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existentialdruid · 3 years

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Okay I am currently mentally hanging by a thread so here is my existential dread brought to you by 'Dying Light 2'

Right meaning it's been made so beautiful. The game's about the end of the world, It's a post-apocalypse, shit has already hit the fan, and on top of that this is the second game, and the first mission had no right to be as surreal as it was in my head.

Now in the game, you're not the last one alive, there are a bunch of towns and villages filled with people, dwindling, but sure they exist. I'm not imagining the exact scenario in the game, there are no zombies, there is no traumatic past. Now imagine there's no one left, it's just you.

(Forgive the crappy quality)

You're alone and just surrounded by these mountains in the fall, you're alone and you've just been surviving on your own. Everyone you had ever known is long gone, and it's just you alone with your thoughts. Now, that's the hardest thing to survive.

You come across an old house, where you can see that people were together and lived and loved. How do you cope with the fact that this no longer exists. People just disappeared, they still have their shit left behind, remnants of their memories, their lives, but for who to see? There could've been amazing things that went down, each one of them had a cool story, a song in their lives. For whom does that song play for now?

Surely not you. You'll soon be just like them.

A book. A note left behind. Kind of worthless now that you think about it, whose gonna read it? You do, but surely there are a million other notes around the fucking world, letters for loved ones but never sent, small diary notes for a good day someone had. Some out there lived a full life, loved with everything they had, were a beautiful person, and had a story worth a million pages; but you'll never know who, what, you'll never know it. Someone had something worth preserving but now its perished with no one left to remember.

Is it cruel that you're the last one left to remember? Surely not. Is it cruel that the world is so beautiful on its final days?

Theres so much out there, so much that you'll never even know but you'll never. And whats the point in even knowing it? Perhaps there were people who knew something, laughters, smiles of a loved one, songs of a rainy day, so much to experience but nothing to feel.

Is it your responsibility to grieve what will never be, and what has and will never be known? You sit alone with a wind gushing across, you're feeling cold, but you're the only one left to feel such a thing, would you hide yourself from feeling it? Can you possibly feel every emotion possible because every single one is worth it. There are feelings to be felt that you never had, that someone probably did, who knows?, but now no one will.

"It's the small things in life", well yeah of course, but there are so many fucking of them!!

Would you feel nothing, or do you feel everything? Can you feel the happiness of friends catching up, do you feel the sorrow of a relative's death, do you feel the joy of getting into a wanted college, do you feel the excitement of a new car, do you feel at all!!!???

Can you feel the grip of life grab into your chest and rip your heart and soul from your body. It's the ice closing around your throat, it's the flame starting in your head, it's the fact that you're alone and knowing the fact that true death is when there's no one to remember.

Are you okay with that.

Do you have a choice?

You're now sitting alone on a random stump in the forest, you're overwhelmed. Such beauty, such tragedy! Do the things you feel even matter? soon you'll be gone and then there's no one. It's crazy to see all the petty things humans have done, it all seems so small to everything now. A mechanic scamming you, worrying what others think, feeling jealousy, etc among all other things. It all seems so indifferent now. But, when you think that you also realize that that's the same thing that makes us human. Sure they're small, they don't matter, but humanity is just as small so it does matter. Does that make sense? People worry about their haircut, if someone likes them if they'll ever be something. It doesn't matter on the big scale, but we don't live on the big scale, it somehow does matter, those seconds that we live for.

People say that 'we are born to die '. I don't think so. A book doesn't end just to finish, actors don't get onto a stage just to take a bow and leave, a song doesn't begin with a beautiful chord just to end. We are born to live, to love, be joyous, to be free!! we are born to dance, sing our throats raw, cry, smile, run, and fall! We're fucking born to live!!!

Now we're back to square one. It's all so contradictory. All that I've said, it fights with itself. Does this mean that we worry ourselves with every passing goddamn second? Does this mean that we get caught up in the menial things which take up our thoughts? Well, the answer should be no, its never good to get tied up in your head, that's a good way to go crazy. I feel that it's all about finding a balance. Which is shitty advice honestly, what does it even mean? But, whatever it is it's true. Don't fuck yourself over by dying over the small stuff, but also understand the worth of those small seconds that you live through. If anything you're sitting there wondering what is the meaning of life when you're at the end. does niceness have a meaning? Those acts of kindness that made us humane all now poof.

