#The Flames that Burn|Dr Strange Verse

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave  {{xx}}

"Jus' because I wasn't, doesn't mean I don't know. An' I tole you...I know everyt'ing," she quips even if that's patently untrue. If she did, or she had any talent with the sphere of Mind, she wouldn't even need to ask him, though doing so would fracture this new relationship they were building atop the bones of the old. She also isn't so callous as to think she has the right to lay him bare for the simple sake of idle curiosity. It doesn't stop her lips twitching though, hidden as it is beyond the superficial fence of the book's covers. Something sweet, adoring exists in that flutter before it drowns in the coffee that she brings up to her lips. One of a dozen of her shark mugs. A slim dark brow raises when he makes his confession. One thing she could never deny is that Stephen's magnetism is electric. His confidence while standing before an entire auditorium of students ~all of whom hang off his every word~ is mesmerising. Something she can not fake at her best moments but seems as natural to him as breathing water is to fish.  A place of honour that suited him as does the fit of a bespoke tuxedo from an award or symposium. Hearing him describe his experience and realising how much they share when it comes to public speaking is a little mind-blowing. She would never have guessed. Something in the pit of her belly softens for him and she would like nothing more than to reach out and lay her hand over his. What keeps her from doing so is knowing he'd shrink back. Perhaps physically from surprise or pain, or emotionally. She chose to ask about vulnerability because Stephen very often doesn't let any of the cracks in his foundations show. Had she been more confident in herself in her younger years, she might have been able to provide her a certain level of comfort as a close confidant. She and Stephen had never held many secrets from one another, and anything brought up by one or the other was honestly answered to the best of their ability. At the same time, there had been boundaries she'd never felt she had the right to cross. Which is how they arrive at this moment. His voice snares around her like a net and draws her gently back out of her depth of her thoughts. With it she blooms a newer smile. This one is more fully fledged and it scrunches her nose at the corners of her eyes. She hides the points of her teeth with another sip. The seed isn't the flicker of his long, graceful fingers. It doesn't come from the books themselves. If she could pinpoint the source she might say it is more his tone. His posture. Both are far more relaxed, and there's a glint of light in his gaze. Beth rises from her seat and sets her cup aside before she slips behind him. Slowly her hands come to rest on his shoulders. Thumbs begin rubbing small circles along his c-spine before gradually she sets her other fingers to work in that rhythm on the muscles beneath. As she does so, she pours a portion of her gifts into him. Soothing inflamed nerve, providing a buffer between the misfiring communication and his neural pathways to lessen the spasms and sensations sparked by injury. A permanent sort of paradox that seems too cruel for the crime he was convicted by fate. She's asked before if he wanted her to fix it. To alter reality to her whim. Each time he's politely declined. Just as she adamantly refuses to lean in and breath in the scent of his hair, to press her lips above her fingers. "Spoken like a true philomath. Now dat you've seen behind da Veil, wha' do you t'ink is your favourite kine to study? Wha' feels like a burden dat you'd cast aside f'ya could?"

[princguard-a]

LARK’S IMPRISONMENT AT THE ANDERS MANOR

TW: imprisonment, experimentation, torture, blood and gore, body modification  Verse: Grishaverse 

Deep within the vast nothingness beyond Avfalle; resided a lonesome manor. Owned by a high ranking official in the Fjerdan government, Dr. Jørnsen Anders. 

On the outside, Dr. Anders appeared to be a soft spoken man with a wide girth. Always shown as kind and benevolent to the Fjerdan people. They never saw what resided beneath the mask. He was a man of true evil. 

When Lark was captured by the Druskelle, instead of being taken to the capitol for trial on the basis of witchcraft and heresy, she was shipped off to the Anders Manor--accompanied her was a group of female grisha. 

When they arrived, they were imprisoned in the basement of the manor in which was converted into a dungeon. However, it resembled more like a doctor’s office. 

Lark was thrown into a cell and for the first three days of her stay, she wasn’t given food or water. Starving and dehydrated, the doctor took her to one of his many experimentation rooms where she was placed on a slab. The first thing he did was modify her ears. As he did so, he recited the folklore of the elves, and there he told her that her and the rest of the girls were to be “ his “ elves. 

Disgusted, Lark tried to fight back, but weak from hunger, and then being drugged with an unknown substance, he won over her and painfully redefined her ears into points. There is scaring to this day on her ears. 

Lark had no concept of time. Day in and day out, she was subjected to several horrific experiments and when she was not being brutally experimented on, she was given a strange substance that she learned later was Jurda Parem. It warped her mind and she became addicted to it. 

It had become so addicting that it was the only thing she wanted. It made her compliant with the horrors of the manor.   

Her body was riddled with it and made it hard to fight back, and what made things worse was the terrifying masks that Dr. Anders, and his wife, Henrietta would wear during those experiments. They were reminiscent of plague doctor masks with big circular eyes and long beak like noses. 

Henrietta would often mock and tease the girls with the promise of more jurda parem or food.  Her grave mistake was taunting Lark with the sword of her dead lover, Caelum. Lark couldn’t believe it, they actually had his sword. 

In that instant, she wanted to live. She wanted to fight, and most importantly, she wanted to burn the manor to the ground. 

It took a great amount of will, but she remained somewhat orientated and aware of her surroundings. Little by little, she became aware of the fact that she no longer needed flint to summon her fire, through the fogginess of the drugs, she could see it was all her own. 

Equipped with this knowledge, she waited for the perfect time to strike. When Dr. Anders in his foolish, took her alone without any assistance from the guards--thinking she was docile as the other girls, she struck. She set him on fire and lunged for her sword at his side. She grabbed it and was able to lit a flame where she decapitated him. She set the rest of his body on fire and stalked the halls and murdered every guard she saw. 

In doing so, however, Henrietta was tipped off at the danger and chose to fled with a small group of guards. Lark chased them on foot but could not catch up to the carriage that was made for the snow. With only her will, and adrenaline pushing her forward, she went back to try to save the rest of the girls but to her horror they were either too far gone in their addiction or dead. 

Going to the manor, she murdered anyone that stood her way, whether it be guard or servant. she allowed no one to live. Making her way to the kitchens and packed a bag of food. She raided the manor for supplies and clothes that would allow her to survive the harsh terrain. 

Lark then made her way outside, packed up a horse. She then set fire to the entire manor. Her ability with fire was greatly boosted due to the effects of the drug. It went up in flame and Lark rode away, free once more. 

 She travelled southward, and remained close to the mountains. In a secluded cave, she spent days in withdrawals, her body craved the drug but her would not allow herself to crumble. She repeated a mantra repeatedly. “ Ravka. Ravka. Ravka.” 

Eventually, she overcame it and then she found herself close to Elbjen. She avoided the city and travelled around it without going too far into the permafrost.  She managed to make it through to Chernast. Before entering the town, Lark discarded the Fjerdan uniform and pinched a simple Ravkan jacket from a clothesline during the night. 

She was on the verge of collapse by the time she made it to Chernast. Hungry, cold, and exhausted, she barely made it into the town before collapsing. She was then discovered by a friend of Eden MacTavish’s. A nightingale in his network that saved and relocated Grisha to safety. Thanks to her discretion and her connections, Lark was eventually on a ship to Ketterdam. Lark slept for most of the trip, and barely remembered it. 

She woke up in the Kilted Kelpie where she was taken care of by Eden and his staff. She spent months recovering. She learned that she had been imprisoned for three years. Once she was recovered, she decided to aid Eden and help Grisha escape. She traveled Novyi Zem and established a safe house there that eventually grew into a community where Grisha would be safe. 

During these back and forth travels from Ketterdam to Novyi Zem, Lark earned the title of “ Pantheress.” and became a legend especially in the barrel. There she met her now best friend. 

However, when she heard that the sun summoner had been found, Lark knew she needed to return to Ravka to not only aid in destroying the fold once and for all, but to exact her revenge of the Darkling for abandoning her squad. 

She returned to Ravka and the second army, however, she was chosen to become the bodyguard of Vasily and her revenge would have to wait. He became her priority. 

There was two people in the world she wanted to see dead: The Darkling and Henrietta Anders. 

She hid her true intentions while around the royal family and became a knight to protect the prince. 

[marvel-m-lee]

Fire, Note books and a- kid? •Part 1 of M-Verse•

Warning! This series will include gruesome descriptions of blood, bodies etc. These may be rare but they will be graphic. (This one doesn't have much tickling but it has a⁸ little haha)

This Series is also a tickls series, so if you dont like it, sorry oof.

Fandom: Marvel

-

"CRAP" Sam yelled as he flew right under a collapsing tie beam. "Language!" The cap yelled through the intercom, they were on a mission. There had been an explosion in an old warehouse building, no one knows how it happened but once they got there the place was covered with fire and dead bodies.

They were now in the building, fighting what they believed to be ex hydra workers that went into hiding for more experiments.

Cap fought from the ground whilst Sam was trying to get some shots from above while reading looked for any potential prisoners.

"Ain't seeing nothing from RedWibg Cap, the place is about to blow, we've gotta get out" Steve had just taken out about 17- now 18 Hydra agents, throwing them in the burning flames or beating them in combat.

"Alright, have one more look around the perimeter. Nat get the Jet prepared for exit incase the place actually does blow" He yelled, fighting off the last two Hydra agents in his area, throwing one onto another knocking them into a large fire screaming.

"K, sam make sure there arent any survivors" Nat ran back to the jet and started it up, the lights turning on as it slowly began to hover over the ground.

"Will do Widow" Sam flew up above the collapsing building to get another view of the area.

"Black Widow or Natasha" A sassy voice explained down the intercom.

"Okay Spider Lady" A grunt was heard that made both Cap and Sam laugh. Sam was looking through Redwing and his own eyes and couldn't seem to spot anything. "It all seems clear" Just as he were about to fly back down though he noticed something.

A young girl, her hair stuck together with some blood, mixed with dirt and wood. Her skin covered with brown mud and small cuts, she wore a white ripped hospital gown, too no longer white- or had seemed to be in years?...

"Holy shit-"

"Language!"

"There's a kid- west bound, see if you can get her. Covered in dirt and seemingly blood, right near where the fire seemed to have started from the burnt wood scraps and dying fires around her"

"A kid? West bound? Nat how long we got left?" Steve asked, running through the flames, dodging their burns and running as fast as he could.

"Before the place explodes? From my view about 150 seconds, just over two minutes. But you're gonna need to be fast so we can all get out." Nat watched over the intercoms and the computers showing where Steve was.

"Take a left"

"What?"

"Take a left! I'm giving you the fastest route to the west bound. Keep running until you find large doors, go through them and the last one at the end should lead to the girl"

Steve stopped asking the questions and complied. It wasnt his first time saving a kid, but the closer he got, the more he saw about the place. Cages, torture chambers, training halls.

This place wasnt a good one, especially for a kid... He thought.

He found the large doors, chained shut. Before he reached them he threw his shield, breaking the locks almost instantly. He ran through, but stopped in his tracks. The room was full of blood, the sticky walls glossed over, there were bones, some shattered, some scattered. Not hundreds, probably enough for the bodies of a good couple of people though... it was gruesome. Some of the worst things he had seen in a while, probably since... well. The blip?..

How was a kid kept here? How did we not know sooner?...

The thoughts span round the super solider head, taking up more time than he would have cared for.

"Steve? What's happened why'd you stop? We've got a minute!" Nat asked, she was getting impatient, the adrenaline was rising and so were the flames, everyone felt on edge here, as soon as they stepped down something felt very wrong.

"Shit, yeah. Alright, I'm going!" Steve ran and soon found the young girl, she didn't seem too strictly harmed for being so close to the flames. And for surviving in this, this prison.

"Got her, how long have I got left?"

"45 seconds"

Steve now had the young girl over his shoulder, he was trying to run even faster than he had before. This place. Something else had been happening here.

As the 100 year old ran though, he seemed to notice the fire die down wherever he ran to, creating a simple path for him to run in. He spotted the jet, Sam was standing in the open doorway, waiting to see if cap would make it. Silently cheering him on.

"10 seconds Cap"

"Start taking off now, we'll make it."

"FUCK NO! HURRY UP MAN" Sam yelled, this time to Captain America ratger rgan through the intercoms.

Time felt like it was going in slow motion, Steve got close enough just to jump and as soon as he did the whole place behind blew up. It all went so quickly after that, Sam grabbed his hand, holding on with all his might as Steve held the young girl. Nat, quicker than ever, sped off into the sky, miles from the ground to make sure the explosion wouldn't hit them as harshly as it should have.

Steve lay on the floor, with the young girl cradled in his arms behind the shield so she wouldn't get burnt. He was staring at her, even though she was covered in- well not so flattering things, she was beautiful. Something within began stirring. Something warm, familiar...

"Holy shit my dude. We almost died!" Sam droned, going to sit down on the chairs they had.

"We usually almost die, its part of our job" Nat explained, walking in and rolling her eyes. "Nahhh, Nat even you know that place was off" Sam looked over to the spy who sighed and walked over to Steve to help him up.

"How's the kid?"

Steve stood up and pulled away the shield to show off a little girl with y/c/h hair, covered in mud and pieces of blood, tucked up into his chest, breathing gently. "Wow" Sam sighed from the back.

"She's not in as much bad of a state as I would have imagined?" Nat said, watching over the little girl. "She wasnt too close to the big fire, must have been thrown into the mud and spotty snow from the explosion." Sam suggested.

Steve just held onto the small angel in his arms. He felt as though it were only he and she in the world, that time was no longer relevant. He memorized every piece of her face, even the pieces with dirt, cuts and bruises.

Suddenly Nat snapped him out of it, "Alright, I'm going to go get Bruce over. See if she's alright. For now just but her on a bed." Steve nodded as the Spider left to go call Dr. Banner.

"We haven't got beds though?- oh fuck you man" Steve laughed at Sam, he had just pulled out a bed from the sides of the ship. "You didnt know?" He teased. He and Nat had let sam sleep on the chairs or ground for the past few years. It seemed to be a secret agreement not to tell him amongst the avengers.

"Nah man, that's cold" Steve placed the little girl down and pulled up the walls of the bed to make sure she wouldn't fall out. Watching her little breaths as Sam's words started to fade away.

"Oi you even listening to me?" Sam asked unamused sitting up and looking at the fallen solider. "She's gonna be alright Steve" Steve sighed, deep down he knew she'd be fine. But he felt something strange. Fear. Like he had just found an old journal or someone he hadn't seen for a very long time.

He sighed and stood up, walking over to the bird man who was now sitting up watching the soldiers actions. They both heard Natasha in the background talking with Bruce.

"She's gonna be alright Steve"

"I hope so..."

It was a while till they had all landed at the compound. Rogers and Wilson played some card games- dont question it, Roger's made Tony buy him loads for each mission. He enjoyed the games. He also won most of them.

