(He knows the answer. He never will. But he can hold it, can hold the vine-twisted history alongside the bright yellow heritage.)

There’s a lot he could say. He swallows it down, sits on it all. “Are you coming on Wednesday?”

“Of course.”

“See you then. Put the weekend behind us.”

“Get ready for Misano,” Vale agrees. “One of your favourites, and you have raced there already this year. Maybe you do not even need to train, hm?” A laugh, so Pecco knows he’s only joking. So Pecco knows Valentino believes in him. “Ah, they are calling for the plane. I will speak to you soon.”

Pecco doesn’t say so you still think he is forgiving. You still think he can forgive you. He doesn’t say he’ll be in a good mood today, if you called. He closes his eyes, says, “Safe flight. See you on Wednesday.”

[kelvintimeline]

I saw that person liveblogging the podcast yesterday and one of the posts was like “she’s saying he used butter on her…. Which is a weird and suspicious detail because from what we know about Neil’s sex life he would for sure have a bottle of lube at hand” BE SO FOR FUCKING REAL…. YOU DONT KNOW THIS MAN. YOU DONT KNOW HIM

It's very weird to watch THIS type of parasocial relationship where he's simultaneously a Sex God who would never need to resort to rape (which... hm) and also a 60 year old minor who has never had sex before so he can't be blamed if he doesn't notice he's raping someone.

And sometimes it's the same person claiming both at the same time.

He's anything he needs to be to maintain his innocence. Too pathetic to be a rapist, too cool to be a rapist, too beloved, too nice on tumblr, too pro-trans, too neurodivergent, too good at BDSM, too edgy, too progressive, too much this tumblr user's long distance, one sided friend

And beyond the parasocial aspect of it all, it's just incredibly noxious to have this idea that being [x] means you cannot rape someone.

Okay, so Neil is a guy who would always have lube on hand which someone means he wouldn't use butter on a very, very young girl (relative to himself)... why? Because it would be uncomfortable and dangerous for her health to use butter for a lube? Why are we assuming he cares? Why are we assuming he didn't like the degradation aspect of it regardless of her comfort?

Who are we assume he didn't choose butter for the cruelty of it, even if we someone know he "really is the type to always have lube?"

Is he the type to care when he has lube somewhere but butter is more convenient?

When he's the type who COULD easily get sex from grown women and not barely legal girls who he has explicit power over but chose to go for the girls because they're more malleable and convenient and disposable and easier to victimize?

For men like him, the awfulness is the point. And I'm not saying as if i know him but... it's not exactly an uncommon phenomenon for men (or people of any gender but so often... men) to be awful, to treat women worse than they should be, simply because they can. I don’t know him but I know the type.

Sex God Neil with the Lube, Sex Novice Neil who can't tell when a woman is being a coerced... either one could be awful simply by choosing to be. Neither is innately a good human being, good sexual partner, and not a rapist.

[marcelwrites]

It was a lively weekend. The bar was packed with an assortment of roach like creatures in human skin. I kept them with a good supply of alcohol and received praise for killing them. A drop dead gorgeous woman was flirting with me (we'll return to her in a moment) while I made her bartender friend a drink, I was forced to listen to the friend talk about her "dinosaur" co-workers that forced her to work after 8pm. My best mate and I stood behind the bar and we nodded along where appropriate in the story. It was unbearable and I could see the entitlement dripping from her pores like noxious grease. When she had fucked off my best mate and I pissed ourselves laughing. Afterwards, the gorgeous friend asked me to guess her age, I said 20, and she replied that she was 25. She then leant in closer to me and said that her pussy was 20. I immediately thought that's what women feel like they're hit on by men. When I was closing the bar she came over to me and gave me her snapchat and mobile number. I begrudgingly accepted her snapchat and then immediately got a chat from her, I replied with, "I'm not 12, just text me," to which she responded "Your attitude is so hot." My attitude is literally just me bartending from 2 until 2, 12 straight hours, and not wanting to deal with a bunch of drunk chicks. I kept thinking about the bartender friend and why you would even work a job you actively hate. This is Australia, if you don't want to work a job you hate, you don't fucking have to. Just quit and stop ragging on your "dinosaur" [see: 40 year old] co-workers. She had that hotness that was directly proportional to how fucking terrible she was. I will say her boyfriend was a friendly bloke though and I gave him a couple of free drinks. He'll need them to deal with her. I can guarantee that she's cheating on him. I just know the type. Anyway, I just remembered that she said her family's from Croatia and they moved here to get away from poverty. Okay, if that's the case, how do you not have a shred of self-awareness. The fact that I remember all these stupid fucking details are a good indicator of how annoying she was. White dress, tanned skin, dagger nails, oppressively white teeth, and the personality of a cheese grater. I miss the days back in 2013 when I started bartending at night clubs around the city and you'd meet an assortment of colourful characters but at least they had a personality. The Scene girls were the best. God, I miss them. Bartending is one of those professions where you really jump into the deep end of the human condition, meeting the absolute best and worst of humanity. Alcohol is the great equaliser in that after enough everyone is equally insufferable. I love what I do but I'm thankful I don't drink. My life's been too eventful to fit in a reasonable sized text post this evening so I'll update you again another day.

[chiangyorange]

You ever think about how Isles added a. Checks notes. Goddess of flow. Because I think about that.

thank fuck isles canonically is not a real realm that exists

nah but fr tho i DO actually have quite a few thoughts on how isles fits in to the overall narrative of mianite being such a strange offshoot compared to s1 and s2 read more if u want, i will say that its gonna get rambly and also im going to drop a few of my design notes about the isles gods specifically if that interests you

i have been piecing together lore via friends and the mianite wiki (which is a fucking dumpster fire for anyone that's trying to look for a specifics in lore but i digress) so not everything people may care about will feature in here (like the whole light/dark thing. gandus, she shadows, w/e im just focusing on the overall story. sorry but there is only so much i can handle atm) i DO actually think that isles is really interesting despite my initial dislike for it towards the end (yes yes ik but i can admit that i was a little. too indulgent of myself at the time) ANYWAY i think isles was some sort of like... fucked up puzzle box reality???? of the s1 world because there are just SO many references to s1 like ianites heart being stolen and dianite slowly becoming more demon-like and all those theories way back when of isles really being s-1 like its a prequel of s1 world which i think its semi true?? basically my thoughts are; isles is an offshoot mimic world intended to emulate the life of the s1 gods in their youth for whatever reason, and in their timeloop is trying to create a trap? a new world? essentially perfect the mannerisms and legitimacy of a real realm like the realm of mianite and the realm of ruxomar. why tom n jordan got pulled into it interrupting the timeloop for a moment, who knows. (also in reflection? thats so fucked up and rude to karl like king is trapped in a timeloop for no goddamn reason) the 4th god is weird tho and i hated every minute of it stop trying to make trio into 4 challenge (impossible, apparently) i choose to believe that the 4th god thing only happened because of fucked up timeloop interruption consequence ONTO MY DESIGN NOTES

so. you probably noticed that their hands have visible joints like a doll or a marionette puppet. that is entirely intentional bc i legit think the isles gods are not real and instead constructs made with to have god-like powers. (shameless plug to the og post here if you wanna see every design ive made of the gods layed out all at once)

each design is supposed to be just a little uncanny like with all of them having pupils compared to the s1 and s2 gods who i draw them without. their smiles are a little too wide to match with their eyes. the green and red of ianite and dianite's eyes are a little too bright and noxious. overall i really wanted them to look as unsettling as possible if you imagine them limp and slumped over like a broken doll and theyre all dressed in something that is a little too perfect you know? like mianite looks like a friend you meet in the town square, ianite looks like a damsel princess, dianite is a handsome prince, like theyre all dressed a little too royal from a classic fairytale-- theyre too good to be true.

augh i think i have more to say but theres already so much in this one post that ill save it for another time

[minorfamilysupremacy]

Not an ask I just want to thank you because like most of us, I am also a grown adult who often can't keep updated on most things and honestly hearing that Bible is acting childish ..kinda makes sense and also I too am pissed off and over BOC

this post is for the handful of anons in my inbox and also @claudiasharon, who wanted to know what the fuck is going on:

while you're most assuredly welcome, i want to be clear that whenever i post about this shit, i am not enjoying the callout aspect of it. callout posts got us into the original mess and as a general rule, i loathe them. i'm just a hurt and furious former stan who got taken for a ride by several shitheads, and bible scrambling to revise history like we all got collective amnesia or are too fucking stupid to remember things that happened all of two years ago makes me even angrier.

his most recent claim, in an interview that hasn't been released yet -- only the promo is out -- is this (subtitles are in the promo, not fan-translated):

yes, everyone, as usual, bible is the true victim, and fucking pond even moreso, despite the fact that BOC has since produced a reality show, a movie, and two television shows (as well as one they made and then just never released, i guess? sorry wuju), and bible himself had 50 engagements the year build's career went to hell. it's a wonder he can do the interview with the boss' boot shoved so far down his throat, in all honesty.

he is also making up sob stories, complete with crocodile tears, about growing up poor (he grew up rich and went to an international school) and almost failing at his dream and letting the family down (he admittedly struggled with acting, but was a working model and studying engineering, an extremely lucrative field, so it's not like the family would have starved without KP).

it is insane how obtuse, callous, and audacious this fucking shit is. first off, we have eyes. we saw your fucking interviews and your quotes and the parasocial dweebs on twitter probably have your five-year record of bowel movements timed to the second. (of course, my information is coming from parasocial dweebs on twitter, so.) secondly, what the literal fuck is wrong with you? are you really looking at the guy who got his career destroyed, almost driven to suicide, had years' worth of dirty laundry leaked at a deliberately-slow trickle to instill maximum damage, and going, 'well, actually, pond and i had it worse :('

pond chose to sit and wring his hands uselessly over a situation he could have prevented in the first place had he banned sucking and fucking between coworkers at the outset. you continue to flap your jaws ceaselessly and try to rewrite history -- 'nuh uh! i NEVER cared about build!' -- like the internet isn't forever and a whole hell of a lot of people can't pull receipts at the drop of a hat. you are an unprofessional, mean-spirited, heartless, dishonest, unbelievably noxious cunt masquerading as a human being. you continue baiting the bear that is social media and then whining when the bear takes your arm off. both of you SHUT THE FUCK UP about build. SHUT THE FUCK UP. he is out of your lives. he is doing nothing to you. he has not mentioned your fucking name once since he apologized for the last set of leaks, while you have been spiraling into the image of a middle-aged dad who's been divorced since 2013 but still can't get over how his bitch ex-wife wronged him.

and even without build in the picture, you come off like a spoiled little brat. when your heinous show finished (and thank god it has), the first thing you did was run to social media to bitch about the ending and how much you hated it. couldn't even be professional for five fucking minutes, huh? you think you're some kind of golden god because you're the boss' current fave and you're sleeping with his niece on the DL? (by the way, homie, your subterfuge with that one is about as well-kept a secret as harvey weinstein was. we all know you're fucking and have been for ages.)

newsflash, shitbag! pond cares about you inasmuch as you're of utility to him! as long as you behave yourself and playact as his personal propaganda machine, then you're fine, but do you really think that the second he so much as sniffs a hint of liability on you that he won't drop you like a hot potato? i, for one, fucking hope he does and soon, because watching someone who was once heralded as one of the brightest new talents in BL prostitute themselves for the whims of a greedy, lying narcissist and torch mountains of international goodwill in favor of making a career as a professional victim makes my stomach turn. if you ever take a mike's hard look at yourself and realize what a chump you've been played for, i hope it fucking hurts you like watching you play us for chumps for so long did to us as a fanbase. but i sincerely doubt you will ever wise up, because isn't it more lucrative and convenient to be a soulless ghoul and not have to take accountability for being an asshole?

eat shit, dude. i hope when the ship finally goes down and pond's tied you to the mast, that it was all worth it.

[melancholy-ember]

Missing Moments #2

This takes places at the end of chapter twelve, the blow-up scene, the only difference is it’s in Lucy’s POV. 