It's kind of beautiful seeing the tragedy. What the fuck does this all mean?

I honestly think it doesn't have to have a meaning. It's perfectly fine sitting on the stump of a tree watching the wind blow those golden leaves as the sun sets. Shed a tear for those forgotten. Remember that we are born to live.

#e #I did not proof read this so dont at me #existential dread #dying light 2 #I have an exam tomorrow and this is what i did great #Man idk; im just going through it #hope this makes sense #remember; your'e beautiful #tragedies are beautiful #video games

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aenaxes-moved · 3 years

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inertia

[crosshair x gn!reader] removing crosshair's inhibitor chip was never going to be an easy task, but you never expect it to demand an item of equal exchange. otherwise known as picking up the pieces with crosshair, together.

warnings: past paralytic injury, general angst, hurt-comfort

w/c: 2.2k

a/n: as much as i hate physics, you can't deny there's a poetry to the laws of the universe. inertia keeps heavy objects in place, and guilt's one of the heaviest burdens of all.

There are certain universal laws you learn while living on a ship, like the slightly upsetting fact that magnetism is relative and so is time. But there are constants: the behavior of gravity around a massive star, the physics of self-contained gas giants, and, on a less macrocosmic scale, that Crosshair’s armor has neat paint, all clean lines and sharp edges bordering plastoid and standard issue paint.

It only makes sense, a steady hand demanded by a life behind the trigger, you think quietly, watching Crosshair carefully scrape the excess red paint from his brush on the side of a flat scrap of metal. With only the low hum of the Marauder to fill the silence, you follow his brush as you stand in the armory threshold and simply observe the slow deliberation of an even, unwavering line drawn from a memory even the inhibitor chip could not blur.

Not that it’s a particularly difficult thing to paint, the sharp, stylized edge of a nine. But there is a silent weight to its image, a firm and resonant return in its bold crimson colour, reclaiming its rightful place on his shoulder in amends, if the restless bob of his toothpick says anything.

If you look long enough, it’s like he never left. Like you never lost your legs.

“You’re back early,” Crosshair says, dipping his brush back into the paint squeezed over his makeshift palette.

“The rest wanted to explore, but the humidity was getting to me. And I missed you,” you add, and your heart swells when you hear him laugh softly in return.

“I believe you,” he chuckles. It’s a rare thing to come by, laughter genuine and sweet, even with Crosshair’s return—perhaps, because of his return—but you take it gratefully either way.

Two cups of caf in hand, you push yourself off the doorway and move to join Crosshair at his place on the armory floor. But as you set a foot forward, a bolt of pain laces up your ankle. It’s the kind of pain that precipitates a fall, starting low in the arch of your foot, gaining a momentum that renders you immobile by the time it’s clawed up your thigh and fizzled around the cybernetic plate welded to the base of your spine.

It fells you without warning or remorse, cracking you open with the bone-deep sensation of memory. A single ultra-ionized shot through a modified rifle and silencer, calculated and surgically precise, a one of a kind and the only one you have known.

(It wasn’t his fault.)

You jerk forwards, caf sloshing dangerously close to the rim, and you distantly register the clatter of plastoid across the floor before you feel a shoulder push up from under your arm. Long fingers dig into your side, reminiscent of better days and tender touches shared in the quiet comfort of a bunk, and you pitch unsteadily, eyes squeezed tight enough to see white.

As much as you would like to confirm the certainty of a stable support before you can relax, the lingering dredges of atmospheric humidity and exhaustion of breaking into a high security imperial compound work cruelly against your strength. You can do little but give in.

Your knees buckle beneath you, and you sag against the only person on the ship able to brace your fall. Miraculously, the caf, handles squeezed tight under your white-knuckled grip, remains unspilled.

“I ruined your paint,” you laugh through your teeth, fuzzy black edges slowly receding from your field of vision as you blink your eyes open.

“And I shot you,” Crosshair hisses.

Crosshair lowers you to the floor, and you feel a full-bodied flinch shock through his form as your unmoving legs splay awkwardly over the cold metal. He is quick to take the cups out of your hand, setting them down with a hard clack before he returns his attention to you. You had always thought Echo would be the one on the receiving end of carefully placed touches to coax the pain of surgical scars and rough wiring away.