Steve picked the young girl up and brought her to Bruce as the doors opened up, they lauded her down on a hospital bed and hurried off. Bruce stayed back checking in on everyone. "The mission?"

"A success as always"

Steve seemed quiet, Sam answering fir him rather than fir himself. He watched the girl be scurried along into the building.

"Did you clean all her wounds?"

"Mhm"

Steve looked down and nodded before they all began walking. He didnt mean to seem any less- well captain america-y, but he definitely had something on his mind. Bruce began to follow quickly to ask what's up.

"Hmm? Oh.. nothing. Just worried for the child" Steve tried to brush the feeling off but couldn't his gut had other plans. They wanted to see the girl, see if she was okay.

"She's gonna be alright, she only needs a few tests done- safe ones of course, blood pressure, cut cleansing etc" Bruce smiled at the much taller man. Oh god he was short. Steve smiled back to the Dr with 7 PHD's.

"Thanks Banner, I'm gonna go see Stark"

"Okay, stay safe, I'll tell you when she's improved"

Steve nodded and walked into the building, turning an opposite way to Banner and going to go see Stark. Steve was secretly very grateful Bruce would tell him about the child once she was improving. He felt a connection.

"Stark?" The 100 year old asked, knocking on the doors to the Lab.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y, Open the Doors for Roger's Pleade and Thank you" The billionaire didnt move from his seat, he had been working on some new tech as usual.

"Thanks F.R.I.D.A.Y" Steve walked in, still in his spandex from the mission covered in blood and dirt with little scuff marks all over from the fire flames.

"Its an 8 Code Pin Rogers"

"I know I know, I just can't seem to remember it"

Tony rolled his eyes and looked up leaning on his chair with one arm resting over the top.

"What's up?"

Steve furrowed his brows. "Hmm?"

"You, you seem... less Super, more Man"

Steve rolled his eyes, "I'm not Super Man Tony!" Tony just shrugged and chewed the side of his cheek.

"Dunno there Cap" The genius stood up and walked over to him, the man was much seemingly smaller without his heals on, just bare foot walking around. He got extremely close to the Cap and got on his tip toes leaning in. If he wanted he could have kissed the man he were so close, though they both knew it wouldn't happen, Tony just liked getting close to annoy people.

That's when the billionaire squealed and almost fell to the ground with a jump back, a light blush on his face. "Dick" Steve smirked at the man, he sure was one ticklish man, billionaire, genius who cares. He was still ticklish. Tony went to go sit back down.

"So what's up?" This time, happily keeping his distance.

"I saved a kid today"

Tony furrowed his brows and chuckled, slowly clapping his hands. "Well done soldier, you saved a kid"

"Tony im serious"

"Well I didn't really think you were lying-"

Steve stepped forward making the Billionaire loose his confidence. He never minded being tickled, but then again it didnt help his reputation being melted into a giggly mess. He was still really nervous. Steve smirked at the man but then continued.

"She was covered in dirt and bits of blood. But before I found her, I ran through a hall. It was Dark, but the raging fires lit it up. There were bones, scattered. Probably enough for a good few people, some big some small. And blood, all over the walls..."

Steve tensed up, remembering the place. "It reminded me of the war with Thanos."

Tony stayed quiet, no longer fearful of childish tickles. It seemed horrifying. Even for them. "Okay, send me the Locations, I'll get F.R.I.D.A.Y up and working on it alright?" Tony wasn't the best when it came to comforting, but he knew he could do something.

Steve looked up at him and smiled thankfully, but Tony coukd tell there was something else bothering. Yet he didn't want Steve to be too focused on it all.

"Hey, here" Tony grabbed something from within a draw, it had a captain America's shield on the front, he handed it to steve. Just a normal sketch book. And some pencils. "You're welcome to use these and sit down at the window or something while I work. Keep your mind off things.

"Thanks Tony" Steve smiled at the billionaire, he wasnt great at comforting, but he knew what Steve wanted. It was a strange friendship that's for sure.

"Look at the first page too! I did a little something" The billionaire smirked as Steve turned the book open, on the front was an IronMan helmet with a little speech bubble saying "I Am IronMan" and a little stick figure with a shield in a cage in the bottom corner saying "I stink!"

Tony burst out laughing at Steve's expression. Let's just say his laughing continued for longer than expected...

[river--glass]

Reylo Fic Recommendations: Monster Edition

In honor of Spooky Season, I wanted to make a list of fics in which one or both of them are more than human. Cryptids and creatures and monsters galore. (This one is for you, monsterfuckers.)

Demons

Count the Rings by Lachesisgrimm (olga_theodora). (E, Modern, 63K) When camping with her friends, Rey jokingly decides to marry a tree thats rumored to hold the spirit of a trapped man. Spoiler alert, the legends were true. Featuring accidental marriage, demon deals, and soft soft demon Ben. Sure there’s some angst and danger but this is mostly sweet and wonderful and Rey having dreams come true.

The Hand That Feeds by persimmone. (E, Victorian, 46K) Rey has managed to avoid unwanted male attention for thirty years, until the opening of a mysterious artifact burdens her with an accidental husband. Luckily, her new consort is not the average man. Or better, he's not... human. Featuring eldritch abomination Kylo who is so sweetly in awe and reverent of human Rey despite being powerful and older than the universe. And who also has... a tentacle form.

All The Ashes by neonheartbeat. (E, Modern, 37K) Rey, living in a terrible Brooklyn apartment and desperate to escape, posts a Craiglist ad as a half-joke seeking a marriage of convenience to just get the hell out of the country. It's unexpectedly answered by a mysterious Romanian count. Featuring soft monster Kylo, good friend Hux, and beauty and the beast elements. I loved this soft Kylo and thirsty Rey.

I Will Always Find You by kuresoto. (E, Modern, 24K) Featuring Lilith!Rey and Lucifer!Kylo. I love this. They fuck like monsters (and as monsters!) and Rey is the queen of hell and they're so viciously in love. Read It!!

Deliciously by @secretreylotrash. (E, Colonial, 18K) Puritan/Salem Witch Trials/The VVitch Inspired. Witches, demon Kylo, orgies, death... This was WILD.

The Devil’s Lucky Number by Avdal. (E, Modern, 10K) Pure smut. Demon Kylo shows up out of the blue for the sole purpose of making rey orgasm. It’s what she deserves.

The Devil You Know by KyloTrashForever. (E, Modern, 10K) In which Ben finds out the hard way that he shouldn’t play with old magic. AKA, lucky bastard dumb college student Ben accidentally summons himself a succubus girlfriend.

The Demon Within Me by Avdal. (E, Modern, 8K) Shameless demon Kylo smut.

Come To Me In The Clearing And There We Shall Dance by QueenOfCarrotFlowers @leofgyth . (E, 1600′s, 5K) She had been hoping he would find her - her only friend. Kylo. She supposes he’s a demon, or a devil, or one of the heathen gods, but she's never worked up the nerve to ask him and he has not volunteered that information.

Proposal by AKyloDarkly. (E, 4K) Lilith!Rey and Lucifer!Kylo.

Mercy by bunilicious. (E, Victorian, 3K) A Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde/Demon AU. AKA, Rey is thirsty for her demon husband and refuses to wait any longer.

Mothman/Mothlo

For Love of a Flame by thewayofthetrashcompactor. (E, Fantasy, 8K) The shadowy Order has advanced across the forest, bringing darkness in their wake. Rey is hungry and desperate, willing to face the Order themselves to steal back what they've taken from the land. What she finds there is not what she expects. Fairies/mothpeople! Weird! I’m into it!

Drawn to the Light of Your Burning Sorrows by Kyriadamorte. (M, Modern, 7K) Mothman Ben! Curious outcast Rey! This was the first mothlo fic I ever saw. Me when I saw this fic: Mothlo? Mothman Reylo?? God and Ryan Johnson have truly abandoned this fandom. Me after this fic: Mothman Kylo is the best boy and bring on the cryptids.

Macrolepidoptera by ceciliasheplin. (E, Modern, 3K) Rey runs after her Mothman to show him how much she loves him. Nothing like a 3K word fic that hits you in the feels at the same time that it’s giving you mothman smut filth. This fandom is magical.

Nature Spirits

Oh Autumn, Oh Teakettle, Oh Grace by diasterisms. (E, Modern, 31K) Ben Solo didn’t believe in dryads, until one snagged his coats and freed herself. She’s pure bliss and magic and he is captivated. If she has to go 2000 miles back to her tree, he might as well drive her there. Dryad Rey/smitten human Ben road trip! What a lovely fic!

Looking For a Breath of Life by Fighter_for_Solo. (T, Fantasy, 18K) Featuring Elf Prince Ben and human hunter Rey! A really delightful story.

I met you once — ( In a dream ) by persopilliankore. (E, Fantasy, 10K). Where Ben and Rey are soulmates and Ben is more than meets the eye.

Fearless by KyloTrashForever. (E, Fantasy, 6K) Featuring tree Ent Kylo and the softest tentacle porn you’ll ever read.

Sea Creatures. Mermaids, Selkies, OctaKylo, oh my!

Beyond the Veil by dachenbritta. (M, Modern, 40K). Deep within the waters of the Oregon coast, a lone mermaid longs for the man she's watched for years. Her wish of joining him comes true but comes at a cost. This was hilarious and emotional and such a great read.

Sirens by SageMcMage. (E, Fantasy, 21K) In which Merman Ben tries to woo Mermaid Rey by little gifts on her doorstep. Adorable! 

Yn Beisht Kione by Melusine11 @hellomelusine . (E, Modern, 5K) They say a beast roams the sea. Protecting a treasure long hidden in the Headland's caves. Some say it is the soul of a man killed by pirates to protect that treasure. Sailors have been known to throw casks of rum at the beast in the hopes of placating it, so they don't get eaten and can pass in peace. Most people though, don't believe he exists, and Rey is about to find out how wrong they all are.

I Found You by Kyoloren. (T, Fantasy, 5K) In which scavenger mermaid Rey finds a strange black T-shaped object in her waters on Kef Bir and is determined to return it to its owner. Mermaid Rey!Cute little fish people soulmates!

Octopussy by KyloTrashForever. (E, Modern, 5K) Three brothers at the beach plus one horny sea monster equals a lot of holes being filled. Smutty monster filth, no need to look for a deeper meaning than that. You like tentacle porn? Here ya go.

Live by the Sea, Love by the Tide by Twin_Kitten. (E, Fantasy, 4K) Rey and a few other mermaids escape the clutches of Unkar, and stumble into the territory of another pod of mermaids. Ben's pod. Soft caretaking mermaid Ben!

Where the Blue of the Sea Meets the Sky by HarpiaHarpyja @thisgarbagepicker . (T-E, Fantasy) A Short delightful little series featuring Selkie Ben and explorer Rey! I seriously cannot say enough good things about this author, do yourself a favor and go read EVERYTHING she’s ever written.

Tentacle Dick (that’s it that’s the plot)

Damnably Unbecoming by cuddlesome. (E, Canon-verse crack, 5K)

Froot (i've been saving all my summers for you) by kuresoto. (E, Canon-verse crack, 4K)

Vampires

In The Dark by KyloTrashForever. (E, Modern, 44K) A Dark Shadows AU!! It’s not “finished”, but it ends well where it is! Featuring vampire Ben who is very sorry about drinking blood and human Rey who is even thirstier than he is.

A Little Death (Goes a Long Way) by crossingwinter. (E, Modern, 23K) A Vampire & A/B/O AU. Weird and dark but I am here for it.

The Lioness by Lilia_ula. (E, Fantasy, 13K) Rey goes bravely to her death after being chosen as the village sacrifice, but upon meeting the beast things don’t go as planned. I love to see Reylo fics where they both revel in who they are and what they are together. Fascinating.

Beneath the Pale Moonlight by bunilicious. (E, Historical Recency, 15K) A fluffy fic about vampire Ben falling hard for Rey! 

The Curious Case of the Aquarist and the Vanishing Walrus by radioactivesaltghoul. (T, Modern, 6K) Rey loves spending time in the walrus enclosure at the aquarium she works at.Ben is a vampire with an unusual ability. This is bizarre and wonderful and just such a fun read. I think about this fic daily.

Werewolves

we decided not to kill the wolves (we wanted to be wolves) by crossingwinter. (E, Fantasy, 32K) A pack of wolves lives in the woods to the north of Raddus and as winter looms, they have their eyes set on Leia Organa’s stronghold. Rey may be new to Raddus, but she’s not about to do nothing while it may be in danger. And besides, Poe must be exaggerating about wolves the size of bears. She’s not afraid of monsters.

Howl by monsterleadmehome. (E, modern, 2K) When Ben Solo is trying to earn Eagle Scout status, he spends a night alone in the woods. A chance encounter with a werewolf girl named Rey leaves an impression. Ten years later, he runs into her again and this time, they're all grown up.

[dentalrecordsmusic]

Tomorrow Needs You - A Look Back on Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys

Words by Ari Jindracek

As everybody, their mothers, and their distressed and confused cats probably know by now, My Chemical Romance is alive again and it's not a fever dream. The new era is upon us and fans are seemingly coming out of the woodwork to experience it. We've talked about My Chemical Romance before here at Dental Records, but not as a group who collectively couldn't get tickets to their reunion show before it sold out in under ten minutes. However, I'm not here to talk about the reunion. This November of 2019 is another time of importance in the MCR calendar: the ninth birthday of Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, an album set in California 2019 (by design or not, the exact time and place of the reunion show). I got into MCR because of Danger Days. I have also, in recent months, heard from more people who hate it than I usually do. A few weeks ago, I read a very well written article that I will not name that was all about how good MCR was… until the "embarrassment" that was Danger Days. I started worrying if my favorite album of all time was actually awful and universally hated, and that liking it made me somehow a bad fan. 2019, the year I daydreamed about in 2010, is here. Does Danger Days still hold up?

Long story short: yes.

That doesn’t mean that every song is perfect. It doesn’t even mean that I love it as much as I used to. Frankly, I don’t. I will not say that Danger Days is the best album ever written because that would make me a liar. However, the important things are still the same. “Look Alive, Sunshine” still fills me with a burst of energy and affection, and its transition into “Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na)” is still, despite the choppiness of Spotify, smooth and perfect. The poppy repeated chorus of “Na Na Na” may ring a bit asinine now, but the fact that it comes up again later in the album justifies it, and the bridge stolen from the scrapped song “Make Room!!!” (“everybody wants to change the world but no one wants to die, wanna try?”) feels more poignant now than it did when I was fourteen and had no way of changing anything. “Bulletproof Heart” is one of the songs that doesn’t hold up as well as it could have; the bouncy guitar-and-bass riff is fun, to hear and to play (Danger Days contains many of the few songs I can play on my bass guitar), but, apart from joining up with the Killjoy theme of running away from the oppressive city, I never felt a huge amount of affection for it. Talking about “these pigs” and “this world” being on the speaker’s tail--the speaker, in my mind, is very much not Gerard Way--in a world where police brutality has been in and out of the spotlight is strange as an allegory, because in my maturity, I am aware of its reality for many members of my community. The bridge is better than I remember it, though. There’s a hope that mirrors the introductory verse of “Welcome to the Black Parade”: “are you gonna be the one to save us...are you gonna be the one left standing?” While there is a question here, there is also faith in the listener, that, if enough fans listen to the record, someone will be the one left standing.