Chapter 13 was going to be Lucy’s POV, and then I realized that for plot it literally had to be in Kate’s... thus, this “missing moment” was born! Under the cut, and again friends, this one is rough. And honestly, in my opinion, hurts more than the one that ultimately ended up getting posted...

So, enjoy I guess...?

“Because you put me on a pedestal!” Lucy forced out, feeling something in her heart give way to the pain. There was so much pain, too much, and she didn’t know what to do with it anymore. Bottling it up wasn’t working. Ignoring it wasn’t working. Day in and day out, it just sat there, unmoving, slowly tinting the entire world red because she was sad and hurting, but more than that… 

Lucy was pissed.

And somewhere, deep inside and nearly hidden by the insurmountable mountains of pain and anguish and rage, she knew… she knew that the anger didn’t belong to Kate. The upset and undeniable, sharp sting of betrayal? Sure. But this… these heavy black storm clouds of pure wrath that followed Lucy wherever she went… hovering about her head, liable to burst at any second…

No.

Those belonged to Pruitt.

But the anger was bleeding into the pain, and the pain was feeding from the anger, and Lucy was struggling to keep the two of them separated because everything hurt but Kate was hurt and that took precedence. It would always take precedence. So she grit her teeth and did her very best to keep the two noxious, venomous feelings separated, even as it felt like she was going to war within the confines of her own heart and mind.

The inherent magnetism that sought to perpetually bind the emotions together was strong and most of the time the brunette felt stronger, but right now… with Kate pushing and Cara’s smirking, scarlet-painted lips taunting and the anger rolling and the pain screaming…

Lucy’s grip was slipping.

“And when I asked about it, you said ‘who else would it be’ like it was…”

Be quiet.

The brunette took in a ragged breath. Across from her—across the distance that had somehow become a battlefield—Kate was doing the same thing. Her brown eyes were wide and wet, tears falling steadily. Lucy didn’t want this, she hadn’t wanted this. The words wouldn’t stop. “God Kate, you turned me into a superhero for the sweetest, gentlest little—”

No.

Not Holden. Off limits.

“—and that’s when it started to crack. As if that wasn’t enough, you asked about Pruitt and let me talk about my trauma while you were in a fucking hospital bed, recovering from getting shot and it didn’t work anymore!”

That was the tipping point.

Pruitt’s name was the trigger.

Lucy’s fragile, unsteady hold slipped, and within the sanctuary that was supposed to be her own body...

All hell broke loose.  

Pain became anger, anger became pain, and all Lucy could see was pulsing, vivid red.

She felt like she couldn’t draw in a full breath. The world was narrowing down, anything that wasn’t the erratic pounding beat of her own heart or Kate’s wide-eyed stare was forgotten.

“Don’t you see,” the brunette implored quietly, desperately, the words chipped and broken under the strain of trying to hold everything back. Lucy was so tired of holding everything back. Their eyes met, and she watched as Kate flinched backwards at whatever the blonde must have seen sparking in her gaze. Lucy didn’t know.

All she could feel was pain.

So much fucking pain.

Stop.

But she couldn’t stop, not now. Not when the pressure that had been sitting on her chest was loosening up, not when it felt like she might finally be able to breathe. Just a little bit more. A little more steam, and she would be done.

The words kept coming, falling out of the brunette’s mouth before she could stop them, tripping over themselves in their haste to be voice—burning to be offered to the world after being silenced for so long. “It doesn’t work anymore. If you didn’t care about me, you wouldn’t have turned me into a hero for Holden. You wouldn’t have tried to help me recover from Pruitt. You wouldn’t have—"

Stop. Talking.

…a little more released pressure and then maybe—maybe—Lucy would be able to fucking breathe.

“—you wouldn’t have done all the things you did to show that you so obviously cared. But if you do really care, then how… then how could you do this to me?”

ENOUGH!

The crimson-tinted haze cleared.

Lucy’s scrapped and bloodied strength regained control, gripping the reins of pain and anger in hands that were shaking, straining from the effort. She didn’t feel the slightest bit better—in fact, she felt worse. So, so much worse. The world was blurred through her tears, and all she could see was a kaleidoscope of smeared colors and objects. Nothing was in focus.

Nothing except Kate.

Kate, who had hurt her.

Kate, who cared for her.

Kate—who’s steady, quiet tears had darkened the collar of her shirt.

Kate—who looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the very foundation of her being and smashed it to smithereens.

No, not someone…

Lucy.

Because fuck—the distance between them wasn’t a battlefield… and it never had been… because how could have been, if Lucy was the only one who had thought to bring any ammunition?

No… this hadn’t been a battle.

This had been a fucking ambush.

And Kate looked shattered.

I didn’t mean to do this. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t want to hurt her.

Intent was meaningless.

I'm sorry, I didn’t—

But Lucy did. 

And Lucy had. 

Kate’s legs started wobbling, the muscles no doubt aching and seizing in protest as the blonde continued to stand up. As she continued to ignore her body’s demand to rest, all for the sake of taking the brunette’s poison-tipped and pain-fueled words that must have struck like bullets.

Bullet.

Because Kate had been shot and Lucy had silently vowed that she was going to take care of her, that she was going to help her, and what had she done instead? Because this… this wasn’t helping. This was—this was hurting and Lucy—

Lucy was going to be sick.

Leave.

I need to leave. I need to leave. I need to fucking leave because I can’t—I can’t—

“I can’t,” Lucy wheezed, stumbling back in a desperate bid for freedom. The pain was anger, and the anger was pain, and the reigns were slipping again, and Lucy refused. She would not lose control, not again, but she wouldn’t have a choice soon which meant it was time to go. “I can’t do this. I didn’t mean to do this. I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to do this. You don’t—this is the last thing you need—”

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I didn’t mean to.

The brunette sucked in a deep breath, and the air burned its way down into her lungs. Panic clawed at her throat. “I'm going to…I need to go.”

Now. I need to go now.

By some miracle, she managed to make it to the front door, and freedom was in her grasp as Lucy forcefully pried it open.

Panic was swirling, mixing dangerously with pain and anger and the world had starting to tip sideways, sounds that weren’t the brunette’s own labored breathing muffled and distorted through her ringing ears. Just as Lucy was about to stumble out of the apartment—something crashed into her back.

Someone.

Everything snapped back into focus.

The panic evaporated. The anger quieted.

The pain clumped itself around her heart, once again stagnant. Still.

Everything was so blissfully, blessedly still.

Kate’s breathing was labored, heavy and trembling in her ear and of course—of fucking course—the press of Kate’s body against her own was enough to make everything stop. Because for all that the blonde had been the ache, she had also been the remedy and Lucy felt the last dregs of her wrath surrender, falling into submission willingly as their bodies breathed in tandem.  

Against her back, Lucy could feel the way Kate was trembling. It made her stomach churn violently. “Don’t—you don’t have to—”

Lucy’s eyes fluttered closed at the quiet plea. Didn’t Kate see? After all of this, couldn’t she understand just how inherently bad they were for each other right now? How easily Lucy had lost control? “I do. I do, because I tried to press it down, but I only hurt us both and I don’t want to do that anymore, okay? I don’t want to hurt us. I don’t want to hurt you, and the worst part is that I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I have to go. You have to let me go.”

I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted that.

The grip around her waist tightened in response to the words, and the brunette felt a piece of herself break away and shatter at the feeling.

“Kate,” Lucy begged quietly, tears falling once again. The reigns were slipping again. “Please, just let me go.”  

There was another long, drawn out moment of hesitation and Lucy was just begun bracing herself for the inevitable meltdown that she could feel brewing in the core of her very fucking soul, when Kate’s grip suddenly released. The blonde stumbled backwards, unsteady and trembling, and Lucy hated how much she wanted to spin around and tug the other woman close again.

I’ll hurt her.

“Please don—you’ll call? O-Or just text?” the blonde sniffed, and Lucy could feel the burn of eyes on her back. She wondered if Kate could see the way she was shaking. “Not today or even tomorrow but… soon? Please?” The words were quiet, filled with so much desperation and pleading that the brunette felt what was left of her heart clench in her chest, and then promptly splinter, fracturing into a million tiny, irreparable pieces.

I’ll hurt her.

It would have been so much easier if Lucy had been right all those months ago and Kate simply didn’t care. The pain from feeling insignificant in the eyes of the woman who made her world turn was nothing compared to the sheer agony Lucy felt now—knowing she cared for, but not being able to do a damn thing about it. Not right now, when everything felt like it had flipped on its head, and she was trying so hard to right them all.

I won’t hurt her.

Whether Kate recognized it or not, Lucy wasn’t safe company right now. Not when her emotions were more like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, and certainly not while the blonde was still fighting her way through her own recovery. The upset was still there—Lucy still felt betrayed and hurt and yes, even a little angry—but she also refused to punish Kate for things the other woman had no part in.

Those feelings, the dangerous ones that sometimes leaked out despite her very best intentions, had no business being around Kate right now, and it was foolish to have tried.

Today showed her that.

Simply put, until Lucy could trust herself, they needed space.

“I don’t know,” is what she ended up saying, quietly. Behind her, Kate made a wounded, awful sound that ripped through Lucy like a blade. It was time to go. “Goodbye, Kate.”

[no0dlru]

I was feeling nosy the other day, and followed the twitter link in my beloved's Instagram bio. Having just had a gander again...

Goddamn, X really fuckin' sucks. It's like curdled tumblr. The whole sigma [topic]cel e-girl irony/non-irony thing going on is noxious. Ppl's interrelationships seem so unnecessarily fraught and self-depricating and insecure. I'm not saying tumblr doesn't have weird femcels and so on, but I am saying they're free-range girlbloggers, they're enjoying their cigarettes, lana del rey and schizoposting too much to worry about 'getting anons' or whatever. Ppl here aren't competitive. There's no "mogging" shit going on or whatever. Nobody gives a fuck about clout, or appearances, and there's a mutual understanding that everyone's cool to just be themselves. The old adage, that twitter is like high school and tumblr is everyone smoking behind the bike shed, is as true as ever.

If, through similar snooping, you are reading this, consider it a sign; join me, behind the proverbial bike shed, for a doob. There's professors here, too, even. You can discuss whatever theories you want, meaningfully, in as many characters as you need, and ppl will genuinely engage. You can shitpost out the wazzoo. You'll never see people listing books they've read to check if they're more theorycel than their peers (for the love of God that's so cringe). Hell, even if you're gonna frame it in twitter's foul tongue, tumblr is just a more sigma website anyway (I feel ill saying that). Just think of all the niche memes you'll see months before x/ig users. I wouldn't judge you for anything you post, I mean, if you're reading this, I'm at peace with you seeing mine. If not, that's also cool, love you.

[qqueenofhades]

Do you really hate this county? Or were you just ranting?

Sigh. I debated whether or not to answer this, since I usually keep the real-life/politics/depressing current events to a relative minimum on this blog, except when I really can't avoid ranting about it. But I have some things to get off my chest, it seems, and you did ask. So.

The thing is, any American with a single modicum of genuine historical consciousness knows that despite all the triumphalist mythology about Pulling Up By Our Bootstraps and the American Dream and etc, this country was founded and built on the massive and systematic exploitation and extermination of Black and Indigenous people. And now, when we are barely (400 years later!!!) getting to a point of acknowledging that in a widespread way, oh my god the screaming. I'm so sick of the American right wing I could spit for so many reasons, not least of which is the increasingly reductive and reactive attempts to put the genie back in the bottle and set up hysterical boogeymen about how Teaching Your Children Critical Race Theory is the end of all things. They have forfeited all pretense of being a real governing party; remember how their only platform at the 2020 RNC was "support whatever Trump says?" They have devolved to the point where the cruelty IS the point, to everyone who doesn't fit the nakedly white supremacist mold. They don't have anything to do aside from attempt to usher in actual, literal, dictionary-definition-of-fascism and sponsor armed revolts against the peaceful transfer of power.