You never once dreamed it might be you, too.

One arm secured around your shoulders, he reaches down like it’s muscle memory to rub slowly over the scar tissue framing your implant. The scars are fresh, just barely a week old and forever seared over your skin, but guilt, you have found, tends to hasten the learning process, the scrambling compensation.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you sigh, leaning against Crosshair’s chest and dropping your head back against his shoulder.

“I aimed. I pulled the trigger, y/n.” He’s angry, a low, simmering rage held close and bubbling under the hard edge in his voice as his grip tightens around you. You feel it in the faint tremor in his arm, how he holds you tight to his side and silently wills you to stay.

He is angry, but it is not for you.

“You weren't you,” you mumble.

It’s second nature—it always has been, now, simply with pause—to turn your head when he’s nestled up against your back, to lean close, nuzzle into his neck, and ground yourself, ground him, in the silence of touch. Relief floods your chest, warm sunlight dawning over the thorn in your side, when you feel him chase your touch, settling both his arms around your waist and ducking down low to press his chin atop the crown of your head.

Nothing would ever be the same, but this was a start.

“If it wasn’t me,” Crosshair starts, his voice catching on a sputtering inhale, thick with the tangle of words unsaid. He clears his throat, and if you notice the curling edges of a tremor on his tongue, you say nothing. “If it wasn’t me, who else can you blame?”

“I don’t blame anyone,” you say into his skin, lips ghosting over his rapid pulse.

It’s a diplomatic answer. Of course you blame someone—Palpatine, Tarkin, the fact that Crosshair and his brothers, every last one of the clones, had been built around a single, biding initiative that he hadn’t the luck or the chance to resist. You had been sleeping with the enemy even before he knew that he could be the enemy.

But thinking about it makes your head spin. Blame is too hard, too tiring to place when you, yourself, had been sewn into its vast web. So while Crosshair had slept with a bacta patch plastered to his temple, you had rewired your spinal cord and decided to be away with the anger, the resentment, the mornings waking up in tears when you lifted your blanket and barely recognized that you had legs at all.

“Don’t fucking lie,” Crosshair spits, and you feel him shake around you. Anger, such an easy defense. Such a flimsy one.

“I’m not—”

“I hear you cry in the mornings when your cybernetics don’t click; I hear you scream when you try to move and your mind tells you one thing but your legs don’t fucking work because I made a killshot that paralyzed you—”

“And it paralyzed me because you had every chance to put a bolt through my head but you aimed for my back. You were fighting it, Cross,” you counter, voice quivering.

“But it was me. I took that shot, and you pretend like you don’t—like you don’t hate me because I still had my chip. But I remember it, and it was still me, and you have every right to—”

“Cross!” you shout, and he starts hard enough that you feel him jump. You feel blindly for his hand, gripped tight at his own wrist, and squeeze, hard. “I have my legs back. And sometimes they don’t work just right, but all I care about right now is that you’re back. It’s all I’ll ever care about.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he mumbles into your hair, the sudden burst of vitriol tamed and locked away for the moment.

You’re distinctly aware that he itches to push you away. You feel it in the uncertain pause rigid in his movements before he turns his palm to twine his fingers with yours. After all, it’s easier to cope when the object of your crushing guilt is at an arm’s length.

“This is the part where you’re supposed to comfort me, tell me that you missed me too and that I was right, and you say that everything’ll work out, Cross,” you laugh weakly. You gently knock your head against his collar, prodding, urging, anything to break the crushing silence you know haunts him every time he closes his eyes.

Instead, you feel a shuddering sigh against your ear, and Crosshair only dips his head low, hiding his face in your shoulder as his grip tightens around your waist. There is no sardonic quip or playful bite to offer you peace—only slow, mechanical breaths pressed into your skin in a desperate attempt to keep from falling apart altogether. You reach up, gingerly carding your fingers through his hair when you feel that telltale warmth seeping through the fabric of your shirt, salt sharp on your tongue.

“I shot you. I aimed to kill,” Crosshair mumbles, almost hysterical in level calm, the steady veil locking his tense jaw and drawn shoulders in place. “Why are you comforting me?”

“Would you rather I never speak to you again?” No malice in your tone, you shift your weight, bearing down against Crosshair and begging him to move closer. He does.