On the note of hope, I want to spend a lot of time on “SING,” the song that got me into My Chemical Romance, and, if I can be cliche, the first song that saved my life. Musically, my love for it has waned; the only part that I really like anymore is the bridge, which has enough of an anti-corporate, anti-establishment message that it got Glenn Beck of Fox News to call it propaganda, and enough rhythmic and melodic difference from the rest of the song to really grip my interest. However, its message follows beautifully from the bridge of “Bulletproof Heart.” There is a pleading hopefulness in “SING” that had been present in a variety of My Chemical Romance songs since Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, but this is its most obvious, smack-in-the-face incarnation. Will you see what tomorrow brings, be what tomorrow needs? The song positions it as a choice, but as one where the necessary answer is yes, and the “you” is as personal as it is universal. There are two halves to the song’s hope, it seems: tomorrow needs you (so you have to stay alive), and tomorrow needs you (so you have to help make the world a better place). In words I could easily understand, at a time when I sorely needed it, an artist I respected was telling me that I could, and should, make something of myself, for the rest of the world. No wonder I have a savior complex; no wonder I peeled off my adolescent thoughts of suicide and put on a Killjoy mask. Musically, no, “SING” is not My Chemical Romance’s best song, I’ll admit that. I cannot, however, dismiss what it meant and still means to me: that I can and must improve myself and do whatever I can to help the rest of the world, because I am needed.

“Planetary (GO!)” is more bouncy-fun than it is meaningful, at least in my ears. With the spunky bassline and funky ambulance-siren synths, it’s a rave song more than it is a song that makes you change the way you change your life, which means it fulfilled its purpose as My Chemical Romance’s best try for a danceable song. It goes well with the narrative of neon-bright desert outlaws; the fact that the video for “Planetary (GO!)” is just a recut of live footage is a crime because it deserved a Killjoy smash-grab bank robbery narrative to go behind it. “The Only Hope for Me Is You” is, frankly, the most forgettable song on the album, in that, Danger Days superfan though I am, I sometimes forget it exists. It hearkens back to “Skylines and Turnstiles,” the first My Chemical Romance song, in some ways: the mentions of embers, ash, and “people burn[ing] in purifying flame” remind me, at least, of the falling of the Twin Towers that sparked the band’s creation. It does not do nearly as good a job as “Skylines and Turnstiles” if that was what it was trying to do. The theme of hope comes back--obviously, it’s in the title--but in a more romantic way, as in the later “Summertime.” It doesn’t feel like the “you” in this song can be me, like it did in “SING.” The listeners are not Gerard Way’s only hope. The bridge, especially, is weak, as it just repeats the title of the song over a basic build-up-drop-off dynamic structure.

The first “story arc” ends here, and the second, more emotionally intense, arc picks up with “Jet Star and the Kobra Kid / Traffic Report,” where Dr. Death Defying states, barely saddened under his made-up slang, that Ray Toro and Mikey Way’s Killjoy personas have been killed. In the end, a Doppler-effect synth rips into the drums intro to “Party Poison.” The Japanese dialogue over the intro here doesn’t match with anything else from the album, though I do remember live shows from this era starting with similar narration in Japanese (if my memory has failed me, I cite the nine intervening years). “Party Poison” is danceable like “Planetary (GO!)” but with bite behind it-- “this ain’t a party,” Gerard Way sings, “get off the dance floor.” Narratively, two of the people closest to him, one of them being his brother, have died, of course, it’s not a party! I love this song for its head-bopping guitars and the near-egomania of the lyrics. Titular character Party Poison is at a point in his narrative where he’s out of his mind with rage and has fallen into an adolescent sense of invulnerability. In “Save Yourself, I’ll Hold Them Back,” that crashes down with a bitter reprise of the “na na na”s from, of course, “Na Na Na.” The joyous colorful energy from before is gone, replaced with “a heart attack in black hair dye.” I personally think “Save Yourself” is one of My Chemical Romance’s best songs. The lyrics stun me still. There’s hope in it-- “not a victim of the victim’s life” and “we can live forever if you’ve got the time.” There’s barely-concealed fear-- “the good guys die and the bad guys win / who cares?” There’s anger in how, during the bridge, Gerard Way’s terse vocals become screams. It’s a mess of emotion and it’s amazing. 

Which makes it disappointing that it's followed by "S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W" and "Summertime,” which I thought, even at the time when I was creepily obsessed with Danger Days, were two of the weakest tracks. I can barely tell what kind of genre "S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W" is trying to emulate. The instrumentals (aside from the bridge) are far too simple for a band with the highly skilled Toro in its corner, there's more chorus than there is verse, and the lyrics read like a nonsensical nursery rhyme. However, I don't think "S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W" is the weakest song on the album because of how well it fits into the narrative; it's a goodbye-be-safe for the girl who features in the music videos as her guardians run off on a suicide mission. "Summertime,” in contrast, doesn't fit that narrative. It's Gerard Way's spunky, synthed-up version of the classic love song, obviously written to his wife, who he exchanged messages with by writing cryptic messages on his skin--"you can write it on your arm,” anyone? It's cute; the saccharine love is obvious, the solo gets its due time, and the bassline is fun. I like what the song is about more than I like, well, the song. I'm glad it exists, but although I'd never do so now, I used to actually skip past it in my iPod Classic days. I grew into "Summertime" when I got my first boyfriend, but as a My Chemical Romance song, it feels much too generic. "DESTROYA" pops the bubblegum idyll from its first few notes: something, represented by the drums, has come crawling up into the narrative of fun, and it's howling mad. The song is named after the robot god of the comic adaptation, but in the fandom at the time, many, myself included, assumed that Destroya was some sort of horrific, destructive force, based exclusively on the song. The fast pace of the rhythm and the vocals is furious. The verses scream out sickness and the main chorus spits the disillusionment from "Save Yourself" anew, culminating in the bridge, where "luck" and "love,” "us" and "you" are doubled on top of each other, the only constants God and The Enemy. "If what you are is just what you own / what have you become when they take from you / almost everything?" is simply put but absolutely rips through me sometimes, usually when I'm already in the throes of an identity crisis. The song feels like it's about to tear itself in half. Strange but fitting, then, that it segues into what would be, for nine years, My Chemical Romance's final credits. 

I didn't get what "Kids From Yesterday" meant in 2010, but "this could be the last of all the rides we take" is, in retrospect, as subtle as a brick to the eye (I remember reading people theorizing that this could, in fact, be the last of My Chemical Romance’s albums on the MCRmy forums in 2010 or 2011 -- we all laughed it off). Acclaimed by several of the band members as among their favorite songs, “Kids From Yesterday” isn’t necessarily my cup of tea, but I can see why people love it so much. The rhythm is steady and easy, with the synths and guitars floating over it like puffy clouds over the sprawling desert, and the vocals soar even above that; it’s a song you pan out for. The lyrics, beyond the obvious farewells, are easy to pick out and easy to like. “You only hear the music when your heart begins to break” meant something indescribable to me in my teens, and I routinely wore one of those slim rubbery bracelets with the lyric on it. “Does the television make you feel the pills you ate / or every person that you need to be?” wraps up the themes of Danger Days neatly--the Better Living Industries medication and the necessity of being someone for somebody. “Goodnight, Dr. Death” wraps up the actual narrative by taking the one speaking character from the Killjoy universe and pulling him off the air with one last message and a glitched-out version of the national anthem (again: how did we miss that?). The final song of My Chemical Romance’s final full, complete album, “Vampire Money,” is a middle finger to the Twilight movies, a break from the Killjoy personas--the band members speak under their own names, no more pseudonyms--and a high-power, over-caffeinated, airport-bar-fight beat with a shrieking guitar solo, pointed pop cultural references, and a breakdown like someone actually broke the drum kit. If a song makes you want to simultaneously dance on the street and light up Molotov cocktails, it’s a good song. At the end of an era, it’s a good song, and the clatter at the end a fitting way to go out: with a bang, or a series of them. I don’t know if My Chemical Romance knew, at the time, that this would be the last album they would record--possibly ever, if the reunion does not come with a new album. If they did, hey, they picked a good song to play during the final straightaway.

Besides the messages of hope and fun, my favorite thing about Danger Days was the story. My Chemical Romance is a band of concept albums, and if you use the music videos for “Na Na Na” and “SING” as jumping-off points, the concept of Danger Days is the easiest to follow--no wonder, since it was based on a comic Gerard Way wanted to, and later did, write. Before the comic came out, though, it was still a great source of creativity for me. The world of the Killjoys was just fleshed out enough to give me, and others like me, a starting point to build the world on our own, but just bare-bones enough to give its fans room to add to the story however we wanted. I have written things on and off since I was about six, but once I started working within the Danger Days universe, supplementing the canon story with my own characters and ideas, I feel as though I became a writer. About half of the characters I work with today were originally Killjoys or Draculoids. I believe that Danger Days specifically stimulated the creative process as well, because the meta-text to the album was all about creativity. The slogans “art is the weapon against life as a symptom” and “would you destroy something perfect to make it beautiful?” were and still are influential in how I feel about the importance of artistic expression in the world. I was in a bad place when I first heard Danger Days; the hopefulness gave me a glimpse of better feelings, and the encouragement to create gave me a method to get the feelings I was having out of my head.

When I was fourteen, when Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys came out, I would daydream about what life would be like in 2019. It got me through a lot of bumps in my life, cliche as it is. I am glad that I am able to look back on it, in 2019, and see it past the fog of nostalgia, and still love it, even though I can tell that the legs it stands on are somewhat wobblier than I remember. Is it a perfect album? No. I’m not going to make that decision. However, it’s not an embarrassment, and it doesn’t deserve the hate it gets just because it’s more colorful than the rest of the My Chemical Romance canon. I truly think that the real beauty of Danger Days doesn’t necessarily lie in every song individually but in the narrative as a whole and in its message: be loud and angry when faced with injustice, be loud and joyous when faced with love, and, most importantly, be loudly yourself as you face down a future that needs, specifically, you.

Please direct all tweets about how much “SING” means to you to Ari Jindracek on Twitter. Please direct all tweets about how much “SING” sucks to anybody else.

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[leiascully]

Fic:  Between A Rock And A Hard Place (Part Three)

Timeline: Season 10 (replaces My Struggle in the All The Choices We’ve Made ‘verse - Visitor + Resident + etc.) Rating: PG Characters:  Mulder, Scully, Tad O’Malley, Sveta (established MSR) Content warning:  canon-typical body horror (mentions of abduction, forced pregnancy, etc.) A/N:  I’m collecting all the related stories that go with Visitor/Resident under the title “All The Choices We’ve Made”, because it felt right at the time.  This story is an alternate My Struggle that reflects M&S’ growth/change in the ATCWM ‘verse. I’m weaving canon dialogue into the stories in an attempt to keep the reframing plausibly in line with canon.  

Part One  |  Part Two

They drop Scully and Sveta off at the hospital.  Driving the limousine into the non-emergency lot at Our Lady of Sorrows feels even more pretentious than cruising the streets of DC, but at least Scully can still leverage a few privileges there.   

"Call me when you're done," Mulder says to Scully.  They're standing in the corner of a hospital waiting room with their heads close together.  It feels like old times.  He's aware of how easy it would be to slide back into that life.  There are some things worth salvaging from their days on the X-Files, but they've worked hard to rebuild the rest.  

"Where will you be?" she said, tipping her face up to his.  It always made him want to kiss her.  It still does.

"I don't know.  He seems to have a plan."  He jerks his head slightly at Tad O'Malley, who is staring into his phone again, conspicuous by the door.  "Divide and conquer, right?"

"We're too smart for that, aren't we?" she murmurs, more than a hint of irony in his voice.  "Mulder, he's got to have something he wants only you to see."

"Don't take the bait," he says.  

"You too," she says.  He leans down and kisses her on the cheek, because what the hell, he can.  Their attachment to each other is no secret.  She closes her eyes briefly.  "Be safe."

"You know me," he says, and winks.

"That's why I worry," she tells him.  He chuckles as he turns away and strides back over to O'Malley.  

"I think they've got this," Mulder says.

"Good, because I've got something to show you," O'Malley says.  "Something for the eyes of true believers."

"And seekers of truth?" Mulder asks.

"Them too."  O'Malley nods at the limo.  Let's get going."

It doesn't take that long to get there, or at least, not as long as it took to get to Low Moor.  They stop at a gas station, and O'Malley reaches into a bag Mulder hadn't noticed and takes out a black hood.

"Top secret," O'Malley says.  "I'm afraid I have to ask you to wear this."

"I'm not signing any dungeon-related paperwork," Mulder jokes.  He reaches for the hood.  "Allow me."

"I expected more resistance than that," O'Malley says.

"This isn't my first top-secret rodeo," Mulder says.  "At least it's not a rubber gorilla mask."

"Didn't see that in any of the reports," O'Malley says.

Mulder slips the hood on.  "Just don't break any fingers," he says.  His voice is muffled by the cloth.  It's hot, of course, but at least it's smooth, and it smells fine.  Could be worse.  He doesn't try to keep track of the twists and turns.  There's no point.  He just sits back and relaxes until the limo stops.  O'Malley opens the door and then helps Mulder out.  Mulder walks obediently wherever he's guided.  He hears the creak of heavy metal doors opening.

"I want to prepare you," O'Malley says, a little too close, "for what you're about to see."

He pulls the hood from Mulder's head.  Mulder blinks and looks around.  It's what he expected: empty space, esoteric equipment, men in blue coats.  A scientist sees them and starts walking toward them.  Somehow there are rarely any women doing this kind of science.  At this point, he's convinced it's because women have more sense than to fall for it.  There's something recognizable, though.  

"A Faraday cage?" he says.  "For what?"

"Do you know what an ARV is?" O'Malley asks in a smug voice.

"That's what you brought me here to see?" Mulder asks.  

O'Malley just smirks.  "This is Garner," he says as the scientist arrives.  "He'll walk you through the science."  

"Right this way, Mr. Mulder," Garner says, and Mulder and O'Malley follow him through a gate into the Faraday cage.  There's a craft inside, triangular and glossy.  It's surrounded by a team of scientists who are making adjustments and taking readings.  The thing is covered with little panels.  