That is fucking exhausting to be aware of all the time, especially with the knowledge that if we miss a single election cycle -- which is exceptionally easy to do with the way the Democratic electorate needs to be wooed and courted and herded like cats every single time, rather than just getting their asses to the polls and voting to keep Nazis out of office -- they will be right back in power again. If Manchin and Sinema don't get over their poseur pearl-clutching and either nuke the filibuster or carve out an exception for voting rights, the John Lewis Voting Rights Act is never going to get passed, no matter how many boilerplate appeals the Democratic leadership makes on Twitter. In which case, the 2022 midterms are going to give us Kevin McCarthy, Speaker of the House (I threw up in my mouth a little typing that) and right back to the Mitch McConnell Obstruction Power Hour in the Senate. The Online Left (TM) will then blame the Democrats for not doing more to stop them. These are, of course, the same people who refused to vote for Hillary Clinton out of precious moral purity reasons in 2016, handed the election to Trump, and now like to complain when the Trump-stacked Supreme Court reliably churns out terrible decisions. Gee, it's almost like elections have consequences!!

Aside from my exasperation with the death-cult right-wing fascists and the Online Left (TM), I am sick and tired of how forty years of "trickle-down" Reaganomics has created a world where billionaires can just fly to space for the fun of it, while the rest of America (and the world) is even more sick, poor, overheated, economically deprived, and unable to survive the biggest public health crisis in a century, even if half the elected leadership wasn't actively trying to sabotage it. Did you know that half of American workers can't even afford a one-bedroom apartment? Plus the obvious scandal that is race relations, health care, paid leave, the education system (or lack thereof), etc etc. I'm so tired of this America Is The Greatest Country in the World mindless jingoistic catchphrasing. We are an empire in the late stages of collapse and it's not going to be pretty for anyone. We have been poisoned on sociopathic-libertarian-selfishness-disguised-as-Freedom ideology for so long that that's all there is left. We have become a country of idiots who believe everything their idiot friends post on social media, but in a very real sense, it's not directly those individuals' fault. How could they, when they have been very deliberately cultivated into that mindset and stripped of critical thinking skills, to serve a noxious combination of money, power, and ideology?

I am tired of the fact that I have become so drained of empathy that when I see news about more people who refused to get the vaccine predictably dying of COVID, my reaction is "eh, whatever, they kind of deserved it." I KNOW that is not a good mindset to have, and I am doing my best to maintain my personal attempts to be kind to those I meet and to do my small part to make the world better. I know these are human beings who believed what they were told by people that they (for whatever reason) thought knew better than them, and that they are part of someone's family, they had loved ones, etc. But I just can't summon up the will to give a single damn about them (I'm keeping a bingo card of right-wing anti-vax radio hosts who die of COVID and every time it's like, "Alexa, play Another One Bites The Dust.") The course that the pandemic took in 21st-century America was not preordained or inevitable. It was (and continues to be) drastically mismanaged for cynical political reasons, and the legacy of the Former Guy continues to poison any attempts to bring it under control or convince people to get a goddamn vaccine. We now have over 100,000 patients hospitalized with COVID across the country -- more than last summer, when the vaccines weren't available.

I have been open about my fury about the devaluation of the humanities and other critical thinking skills, about the fact that as an academic in this field, my chances of getting a full-time job for which I have trained extensively and acquired a specialist PhD are... very low. I am tired of the fact that Americans have been encouraged to believe whatever bullshit they fucking please, regardless of whether it is remotely true, and told that any attempt to correct them is "anti-freedom." I am tired of how little the education system functions in a useful way at all -- not necessarily due to the fault of teachers, who have to work with what they're given, and who are basically heroes struggling stubbornly along in a profession that actively hates them, but because of relentless under-funding, political interference, and furious attempts, as discussed above, to keep white America safely in the dark about its actual history. I am tired of the fact that grade school education basically relies on passing the right standardized tests, the end. I am tired of the implication that the truth is too scary or "un-American" to handle. I am tired. Tired.

I know as well that "America" is not synonymous in all cases with "capitalist imperialist white-supremacist corporate death cult." This is still the most diverse country in the world. "America" is not just rich white middle-aged Republicans. "America" involves a ton of people of color, women, LGBTQ people, Muslims, Jews, Christians of good will (I have a whole other rant on how American Christianity as a whole has yielded all pretense of being any sort of a principled moral opposition), white allies, etc etc. all trying to make a better world. The blue, highly vaccinated, Biden-winning states and counties are leading the economic recovery and enacting all kinds of progressive-wishlist dream policies. We DID get rid of the Orange One via the electoral process and avert fascism at the ballot box, which is almost unheard-of, historically speaking. But because, as also discussed above, certain elements of the Democratic electorate need to fall in love with a candidate every single time or threaten to withhold their vote to punish the rest of the country for not being Progressive Enough, these gains are constantly fragile and at risk of being undone in the next electoral cycle. Yes, the existing system is a crock of shit. But it's what we've got right now, and the other alternative is open fascism, which we all got a terrifying taste of over the last four years. I don't know about you, but I really don't want to go back.

So... I don't know. I don't know if that stacks up to hate. I do hate almost everything about what this country currently is, structurally speaking, but I recognize that is not identical with the many people who still live here and are trying to do their best, including my friends, family, and myself. I am exhausted by the fact that as an older millennial, I am expected to survive multiple cataclysmic economic crashes, a planet that is literally boiling alive, a barely functional political system run on black cash, lies, and xenophobia, a total lack of critical thinking skills, renewed assaults on women/queer people/POC/etc, and somehow feel like I'm confident or prepared for the future. Not all these problems are only America's fault alone. The West as a whole bears huge responsibility for the current clusterfuck that the world is in, for many reasons, and so do some non-Western countries. But there is no denying that many of these problems have ultimate American roots. See how the ongoing fad for right-wing authoritarian strongmen around the world has them modeling themselves openly on Trump (like Brazil's lunatic president, Jair Bolsonaro, who talks all the time about how Trump is his political role model). See what's going on in Afghanistan right now. Etc. etc.

Anyway. I am very, very tired. There you have it.

[notsoheadless]

Remember Longcat, Jane? I remember Longcat. Fuck the picture on this page, I want to talk about Longcat. Memes were simpler back then, in 2006. They stood for something. And that something was nothing. Memes just were. “Longcat is long.” An undeniably true, self-reflexive statement. Water is wet, fire is hot, Longcat is long. Memes were floating signifiers without signifieds, meaningful in their meaninglessness. Nobody made memes, they just arose through spontaneous generation; Athena being birthed, fully formed, from her own skull.     You could talk about them around the proverbial water cooler, taking comfort in their absurdity. “Hey, Johnston, have you seen the picture of that cat? They call it Longcat because it’s long!” “Ha ha, sounds like good fun, Stevenson! That reminds me, I need to show you this webpage I found the other day; it contains numerous animated dancing hamsters. It’s called — you’ll never believe this — hamsterdance!” And then Johnston and Stevenson went on to have a wonderful friendship based on the comfortable banality of self-evident digitized animals.     But then 2007 came, and along with it came I Can Has, and everything was forever ruined. It was hubris, Jane. We did it to ourselves. The minute we added written language beyond the reflexive, it all went to shit. Suddenly memes had an excess of information to be parsed. It wasn’t just a picture of a cat, perhaps with a simple description appended to it; now the cat spoke to us via a written caption on the picture itself. It referred to an item of food that existed in our world but not in the world of the meme, rupturing the boundary between the two. The cat wanted something. Which forced us to recognize that what it wanted was us, was our attention. WE are the cheezburger, Jane, and we always were. But by the time we realized this, it was too late. We were slaves to the very memes that we had created. We toiled to earn the privilege of being distracted by them. They fiddled while Rome burned, and we threw ourselves into the fire so that we might listen to the music. The memes had us. Or, rather, they could has us.     And it just got worse from there. Soon the cats had invisible bicycles and played keyboards. They gained complex identities, and so we hollowed out our own identities to accommodate them. We prayed to return to the simple days when we would admire a cat for its exceptional length alone, the days when the cat itself was the meme and not merely a vehicle for the complex memetic text. And the fact that this text was so sparse, informal, and broken ironically made it even more demanding. The intentional grammatical and syntactical flaws drew attention to themselves, making the meme even more about the captioning words and less about the pictures. Words, words, words. Wurds werds wordz. Stumbling through a crooked, dead-end hallway of a mangled clause describing a simple feline sentiment was a torture that we inflicted on ourselves daily. Let’s not forget where the word “caption” itself comes from: capio, Latin for both “I understand” and “I capture.” We thought that by captioning the memes, we were understanding them. Instead, our captions allowed them to capture us. The memes that had once been a cure for our cultural ills were now the illness itself.     It goes right back to the Phaedrus, really. Think about it. Back in the innocent days of 2006, we naïvely thought that the grapheme had subjugated the phoneme, that the belief in the primacy of the spoken word was an ancient and backwards folly on par with burning witches or practicing phrenology or thinking that Smash Mouth was good. Fucking Smash Mouth. But we were wrong. About the phoneme, I mean. Theuth came to us again, this time in the guise of a grinning grey cat. The cat hungered, and so did Theuth. He offered us an updated choice, and we greedily took it, oblivious to the consequences. To borrow the parlance of a contemporary meme, he baked us a pharmakon, and we eated it.     Pharmakon, φάρμακον, the Greek word that means both “poison” and “cure,” but, because of the

limitations of the English language, can only be translated one way or the other depending on the context and the translator’s whims. No possible translation can capture the full implications of a Greek text including this word. In the Phaedrus, writing is the pharmakon that the trickster god Theuth offers, the toxin and remedy in one. With writing, man will no longer forget; but he will also no longer think. A double-edged (s)word, if you will. But the new iteration of the pharmakon is the meme. Specifically, the post-I-Can-Has memescape of 2007 onward. And it was the language that did it, Jane. The addition of written language twisted the remedy into a poison, flipped the pharmakon on its invisible axis.     In retrospect, it was in front of our eyes all along. Meme. The noxious word was given to us by who else but those wily ancient Greeks themselves. μίμημα, or mīmēma. Defined as an imitation, a copy. The exact thing Plato warned us against in the Republic. Remember? The simulacrum that is two steps removed from the perfection of the original by the process of — note the root of the word — mimesis. The Platonic ideal of an object is the source: the father, the sun, the ghostly whole. The corporeal manifestation of the object is one step removed from perfection. The image of the object (be it in letters or in pigments) is two steps removed. The author is inferior to the craftsman is inferior to God.     Fuck, out of space. Okay, the illustration on page 46 is fucking useless; I’ll see you there. (21) But we’ll go farther than Plato. Longcat, a photograph, is a textbook example of a second-degree mimesis. (We might promote it to the third degree since the image on the internet is a digital copy of the original photograph of the physical cat which is itself a copy of Platonic ideal of a cat (the Godcat, if you will); but this line of thought doesn’t change anything in the argument.) The text-supplemented meme, on the other hand, the captioned cat, is at an infinite remove from the Godcat, the ultimate mimesis, copying the copy of itself eternally, the written language and the image echoing off each other, until it finally loops back around to the truth by virtue of being so far from it. It becomes its own truth, the fidelity of the eternal copy. It becomes a God.     Writing itself is the archetypical pharmakon and the archetypical copy, if you’ll come back with me to the Phaedrus (if we ever really left it). Speech is the real deal, Socrates says, with a smug little wink to his (written) dialogic buddy. Speech is alive, it can defend itself, it can adapt and change. Writing is its bastard son, the mimic, the dead, rigid simulacrum. Writing is a copy, a mīmēma, of truth in speech. To return to our analogous issue: the image of the cheezburger cat, the copy of the picture-copy-copy, is so much closer to the original Platonic ideal than the written language that accompanies it. (“Pharmakon” can also mean “paint.” Think about it, Jane. Just think about it.) The image is still fake, but it’s the caption on the cat that is the downfall of the republic, the real fakeness, which is both realer and faker than whatever original it is that it represents.    Men and gods abhor the lie, Plato says in sections 382 a and b of the Republic. οὐκ οἶσθα, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὅτι τό γε ὡς ἀληθῶς ψεῦδος, εἰ οἷόν τε τοῦτο εἰπεῖν, πάντες θεοί τε καὶ ἄνθρωποι μισοῦσιν; πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις; οὕτως, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὅτι τῷ κυριωτάτῳ που ἑαυτῶν ψεύδεσθαι καὶ περὶ τὰ κυριώτατα οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν ἐθέλει, ἀλλὰ πάντων μάλιστα φοβεῖται ἐκεῖ αὐτὸ κεκτῆσθαι. “Don’t you know,” said I, “that the veritable lie, if the expression is permissible, is a thing that all gods and men abhor?” “What do you     mean?” he said. “This,” said I, “that falsehood in the most vital part of themselves, and about their most vital concerns, is something that no one willingly accepts, but it is there above all that everyone fears it.” Man’s worst fear is that he will hold existential falsehood within himself. And the verbal lies that he tells are a copy of this feared dishonesty in the soul.