"That's an alien replica vehicle?" Mulder asks.

Garner nods.  "Given your background, I would've thought you'd seen one before."  

Mulder gazes at it.  "Seen the real thing, or as real as it gets.  Seen some convincing fakes too.  Never seen one like this."

"What we're showing you, we do at great risk," Garner tells him.  "Colleagues have had labs burned to the ground and work destroyed by our own government."

"I know how that feels," Mulder says.  "May I?"

"Of course," Garner says, inclining his head.  "Be my guest."

Mulder reaches out to touch one of the panels.  It's smooth under his fingertips, warm and vibrating gently.  The craft hums slightly louder and begins to hover, rising until Mulder's hand slides off it.  One of the scientists is controlling it, he's certain, but it is impressive.  

"It's running on toroidal energy," Garner tells him.  "So-called zero-point energy.  The energy of the universe."

Mulder imagines Scully would have something to say about that. "You're talking about free energy?"

"We've had it since the '40s," O'Malley interjects.  "No fuel, no flame, no combustion."

"A simple electromagnetic field," Garner says, frowning very slightly.  

"Kept secret for seventy years while the world ran on petroleum," O'Malley says dramatically.  "Oil companies making trillions.  The Middle East tearing itself apart.  For nothing."  

Mulder refrains from commenting on the quality of O'Malley's political analysis or the fact that O'Malley profits from every conflict.  He gazes at the craft.  Garner steps to his side.

"What I'm going to show you next is the most unbelievable part," Garner says.  He's talking only to Mulder, Mulder thinks.  O'Malley believes a little too much, tries to build hype around it when the facts are shocking enough.  Garner thinks Mulder will see past the hyperbole to the actual miracle.  Garner waves two fingers at one of the other scientists, who nods and flips a switch.  The surface of the craft flickers and the air around it almost shimmers.  When the glimmer clears, the craft has vanished.  

"Gravity warp drive," Mulder breaths, and Garner nods.  "How?"

"Element 115," Garner says.  "Ununpentium."

"Where did you get it?" Mulder asks.  "We can create it under lab conditions, but not in any stable state, and not in any quantity."

"Salvaged," Garner says.

"From where?" Mulder asks.

"You know where," O'Malley says.  "Roswell.  1947.  Along with the original craft and its pilots."

"Of course," Mulder murmurs.  

"That's where it all came from," Garner says.  Another flip of the switch and the ARV shimmers back into existence.

"It all comes back to Roswell," O'Malley says dramatically.  "Every advance we've made.  Every war we've fought.  Do you see?"

"I do," Mulder says.  It's the only answer O'Malley wants.

"We should be getting back," O'Malley says.  "It's late."

"That sounds like my cue," Mulder says, and O'Malley hands him the hood.  

"You see how important my pursuit of the truth is," O'Malley says in the car, once he's freed Mulder from the hood again.

"I see that it's made you rich," Mulder says.  "Funny how much truth looks like conspiracy."

"You of all people would know," O'Malley says.

Mulder shrugs.  "My pursuit of the truth has never been lucrative.  I lost everything."

"And yet you fought to get it back," O'Malley says.  "I respect the struggle."

Mulder smiles tightly.  There's nothing to say to that.  O'Malley cannot conceive of what he and Scully and their families have been through, to say nothing of the countless people he's interviewed with stories like Sveta's.  Stories of pain and suffering.  Stories of loss.  Not clickbait to spook the masses and sell airtime at a steep markup to war profiteers.  

They drive back to collect Scully and Sveta from the hospital.  Scully looks a little pinched and Sveta looks tired.  Mulder gives Scully a questioning look and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly.  <i>Later.</i>  

"I think we'll just get an Uber back to our car," Mulder says.  "It's a long drive back to Low Moor.  We don't want to keep you."

"Oh, I'm putting Sveta up in a hotel for the night," O'Malley says.  "I've got a show to tape in the morning.  Got to look fresh."

"I could stay if you will need me again, Dr. Scully," Sveta says.

Scully hesitates.  "That might be wise."

"Don't worry about it," O'Malley says, patting Sveta on the shoulder.  "It's my privilege to help her share her story with you."  He hands Mulder a card.  "This is my personal number, if you need me."

"Glad to hear it," Mulder says.  "Good night, Sveta.  Mr. O'Malley."

"Good night," Sveta says.  

It doesn't take long to find an Uber.  Mulder and Scully climb inside and talk about nothing, as if their day hasn't been filled with abductees.  Scully checks her email.  Mulder reads a message board.  Not until they get into their own car does she turn to him.

"Mulder, whoever that girl is, something has definitely happened to her.  I don't know about alien DNA, but she's traumatized, and her body shows signs of something strange.  She has stretch marks that could have resulted from a pregnancy.  She also thinks she can read minds."

"Can she?" Mulder asks.

"She knew we're together," Scully says, "but that isn't a stretch.  She said that you had been depressed in the past."

"That isn't a stretch either," Mulder jokes, merging into traffic.

"She said we had a child together," Scully says quietly.

Mulder says nothing for a moment.  "I don't think that's a secret," he says finally.  "We were being watched.  Surely that information is out there."

"She doesn't seem like the kind of person who would have dug that deep," Scully says.  

"Did Byers?" Mulder asks.

Scully sighs.  "She also claims to be telekinetic, but says she can't move things with her mind all the time."

"That's the rub, isn't it?" Mulder asks.  "Can't get that Vegas gig bending spoons for the crowd unless you're consistent."

"She says it comes from the alien DNA," Scully says, and he knows she's thinking of William.  

"When will you have the results?" Mulder asks.

"Soon," Scully says.  

"Do you believe her?" Mulder asks.  He pinches his lower lip between his fingers.  God, he could go for some sunflower seeds.

"She seems to believe in her memories," Scully says.  "I've seen strange things in the course of our work.  Inexplicable things.  I'm inclined to accept the possibility that something happened to her that has not been fully investigated."

"But not that it was aliens?" Mulder teases.

"It wasn't aliens who took me," she says.  "At least, I don't think it was."

"There was a ship, Scully," Mulder says.

"There was a light," she says.  "A light so blinding it could have obscured the less-than-extraterrestrial origins of an experimental plane.  Whoever did what they did to me was human, Mulder, starting with Duane Barry and ending with the chip that CGB Spender gave you to put back in my neck."

"I remember chasing the train," he says.  “One of the trains where they did their work.”

"Cassandra Spender was taken to one of those trains," she reminds him.  "If aliens took her, humans took her apart."

"She reminds me of Max Fenig," he says.  "Sveta, I mean."  

"I agree," Scully says.  

They are silent for a moment, remembering Max.

"I don't trust Tad O'Malley," Scully says at last, as they're parking on their street.

"Nobody should," Mulder says, setting the emergency brake.  Just one of the many precautions he takes these days.  "He's a snake oil salesman peddling poison."

"He wants to divide us," she says.  

"I agree," Mulder says.  "And I think you're right, he'll come to you next."

Scully makes a disgusted noise.  

"Not ready for the lifestyles of the rich and famous?" Mulder teases.  "I'm sure he'll offer you all that and more."

"He's a sleazebag," Scully protests.  "Handsome enough, but a sleazebag."

"And what do you say behind my back, Agent Scully?" Mulder asks, reaching for the door handle.

Her face softens.  "I love you," she tells him.  

"The most inexplicable thing," he teases her, and they go into their house together.

[lafiametta]

Nothing Like The Sun ~ A Terror fic (on AO3)

(I was blown away by @alessiapelonzi’s gorgeous Goodsir/Lady Silence art – who wouldn’t be, honestly? – and got inspired to write a little missing scene from Episode 7... Enjoy!)

Harry is at first puzzled when he wakes, for while the hour has clearly grown late, the soft halo of lamp light still illuminates the tent’s canvas walls. He must have left the lantern burning, he realizes, fallen right asleep before he had a mind to put it out.

But it is not solely the light that is responsible for his confusion, as there is also the matter of the position of his body on the pallet. For he had somehow shifted in his sleep, turning over from his right side onto his left, an ostensibly blameless act, and yet now he finds himself lying face to face with a woman – an unattached, unmarried woman – and one who is evidently just as awake as he is.

Silence is still, unreadable as a sphinx, her eyes a pair of dark and fathomless globes.

It will not do. He must convince her at once to return to her own tent, or at the very least make his excuses and retreat to a further corner of his own. He must think of her reputation, for what should happen if it were put out among the men that she had come into his tent at night, even if her purpose was entirely innocent? Harry knows that many of them already think her a savage or even a conjurer. It is pure rot and foolishness, born out of ignorance; still, he would not have them imagine her the surgeon’s doxy as well.

Despite the impropriety, however, he cannot yet bring himself to move. Lying next to her underneath the wool blanket, he is warm and snugly comfortable, more so than he’s been in months, perhaps even years. All points of reason tell him that he should be more shocked by her presence, by the manner in which she came into his tent, by the familiarities she took in laying down beside him. (Her hand is still there, clasped along his shoulder, steady as an anchor and warmer besides.) But there is no outrage in his heart, no recrimination. There is only gratitude.

His mind had been in such disorder following the events of the night, his thoughts overrun by a terrible plague of images from which he could find no escape: Dr. Stanley staggering towards them, engulfed in flames; the small and lifeless body of Jacko as it lay folded inside his wooden trunk; poor Morfin’s blood staining dark against the shale. It was all he could do to stumble back to his tent before any of the men saw him in such a wretched state, unable to speak from weeping and trembling. Part of him is still ashamed she had to see him that way at all, as helpless as a child terrified of the dark. Even now, he feels as if he must explain himself, or else apologize for being so uncharacteristically out of sorts.

“I –” he begins, and the words fail him, as he knew they would, for it is clear that he can no more make sense of himself in English than he can in Inuktitut. And so he settles on something that he thinks will lose little in the translation. “Qujannamiik,” he says softly. Thank you.

Her lips curl upward into a tiny smile – a rare gift indeed, precious for all that they were so infrequently bestowed – and she momentarily glances away, almost bashfully, before returning to meet his gaze once more.

She slowly lifts her hand from off his shoulder, a sign, no doubt, that she intends to take her leave of him and then depart. But rather than turning to go, she does something entirely unexpected. Reaching up, she curls her fingers through the thick of his hair, just above his ear, the base of her palm smooth and warm against his temple. His body stills from the shock of it – and from the pleasure, too, for it is an intimate gesture, and he has been starved of tenderness for such a long time.

Her hand traces down along the side of his face, nestling in the untamed riot of his whiskers, her thumb coming to rest on the edge of his wind-chapped cheekbone. Harry closes his eyes, for some part of him cannot bear to have her touch him in this way, not when all they’ve brought to her is misery, while still another part of him is certain he will perish should she ever choose to remove her hand from where it sits upon his cheek. More than anything, he is overcome, by what sentiments he cannot entirely be sure, and yet it is clear that something has shifted between the two of them, irrevocably so.

He opens his eyes to the light once more, seeing her anew, his mind thinking only to memorize how the shadows are falling upon the planes of her face, the way the blades of her brows arch and narrow into graceful points.

Dear Lord, she is lovely, he thinks, serene as a Diana cut from marble.

In the months of their acquaintance, she has been so many things to him: at first a teacher and a pupil, and then a companion, and perhaps even a friend. The time they had spent together on Erebus was some of the happiest he had known on the voyage, the hours in between their meetings often counted down in keen anticipation. For it was not only the joint project of the dictionary that brought him such joy, but the diversion of her company. She was curious and bright, easily making sense of some of the more abstract vocabulary he had proffered, and was possessed of a sharp humor that often required little in the way of translation.

Sometimes Harry wonders if in fact he owes her some portion of his sanity. His symptoms, compared to others of the crew, are not so markedly acute, and her presence – during the cruelest part of an already harsh winter – had allowed him a full month’s reprieve from the darkness that seemed to overtake the spirits of so many of the men.

But gratitude alone cannot account for the way his heart is now beating, so thick and ponderous, how his breath is gathering impatiently in his throat, all his senses aflame with the immediate and profound realization of how little distance separates them on the pallet.

Compelled by nothing resembling rational thought, he leans forward, and with a tilt of his head, gently presses his lips to hers, finding them full and pliant, if only a trifle cool. For a moment, he is lost, awash in heady and unfamiliar sensation, only to be sharply torn from his reverie by the sudden awareness of what he has just done. What kind of man was he, to take advantage of her in such a base, impulsive fashion? And what must she think of him now? He pulls back from her, his cheeks hot with shame, wanting at once to stammer out an apology – yet again – but before he can, her hand tightens just so upon his cheek, keeping him from retreating any further, and she moves closer to brush her lips against his.

It is not a kiss of passion, but neither is it entirely chaste, for there is a yearning in it that cannot easily be classified. There is a strange melancholy to it, too – a sense of endings wrapped within beginnings, of things both lost and simultaneously found. And then it is over, and she turns her face upward to place a single kiss upon his brow, soft as a benediction.

Harry watches as she relaxes back down upon the pallet, curling herself slightly inwards as if she means to stay and sleep beside him for a time. He knows now that he will never ask her to leave – if he had ever a mind to heed the dictates of propriety, he possesses it no longer – nor can he truly bear the thought of being anywhere else but here, right next to her, with the weight of her fingertips like a gentle brand upon his skin. Her eyes flutter with momentary drowsiness and he finds himself wishing he could devise some system of notation that might keep her, just as she is, within the gleaming halls of his memory.

Had he but time, Harry thinks, he would write a dictionary dedicated solely to her, giving definition to each gesture and expression, artfully translating the span of her neck and the color of her eyes into every language he knew.

He feels as if he must say something to her before she sleeps, before morning comes and with it a return to the strictures that govern the waking hours – if not a declaration (which he is fairly unsure he would know how to make, having had so little practice), then something that might convey at least a fraction of what he feels, lodged deep inside his breast. And yet his mind resembles nothing more than a blank and unforgiving page, the ideal words elusive, unwilling to be found in her language or in his own. He fears all is lost, until he recalls a slim volume of sonnets given to him at Christmas many years ago and brought with him to Edinburgh, where it had often served as a pleasant distraction when his anatomy studies grew too long and tedious. He had several favorites that he would on occasion read aloud to himself, in the privacy of his rooms, finding delight within the verses even as he had wondered if he would ever fully understand the sentiments that inspired them.

Underneath the blanket, his hand blindly searches for hers, at last finding it and encircling it against his wool-covered palm.

“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun,” he begins to recite, the lines coming back to him on an unwinding spool of memory. He speaks quietly, barely more than a whisper, as if they two are all that is left of the world, the universe consisting of nothing but the warm, enclosed parentheses of their recumbent forms.

“Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.”

The language, while rich and sonorous, is a touch old-fashioned, enough that she may understand only a partial measure of what he is saying. But perhaps that is why he chose it, for his heart is suddenly feeling shy and hesitant, in need of something to cloak the full expression of his sentiments.

“I have seen roses damask’d, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.”

Her eyes have fallen closed, dark lashes fanning down towards her cheeks – and yet he senses she has not yet fully succumbed to sleep. Regardless, he continues on, desirous to reach the final lines.

“I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.”

Perhaps she is sleeping now, for her breath has turned deep and even, her features freed of the guardedness that so often marks her expression. There is little indication that she heard the last few words he spoke, even less that she understood any part of his intention in uttering them. Yet it is enough for him: enough to know that such things were ever said, enough to know that she bore him some affection, enough to have shared this momentary respite with her, a becalmed island in a sea of desperation and fear. And if he is not to survive this voyage – a prospect he occasionally allows himself to consider – it will be enough to imagine her thinking of him from time to time, kept forever within the stores of her memory.

Harry gives her hand a tiny, gentle press – he has no greater wish to disturb – and then turns his head to settle against the pallet, allowing himself one last glimpse of her before he shuts his eyes and silently follows her into the soft oblivion of sleep.

[sopewriters]

saudade. [m]

Pairing: Yoongi X Reader; brief Yoonseok

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 2.8K

Warning: pretty heavy stuff. trigger warning for heavy implications of abuse, deprecating self-worth and abandonment issues. 

Companion fic to In the Wrong. Definitely read that before giving this a shot.

souˈdädə/

noun

a feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia. 

Yoongi doesn’t remember the last time he’s been genuinely alive.

Oh, he wakes up every day, breathes in, brushes his teeth and goes to his classes regularly. There’s no way he doesn’t. But, as he wakes up, his chest feels strangely empty, void. When he brushes, he also looks into the mirror; sees deadened eyes and the shell of a happy boy. His mind buzzes with static, stuffed to the brim with cotton, as he listlessly watches his teachers gesticulate wildly about something he already knows doesn’t matter.

Yoongi might be breathing, might be existing, but he doesn’t really feel like he’s living.

He leaves school every day, fatigued and aching, only to be greeted with an empty home and, if he’s lucky, the ghost of a smile. No one’s left who wants him, no one who’s left wants him. Yoongi’s alone, and that’s okay.

Except, it’s really not. His heart beats strongly against his chest in protest, because this? This isn’t how it should be. He’s not supposed to be here, not in this house, not without a home. He might have a roof above his head but, in all actuality, Yoongi feels like he just might be homeless.

But beggars can’t be choosers. So, he bites his tongue, spends his days cooped up in the corner of his large bedroom, reads and reads and reads till his eyes burn and sting and water. His only company is silence, and he starts to wonder if that’s such a bad thing after all, because it’s better than having living, breathing humans around him who only have sharp tongues and angry words to deliver. Maybe being alone is okay.

Then, his mother loses her job. Well, not his mother; but, she’s... supposed to be. And, well, Yoongi figures that’s okay, because they’re still well-off, and his not-dad still has a job, and resigns himself to spending his time holed up in his room anyway because, whether she’s home or not, she won’t care.

Except he doesn’t realize that having too much time on your hands usually isn’t a good thing. Idle minds spew poison, and Yoongi starts to figure it out much too late.

His not-mom begins to take an active interest in his schoolwork, forcing him to sit at their long dining table—empty, desolate, silent—with hunched, trembling shoulders as he stutteringly reads out verses from his biology textbook for her from memory. Her eyes are watching—always, watching—him sharply as he tries his best to recall things that he doesn’t care about from memory. He tries not to get it wrong; he knows what happens if he does.

Being wrong is dangerous.

On one of the rare occasions she’s left the house, Yoongi discovers a keyboard sitting in the far corner of the attic, sneezing as he picks it up and blinking rapidly as he struggles to tow it down the ladder. He manages, though, and gets it up and running with moderate difficulty. Yet, when he presses down on the first note, it’s like time has come ticking to a stop, the world freezing in place to listen to that sweet sound.

Yoongi sneaks around a little to use the computer to teach himself how to read sheet music, eyes traversing over the screen with unveiled wonder as he keeps an ear out for sounds of his not-mom coming back. He doesn’t want anyone to see this, wants to keep it to himself because, even as a child, Yoongi understands that not everyone’s an ally.

His keyboard is stored safely, away from burning hands.

His not-mom sits him down one day. Yoongi doesn’t look at her, knows he isn’t allowed to without permission or reprimand, and stares at his knees instead.

“You’re not progressing quickly enough.” She says, mouth in a brusque line and Yoongi instinctively flinches, cursing himself for showing even that much. “I’ve found someone to accelerate your learning; he’ll be arriving tomorrow, at 5. I expect you to be…vigilant, and not so disappointing; he’s quite reputed, and I won’t have you muddling our name.”

Yoongi bites his lip to the point where blood wells up, though he quickly presses his tongue on it. Letting it trickle out would only make it worse.

Her gaze sharpens anyway, and Yoongi’s shoulders hunch in. “Have I made myself clear?”

She doesn’t like his voice, so Yoongi just nods minutely, hands clasping together.

“Good.”

The tutor comes, the next day, and Yoongi waits for him just like he’s promised to. Well, not so much promised as he was bound, but he needs to watch what he says. No one likes it when he doesn’t—especially himself.

He’s a bright-eyed man, the tutor, and just the sight of him takes Yoongi’s breath away because how could such a cheerful person possibly drag themselves here, to this house overwhelmed with dark clouds, and sizzling ozone?

He introduces himself to Yoongi, thankfully not under the watchful eyes of his not-mom, as Yeo Jin Woo. His smile is soft, almost tender, and to Yoongi, it’s the brightest thing he’s seen his whole life.

Jin Woo’s supposed to tutor him in math—Yoongi’s worst subject—and for a brief moment, Yoongi wonders, panicked, as to how he’s supposed to appear, in any way, smart to this ray of light. That fear quickly vanishes, as they settle down upstairs at Yoongi’s desk, and start from the very beginning; his tutor’s voice is light as he writes things down for Yoongi to see and, for the first time, Yoongi feels like he just might be able to learn without fear.

Just for once.

The sessions go by, flitting past quickly as the months leave, and seasons fade. During the summer, Yoongi finally works up the courage to let Jin Woo see what no one else is privy to, save for Yoongi himself.

“You wrote these?” Jin Woo breathes in amazement, as he looks down at the younger boy. Yoongi, in an uncharacteristic bout of shyness, nods and ducks his head, almost afraid of his reaction.

He expects nothing more than the usual bout of think bigger or this won’t do you any good or do something worth being proud of that his mind spews at him in the darkest hours of the night. Yet, he doesn’t get any of that. What he does get, instead, is a soft grin and a request to play it out.

“I used to play some piano myself, you see.” Jin Woo explains, eyes warm as Yoongi watches on in awe. “If you want, we can play after studying, sometimes.”

And so, they do, always being careful to lower the volume, ears tuned for the sound of Yoongi’s not-mom. See, Jin Woo has never been told to be on guard, yet he is almost instinctively, and that’s something Yoongi appreciates. Sometimes, it feels like Jin Woo’s the father he’s never had, and Yoongi wants to do anything he can to keep things as they are.

But things change. And not ever the way he wants them to.

His not-mom finds out, one day, and it goes worse than he could’ve expected. The door slams open, and Yoongi jumps to his feet in fear, eyes wide and words dead weight on his tongue as he looks into furious eyes that just want to burn, burn, burn.

“Let me talk to your mother.” Jin Woo says, setting a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder, soft and assuring. His not-mom strides away, heels clicking, as his tutor sighs heavily. “Don’t worry, Yoongi.”

So Yoongi doesn’t, trusting him with wide eyes and an unwavering resolve, and waits. And he waits, and waits and waits, but he never comes back. Who does come back, though, is his not-mom, just to rip his carefully written notes away from him, to dig holes through the thin paper like she does to Yoongi’s heart. The keyboard disappears from his room, like it was never there, and everything becomes empty again. The low swell of the flame in Yoongi’s chest snuffs out again.

And, for the first time, Yoongi finally understands what heartbreak truly is.

Years go by. He doesn’t know how he manages to keep his head up till then, though everything urges him to just sink, let the water pull you in because the light doesn’t want you. Yoongi reads and works and reads and works till his hands tremble almost permanently, and his eyes die again.

He gets into a university that meets his not-family’s standards, and is shipped out first thing.

In a way, it’s a good thing. Yoongi doesn’t need to worry about anyone watching him over his shoulder, about poisonous breath coursing over his neck, about anyone but himself. But, at this point, he’s so used to being pulled back down that it’s hard to believe he might actually be able to pull himself back up.

He quickly learns that pretending to be alright is the only way to make people like you. And Yoongi… Yoongi needs to be liked, just once in his life. He doesn’t want to sink back into what he was before, but he doesn’t want to lean on anyone either. So he fakes his smiles, pretends there’s nothing holding him back while, in reality, rust begins to collect on the heavy manacles loped around his ankles.

He’s hyperaware of how fleeting these friends of his are, though; knows that they won’t stick around for long, that they just want the novelty of knowing his fake self, that they might just want to use him and discard him, because that’s really all he’s worth. And he’s surprisingly (not) okay with that, going about his life mundanely, robotic.

And that’s when he meets him.

He was the first one he ever loved.

He was a Dance major, liked puppies and kittens equally, and liked to cuddle on the couch during thunderstorms.  He was the one who screwed over the stereotypes Yoongi had about gay men, telling Yoongi solemnly that it didn’t matter if his nail broke during a fight, but that his face was off limits.

When he thinks about it, a good two months into their friendship, it seems almost laughable, really, that Yoongi could ever exist without Jung Hoseok in his life. Not when Hoseok takes his cheeks so gently in his hands, comfortable and warm and not burning, and tells him to chase his dreams.

Yoongi switches out of being an Econ major and immerses himself in Musical Composition instead, under Hoseok’s kind, warm eyes. He’s never known just how much he’s needed this, wonders what he was breathing in before because this is what oxygen must feel like, filling his lungs and keeping him whole.

Hoseok is everything Yoongi’s ever needed, and it scares him just how much.

The brunette, though, never complains, never calls Yoongi clingy or pathetic or anything, assures him when he struggling to breathe, tells him how proud he is of him and how he’s definitely going to make it big and everyone will know your name, Yoongi. In turn, Yoongi shows up at his dance practices, beaming brilliantly at Hoseok when no one looks, cheers him on and keeps an eye out for his overworking friend.

There’s always been something between them, something that scrapes by the air, and they don’t ever put a name to it. That’s okay, though, because they’ve got time.

Except, Yoongi should’ve known better, really.

“I don’t know if I should take it.” Hoseok bites his lip uncertainly, and Yoongi smiles even though his heart is just shattering all over again. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Don’t be stupid, idiot.” Yoongi chuffs his shoulder with a mirthless chuckle, but Hoseok doesn’t laugh. “Look, this school is much better for dance, isn’t it? If you want to go: go. Don’t hold yourself back or whatever.”

Hoseok’s eyes are watering, and Yoongi’s want to join in but he holds the tears at bay. Now’s not the time for him to be selfish. He’s always been too selfish, and it needs to stop.

“Yoongi. His friend hides his face in the arm of Yoongi’s hoodie, and winds his arms tightly around his waist. Yoongi doesn’t move much, one hand resting on his bed, and the other pressed to Hoseok’s back in support. “Please just… tell me what to do.”

“Whatever makes you happy.” Yoongi says, firmly. And it hurts to say it, but Yoongi knows how it feels to constantly hold yourself down, to never catch another glimpse of happiness. Hoseok is the sun; Hoseok doesn’t deserve to feel that way.

“I don’t want to go.” Hoseok blurts out, tears beginning to wet Yoongi’s jacket and he inhales sharply, free hand lifting up to fist strongly in Hoseok’s shirt as he lets tears brim in his own eyes. A small sliver of hope firmly roots itself in his chest; because Hoseok says he wants to stay.

“Then don’t.” He breathes, and Hoseok leans back, eyes meeting his for a heart-stopping moment.

“I won’t.” He promises, head tilting slightly; Yoongi’s eyes shut when his lips brush over his forehead. Somehow, that makes everything feel worse, scarier. “I won’t leave you.”

He does.

By now, Yoongi’s figured that it doesn’t matter what he does, that he holds people back. Hoseok said he wouldn’t ever leave him, but… he did. Does that mean he’s coming back? Is Yoongi supposed to wait?

Sometimes, he feels like he can feel the phantom trace of Hoseok’s lips, still pressed into his forehead. It used to be warm, and soft and nice, but now it’s just cold. It makes Yoongi shiver, and not the way he’d like.

And, honestly? It hurts. And Yoongi wants to wait, wants Hoseok to come back even though he doesn’t know when or if, wants the void to be filled up again, and for the blue-tinted memories to become warm again. He needs a distraction, anything.

And then, he meets you.

The two of you click quickly. He doesn’t ever hope for anything more with you, sees you as just a friend, though he feels like he might be going crazy, needing someone to take his mind off Hoseok. He won’t mind, just for a little bit, right? It’s okay if Yoongi does this.

That’s why he asks you that question, on that fateful day. He still remembers the confused tilt of your eyebrows, your lips parted soundlessly in shock for a good few beats before you could even answer him. It scares him that he feels a little warm in his chest every time he looks at you, but he can deal with that.

He just needs to pretend.

And, for a while, it comes easily enough to him. He pretends his heart doesn’t stutter when you gaze up at him with those adoring eyes, that the sounds of your soft moans don’t heat him up from inside. That this is nothing to him, that you’re just friends.

And, after, he always feels so dirty, like such an asshole, and he hates it, scrubbing himself hard in the shower, till his skin turns pink and the tears squeeze from his eyes. He apologizes countlessly in his head, to you, to Hobi, to everyone, before composing himself and stepping out of the shower, eyes dry and face impassive.

Pretending has never been harder.

He doesn’t want you to feel the way he did, though. Doesn’t want you to feel used or like a toy, so he treats you carefully, stays attentive to what you need, stays on his toes. He does whatever he can to make sure you’re alright, and that’s where he makes his most fatal mistake.

He makes you get attached. And no, that can’t happen because he always holds people back, and they always leave in the end, and you don’t need that, you don’t need any of it.

So, when you ask him, that day, baring your heart on your sleeve for him to see, Yoongi is afraid. He sees what could be, and it terrifies him, because he can’t take it again, not again, no more. He’s tired, he’s tired of always hurting people and making them feel obliged to stay when they don’t have to, when it’s best if they just don’t.

He’s always been a disappointment, through and through.