Plato goes on to elaborate: “the falsehood in words is a copy of the affection in the soul, an after-rising image of it and not an altogether unmixed falsehood.” A copy of man’s false internal copy of truth. And what word does Plato use for “copy” in this sentence? That’s fucking right, μίμημα. Mīmēma. Mimesis. Meme. The new meme is a lie, manifested in (written) words, that reflects the lack of truth, the emptiness, within the very soul of a human. The meme is now not only an inferior copy, it is a deceptive copy.     But just wait, it gets better. Plato continues in the very next section of the Republic, 382 c. Sometimes, he says, the lie, the meme, is appropriate, even moral. It is not abhorrent to lie to your enemy, or to your friend in order to keep him from harm. “Does it [the lie] not then become useful to avert the evil—as a medicine?” You get one fucking guess for what Greek word is being translated as “medicine” in this passage. Ding ding motherfucking ding, you got it, φάρμακον, pharmakon. The μίμημα is a φάρμακον, the lie is a medicine/poison, the meme is a pharmakon.     But I’m sure that by now you’ve realized the (intentional) mistake in my argument that brought us to this point. I said earlier that the addition of written language to the meme flipped the pharmakon on its axis. But the pharmakon didn’t flip, it doesn’t have an axis. It was always both remedy and poison. The fact that this isn’t obvious to us from the very beginning of the discussion is the fault of, you guessed it, language. The initial lie (writing) clouds our vision and keeps us from realizing how false the second-order lie (the meme) is.     The very structure of the lying meme mirrors the structure of the written word that defines and corrupts it. Once you try to identify an “outside” in order to reveal the lie, the whole framework turns itself inside-out so that you can never escape it. The cat wants the cheezburger that exists outside the meme, but only through the meme do we become aware of the presumed existence of the cheezburger — we can’t point out the absurdity of the world of the meme without also indicting our own world. We can’t talk about language without language, we can’t meme without mimesis. Memes didn’t change between ‘06 and ‘07, it was us who changed. Or rather, our understanding of what we had always been changed. The lie became truth, the remedy became the poison, the outside became the inside. Which is to say that the truth became lie, the pharmakon was always the remedy and the poison, and the inside retreated further inside. It all came full circle. Because here’s the secret, Jane. Language ruined the meme, yes. But language itself had already been ruined. By that initial poisonous, lying copy. Writing.     The First Meme.     Language didn’t attack the meme in 2007 out of spite. It attacked it to get revenge.     Longcat is long. Language is language. Pharmakon is pharmakon. The phoneme topples the grapheme, witches ride through the night, our skulls hide secret messages on their surfaces, Smash Mouth is good after all. Hey now, you’re an all-star. Get your game on.     Go play.

[theramseyloft]

i read your long pigeon poop post, and after some poking around online i saw that a loft in melbourne australia failed. do you have any idea why that is?

Oh... my fucking God. I am so furious.

Look at this thing!

$70,000 went into this monstrosity?

It looks like they converted a fucking water tower by punching holes in it and welding on entryways shaped like the stereotypical toddler’s first house drawing!

Who fucking researched this?!

Was it designed by a committee purely by aesthetic?!

Here is an article I found on it’s decomission and removal.

https://www.theage.com.au/national/victoria/melbourne-city-councils-70000-pigeon-loft-turned-into-scrap-metal-20160724-gqcmsc.html

According to the pigeon expert quoted in this article: 

“Frank Hayes is the president of the Australian National Pigeon Association. While his group is mostly interested in show pigeons, a different breed to the city pests, he says it was fairly predictable the coop idea was never going to work.”

“ "The nature of the pigeon is that they find a home and they stick with it. So finding them somewhere else to go is a bit of a dream," said Mr Hayes.”

“ "Trying to shift them is one big headache. It's a worldwide problem and no one has ever figured out how to deal with it." ” 

LOOK at this structure!!!

It’s made of fucking METAL!!!

In AUSTRAILIA!!!

In the fucking OPEN!!!!

From this charming article:

 http://melbournedailyphotodaily.blogspot.com/2011/03/pigeon-loft-batman-park.html

“The loft is painted with light coloured corrosion resistant to reflect the heat and minimise internal over-heating. It houses two hundred nesting boxes for pigeon breeding. Eggs laid will be replaced with artificial eggs intended as a humane way to control and reduce pigeon numbers.”

That is a metal structure in the Melbourne sun...

No amount of Paint is gonna make that less an oven.

And I can’t imagine you can add anything to paint to make it corrosion resistant that isn’t noxious in a small space when the metal under it heats up.

“Bird feeding around the loft base is permitted to attract birds out of the CBD to this area. Bird feeding is not permitted in any other area around the CBD.”

But the city council is not actually providing the birds with good quality fed...

“... and no one has ever figured out how to deal with it."

No one, you ignorant twit?

NO ONE?!?!

Here is the site of a successful branch of the German Stadttauben Projekt, translated:

https://stadttauben-stuttgart.de/

“The Stuttgart pigeon project

Dear prospective customers,

nice that you found our homepage. We would like to introduce our project to you on the following pages:

The Stuttgart City Pigeon Project is an animal welfare-friendly concept for regulating and reducing city pigeons for the benefit of people and animals. We operate several supervised pigeon shots in the Stuttgart city area, in which the pigeons are cared for and their eggs are exchanged for dummies so that no offspring hatch. By the end of 2019, there had been well over 45,000 eggs. By feeding grain mixtures in our shots, the animals are no longer forced to look for food on the streets and squares in the area. They spend 80% of the day and the entire night in the dovecote. Ergo - your droppings also stay there and no longer land on roofs or balconies.

We were awarded the Baden-Württemberg State Animal Protection Award 2015 for our commitment .

The city pigeon is one of the most successful residents of the urban living space and today populates all major cities worldwide. It is the free-living descendant of the wild rock pigeons from the coastal and mountain areas in Africa and Eurasia. Long ago, the rock pigeons were domesticated by humans primarily for the purpose of meat production and thus also carried to our latitudes and cities. In modern times, the stock of the archetypal rock pigeon increasingly mixed with breeding, racing and sports pigeons that either escaped, were abandoned or, exhausted by exhausting competitive flights, ran aground in the cities. Today's city pigeons are the overgrown children and children's children of these rock, breeding and sports pigeons.

In cooperation with the state capital of Stuttgart, the Tierschutzverein Stuttgart und Umgebung eV launched the pigeon project in 2008. The cooperation was formed with the aim of bringing about a permanent and humane solution to the city pigeon problem.

The concept of the Federal Working Group for City Pigeons or the so-called * Augsburg Model * was helpful. It is based on scientific publications, practical experience and has already been successfully recommended by several federal states such as Hesse, North Rhine-Westphalia and Baden-Württemberg. Today it is implemented in more than 80 German cities and towns. For example, there are pigeon houses looked after in Aachen, Augsburg, Hamburg, Berlin, Frankfurt, Saarbrücken and Wuppertal.

We aim for a small, supervised and healthy pigeon population in Stuttgart. Then the image of the city pigeon may rise again. Because healthy animals, which have a permanent home and receive animal feed, do not bother anyone!”

https://stadttauben-stuttgart.de/?page=1,0,0,Chronik+%26+Fakten

“Care instead of fighting: our chronicle

2008:The first step was a dovecote at platform 1 in Stuttgart main station

2009:The second blow was made in the roof of the Leonhardskirche

2009:The third pigeon house was on the Mühlgrün parking garage in Bad-Cannstatt, which has since been demolished and replaced by the pigeon tower in the rope

2010:The fourth facility was the pigeon tower in the city garden on Max-Kade-Weg

2011:The fifth pigeon house stood on the roof of the town hall garage until February 2016. Reconstruction on the roof of the city comb in April 2016.

2011:The sixth dovecote was a second stroke on the roof of the Leonhardskirche (other roof side)

2013:The seventh dovecote was built in the roof of the Fairkauf building in Stuttgart-Feuerbach

2014:The eighth pigeon loft was built (as a replacement for the location at the main station) on a flat roof in the Kriegsbergstrasse

2016:Dovecote number 9 was inaugurated in July 2016 at the Marienplatz in Stuttgart in the roof structure of the imperial building

2017:

On Landhausstrasse in the east of Stuttgart, we were able to set up dovecote No. 10 in the attic of a residential building. It was opened in June 2017

2018:In summer, an indoor pigeon tower was opened at Seilerwasen in Bad Cannstatt as a replacement for the Mühlgrün pigeon house

2019In autumn a new pigeon facility was inaugurated at the station in Zuffenhausen and the first egg was laid in December.    

In addition, a dovecote (trailer) on the grounds of the shelter Stuttgart and Nistwand for about 30 pigeons on the will of the ASPCA Stuttgart  House  Adam Müller-Guttenbrunn in Stuttgart Zuffenhausen care.

... more dovecotes are to follow!

Health hazard facts

A health hazard due to pigeons flying around, running and sitting can be largely excluded. New scientific studies have shown (again) that pathogens that may be contained in the pigeon droppings are usually bird-specific and are therefore not transmitted to humans. This was confirmed in 1995 by the Federal Ministry of Health.

The general classification of the pigeon as a pest was withdrawn by the Federal Institute for Consumer Health Protection back in 1989 on the basis of research results at the time and the opinion from 2001.

Feed facts about pigeons

Feeding pigeons in Stuttgart is prohibited on public land. Well-meaning pigeon friends increase the population density of the city pigeons by regular feeding in the same place, without offering the additionally attracted animals sleeping and nesting places where they are tolerated or the clutch can be exchanged. This creates people who work there or often live more pigeon hate and more pigeon misery.

Above all, too many food scraps are thrown away on the streets and squares of the city! This waste is mostly not compatible with pigeons. They lead to illnesses, shortages and thus, among other things, to the unsightly liquid starvation. Nevertheless, due to the scarcity of bird-friendly feed in cities, these human foods are usually the main basis for the feeding of city pigeons, but their organism is designed for pure hard grain feed. So this means sick pigeon populations that nonetheless reproduce disproportionately due to their (pet) genes raised by humans.

If you would like to help sustainably, please contact us. Only other supervised dovecotes in the city area (including food and egg exchange) start at the root of the "problem". We welcome any support!”

From their gallery:

Here is a loft.

Small, wooden, well insulated from heat and cold.

Those openings are not the nests. They are just doorways with a landing ledge designed around the comfort of pigeons, which are social birds.

Here is the inside.

Lots of comfortable nest boxes, perches in the back, food, water, comfortable socialization space...

Here is an entry into another loft currently in use.

Here is the inside.

Water and feed are provided by the care takers. You can see feed and drinking stations all over the floor.

And this is the inside of a huge new loft in Frankfurt.

These German Taubbenhauses are designed around meeting the birds’ needs for food, comfort, safety from the elements, and socialization with their flock mates.

None of these birds had to be coerced or forcibly relocated.

Because their needs were better met, they came on their own.

Look at the $70,000 Melbourne monstronsity again!

More specifically, look at the bridge behind it.

And tell me where you would rather me.

Compact metal tower designed exclusively around convenient human access, metal nest boxes, 0 landing platforms, no socialization space, no protection from the elements, still no choice but to forage for what ever garbage people toss you...

or the comfortably Cool space under a concrete bridge with a convenient water source.

Three guesses what’s more comfortable for the pigeons.