He pushes you away, spits out vengeful words that run through his head on loop, says things he doesn’t mean and only watches as you crumble, happiness chipping away like fine china. He doesn’t stick around, though, can’t because he’s a coward and, so—he runs. He runs away like the spineless little boy he’s always been, till his face burns from the wind whipping through it, not just because of the tears.

And, as you disappear from sight, he wonders how long it’ll take for you to move on, how soon you’ll be able to find someone who can actually make you happy, unlike him. Who can ease burdens off your shoulders, not dump more onto them like he would.

Yoongi wonders, and he waits.

written by: midnight

I swear I am not sadistic, this just happened on it’s own. If you’d like though, you can come yell at me! also, constructive criticism is always, always appreciated, so if there’s any way you believe i can improve my writing, let me know!

Side note: ‘saudade’ is an interesting word in that its meaning can’t be fully encapsulated in English! there’s no actual literary definition that can completely explain this feeling, and I think what it intends to convey is a beautiful sentiment. If you’ve got time, give it a search!

[acemenagerie-a]

aesthetics for the entities, part i + ii.   bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses.  this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

Dr. Jonathan Fanshawe

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets.  drowning.  the comfort of a loved one’s weight.  soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you.  not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.  dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth.  a layer of dirt on you.  looking for something below.  cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface.  entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.   insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community.  a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment.  breaching containment.  unbreathable air.  fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.  the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed.  blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.  death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark.   shadows.  lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night.  the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes.  months without going outside during sunlight.  pouring dark.  unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night.  time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable. ��winter months in the north.  an empty church.

iv.  the desolation.   senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire.  heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family.  losing everything you’ve ever held dear.  so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline.  touch that scars.  coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air.  a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives.  burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one.  disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

v.  the flesh.   body horror.  factories.  a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look.  the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter.  a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone.  long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body.  a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism.  forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.  cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

vi.  the end.   the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.  existential pain.  ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object.  a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.  the plead of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation.  someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.  causing your own burial.  the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.  meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii.  the eye.   googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments.  the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched.  a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t watch away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge.  truth.  analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information.  truth or dare, without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge.  books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyeurism.  police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers.  books that read you back.

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines.  sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters.  hide and seek.  running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you.  blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls.  focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter.    a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby.  improvised weapons.  blinding rage.  intent to kill.  a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.  holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers.  a knifeblock on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain.  not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster.  an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.  kill or be killed.  unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral.   sleep deprivation.  corridors you can get lost in.  maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions.  losing people.  losing your sanity.  corkscrew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality.  walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.  a place that has never existed.  doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.  loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger.   wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together.  the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings.  mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins.  a machine imitating humanity.  the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight.  uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices.  images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii.  the vast.   open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you.  staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control.  a fall that doesn’t end in death.  glass floor to the view below.  terminal velocity.  the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building.  falling into nothing.  feeling your feet let go of the ground.  a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.  strings of fate.  manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap.  never voicing discomfort.  outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realising it.  red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing.  suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

+  the extinction.   the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism.  the last written history.  a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

[kyberled]

also; kind of a meta topic — what would braig's life had been like if his father, rather than his mother, died? what would he have been like if his mother had raised him alone (or perhaps with her parents, or a new partner, or other extended family) in her care, without eadric? or, perhaps divorced from eadric in a strangely ideal situation in which they receive financial stability from him but he rarely has any contact with braig.

Metas || Accepting literally always

Ho boy. I got a lot to say about this. First off, I do wanna make a few points about Eadric, cause, he wasn’t always a flaming mass of acrid fecal matter in a vaguely bitter humanoid shape. He wasn’t a great person by any means, but it was a lot of the fallout following Shiv’s accident that made him as bitter and disgusting as he is, today. He never wanted kids to begin with, and would’ve been a bad parent regardless, but, yeah, not quite as awful as he is, now.

So, if Shiv had never died, Eadric still wouldn’t be very involved in Braig’s life. As I said, he never really wanted kids, so he decided he’d take on extra duties and whatnot at work, which had the double bonus of letting him stay away from his responsibilities and bringing in extra money so Shiv could take time off to actually, you know, be a parent to their very young infant son? But it worked out well for them, they each got what they wanted (mostly), Braig was well looked-after by Mum and Dad didn’t get to bother him while also providing the financial support, and sometimes Shiv would go out to help at the hospital she worked at and leave Braig in the capably-programmed hands of the various droids they owned, after lecturing them on exactly how to take care of her baby, right down to the very finest of details regarding his feeding. She was kind of obsessive over making sure Braig was okay. If Eadric had died, then obviously Shiv would have to spend a lot more time at work, and a lot less time with Braig, in order to make end’s meet, and he’d probably spend a lot of time being raised by droids, which, while not necessarily a bad thing, it would definitely impact his upbringing and perception of things. As an added bonus, this would really stress Shiv out and make her feel guilty about not being there for her kid, which in turn would bring down her mood, and of course impact their relationship. She does her best to avoid taking any of it out on Braig, of course, and on the rare instances she does snap at him, it’s followed instantly with apologies and hugs - “I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to yell at you, it’s not your fault, you didn’t do anything wrong, work’s really tough right now but I still shouldn’t have yelled, I’m sorry, I love you”, that kind of thing, but she still feels kinda like garbage afterwards. Once she works her way up in the hospital staff, it’s less taxing on her, and bonus points come in the form of getting some time off to spend with her boy. Some usual activities for them include going to the book store, the tea shop, or the park, though they also enjoy spending time at home. Sometimes they’ll just read, or watch holovids, or cook. Braig figures out he likes cooking a lot earlier in this verse than the canon, since he doesn’t really have much else to do, without training or missions to get in the way. He’s obviously not in nearly as good shape as he is in the canon verse/main timeline, for obvious reasons, but he’s still a wiry little guy with a metabolism that could outpace an out-of-control speeder. I like to think that the Force in an untrained individual, or, at least, an untrained Braig, manifests itself in the form of loads of pent-up energy, all the time, and a lot of stimuli that non-sensitives can’t pick up on, kind of like the air being filled with static electricity and your ears always getting filled with whispers, maybe random fluctuations in temperature without it getting actually hotter/colder– It’s kind of hard to explain, but just think about the air feeling different based on how strong in the Force a place is, and of course this can also amplify other sensations caused by the Force, as well. I also headcanon, at least in Braig’s case, that phantom touches can be a thing, like feeling something brushing by when nothing is there, and it can be really disconcerting if you’re not used to it. Of course, how strong these are depends on how strong the specific person is in the Force. Since Braig is still the same old Braig, he’s got enough midichlorians swimming about in his cells that he could have been a Jedi, if his mother had agreed to give him to the Order, and so he’s pretty susceptible to the different signals the Force sends into his brain. Adding to this is the fact that he’s never gotten any training, and so has no idea how to throw up the ‘shields’ or barriers that Jedi use to dull the feelings that the Force gives him, so he’s basically just getting slammed in the face with all sorts of stimuli twenty-four seven, but it’s been like that for as long as he can remember, so he’s pretty much used to it, by now.

Tl;dr, Braig who was not taken in by the Jedi is more easily distracted, and wired on some kind of energy, and in some places gets really bad mojo and just generally feels terrible, and that definitely reflects on his mood.

He’s also a lot less selfless in this AU, if that’s the word I’m looking for. Or, well, maybe more attached to material goods is a better way of phrasing it. Less likely to put himself at risk for the greater good, or whatever. I wouldn’t call him a bad person by any means, but he’s not trained to think other people just matter more than he does. He tries to be helpful when he can, and he wants to make his mother proud and do good like she does, but in the end, he’s just a normal teenager. He’s not a civil servant, not a monk, just a kid with a pretty good heart in his chest. He’s less brave, as well, since he hasn’t been forced to endure the horrors of war at a young age, but he also doesn’t have a lot of the same fears he had as a Jedi, such as the fear of worms and snakes, of narrow underground spaces, and even his fear of abandonment isn’t nearly as bad as it was what he was a Jedi. He’s not subject to the nightmares and insomnia and whatnot in this verse, so, while he’s not as in shape, he’s probably healthier, since he’s getting regular sleep and a lot less stress. He’s also got a lot fewer scars, for obvious reasons, so, that’s a bonus.

In this verse, Shiv actually doesn’t have nearly as many problems with Eadric, the Republic, or the Jedi that she does in the canon, so they’re probably still married in this verse. Eadric’s not as much of a trash heap, as I said, but he’s also not the most involved person in the world. Braig doesn’t know him very well, but they don’t have the same antagonistic and detached and quite frankly abusive relationship they would have if he were Braig’s sole caregiver. He is still pretty strict, though.

Probably the really only positive interaction he has with his dad in this is chess. Instead of Obi and Shaak, his chess partner is Eadric. It’s really the only form of strategy Braig has to employ, so he’s not quite as good at war games as he is in canon. He’s also not even close to being at the level of combative skill as he is in canon. Again, this one’s kind of a given, but, oh, well.

He still goes on walks/jogs around the neighbourhood, usually at the parks, since, even if the Senate district is safer and less crowded than some other parts of the city, he finds the parks are a lot quieter and easier to navigate. I dunno if martial arts clubs are a thing in the Star Wars universe, though I’m not sure why they wouldn’t be, so he does that as well. It’s a good way for him to burn off more of the Force-given energy, gives him a decent social circle, and the bonus points are, Eadric quietly, and very distantly, approves of it as an activity.

Braig’s still interested in medicine, and follows in his mother’s footsteps of becoming a doctor, and in fact would volunteer his services to the war effort. He wouldn’t go out to the front lines, but he would go to planets that had been hit by the war and were trying to get back up on their feet, and give medical treatment to the people there. He might go to the front lines if he was dragged out, but he avoids it like the plague. Refugees, he will gladly help, but he doesn’t want anything to do with a war zone.

Even so, Braig’s not nearly as well-travelled as he is in the Jedi verse, and he doesn’t speak nearly as many languages. He speaks a few, but it’s more conversational than fluency, at best.

He wouldn’t live with his extended family, since they’re all living at least a couple levels down, and Shiv worked her butt off to get to the surface, where the air is filtered and clean, the sunlight is natural and bright, there aren’t nearly as many feral animals roaming the streets unchecked, and it’s generally a nicer place to live. If it were just her, she wouldn’t be as adamant about it, and might even venture a few levels down to live more within her means (If this were in a timeline where she’s not with Eadric/doesn’t have that financial boon), but, she would never subject her son to that. Only the best for him, she thinks. She kind of spoils Braig relentlessly. She’s also the glue that holds them together as a family, too. I’m not gonna say Eadric and Braig are best friends, or anywhere near as close as Obi and Braig are in canon, but it’s a positive-neutral sort of thing. 

He’s quieter in this verse, since he doesn’t have to confront politicians or enemy soldiers all the time, he hasn’t developed that outspoken personality as much. He’s more introverted, and another part is due to the fact that he doesn’t have that Force training he does as a Jedi. He doesn’t have the reassurance of being able to sense people’s emotions, so he’s not nearly as confident when speaking. 

I mean, overall, he has a pretty good life. His mom spoils him, he’s not a soldier, he gets an education. He can’t complain.

He does feel like he doesn’t really belong, though.

And, sometimes, on his runs around the city, he’ll stop and stare at the Jedi Temple, and he’ll wonder.

[genewrecker]

Homosexuals Accelerated Democracy

(Skip to bottom for tl-dr)

One of the oldest known classics and pieces of Western literature, Homer's "Iliad," is one of the oldest and clearest examples of homosexual literature that not only inspired later authors to develop upon humanistic concepts of being responsible for your actions and your fate, but also paved the path towards democracy and theater.

In the story, which tells of the mortal demi-divine culture hero Achilles and his wrath, the Trojan War is in its tenth and last year (the war being fought because the Trojan prince Paris had taken the Spartan(Greek) king, Menelaus', wife Helen). Greek/Achaean commander Agememnon insults Achilles by saying that regardless of how much harder he fights for his leader, the leader's word is law, and the leader takes whatever he wants and however much he wants. Demonstrating this lack of honor, he takes Achilles' treasures of war and his concubine. Flabbergasted that even the best warrior of Greeks can be disposed of without care or concern, Achilles refuses to fight for Greeks in the last stretch of the Trojan War. Agememnon is foolish and callous and forces the Greeks into a compromising situation deep in Trojan territory. Fights occur, the gods join here and there, but Achilles is unmovable and nihilistic. He is aware, from his mother, that returning to the battlefield would assure glory and success, but wind up with his death (which, as a warrior, is what he strives for- to fight and die with honor). If he stays out, he will become rich, and live long, but be deemed a coward forever (which pains him). He wants to fight, but not for Agememnon, who tries to bribe him to work for him. He realizes that whether you're a rich king, a brave warrior, or a common farmer, death is the ultimate equalizer, so there is no point in life, except honor or legacies. Enter Patroclus- Achilles loves Patroclus and grew up with him, willing to protect him and listen to him above all else. Patroclus dons Achilles' armor to try and rout the enemy, but is ultimately killed. News of this reaches Achilles. Up to this point, his comrades and beloved friends have fought in the war, many of whom the Trojans felled, yet he did not mourn them openly. It was with the death of Patroclus that he suddenly mourns very viscerally, by pulling his hair, pouring dirt on himself and dying inside, sobbing and crumbling unto the ground next to him so as to be like the dead. Above all else, of all the people lost, of all he stood for before, of the great equalizer of death- that no longer mattered. Holding Patroclus' body, his rage towards Agememnon and the loss of his honor no longer spoke to him. He entered the war once more because he had nothing else to live for except to kill the people who had killed Patroclus, and only Patroclus. Achilles was a very cultured man, not a savage. He loved his brothers and his comrades and his heart rang out with pain seeing them fight and knowing he could not fight with them. Yet strangely it was only Patroclus that incites Achilles, not for the glory of war, but out of hatred. This wasnt to win a battle for the Greeks- he singlehandedly destroys the Trojan army and kills the Trojan prince Hector, and violently and publicly desecrates his corpse for days, out of sheer hatred for these people who took something much much more important to him than honor. His wrath was only satiated when Troy was in flames, and Hectors father, Trojan king Priam, begs on his knees to have his sons body back to be buried.

Scholars both ancient and modern have debated the meaning of Achilles sudden turn in the war in the Iliad, but the almost unanimous consensus was that Achilles and Patroclus were very much involved in a deeply romantic relationship. Homer, a poet who emphasized order and the macronarrative, didn't explicitly state the relationship of Patroclus to Achilles. His style was more focused on the consequences of Achilles enraged. He uses the micronarrative (Achilles focused on having honor returned, Patroclus' death and Achilles mourning) to tie Achilles back into the macro, and tries not to use monologues or soliloquies to unnecessarily explain the mindstates of the characters. Instead he uses Achilles' reaction to Patroclus' death to describe the relationship between the two, thus having no need to explain it (also it was widely known in the folktales that Homer had grown up with that a homoromantic relation with Patroclus was often the catalyst for his onslaught on Trojans after his lovers death. To omit these feelings in verse and instead capitalize on the wrath was more poetic in a sense to Homer, because it reflected the relationship between the two warriors AND delved right into narrative where Achilles murders an entire city for killing his boyfriend.)

How does Achilles and the Iliad relate to democracy? Well, the first theaters would be established in Athens around 6th century BC, some time after Homer. Theaters, which often performed tragedies in reverence to the Greek god of tragedy, revelry, and chaos, Dionysus, were the first open stage frrom which a small group of educated people (actors, who were priests and temple aides) could speak and deliver uninterrupted information to a greater group of people. The story of the Iliad and the tragedy of Achilles demonstrated the point to both the nobles and the common folk that kings and war generals were human-simple, mortal, and corrupt- and that just because they held power, did not mean they were pure. Rather, the power of aristocrats can be outright appalling if they do not hold themselves to a code of honor, and any common man or great athlete would be made to suffer to fight a pointless war if their leaders were corrupt, selfish, and entitled. The story of Achilles made people question why they should fight in war. Everyone dies, and wars were games of honor for nobles, the only people who could vote and have a voice in politics, so what was in it for the common man to fight? Especially if a king could turn corrupt and take everything you do for granted and claim all your spoils of war for themselves?

As a middle class developed in Athens, and the common man could now afford weapons and armor (but not horses. Horses and chariots were still the symbols of nobles), common folk were conscripted into armies as foot soldiers (hoplites). But after several hundred years of interpretting the Greek tragedies, and being told the story of the glorious Achilles who was screwed by Agememnon, people were suspicious of the rich and indifferent towards fighting wars that did not concern them. A compromise was eventually reached so as to have the advantage of numbers (nobles+commoners) if any war were to arise with Athens: whoever signs up to be a soldier gets the right to vote.

This change was immense. For the first time we see rights of voting being extended to the common man in exchange for their service to their king. People grew wiser. They caught on. And now they were content. The common man can now risk their life on the battlefield, but not for the glory of a warriors death-but rather for the opportunity to mould policies in their favor at home and to shape their nation.

Ultimately there is no true glory in death. Both the brave hero and the cowardly man die. In death they both return to the soil. They are both flesh and susceptible to injury. Riches mean nothing, for death removes us from every treasure we can accrue from battle. No, the honorable man needs an honorable reason to fight. That is Achilles. He refused to be treated injuriously for all of his service to his king, and protested fighting if it meant fighting for the dishonorable. An apology, a concession from a noble to a lower ranking soldier, would suffice to have him fight again. It is an equal exchange- me saying and everyone recognizing that "with all my power, I can be wrong and I am not infallible" in exchange for your years of military service. Even more important was Patroclus, a man who he loved who should not have died, and whos death influences Achilles to act in vengeance equal to the loss: the destruction of Troy and prince Hector. Fight for what you know is important, and take what you know is fair. That is the message of Achilles to the Greeks. Fight for equality. Only fight if you intend to have gains that are equal to your service and your life, and if someone takes from you unjustly, be ready to repay them in full.

tl:dr- In Homer's "Iliad," Greek king Agememnon insults Achilles, who then refuses to fight for him due to him not treating his army with respect for risking their lives for him. It is only when his homoromantic love, Patroclus, dies, (even after being indifferent towards the many deaths of his comrades) that he breaks down in mourning and repays them with what he feels is fair: killing their strongest warrior, desecrating his corpse for days, decimating their army, and burning their city to ashes. The tragedy is performed in theaters two centuries later for everyone to see, and Athens begins to have a middle class who can afford weapons. Seeing this, nobles try and conscript commoners into their armies, but commoners, knowing many Greeks tales, including the popular Iliad, are familiar with the corruption of aristocrats and their disrespect towards the service of those below them. Suspicious, they desire voting rights in exchange for fighting the wars of nobles, and seeing no other choice lest Athens lose out on tripling its army, the aristocrats comply: if you fight, you vote. Achilles is not only one of the first and most important culture heroes in Greece, he is also the bisexual/gay culture hero who shaped the minds of Greek citizens by protesting elitism, leveling a city and its army for the death of his beloved Patroclus, and paved the way for democratic thought for years to come.

[brooklynislandgirl]

[ FIVE TEXTS ]  send for five unsent texts from the receiver and one sent text. {Stephen}

Five by Five || -

{Text: Kauka} I made a mistake. Pls forgive me and let me come back. It’s been two whole weeks, and this is the first time she’s been able to crawl out of bed. Phone in hand, she stumbles her way to her kitchen but the thought of food makes her want to wretch. Her face is puffy when she glances at her reflection on the toaster. Her eyes swollen, red-rimmed. Her lips dry, chapped. What she needs is water to replenish she’s lost in sobbing, but for all the tears, her heart is still lodged in her chest in pieces. She makes coffee with one hand and types furiously with the other. When she reads it, she deletes it immediately. The pot turns itself off eventually, untouched. ~*~ {Text: Kauka} Conga-Rats 🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀 on winning the Gruber PiN. No one deserves it more than you. Gonna finally take that vacation or is the 500k going back into research? Of course she keeps tabs on his achievements, it’s the only way she can reasonably remain in touch with his life, since Stephen hasn’t answered a single letter, text, or postcard. She understands why he’s furious with her. Why he will likely never speak to her again, but it doesn’t mean she isn’t there, in spirit, cheering him on and still soaking up his wisdom in press pieces. She flips the page. He’s radiant in black and white, not a single trace of levity in bones that could double as scalpels themselves. Beside him is Christine. She can all but feel the heat of his palm on the small of her back. She can practically smell the woman's perfume as her pulse hammers at the way he’s looking at her. She throws the Lancet in the trash as she leaves the room. ~*~

{Text: Stephen} I heard you broke up with Dr Palmer again. Call me if you need me.

Of course she can’t send that, reminding him how fallible the human heart is. Reminding him that the definition of insanity is to repeat the same act over and over again, expecting different results. Reminding him that no matter where she goes, he’s always there as if they can’t escape each other. It was her choice, and she has to live with it. But sometimes, she simply doesn’t know how. ~*~

{Text: Stephen} Hauʻoli lā hānau! 🎁 is in the mail. She shakes her head with a smile that holds no bitterness. Who else would he imagine is sending him a koa wood ~until recent history, kapu only to the Ali’i class~ and sodalite watch? Wood and Stone. Time. A gift that talks about his world, and comes from hers? She knows the grove where the tree was harvested and a new one planted. She’d sat beneath its bows in stillness, waiting for her life to begin at University. Maybe if she doesn’t warn him, he won’t send it back. Maybe someday they can find their way back to a point where they are once again in sync. ~*~

{Text: Stephen} I dreamed of you tonight. Different than most. Wish you were here or I was there. I… Her sheets are soaked with sweat, all in disarray from the furtive tossing and turning. From groping, from clawing, twisting them up in her hands. She can feel the way her thighs stick together, even if it is February. The obscene sound they make when she slides them over the side of the bed. So why does she pick up her phone to reach out for…to…him? Because even she can be selfish at times. Weirdly needy even if there’s nothing to do for it but suck it up. Leave the man alone, even if it’s all in her head. If he were at all interested, he would have reached out by now, though she holds him blameless for not having done so. It also doesn’t matter if all this time between them doesn’t dull the edges of love. She’d be stupid or crazy to tell him so out of the blue. So instead, she chooses to take a long shower. As cold as she can stand. ~*~

{Text: Mister MD} Friendly warning, you’ve made another top-10 list. Most Famous Sorcerer after Merlin and Hecate. Dinner’s on me. It’s different now, somehow. Either they’ve both learned to let things go, or maybe Stephen is finally lonely enough that her company seems to cheer him up.  She knows that’s too flippant, too easy to say and forget. It’s been work on both sides, mending the series of fences between them through trial and effort, sharing the secrets that they both harboured for too long. Stephen needs some comfort in the way his life has changed forever, both because of his hands and because of his Awakening, and there’s no one who understands him better than she does, the one person who will answer him honestly without hubris. Beth is more than happy to offer him that solace, only asking for some small place in his life in exchange. She still spoils him though; tonight she’s bringing over Five guys burger and veggie sandwich, a metric ton of fries, and chocolate-salted caramel milkshake for him, vanilla malted for her. It’s hoodies-and-jeans-and-Netflix, not galas and lights and tuxedos. And she knows he’s going to smile ~tiredly~ and thank her. Little moments. It’s taken her this long to figure out.

[autolovecraft]

Charles Dexter Ward, dweller in the past.

Weeden went at once with proper methods and chemical substances. Charles. In the middle of June a queer nocturnal incident occurred. Certain documents by and about all of the strange minuscule message, of whose origin no one dared think, said that Curwen must be killed. Only from certain closely confidential friends of Willett and the father paused in a growing vortex of perplexity and an engulfing sense of strangeness.

The Vice-Admiralty at Newport, against whom the hand of every Providence skipper, merchant, and farmer was openly or clandestinely raised. Then the flaming thing burst into sight at a point where the Curwen ships rode restlessly. Of this division one third was to be addressed at Rakus in the care with which these actual raiders destroyed each scrap which bore the least allusion to the matter of Orne and Hutchinson, and the Georgian roofs and cupolas hovering by.

He was soon substantially narrowed down, and at this juncture was a clumsy forgery, and were reassured less than they ought to have been in use, whilst the whole skin had a morbid chill and dryness, and the terrible message in medieval minuscules found in Willett's pocket; the papers and the letters and all the appurtenances with the keenest interest; noting from the relative quantities of various reagents on the shelves of the laboratory proper. Ezra Weeden's ancient grave, and the road past Mr. Sayles's tavern. I have said of him. It was only about this time, but which others quite naturally dismiss as an irrelevant coincidence. Nothing yawned this time to sicken the mystified father who had followed the doctor downstairs; only the smooth concrete was still visible, but of any modern feud or mystery he is frankly ignorant. The birth entry, indeed, no uncertainty about Charles's fate. She had attended Stephen Jackson's school opposite the Court-House Parade; and had evidently achieved a way of learning old matters from things surer than books, and I'll show you what will pay your patience well.

Charles had feared this man, and soon uncovered enough rumors to whet his horror and cause him to demand that the daughter and granddaughter change their name, burn the library and all remaining papers, and when had the final stage occurred?

All the days of my appointed time will I wait, until my change come. For Mr. Perrigo, 1 set of awls. Like the first of the month with its customary financial adjustments, and the human cries of desperate and frightened men were heard. Old World which he desired. They ran: 'The verse from Liber-Damnatus holds the clavicle. Charles Ward which he considers of extraordinary importance, and about which he has frequently quarreled with Dr. Lyman has compelled him to be very specific, and he ventured the mild statement that those notes were old ones, of no possible significance to anyone not deeply initiated in the history of magic. But, he added, 'had you but known the words to bring up that which you can not put down … Have the words for laying at all times ready, and stop not to be denied; and once more Joseph Curwen found his house frequented by persons whom he could produce bona fide bills of sale either to slave-dealers at the Great Bridge, followed by the sound of two whistle-blasts it would advance through the aperture to oppose the enemy or join the rest of the raiding contingent. From that time on the obliteration of Curwen's memory became increasingly rigid, extending at last by common consent even to the town records and among old burying-grounds for a certain grave dug in 1771; the grave of their ancestor. None of these colloquies was ever ocularly witnessed, since the windows were always heavily draped. He had reached his farm over half an hour before, and produced a kind of clutching, amorphous fear beyond that of the tomb or the charnel-house. 'Well, Sir, you be modest! Mrs. Eliza Curwen, widow of Joseph Curwen. Charles Ward spoke many times to his parents grew fewer and fewer.

Allen, which Mr. Ward at once rushed with excited zeal.

In the week following that memorable Good Friday Charles Ward was seldom seen by his family.

The one fact which remains is that up to the present time no trace of filial affection.

After that date, however, he was half-deaf with noise from Outside and never saw or heard aught from the wells! There was nothing alive here to harm him, and if possible discovering his present whereabouts. To all these inquiries the youth was politely non-committal way, and do not think better was done at Mr. Hutchinson's in Salem-Village and one Simon Orne of Salem.

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave {{xx}}

Over the years since the apartment went from a home full of love and joy when Andy’s rescue-wing were stationed here in Brooklyn at Floyd Bennett Field to the expanse of emptiness that Stephen can see it is now; a museum of relics to the life Beth doesn’t live any more, she’s grown into it like a shell. Once through its doors, it is her fairy-tale tower where nothing is supposed to be able to touch her. Where she can lick her proverbial wounds that never seem to close fully on their own. Where she can stay frozen in stasis, wandering around inured to dreams that have all gone dark. And while she was far from where she believed she’d be by now, while she wasn’t even merely content, it was enough. She was doing good works. She was holding to the vow of first doing no harm. An ordinary life with ordinary things in them. Cutting herself off from almost everything she’d lost.

She doesn’t need to look around. She can see the massive loft apartment in her mind’s eye with an intimacy that most people never achieve. She should have taken down the guitars in their acrylic cases. She should have packed up the photographs. The ones showing what had been. None of them having been taken since after the funeral. She should have put her brother’s massive vinyl record collection into crates and from there into storage. They take up more room on the exposed brick than her various plants and surfboards do. Try as much as she might, she just can’t bring herself to do it. It might mean that she was ready to move on, and that is far from the truth. She holds onto things, the fragmented, the broken, the lost. With that same stalwart dedication, she tries to hold onto herself.

Dinner had begun half an hour before, precisely at 7:30 pm, just as it did every Sunday. Two courses down, two more to go. Not a single word had broken the terse silence at the large mahogany table where the Admiral sat at the head in his customary place and she’d been seated three feet away and to his right. She did not cringe a single time as forks and knives moved across porcelain dishes. The muscle in his jaw worked as he chewed and it felt like wordless castigation somehow even if she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. One hand lay limply in her lap, the other holds her fork poised over a mix of greens, but she has no appetite. All she really wants to do is drain her wine glass, daub at her lips with her linen napkin and beg to be excused. Just as she did every Sunday. And like all the rest of these interminable repasts, she isn’t able to effect her escape. The Admiral sets down his silverware ~actual silver, brought over from County Antrim~ and washes down his salade Niscois with chilled ice water. He reaches up and smooths down his carefully groomed moustache. Then he fixes her with his steely gaze, the same green eyes that her brother had had, the ones that rest in her own face, only his lack even the remotest speck of warmth. “You received your letter for your summer rotation. Were you going to tell me about it, Elizabeth, or was I supposed to find out when the papers reported on it?” Both hands are in her lap now, fingers twisted together, nails biting half-moon shapes into her palms. “No, Sir. I’m sorry, sir.” “I don’t want your apology, I want to know who they paired you with. I put in a word with Nicodemus West, on your behalf. He’s not in our orbit, but he’s patient enough and you’d be lucky to have him.” Her stomach becomes encased with ice. She’s never going to live this down in his eyes. Personal recommendation notwithstanding… “Thank you, sir. I’ve been...I've been assigned to Doctor Strange, actually.”