Now, would you rather live under a bridge with constant noise from traffic, open to predators, 

or

A well insulated apartment building with comfortable suites, a spacious common area, and a nutritious free meal plan with clean water included by default.

"It's a worldwide problem and no one has ever figured out how to deal with it."

My ass, Mr. Hayes!

[blitheringmcgonagall]

My Gallant Lad - Part IV

So I got a wonderful anon telling me that this is their favourite Lily Rescues James fic, it’s part of my finished canon marauders fic We Can Be Heroes. But, because it works as a stand alone story, I posted it here in four parts. I hope you enjoy it! Set during the first wizarding war, Lily is very BAMF (but tbh so is James)

TW: angsty and violence

Part I here: After their worst row ever, Lily and James get captured by Voldemort...

Part II here: James tries to save Lily

Part III here: Lily tries to save James

PART IV

(PS this is not pro- Snape at all, quite the opposite, for this to make sense you’ll have to read the other parts, lol!)

Mulciber swallowed.

“Now help me lift Potter, and for fuck’s sake be careful, he’s perilously close to death as it is!” Snape said.

He was so angry his body was shaking in agitation.

Mulciber lifted James’ body as though it were made of glass.

                                       ***

“I’ll take it from here,” Snape ordered.

They were standing underneath the main door of the castle, which led into the courtyard.

“I thought we were bringing Potter and his vile mudblood to the Dark Lord?” Mulciber said, frowning suspiciously.

“Change of plan, Mulciber,” Snape said matter-of-factly. “I want to try and get Evans to talk, that way if Potter snuffs it, we won’t risk being beheaded by him.”

“What do you mean?” Mulciber looked at him in bewilderment. “If you attack Evans and manage to injure her also, we’re doubly fucked!”

“I won’t fuck it up, unlike you dithering idiots I actually know what I’m doing!” Snape says angrily.

Mulciber stared hard at him.

“Are you sure you’re Snape?” he said, narrowing his eyes and reaching for his wand. “You’re acting strangely and I-“

“He’s Snape all right, but under the Imperius Curse,” Lily interjected. “Expelliarmus!”

Mulciber’s wand flew into Lily’s outstretched hand.

“You?” Mulciber seethed. “How in Morgana’s hell did you manage to Imperio him? Last I heard you were wailing painfully awful songs from your cell, giving us all a headache! I thought you’d given up!”

“The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad, for all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad,” Lily shrugged. “You just hadn’t experienced the merry part yet!”

“You’re not a man,” Mulciber sneered.

“Ha!” Lily’s face broke into a harsh smile. “What Chesterton didn’t say about Irish women is that when they’re angry, all their wars are won!”

Mulciber stared at her sullenly.

“Not my fault that you consistently underestimate me, Mulciber!” Lily shot back. “You think you’d have learnt by now!”

Mulciber’s face looked like curdled milk.

“Too late,” Lily said. “Obliviate!”

Mulciber’s expression changed slowly to one of utter confusion as he looked between Lily, James and Snape. He hadn’t even seen the spell hit him.

“What happened to him?” he said, scratching behind his ear and staring at James’ body. “Where’s your Head Girl badge? Your uniform?”

“Quidditch injury,” Lily said flatly. “Vicious Slytherin tactics. One hundred points from your House, now back to your common room before I have you expelled!”

“Whaat?” Mulciber said, looking utterly bewildered.

“I’m counting till ten. Ten… nine… eight…” Lily said.

Mulciber stumbled and turned immediately, muttering incoherent protests.

“Not bad, Lily Evans,” Snape whispered with a vicious grin. “Not bad at all.”

                                                  ***

“Outside! Now!” Snape ordered.

Lily Evans remained silent as she walked outside at a steady pace, Snape following her and dragging James Potter’s body along the ancient flagstones.

“Now, it seems that nothing will persuade Dumbledore’s man to reveal what has happened to the Dark Lord’s precious treasure, a book Dumbledore’s men stole! Potter nearly died refusing to tell us. I’m ordering you to tell me, or I’ll make you kill your own husband!” he called out.

“No, I won’t tell you anything,” Lily said with effort.

“Wow! That’s dope!” Villiers whispered loudly to Wilkes.

The two men were sitting on the battlements having a smoke and peering down with interest at the scene unfolding below them.

“Look what Snape is up to! I never thought he was into that shit!” Wilkes replied. “He usually lets us handle that kind of stuff, says it’s boring!”

They looked at each other and grinned.

“Massive!” Villiers giggled, bumping fists with Wilkes.

Snape picked up his wand.

“Last chance, Miss. Evans,” he said, dragging James closer to the middle of the courtyard.

He was holding two other wands in his hand.

“What is going on here?”

Snape whirled around.

Voldemort was standing at the castle gate, and with him Evan Rosier. Voldemort’s wand was pointed at him.

“I am quite simply trying to establish the whereabouts of your missing book, my Lord,” Snape said. “I thought this might work.”

“Rosier here tells me you have been acting exceedingly strange,” Voldemort’s voice was icy. “He thinks you may be under the Imperius Curse.”

“Rosier is neither observant nor intelligent, my Lord,” Snape said stiffly.

“Be that as it may, Severus, you are not yourself, you would not usually dare speak to me with this much courage,” Voldemort replied, stepping forwards.

“My Lord?” Severus replied.

“Let us see what happens, shall we?” Voldemort said, whirling around at the last minute and pointing his wand at Lily.

“Stupefy!” Voldemort said with a lazy swish of his wand.

Lily Evans crumpled to the ground. Snape stood motionless, as though unsure what to do.

“Ah, the spell fades, I see. I had hoped you would not be so easily overcome by it. You disappoint me, Severus, I thought you were stronger than that. I thought you knew the mudblood well enough to watch out for any tricks she might play? Or were you too enticed by her beauty to focus on doing your job properly?” Voldemort spat out. “You shall pay for this mistake! And the object of your affections will most definitely pay.”

“I’m afraid I underestimated the mudblood,” Snape said, with a condescending smirk at the Dark Lord. “I don’t know her as well as I thought I did. She should perhaps have been sorted into Slytherin. It appears that Lily Evans is a devious little bitch!”

Startling emerald eyes glared at Voldemort from Snape’s face. As the wheels in Voldemort’s mind whirled, Snape removed a leather bracelet from his wrist and tapped it, revealing a large glittering brass key.

“Póg mo thóin, Riddle!” he said, flicking the V at Voldemort (who looked momentarily stunned) as he grabbed hold of James’ arm and apparated into thin air.

“I don’t get it,” Rosier said, looking at Voldemort and rubbing his forehead as though in pain. “Was that Snape? No, hang on.. what was..?”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” roared Voldemort, raising his head as his blood-curdling screams carried over the courtyard and into the surrounding forest.

He kicked out viciously at Rosier’s leg sending him hopping around in circles howling with pain. A family of carrion crows, disturbed by the commotion, flapped and squawked upwards from the turrets and battlements.

“Which one of you is the imbecile who allowed Lily Evans to escape?” he screamed at Rosier. “Why did none of you stop her?”

Villiers and Wilkes ducked down behind the walls of the battlements, grimacing.

A splash of white bird dropping landed on Voldemort’s nose. Rosier stared at him.

“You have some…” he said, pointing to Voldemort’s face. “Just there?”

Voldemort looked ready to kill him.

“If you don’t permanently dispose of this group of crows by Salazar’s soul, I will feed you to them myself!” he shouted wildly, waving his wand at Rosier, and rubbing his face furiously with the back of his sleeve.

“A murder of crows, not a group, but whatever,” Rosier muttered to himself, looking peeved, as he aimed Avada Kedavras at the screeching birds.

Voldemort walked over to the body of Lily Evans and stared at the darkening hair and sallower skin, Snape’s eyes looking up at him.

“Legilimens!” he intoned.

The memory was tampered with, powerfully, so that he was unable to see some of the earlier incidents, but he could see the conversation between “Snape” and Avery, Fuck Voldemort, I hate that bastard! Avery running off to hide from him. Seething with rage, he grabbed Rosier’s arm and touched his dark mark.

He watched as all his followers apparated around him, all except Snape who lay half-stunned on the ground, and Hugo Avery.

“Find Avery, bring him to me, now, or you all die!” he hissed, the red veins in his sclera protruding menacingly. “Nooooowwwww!!!!”

                                                  ***

 “I don’t know what happened,” Frank said, his croaky voice difficult to understand in between coughing fits.

“He needs to come with me to the Infirmatory,” Poppy interrupted, looking at Dumbledore and pointing towards the door.

Frank continued coughing and shook his head forcefully.

“We were ambushed… they were waiting for us… they wanted to get Black and Lupin,” he wheezed. “They got Lily and James… I wanted to create a diversion but before I could move, one of them released noxious fumes, no doubt to catch any other Order members, I was knocked out cold… I fell backwards and the thicket hid me from sight… woke up freezing cold a short while ago… I couldn’t find any trace of them whatsoever. I only got back just as Lily apparated here with James, he looks bad.”

The ancient double door burst open as he spoke, and Sirius Black stormed inside, his black jeans soaking wet, his leather jacket still in his hands, closely followed by a haggard-looking Remus Lupin.

“We came as soon as we got your owl. Where are they?” he roared, going straight up to Frank and grabbing hold of his collar urgently. “Where the fuck are they? Tell me!”

Remus found himself unable to utter a single word.

                                                     ***

The door of the Infirmary flew open, Sirius breathless as though he had just sprinted up five flights of stairs (which he had). He looked at Lily and seeing the pain and fear in her eyes, he forced himself to look at James lying unconscious in the bed behind her - it didn’t look like his brother, the bruised and battered body covered in what he immediately recognised as myriad curses, his usually tanned skin a deathly pale colour. He looked already dead. He looked back at Lily, the darkness under her eyes, her quivering lips.

“Lily,” he tried to say her name but no words came out, caught in his throat.

“I know, sweetie,” Lily’s voice a hoarse whisper.

Then they flung their arms around each other, gripping on for dear life. Sirius felt her chest heave and held her even closer as her quiet sobs filled the silent room, shattering his heart.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered back, his breath still caught inside his chest, trapped.

What could he say, hearing her heartbroken sounds?

“We won’t... we shan’t let him die,” he managed to say eventually, shutting his eyes tightly to stop himself breaking down. He moved to take both her hands in his own, looking down at her with tears in his eyes.

He didn’t even know was he trying to comfort her or was he trying to comfort himself.

“I… I used an Unforgivable, Sirius,” Lily said eventually, keeping her head down.

“I would have sprained my wrist throwing Unforgivables at the bastards!” Sirius said. “I wish I could have done it for you.”

He had badness in him already, let him hold it for all of them.

It should have been him. He should have been there instead of James, instead of Lily.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Lily’s voice shook. “I did it to save James… it felt wrong, Sirius, it is wrong and disgusting, but I know I’d do it again to save him. Am I a bad person, Sirius? I.. I saw what they did to him, I wanted them all dead… I thought about it... I wanted to. I don’t want to become like them, Sirius, but I wanted to kill them, so badly!”

“Lily, you didn’t kill them. You could have tried to, but you didn’t. You saved James. Merlin, you saved my brother, the only brother I have left, I can never thank you enough,” Sirius’ voice broke.

He wondered what he would have done in her place.

“It was Snape, he wanted to save me, but I had to find James, I couldn’t… he hurt James, I hate him for it,” Lily said desperately, squeezing Sirius’ arms.

“Fuck that creepy bastard!” Sirius said.

“What if Voldemort kills him? What if he dies? It will be my fault!” Lily whispered. “I hate him so much, but I don’t want to get him killed. I wouldn’t care if he died in battle, not now, not after everything he’s done to James! But being tortured and killed for trying to save me? I don’t want that, am I mad?”

“You had to,“ Sirius said, gripping her tightly. “You had to try to save James. You couldn’t leave with Snape, you know that would have been wrong! You are not to blame for anything Voldemort does!”

“I need James too, Sirius, he doesn’t see that, he thought I could manage without him, he’s so stupid, such a stupid, darling, beautiful man,” Lily stopped, her hand over her mouth.

“He can’t die, Poppy won’t let him die,” Sirius whispered back.

Lily nodded, still crying. He saw her sway and grabbed hold of her shoulders.

“Merlin Lily,” he said anxiously. “Sit down immediately! Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need Poppy? Will I get-“

“ No, please, Sirius, I didn’t get hurt, James-“ she stopped, unable to continue, and bringing her hand up to her mouth again.

He didn’t think he could handle hearing what had happened.

“Hush, Lily, you’re both safe now,” he heard himself say.

“He... I couldn’t... I tried...” she said. She closed her eyes and swayed again, sitting down suddenly and placing her head between her knees.

“I need some water, and something to eat,” she said, sounding suddenly anxious as her almond shaped clear eyes searched Sirius’ for reassurance.

“I... Merlin, yes of course, Darling, let me get that for you!” Sirius said, relief blossoming at some small task he could do to help. “Do you want a firewhisky instead?”

“No! I can’t drink now I’m ... I’m a bit dehydrated Sirius, I better stick to the water,” Lily said, placing her hand over her lower abdomen in a protective gesture.

“Yes of course,” Sirius said feverishly, throwing his leather jacket on.

“I’ll get it,” Dearborn was standing in the doorway looking at Lily uncomfortably.

“Lily, I know you already had a debriefing with Professor Dumbledore, but he was wondering if you wouldn’t mind answering a few more-“ he continued.

“No!”

Both Lily and Sirius spoke at once.

“Not now, my husband needs me here, Dumbledore can wait,” Lily said, staring at Dearborn with a hostile expression as she swiped at her red eyes furiously.

“Tell him to go fuck himself,” Sirius growled.

Dearborn nodded, recognising defeat.

“You get some food and water for Lily, Caradoc, I’ll tell Dumbledore,” Remus said. Remus stood quietly behind Dearborn, a grim look, no obvious emotions displayed on his tired face.

“Righto,” Dearborn nodded reluctantly.

“Hurry up,” Remus ordered. “We don’t want Poppy to end up with another patient.”

“Righto,” Dearborn said, looking relieved to have an excuse to leave.

                                                      *** “You wanted to speak with me, Mr. Lupin?” Dumbledore said, gesturing vaguely towards the chair in front of him.

Remus sat down. The silence made him nervous.

“You feel guilty for swapping your week on call with the Potters. You want to make sure that your friends are protected from danger as much as possible from now on?”

Remus felt his cheeks flush. He nodded, feeling even worse.

“Good,” Dumbledore said. “I can see why you’d think that way.”

Remus swallowed. Dumbledore blamed him too? He wanted to crawl under the floorboards never to re-emerge.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, looking down, unable to meet the Professor’s gaze. “I should have stayed…”

“That’s quite alright, Remus, these things happen, and we have to learn from them,” Dumbledore said.

Remus felt himself slide further down the chair. He wanted to cry. It reminded him of The Prank at the end of Fifth Year. It should have been him. He should have insisted Sirius go with someone else. He felt personally responsible for what had happened, and if James died because of him… if James died…

“What can I do, Sir?” Remus whispered hoarsely. “Tell me there is something I can do to help!”

He looked up and caught Dumbledore looking at him keenly, with an astute gaze.

“Of course there is something you can do to help, Remus,” Dumbledore said, steepling his hands together. “It will be dangerous though, the most dangerous mission I have ever given any member of the Order.”

Remus nodded dumbly.

“It is also top secret. You must not discuss this information with a single soul,” Dumbledore said, his blue eyes assessing Remus coolly. “Not the Marauders, not Lily Potter, especially not Sirius Black. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Remus said, sitting up straighter. “You can trust me.”

“I hope so, Remus,” Dumbledore said. “Most people wouldn’t.”

Remus froze, taken aback.

“I…” he stuttered.

“Luckily for you, I am not most people, Mr. Lupin,” Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. “Lemon sherbet?”

Somewhere in the back of Remus’ mind the words you bastard and what the fuck presented themselves as appropriate responses.

He declined politely.

“I have a singularly important and quite unusual mission, and it seems to me that you are the perfect candidate to volunteer for it,” Dumbledore said, sucking loudly on the muggle sweet and leaning back into his chair.

Somehow the wizard’s eyes seemed beadier in this light. Remus waited.

“I will of course understand if you turn down this opportunity, Remus, that you may be too frightened to go,” Dumbledore said. “Other Order members may be more-“

Remus’ jaw tightened. The words you bastard and what the fuck once more presented themselves as appropriate responses.

“Other Order members have no idea how little I fear most things,” Remus said, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes, of course, Remus, I am well aware that compared to most-“ Dumbledore said, with a placating raise of his palms.

“What mission?” Remus asked.

“A mission to infiltrate Fenrir Greyback’s werewolf pack. I am aware you have already made his acquaintance,” Dumbledore said. “To see if they can be persuaded to abandon their leader and join our side in the war. And to spy on them, at any rate.”

Remus felt a cold shiver of dread run down his spine. His old Headmaster couldn’t be serious, surely. That was a hopeless mission, a pointless waste of life, a …

Greyback…

An ear-splitting scream of terror, his own. Rabid eyes. Massive yellow canines lunging towards him, saliva dripping off them. Laughter and howling.

“Tell your Daddy I said hello!”

A tearing sensation as huge teeth sank into his hip. Another ear-splitting scream, this time of pain…

He felt his hands tremble and gripped the edges of the armchair in agitation.

“If you’d rather not, I am sure I can persuade another member of the Order to pretend to be a werewolf. With some clever Transfiguration spells, which many of our members are particularly gifted at, especially your own friends-“ Dumbledore said.

“No!” Remus said, standing up suddenly and staring hard at the other man, his breathing erratic. “Merlin no! You have no idea…”

His voice trailed off again, his heart hammering wildly against his ribcage.

“So, Mr. Lupin, you don’t feel you can bring yourself to-“ Dumbledore said.

“No!” Remus practically shouted. “I’ll do it! Don’t even think about asking anyone else… I’ll do it, alright?”

“I see,” Dumbledore smiled kindly again. “My deepest apologies Remus, how very brave of you. I should never have doubted you.”

Remus bit the side of his lip. This was akin to agreeing to a suicide mission. Any sane individual would have refused to accept the offer. But surely Dumbledore had guessed he would never allow any of his friends or colleagues to go instead of him, to risk being turned? The bastard must have known all along. Yet he owed so much to this old man, this powerful wizard, the one they were all relying on to beat Voldemort and to win this war. The one who had given him a chance. Who had risked his reputation by allowing him into Hogwarts. Who had not expelled him after the disastrous Prank in Fifth Year. Maybe he was being unkind and unfair to the man. Perhaps this mission was genuinely important?

“No need to apologise, Sir,” Remus said with a small smile, extending his hand out.

“Thank you, Remus,” Dumbledore said, shaking his hand warmly. “I do appreciate your help in this war. I shall contact you shortly with more information about this entire affair. Please remember to keep this top secret.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Remus.

                                           ***

He opened the door quietly. The room was dimly lit by the fire and the large candles on either side of the infirmary bed. James looked the same, somewhere between life and death. Lily was sitting on a chair, her head lying on the bed beside him, still fully clothed, the dark shadows under her eyes more pronounced in this light. She was holding James’ hand. Sirius was nowhere to be seen, but at the foot of the bed, on top of the carefully folded blankets lay Padfoot. He was whimpering in his sleep. The shaggy dog opened his eyes briefly, fixing Remus with his mournful grey eyes.

“Sleep, Padfoot,” Remus said quietly. “I’ll stay up. I’ll call Poppy if there’s any change. There’s nothing more we can do.”

Padfoot yelped quietly, turning to look at Lily and James and then looked back at Remus and whined. He was looking at Remus accusingly. Where had he disappeared off to, why hadn’t he comforted Lily? Did he not care?

“I’m sorry,” Remus said.

It sounded curt. Inadequate.

What more could he say?

Padfoot whined once again, dropping his head into his paws, looking dejected. Remus sat on the ground, his head in his hands. He could go over, talk to Sirius, but his boyfriend always knew if he was hiding anything from him, and he was too tired to make up an excuse for what had just happened. Too tired, too traumatised, too selfish…

He stayed where he was.

Padfoot slept fitfully, beset by nightmares. Remus did not sleep a wink. He did not allow himself to sleep. The fear of nightmares kept him awake, as though he were four years old again. Besides, he did not deserve to sleep.

                                          ***

PS Póg mo thóin - kiss my ass in Irish

PS To find out if James is okay, and if Lily is in fact pregnant and if yes, what happens next etc, I’m afraid you’ll have to keep reading  We Can Be Heroes. If you just want to read on, it’s from Chapter 45.

 If you want, I can post more stand alones (Harry’s birth? the Jily engagement? Jily Wedding? Wolfstar first kiss etc??or the next part but it just leads into more stuff!)

[yourwildsimp]

Typically

This makes many references to No Regrets (an insight on Levi before he enrolled in the Scouts.) I also tried a new writing style, so please, give me feedback!

includes: Erwin, Levi

warnings: alcoholic themes, depression, PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), mentions of suicidal thoughts/actions

length: 2,028 words

•°•°•°•

Erwin Smith was typically content in his mattress by 10:30, praying to whatever gods that may (or may not) be out there that his slumber would be blissful and refreshing. He typically knew of his subordinates' locations and their relative mental states this late into any given night. He typically had most of his paperwork signed and stacked into a neat, organized pile.

Though tonight, as trepidation rolled over him in slow, progressing waves, Erwin Smith was neither content nor situated in a well-put-together office. He did not know where the Captain was or when the elusive man would return. He did not know beforehand that multiple contracts would need the Captain's signature. Hell, Erwin did not know if Levi could even write in cursive. At the moment, he did not know a lot of things.

Erwin wasn't exactly enthusiastic about experiencing these feelings of troubling uncertainty.

The dense thud of staggering boots on the half-rotted wooden flooring impeded Erwin's vexing thoughts. Moving from his spot by the window that overlooked the training grounds, he hastily stalked towards his office door. Yet as his fingertips were mere inches from the handle, the door slammed open, catching the Commander off guard.

Erwin back-stepped as no one other than Levi himself lost his footing from kicking the door open. The door frame was the only thing that aided Levi's attempt at steadying his balance; Erwin was far too focused on darting his bewildered eyes over Levi's condition.

Was the blunt and foul-mouthed Levi Ackerman. . . Drunk?

No, that couldn't be right. The man despised everything about alcohol: the lasting effects, the heavy smell, the noxious health problems. Every time the Corps tried to get Levi to drink, he had remarked about booze being nothing more than poison marketed as a miracle tonic. But, what else could explain the unfocused eyes that were typically sharp and observant or the swaying small frame that was typically nimble and composed?

"Have you been drinking, Levi? You look terrible."

The vicious scowl Erwin received told him that the way he worded his concern was extremely misinterpreted.

"Oh, fuck you, jackass. Not everyone can look like a shining star, Smith." Levi's words were unnaturally slurred, further proving what Erwin refused to accept. "Get outta my way and let me in."

Erwin cautiously stepped to the side- as he'd rather keep this peculiar sight to himself and spare the Captain's dignity. Levi's shoulder shoved against Erwin's bicep as he stumbled into the Commander's office. A snarl remarking Erwin's height was woven into the tense atmosphere of the room.

"Where have you been?" Erwin asked as he gently shut the door, keeping an apprehensive gaze on Levi.

He simply received a distracted scoff. Erwin took a deep breath before he huffed out of his nose. He watched as Levi fumbled through various unlocked drawers in search of who-knows-what.

"Levi-"

"Where's your Devil's water, Smith?" Erwin narrowed his eyes in confusion before Levi, belligerently, elaborated. "Your liquor, dip-shit. Where have you stashed it?"

Erwin pressed his lips into a thin line before he offered a calculated answer, "I don't hide alcohol in my office." A spiteful string of obscenities left Levi's swollen lips, the drunk balling his fist tight by his sides. "Liar! You're a filthy deceiver, you know that? You're worth less than the shit in the stables! A sleaze bag from the Underground would be more helpful than you!"