She might as well have told the Admiral that she’d committed war crimes while setting the American flag on fire. Oh how he’d raged at her. He called the man arrogant, an egotist of the first water, a New Money libertine that would only stain her already precarious reputation. He demanded that she speak to the board president or that he would make the call for her. Beth had then set her napkin aside and asked sincerely and politely if she might powder her nose. The Admiral understood what she meant, but couldn’t help himself with a parting shot saying that her complexion did look mottled. Once the door closed behind her, she immediately sat on the only space available, opened her purse and bypassed her compact completely. Instead, she grabbed her phone and fired off two very discreet emails. One to the rotation administrator accepting her three month work along, and the second to Stephen himself, thanking him for the opportunity, that she looked forward to working under his supervision. That would be the first of many personal emails between them. The first time she’d directly fought for Stephen, or more correctly, the first time she realised it. Beth had always had a competitive streak a mile wide. And with a class size of over six hundred students that year, she might have been one of the youngest students but by no means the only talented one. But the moment she’d stepped into the lecture hall, precisely three minutes and forty two seconds late, illuminated by the bright glow of the smart board because the only place to sit was at the very front row.

His stare could have impaled a rogue comet, and the lines around his mouth felt like chasms ready to swallow her whole. “Miss Riley, how very fortunate we are to be graced with your presence. I’m going to assume for the sake of argument that you felt your coffee order was much more important than this class, because you already know all there is to know about this particular case.”

When the earth was not kind enough to open up beneath her feet and swallow her before she’d had to admit her watch had stopped, she managed to glance at the words on the screen: Partially Thrombosed Giant Posterior Inferior Cerebellar Artery Aneurysm Mimicking A Fourth Ventricular Tumour. She fixed a demure smile to her lips and returned her gaze to meet his unflinchingly. “Depends, Doctor, on what you mean by that exactly. Posterior circulation aneurysms are less common compared to the anterior circulation aneurysm. Dissection distal Posterior Inferior Cerebellar Artery, better known as PICA, aneurysm is almost unheard of. In this case report, the surgeon assigned to this patient manages to diagnose her within six minutes of being presented to him. The woman had been investigated for gastritis, had undergone CT of the chest, abdomen, and pelvis because of reported symptoms and treated with anti-emetics before being discharged. She’d been treated and streeted three times over the course of ten months. Course of treatment prescribed for her by the diagnosing surgeon was for her to undergo endovascular drainage and removal of the Distal PICA aneurysm, and she made full recovery with resolution of symptoms.” The corner of his mouth twitched. Mirrored against her own. Beth happened to know this case specifically as he’d been the diagnosing physician. It had been his first year of residency on staff, and he’d saved a life that even his attendings would have squandered with their myopic views. She never admitted afterwards that he’d terrified her in those first few moments, even that one time they’d ended up doing sake bombs at Kura’s on St Mark’s Place, having successfully sneaked out of what happened to be the most boring retirement dinner the department had ever perpetrated. Nor had she ever forgotten the feel of his arm around her waist or the scent of his pressed silk shirt and the heat radiating off of him when he wrapped her in one side of his coat on the way back to his car because neither one had remembered to bring an umbrella. If she had to choose a moment when the first seed had been planted, when it had taken root and bloomed into the mess that came after, she would have had to say that was it. She would have been hard pressed to say what *it* even was.

Not that it ever mattered, it was all water under a very troubled bridge, and the paths of their destinies had been markedly different. That they entwined now after so long wasn’t something she could overlook but she didn’t want to because then she would then have to step beyond the shelter of ignorance and things would go on change.

Again.

Beth doesn’t hear him move. Everything is too loud. The water in the sink sounds like the rush of Manoa Falls, a place she hasn’t been for almost fifteen years but that she knows like the back of her own hand. The clock ticks with each beat of her heart, the hum of the refrigerator sounds like a roar, the traffic outside, the neighbours two floors down and their television. Her own pulse by itself is enough to deafen her and she can feel it starting to throb behind her eyes. But despite that, she can feel him. Each step, each compact flex of muscle, each breath comes ahead of his proximity and heralds the fact that he comes to a halt behind her and a little to her side. It’s everything she can do to hold back the feelings running amok through her but never once does she even think of flinching, not even when those fingertips graze her skin and it feels like sparks from flint and steel. Something stirs unnoticeably within her and greets the contact with a wave of slow vital energy almost as warm as faint morning sunlight. The same energy that not only sustains her plants but encourages them to thrive and grow. The same energy that often envelopes patients in her care and fosters quicker, greater healing even if she does nothing else but simply sit with them and converse. Beth isn’t even aware of it, it’s simply an act of being.

What she does know, however, is that she’s never really been able to keep even an ounce of what she feels out of her eyes and when he caresses her cheek and tilts her jaw, she has to close them. There’s too much of her there. Raw. Naked in a way that even if she stripped down to her skin she couldn’t be as exposed. And still the idea of shying away from him never occurs to Beth. If anything she has to stop herself from sighing. From turning and pressing all of herself against him, her face would come to the midpoint of his chest, right where his heart ought to be. If she did her hands would follow and bunch in the back of his shirt. Trembling in an embrace like that she would be able to hold onto exactly nothing and he doesn’t need or want those emotions, he’d said so himself in dozens of ways.

Just as skilfully as he wields a scalpel, he cuts through her with a few mumbled words ~Luke, 4: 23~ and her lashes flutter, her mouth starts to move but the words flee in the light of his gaze. Her nostrils flare as she tries to take a breath, as she tries to beat back the fires of miserable embarrassment like a seasoned smoke-jumper that she isn’t. The colour and sudden heat that floods her face is an answer in and of itself, perhaps a less than eloquent tale that demands explanation for which she has very little. But she sees the dawning of that understanding creep over him in shadow. She’s only distantly surprised that it’s taken him this long to put it all together, to examine it critically but with a professional detachment that was the one thing she had never been able to learn from him, try as hard as she might. And maybe it’s a glitch of language that his next words strike as hard as they do deep. That strangles something soft inside her and lets it lie broken between them.

She knows now, for certain, that he thinks her irrevocably damaged.

Five small, gentle fingers come up to his arms and rest lightly against his forearm where most of the damage resides. Beyond nerves and bones nearly ground to powder, beyond poorly sequestered tension running through them both, that touch begs his patience. It is also necessary to find some kind of stability that she doesn’t feel any more. She looks down, looks away.

“F-for what is worth,” she begins. 

“Don’t laugh, it was highly traumatising for myself *and* the cat!” She does laugh though and covers her mouth to do so, fingers curling against her lips, little crinkles appearing at the corners of her nose where they meet her eyes. Stephen himself is so animated in the telling of the story that he shimmers in front of her like a heat haze rising up off summer-kissed pavement, and everything around them ~other patrons, the Samoan restaurant that’s closest to home-cooked food as she can find in all of New York, the ridiculously large ‘tiki’ cocktail for two they mistakenly ordered~ blurs out of clarity from her mind’s eye.

“Ho, Doctah, mebbe broke da….” she stops. “I mean to say, maybe we should put the breaks on-” “Why do you do that?” “Sir?” That slips out, unbidden. “When you’re relaxed, you have a distinctive Polynesian accent and then all of a sudden you clam up. You change it. I want to know why.” “It’s...it’s nothing.” She brushes him off and plucks a slice of pineapple from the rim of the fishbowl-sized glass. Reaches across the small space and teases his lips with it. His teeth flash as he snaps at it, gives it a couple chews before shunting it over to the side of his mouth. “You will answer me some day.”

She winks. “If can, can. If no can….HOT WINGS!” The waiter brings their pupu platter at just the right time.~

“It wasn’t..it was never…Other girls…it didn’t matter what you had to say, what you had to teach us. They wanted your body. I...I wanted your respect. I wanted you to see how much I learned from you. How much I admired and maybe even envied your talent. Your skill. Your brilliance. I lived for every moment we shared and with you...this.. This empty place in me didn’t feel so lonely. I never felt like I had to hold myself back, never that I was too weird. I...I thought you just understood because we were so much alike.” There was nothing that salt water couldn’t cure; tears, sweat, ocean tides. And for Beth, standing there so close to him, she can’t help herself and the gathered wet in her eyes start to slide down her face unchecked. “And then… then… when I realised that I’d messed up so hard…”

Beth feels her heart misfire in her chest, the off-beat a painful thing. “All I wanted to do was to protect you. And by leaving they couldn’t accuse you of anything. Even if you had no fault in what amounts to a stupidly impossible fantasy that, at the time, I thought was harmless. Only, it wasn’t. It was...stupid. It was… It was a mistake but one I couldn’t really take back, you know?” She laughs a little even if her face doesn’t hold any levity and the sound is a little too brittle. Despite all of her admittedly ignorant actions, she hadn’t even managed to reach completion. While she could visualise his long, slender fingers and imagine the calloused warmth of them trailing down her skin, the sensations were not the same. Not how she remembered it when he was fixing the gash in her chin and had at one point held her steady with his thumb all but caressing her lower lip. Or when he’d physically take hold of her hands to manoeuvre them in just the right way with tools that demanded unfathomable precision because one day a single atom one way or the other would make the difference between saving a patient or letting them die on the table. She couldn’t reproduce the warmth of his breath in her ear. The lean of his lithe frame bent over hers over a pool table where he taught her that not every game was eight-ball, the curve of his hand making a bridge with his much longer reach. The easy comfort of his arm around her waist and a slow shuffling waltz on a gala dance floor, the whole time listening to his diatribes about West that were so scathing she might have earned second-hand burns from them, and trying not to laugh. Her imaginary Stephen could never live up to the living, breathing man.

She risks looking up at him, afraid to see what might be written on his face.

“But no one can turn back time, an’ certainly not me. And I’m sorry...so sorry...that I left the way I did, with no explanation even if you deserved one. But at the time I couldn’t stand the idea of you ever being disappointed in me. Anyone else, Stephen, but not you. Never you.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

🔥 + dreams

Flickerflash || Accepting

It always begins in darkness. And in darkness must things return. The part that scares her the most is what lives in the primordial inky texture. Her heart pounds in her chest. Her lungs seize trying to drag down one more breath. Every last muscle becomes paralysed and she is unable to move. Nails brush against her skin mid-clawing before her fingers lock up. Stillness is death. She can do nothing to stop this. The way black shifts on black, merges and bubbles, a terrible mimicry of life. Then it begins to coalesce int a shape. Legs like trees, heavy shadow at their apex. A chest like a canyon wall so large she cannot see the top. Thick, corded arms with fingers that end in knife blades. They drag up her legs, not biting deep enough to draw blood and when they stop, just below her belly? She floods with terror and desire. Equal parts shame and horror. The Void in humanesque form laughs at this and sends the very vibrations through her bones. Chills her with the feeling of oblivion. Onward those fingers move. Now leaving a red trail through the valley between her breasts. They will stop again at her throat. They will bite and deeply at that. Beth screams.

"Piccola?" Even in the sliver of moonlight, her eyes gleam with the haze of need and dread when she finally finds her husband's aphotic gaze.

~*~

He cups her jaw in his hands, thumbs brushing gently over the arches of her cheek bones. Then gently caress her lower lip once he's teased it free of her teeth. Her lashes drift shut and she tilts her head upward and for a moment she thinks he might just indulge her in a kiss. Perhaps curious if she does taste like cinnamon or if it's just an illusion. He doesn't. Instead she can feel him move. Bare feet soundless on the polished wood floor of his loft. There's a whisper of his pyjama bottoms, black and silk, bespoke tailored to his long legs. Even with the nocturne playing in the background ~Chopin?~ she can hear that if not his breath. She stands stock still. Hands clasped at the hem of the slip-dress she's wearing. He stops behind her and an eternity passes before she can feel one hand gather her hair in its grasp. The backs of his fingers caress the space between her neck and her shoulder before dipping lower. Tracing her collar bones.

She is achingly aware of how close in proximity he is. How his hands could sculpt her any way he wished and she would welcome it. How easily he could scoop her up and carry her to his bed or maybe not even that far. He has a table and he could press her flat- "Riley?" Stephen? She doesn't know if she says this aloud or if it's only her voice inside her head. "Riley, wake up. Surgical Consult in Curtain Five, and they've been hollering for-" "W-where's Stephen?" "Doctor Strange? Naw, he went home hours ago. Said unless they pronounced you, don't call him. So if this conversation isn't a weird Lazarus Reflex...ass up and moving."

As an on-call resident, Beth is lucky to get two full hours of sleep at night. She spends them with him.

~*~

It's the strangest thing. She's been asleep for hours. Curled up beside him, only tossing and turning to burrow deeper under the covers, to steal away whatever warmth he can put out. But Luka wakes to the sound of... laughter. Soft, to be sure, barely audible. But extremely noticeable when the only other person who can make a sound at quite that pitch is nine years old, and away with her uncles. So the sound isn't coming from Maria. A minute or two later and it's actual words. "Lu'a, stop." Then that giggle again as she stretches languorously in midst of the dream she is having. "...or....don't. There. Yes. There. Just like that." Abruptly the conversation stops and is replaced by a lush sound so decadent it should put the living man to shame. Her back arches against the mattress and she rises and falls like a wave. Her breath quickens, her hands fist into the sheets and twists them away, leaving her bare skin on display. A full body writhe and a new sound emerges, this one sharper. Needier somehow, edged with the lust that even in waking romances isn't seen often. And then she giggles again. Reaches out in empty air as if searching. ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ It is perhaps when Beth is asleep that she is the most comfortable in her power as a woman, and in her own sexuality. In different verses {as seen above}, these dreams manifest in a myriad of ways. From terrifying and primitive ~interconnected with her night terrors and sleep paralysis~ which shrieks to the primordial avatar of her soul, to the almost innocent fantasies of a young woman who has caught feelings for her mentor but still can't cross the line from flirtatious to overtly sexual, to even the ones that come with full dialogue and stage directions {and the very odd for anyone listening conversations}. These dreams perhaps in many ways substitute and subvert her waking desires. Here, she is safe. Here there can be no judgement, no disgust, no guilt or shame. In dreams, Beth can be a normal person. In dreams, no one abandons her. No one hurts her. No one makes her feel undeserving. And they always fade from mind when she wakes up, because dreams are, if anything, not real.