Erwin paused, studying Levi like Hange would study a Titan. "Are you okay, Levi?" He knew the question was redundant the moment the words left his lips.

“Fuck!” Levi yelled, tugging on his already loose cravat. “Am I okay? What kind of bullshit question is that? Hell, my uncle used to tell me that life’s like a toilet paper roll; you’re either on a roll or taking shit from some asshole- and you know what? You’re that asshole, Smith!”

"Be careful of the open window, Levi," Erwin warned, as polished and unwavering as ever. His indifference to the slew of insults and profanities made Levi's blood boil.

Erwin only moved closer when the Captain disregarded his warning and continued to near the dangerously open casement. Erwin tuned out the vulgarities that were continuously hurled at him with an intense enmity, the gears clicking together in his head.

There was a chance Levi's destination was through the window- a chance Erwin was not willing to take.

"What are you doing? You're going to fall out," Erwin said more forcefully.

The change in the Commander's tone didn't seem to phase Levi, who was resting his forearms on the window sill. As Levi's weight shifted to his unstable upper body, Erwin could feel his heartbeat pounding in his throat, temples, fingertips- everywhere except his chest.

Levi went quiet, his drunken tantrum utterly forgotten as childlike wonder filled his eyes. In the moment of calm after the storm, Erwin couldn't fail to notice that Levi looked so much younger when he wasn't so pent up. The Captain was significantly more demonstrative when he was intoxicated; and may it be good or bad, Erwin was content with Levi seeming mortal.

"He used to hate heights, and she smoked him for it," Levi broke the moment of silence with hardly a whisper. "It was all a game to her."

Erwin's features, which were glazed over with faux insouciant, didn't match the curious gaze he studied Levi with. He stood inert, fearful of scaring Levi into a diligent silence or another aggressive episode. Erwin didn't ask for extensive details, nor did he implore Levi to move away from the window again. He simply waited, having an idea of what was plaguing his inebriated soldier's mind.

"You know, when you found me, we were heading to get a job done," Levi spoke so softly that Erwin felt the need to hold his breath to hear him properly.

The Commander took Levi's brief pause as an opening to speak, despite having nothing to say. "Is that so?"

Levi exhaled something grim; something that nearly sounded like an empty chuckle. "Yeah, Smith, it is."

Levi ignored how Erwin wearily moved closer as he adjusted himself further out of the window. The Captain relished in a twisted feeling of pride knowing that he could make his superior jump to aid him, that he could make the man twitch with such a deep sense of uneasiness- so much so that it shone in his perceptive blue eyes.

"Levi, get away from-"

"He was so nervous for the mission, despite it being so. . . " Levi swayed his hand through the night air, searching for the right word after cutting Erwin, and his concerns, off. "So pointless," is what he settled for.

"It was just a run-through," he huffed out a sigh, "check the brothel for any kids, start trouble if there were. Then, haul ass to the surface to get the brats to somewhere safer. Simple, right?"

Erwin swallowed, his gaze settling on Levi's reflection in the mirror.

"But, something always has to fuck me over," Levi spat with a clenched jaw, capturing the window sill in an iron grip. "Isn't that right?! You simply adore dancing all of your puppets around until they can't take it anymore- but you don't stop, do you?!" Levi screamed at the full moon in the sky.

Erwin sharply exhaled through his nose, Levi swaying side to side like empty ODM gear in the breeze. Levi swore and stretched his fingers out to relieve the tension in them.

"I bumped into a guy whose ego was as big as his body. The bastard was huge and wouldn't let it go." Levi hung his head, the stars bringing back memories he'd rather forget. "I think you were there when we had settled the issue and took off."

Erwin remembers like it happened yesterday. He could never forget the first time he saw Levi fly on the Wings of Revolution; it was enchanting.

Levi outstretched his arm, one foot leaving the floor as he reached to the giant moon glowing against the night sky.

"Levi, you need to stop being heedless, or you'll fall and end up dead!" Erwin finally snapped, his hand darting to grab Levi's. He missed his target, the shorter one moving unexpectedly and making Erwin snatch his pale forearm.

The wind from the chill night ruffled the forgotten paperwork on Erwin's desk, Levi's eerily hollow chuckle overlaying the white noise. Empty steel-gray finally looked into Erwin's ocean blues, heavy-lidded and worn thin.

"Don't you know I'm stupid? The hell does 'heedless' mean, blondie?" Levi wore a painful grin.

Erwin furrowed his brow in worry, loosening his grip but not letting go. "Careless," he said gently, thumbing fondly at Levi's flushed skin. "It means. . . Careless."

Levi's bottom lip trembled, and Erwin swore he saw his small body twitch with a hiccup. "Maybe that's what I want, Commander- to end up dead," Levi breathed, sending a cold surge through Erwin.

"Hey, don't say that," Erwin said quickly in a hushed tone. His free hand gently cupped Levi's shoulder.

"Why not?" Levi's voice was so small. It scared Erwin. "Every time I shut my eyes at night, all I see is their faces, hear them call my name." Erwin could feel Levi trembling.

"I know, Levi. By the walls, I know how it feels to begin to go numb. How it is to lose everything close to you, and still need to press onwards," Erwin murmured.

"Oh, sure. You see the face of every comrade that you've sent to death in your dreams. I'm sure you remember each and every soldier." The sarcastic bite in Levi's tone made Erwin unhand the man's arm.

"Excuse me. . ?" Erwin breathed, stupidly hoping he had misheard Levi.

"You don't know how it feels to be looked at like a human shit stain for simply trying to survive! You're just Mr. Fucking Perfect, right?" Levi's fruitless attempt to push Erwin away by his chest only agitated the blonde.

"Another pompous asshole that wouldn't hesitate to judge me from getting on all fours back then just to be able to eat twice a week!" Levi's (false) accusations were making Erwin increasingly angry.

"You're no different than everyone in the Capital-"

"You'd better watch your mouth, Ackerman."

Levi sucked in a short breath so quickly, it made his throat dry up; though, that might've been caused by the snarl of his surname. He didn't get another chance to speak as Erwin loomed over his frame.

"Who gave you an escape route when you had nowhere else to turn? Was it the Capital? Who was it that believed in you when everyone else wanted you to hang? The Capital, perhaps? Apologies, my memory is hazy."

Levi had seen Erwin agitated, seen him berate cadets and superiors alike with no backlash. But the man was always so poised and assured. Sure, the unsettlingly strong fire behind his crystal eyes was never smothered, but it was not once openly expressed.

Until now.

It had Levi- the nephew of Kenny the Ripper, the Captain of the 104th Cadet Corp, Humanity's Strongest Soldier- intimidated enough to shrink in on himself.

"I don't mean to scare you, Levi. I truly don't. But when you have the audacity to lump me into the crowd of discriminatory pedophiles and rapists? After everything I have done for you?" Erwin scoffed, ending his rant.

"I-I... I'm-"

"I don't want you to apologize. It's difficult to believe that you would. It's just not like you," Erwin swallowed thickly as Levi sniffled.

"Levi, I-" Erwin cut himself off, clenching his jaw.

Want you. Need you.

I think I'm in love with you. What a dream it would be to say. But he shouldn't. And he won't.

"You should sober up here while I get work done. How does that sound?" Erwin felt the urge to vomit after those words burned off his tongue.

"Thank you," Levi hardly whispered. "Thank you, Erwin."

Closing his eyes tightly, Erwin nodded, leading Levi to the couch the was sitting against the sidewall.

"Of course, Levi. I would do anything for you."

[bailey-whalieee]

Till the End of the Line

Nothing could cure the problem she had inside her head, except maybe two super soldiers.

Request: stucky x reader where the reader is under the weather but tries to hide it from them w loads of mind numbing fluff :) @colourforanamee​

Pairing: Steve x Reader x Bucky

Words: 3562

Warnings: PTSD, drowning, torture, panic attacks, angst, & fluff.

✮

It’s been six weeks since the avengers lost one of their best teammates. It’s been six weeks of Steve and Bucky being on constant edge because they miss their girlfriend. It’s been six long weeks of them missing her laughter and jokes.

Y/n had been taken by hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. had no information on it. So, of course, what did the avengers do? They all worked day and night to try and find out where the hell they had taken her.

Six weeks ago they had nothing and now they were twenty-five minutes away from the bunker where she was being held. Anxiousness filled them to the brim. None of them had any idea what they were going to walk into. It only furthered Bucky and Steve’s worry.

What did they do to their girl?

Was she going to be okay?

Would she still be herself?

“ETA about seven minutes now. We’re landing about five miles away from the facility,” Tony announced, “let’s get our little ray of sunshine back!”

Bucky peered up to Steve, a worried glint covering his eyes. Steve grabbed his hand in reassurance before saying, “it’ll be okay, Buck. Let’s go get our girl back.”

✮

She screamed until her throat became raw.

Y/n’s throat bled for weeks after that. The first week was absolute hell and no matter how hard she tried to withhold the screams they always escaped.

Now, nothing even came out if she opened her mouth to shout or scream. They really enjoyed hearing her beg and plead. It was sickening how much blood she watched drip onto the floor.

They broke her. Scarred her.

Y/n didn’t even want to look at Volkov. He was the master-mind behind the whole project. He captured her, tortured her, watched her scream, writhe, beg, plead.. And not once did he even flinch.

He wore this noxious smirk that made her cringe every time she glanced towards him. Volkov was an evil man.

At first, Y/n put up her front and refused to be scared of the man for the sake of her team. Then it took an absolute turn for the worst. The methods of torture he practiced on her were from hell itself.

But, Volkov’s favorite was the water chamber. It consisted of drowning and suffocation. The iciness of the water would force her breaths to be short and slowly the tank would fill up until full and then the real fun would begin. Y/n’s first time in the chamber traumatized her.

She punched at the glass and struggled in the restraints. Y/n learned to fear water after the recurrence of the chamber.

Her arms were strung together by a rusty chain. She hung loosely in the air of the hydra building. Y/n was used to the constant aching her body forced her through. It became the norm for random parts of her body to shake and shudder from the pain.

After the second week, Y/n’s hope began to dim and fear overthrew her mind. She was just a scared little girl who wanted nothing more than to go home.

“Hmm.. My little pet, they seem to be trying to steal you back from me. We can’t have that can we?” Volkov growled, throwing out commands left and right at the hydra soldiers.

Y/n’s head cocked to the side and a smirk found its way on her war battered face. “They will always come after me. You’ll lose. Dogs like you always lose,” she croaked out, letting out a broken laugh.

An angry snarl drew from the hydra officer’s mouth and he began to shout, “kill them! Fucking murder them all! I want to see his brains splattered on the ground! Do it!”

The soldiers were dropping like flies. The avengers were out for blood and it was blood they were going to get. They wanted her back and no matter what it took, she was leaving that hydra facility, even if it meant murdering every single son-of-a-bitch in the building.

Volkov’s realization tumbled down on him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

“You know.. Y/n.. My little pet, you do know what this means, right?” he cocked his eyebrow making eye contact with the frail woman, “I always get what I want and Y/n, I want them to see life leave your eyes as those worthless avengers struggle to save you. If I can’t have you, no one can, little pet. I mean that.”

Her face fell. The sudden awareness hit her square in the face.

“No, no, no, no..” feebly flew from her mouth as a chamber was lowered below her feet.

His cackle suddenly filled the room, “and you know what’s going to be the best part? They are going to watch you suffer and drown, while I escape forever haunting you.” Her feet sank into the cold glass encased prison.

“Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this,” she pleaded, her hand banging against the glass, “don’t do this- You’re better than this! Please- I’m begging you, don’t do this!”

The intensely chilled water slowly added up in the bottom of the chamber. She cringed and harsh breaths escaped her lips.

He rolled his eyes, “no I’m not. I’ll never be better than this. I quite like being like this. Goodbye, my little pet. Lock the perimeter, and get me the hell out of here.”

A nauseating feeling settled deeply in her stomach. What if, this time is the last time?

The water was now knee height and panic set in. Volkov had fled. The team was probably right outside the barricaded perimeter. And Y/n was going to die, alone.

“NO! Dammit! Not like this! No! NO!” she pounded on the glass, screaming once more. Tears flew down her flushed cheeks. The water only continued to fill the encasement and further her screaming. “Please, no..”

The door flew off the hinges and the avengers filed in. One by one, they each came running in. Relief flooded Y/n’s being until she saw the horrified expression on each of their faces. The water was barely past her chin and the exhaustion of trying to stay above the water began to set in.

Her small fists striked the chamber, trying to break the glass. “Y/n! Honey, I need you to stay calm! We are going to get you out of here, okay sunshine?” Tony gave her a small smile.

Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes. She tilted her head towards the tops of the chamber trying to gulp down the last bits of oxygen she had before the water completely filled the tank.

“Please, help me. I can’t do this aga-” and the water finally filled the tank to the brim. Fear overran logic at this point.

Everything blurred and she could hear their panicked voices and see their crazed movements. She tried to remain calm for their sake, but all she could feel was ice cold the water was. She let out a scream through the water and thrashed against the restraints.

Y/n wanted out.

She wanted to breathe.

Then a familiar metal fist came crashing through the chamber and the water flooded out. Gasps forced themselves out of her mouth as oxygen finally refilled the tank. She fell limply into Bucky’s arms, as he pulled her from the overflowing chamber.

“You’re okay, dollface. You’re okay, baby. You’re safe now,” he shushed, patting the small of her back.

She heaved the water that forced itself down her throat. The group let out a breath they didn’t even know they were all holding in.

Steve and Bucky crouched down comforting the gasping woman. A strangled cry escaped her as she leaned into their embrace. They didn’t even care that she was soaking wet, Steve and Buck just wanted to hold her.

They took in her appearance. Her clothing had been ripped in different places and there had been a sudden change in her weight. She was small and her skin clinged to her bones like she was a skeleton. Her eyes were dull and no longer holding life. She looked half dead..

“Oh thank the gods,” Steve muttered holding onto the shivering girl, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Y/n basked in his hold. She wasn’t okay, but right now, Y/n felt like she had nothing to fear.

“Where’s the son-of-a-bitch?” Tony growled, looking around the emptied facility.

“H-he escaped,” she rasped out, everyone wincing at how painful her voice sounded.

Steve shook his head, “he will pay for what he did, honey. Right now, we need to get you back to the quinjet before you get hypothermia.”

Bucky shrugged off his M-65 field jacket and placed it on Y/n’s shoulders. The jacket practically swallowed her. She opened her mouth to protest, but he immediately cut her off, “shush. We got you back, I’m not losing you to hypothermia, Y/n.”

Y/n was squished against Steve’s chest with Bucky following closely beside him. She just wanted to go home.

✮

When they arrived back to the jet, Steve and Bucky wanted an immediate evaluation from JARVIS. Y/n was given new clothes and a warm blanket from Natasha, who gave her a soft smile.

“Well, Ms. Y/L/N is suffering from malnutrition and a condition called hypoxia, which can be dangerous if not treated. She needs oxygen as soon as possible, her oxygen is too low for her body,” the AI system paused, “unfortunately, Ms. Y/L/N is also suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

She refused to look at anyone in the room after the diagnosis. Y/n kept her eyes trained on her hands. The silence was deafening to her, she had driven herself mad in the dungeon where Volkov kept her.

“What’s the fastest you can get up back to the tower?” Steve asked, his forehead creasing with worry.

“Forty-seven minutes, Captain.”

PTSD. A monster that both Steve and Bucky knew very well. “Dammit,” Bucky muttered to himself, settling next to Y/n.

Y/n’s eyes were getting increasingly heavier and the waves of tiredness came stronger each time. She didn’t want to fall into sleep though. Steve was taking note of the action seeing as she would refuse to shut her eyes and fall asleep.

He took a seat next to Y/n laying a soft hand on her back. She flinched at the touch, but calmed when she realized it was just Steve.

“You can fall into sleep, sweetheart. We’ll always be right here to catch you,” he reminded her, running his hand up and down her spine.

She nodded, “just scared.”

“I know baby, but we’ll be right here. Don’t you worry about a thing because we gotcha’,” Bucky smiled, kissing her forehead, “now lay down on Stevie’s lap and rest.”

Her face held hesitance and she looked towards the captain for affirmation. He rolled his eyes and opened his arms wide, “come’ere.”

Y/n’s head fell softly into his lap and Bucky situated the blanket around her, making sure she was comfortable. Steve’s hand weaved itself in her hair, running through the mess trying to calm the apprehensive women in his lap. Bucky was tracing patterns on her exposed calf that had been battered and bruised.

The team counted their lucky stars. Y/n was safe and back with the men who loved her most. This is where she belonged. This was her family.

Soft snores erupted from the girl who was snuggled in the captain and sergeant’s lap.

“We got our sunshine back and they got their whole world back,” Natasha whispered to Tony, admiring the sleeping trio.

A soft grin fell upon the billionaires lips, “you bet your ass we did and I’d do it all over again for our sunshine. Always.”

✮

It had been months of mental and physical rehabilitation. Months of sudden panic attacks because of random loud noises and flashbacks. But, Y/n put every effort forth to get better and to become her old self.

Some days were harder than others, but she learned to live with the difficulty. The triggers were becoming easier for the team to recognize and help prevent. Y/n’s life had just started to become normal, she was able to join missions and kick ass once again.

Steve and Bucky had never been so proud of their girl. Even through the hell she suffered, Y/n continued to persevere and put effort forth to get better.

Y/n first solo mission had gone great until a familiar ugly face popped back up. The mission itself was simple, get the vile, and get the hell out. Simple. Easy.

That was until Y/n found Volkov’s little hiding place and she saw him. She finished the mission, but the woman was on edge. Her core had been shook and when Y/n entered the jet, she lost it.

The memories, the cold, the chamber, it all came flooding back and all the repair she did to withhold the torture, burst. Like an ugly hurricane it came back and it flooded her mind.

She kept herself in check once she left the jet and finally arrived  home where the team awaited eagerly.

“Sunshine!”

“You’re back! How was it?”

“Did ya miss the thrill?”

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Steve could read her like a book and Bucky could too. They read her every emotion as soon as she stepped off the jet and onto the hangar. The anxiousness radiated off of her and it fogged her mind.

“I’m fine. It went fine. Here’s the vile,” she muttered, tossing Bruce the vile, “I need to take a shower.”

She pushed through the group of eager super humans and headed towards the bedroom she shared with Steve and Bucky. Her body was on fire and the stealth suit kept sucking the oxygen out of her.

Y/n eventually peeled the suit off and headed towards the shower. Steve and Bucky had reached their bedroom and could hear the water running. It calmed them slightly.

“Maybe she just had a rough mission back?” Buck muttered, running a hand down Steve’s spine.

Steve sighed, shaking his head, “I hope so..”

Y/n stared at the water. It taunted her. She had yet to actually step into the shower, but she continued to have an internal battle with it. “C’mon Y/n, don’t be a sissy. It’s just water. It’s just water.”

Finally gaining the courage, Y/n felt the water’s temperature and shockingly it was warm. Her hands gripped onto the railing and steaming hot water washed over her aching body. The first month of rehabilitation, Steve and Bucky would coax her into the water keeping her at bay because of the PTSD and anxiety.

It was sweet and both of them had no complaints, only love and compassion for her.

The water trickled down her face and body, numbing the memories forever stamped into her brain. Y/n wished she could forget. She wanted to forget all the screaming and begging, but she would never forget.

Steve and Bucky sat on their bed, hand in hand, soft smiles on their faces. Bucky pressed a soft kiss to Steve’s gruff cheek.

“Told ya it was just a tough first mission back,” Buck smirked, ruffling the Captain’s hair to which he rolled his eyes.

“For once, I’m actually glad you were right,” Steve grinned, a light pink hue appearing on his cheeks from the affection. Bucky snickered, laying his head on his shoulder enjoying the warmth the blonde was giving off.

Y/n got so lost in her thoughts that the water had grown cold. A ripple of goosebumps erupted spreading all over her body. Air caught itself in the back of her throat as the water grew colder and further reminded her of the lonely hell she once lived in.

And suddenly, Y/n lost the ability to even hold herself up. She crashed down onto the tub-floor in a heap of sobs and gasps. Her mind was thrown into the chamber and she was no longer with Steve or Bucky. Water poured over her shaking body.

“STOP IT! NO! STOP!” she shouted, her fists bangining against her skull.

The shouts could be heard from outside the door, clearly. It made Steve and Bucky immediately run and practically break down the bathroom door. They found her clutching her knees to her chest, tears running rampant down her cheeks, and begging to be spared from whatever the hell was going through her mind.

Bucky grabbed her drenched body out of the shower and wrapped her in a towel, hoping to calm her. She thrashed in the towel and his arms.

“No, no, no, no.. No more! I don’t want it! I don’t want it! Stop!” she pleaded, sobbing.

“Y/n, baby! Hey-hey-hey! Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself! What’s going on, doll?” Steve grabbed her wrists to prevent her from hitting her head.

Her breaths came out ragged and harsh. Bucky pulled back the sopping wet hair that stuck to her face so they could look at her properly.

“Sweetheart, you gotta calm down. I know you’re scared, but honey, Stevie and I need you to breathe,” Bucky shushed, holding her close to him.

She trembled and tried to focus, but failed.

“I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t,” she repeated, gasping on the oxygen. Her face began to pale and tears welled up in her eyes. “I saw him- He was there. I just- What if he saw me??” she sputtered, fear coursing through her veins, “oh my god! He saw me- I don’t wanna go back, please- Bucky, Stevie don’t send me back!”

“Doll, Stevie and I aren’t going to let anyone take you away from us ever again. You know that? Darling, I can promise that you are safe here. I need you to focus, Y/n. Focus on breathing,” Bucky coaxed, cupping her cheeks in his hands.

Her shaky hands found themselves on Bucky and Steve’s chest, focusing on their breathing. She calmed the war in her mind and finally began to breathe normally again. Tears continued to leak down her cheeks, but Y/n gained control of her breathing.

“It was the water.. The water was super cold and then I saw him today and it all came rushing back,” she whispered looking at the two men.

Steve engulfed her in a warm hug not caring about how damp she still was before peppering her head with kisses. “You are so strong and both of us are so proud of you. You are the strongest woman we know and despite it all, you remained the sunshine in the darkness. Doll, we love you and your progress is getting much better!” he praised, kissing her once more, “and listen to me, no matter what we are always going to find you and we will always love you, even if it means going to hell and back to find you.”

A broken smile appeared on her lips and her eyes got continually watery. “You really mean that?”

Bucky chuckled, wrapping his arms around her waist, “of course we do, doll. You’re absolutely extraordinary and beautiful and strong and gorgeous. No one deserves to go through what you went through, but you did not once give up. You have no idea how proud of you we are.”

Y/n leaped into both of the men’s lap wrapping her arms around them. They immediately savored the closeness and love.

“C’mon sunshine, let’s get you in a shirt and then we can cuddle and watch that movie with the little yellow bear in it!” Steve smiled before securing the towel and throwing the women over his shoulder, making sure to carefully do it.

“You mean, Winnie the Pooh?” she scrunched her nose at the captain.

A load of giggle fell from her lips as Bucky made a series of funny faces towards her. Y/n began to forget about the horrors and focus on the two wonders before her. Steve and Bucky. The two men who would sacrifice anything to make her happy.

“Lift up your arms, dollface,” Bucky instructed softly. He tugged the red henley over her head, where it flowed down to about mid-thigh. “Look at how adorable she is, Stevie? What an adorable little doll,” he gushed, his fingers running along her jawline.

“Oh I know, Buck. She is just stunning,” Steve admired.

Bucky hoisted her in between the two of them. Y/n was squished against the two soldiers, but she didn’t mind it one bit. They were both radiators and put off so much heat, she thoroughly enjoyed the heat.

“Stevie, Buck,” she whispered, grasping each of their hands.

Steve paused his search for the movie and gave her his full attention, Bucky doing the same.

“I love you guys. Till the end of the line.”