“It would be more believable if you did,” he mutters, and you catch the tail end of a soft sniff.

“Not really my thing, grudges,” you say. “Especially against the people I love.” Trailing your fingers lower, you slip below his hairline and begin stroking your palm over the back of his neck, bent forward at an unforgiving angle. You wonder how many times he’s curled into himself like this that he can simply sit, penance and grieving, and the ache that seizes your ribs hurts more than your cybernetic misfire.

“After all that,” he finally mumbles, something close to hushed awe in his voice. “You still love.”

Slowly, melting through the numb static crackle, you feel the sensation seeping back into your feet. You could always rebuild your mobility with some careful cerebrospinal implants, seasonal aches and occasional pains be damned, but you could never replace him.

“Of course I do,” you whisper back. Careful to keep the quiet, tremulous peace, you bring your hand down, sliding around the side of his neck to cup his jaw from behind, ignoring the wetness streaked over his skin. “Still loving,” you affirm, voice steady as you thumb over his cheek. “Still loving you.”

It takes a beat of silence, your words lingering in the still air of the armory, but instead of the tense, fraught grief of when your implant had fizzled out, there is warmth, present and forgiving. You know that nothing will ever be the same, but when Crosshair turns his head to press his lips into your palm, you know that you can still try. Like the waking groan of a crashed ship, you will pick up the pieces and power up one more time, again, again, again, as many times as it takes.

Crosshair nuzzles close, quietly basking in your presence as you sit curled together on the armory floor. And at last, his breaths still, slow and deep as the ship hums around you. He’s never been one for words, not even at his fever pitch of disorientation and distress. He doesn’t need to speak for you to know what he means when he clasps your hand again and holds tight, but his voice is a welcome sound all the same.

“Thank you.”

And for a while, that’s how you stay, breathing slowly and clinging to each other like moving apart would mean never coming back. And that’s how it genuinely does feel—the safety in stillness, carving out your own constant in the cosmic entropy of conquest and loss. For a moment, you can simply savor the quiet simplicity of being.

But the universe wills motion, stars colliding and collapsing and breathing new life all over again. So too, do you feel the strength return in lapsing waves to your legs and the coiled fear leach out of Crosshair’s posture.

“Promise me this,” you whisper, just loud enough to rise above the ambient noise of the ship as you curl your toes and feel again, lurching into motion like gears fallen into disrepair. Crosshair rouses behind you, and he sniffs deeply, once, before he presses his cheek to the side of your head—he is listening. “Promise me that we’ll move on.”

“I can’t promise that,” he says after a brief pause, words measured and low. “But I’ll try.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

As much as there are variables scattered through star systems and wreaking havoc wherever they go, so too are there constants pushing back against the chaos, aligning the universe. Like clockwork, when you wake, the stars turn, the gas giants dance, and when you squeeze Crosshair’s hand, he squeezes back.

#anyways if you want something to listen to while you read: we are by lee jin ah #that or: tunnel by colde #i just want him back hsdf #crosshair x reader #the bad batch x reader #yaej.writes

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the-girl-who-flies · 3 years

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I’m translating Приз зрительских симпатий by @neupulman and because I’m an impatient hoe, here’s a preview. Heads up - this is a time loop fic. Not all is lost just yet.

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Salim died quickly.

This thought is strangely comforting. Salim didn't suffer. It all happened so fast. He probably didn't even have time to process anything. One moment was all it took. A single blow, and he was dead before his lifeless body hit the floor.

Jason turns his head with a tired, triumphant smirk to cheer Salim up and make sure everything is alright, but instead he finds his body sprawled on the floor, black blood spreading slowly beneath it. Kolchek feels as if a bucket of cold water has been upturned on his head, and for a second he can't even move - he only clutches his hand with the knife to his chest and stares and stares and stares, opening his mouth in an attempt to say something, either to Salim or to himself. He forgets about the dead man who chased them all over the temple, and doesn't even look at him to make sure he won't get up again.

His throat wheezes and aches as Jason staggers closer, trying to call out to his comrade, though his mind knows perfectly well that no one survives long with wounds like these. They don't survive at all. This ancient fucker straight from the pages of a history book knew what he was doing - struck him right through the heart. Didn't miss by an inch. Jason stares and feels that the hole has actually been punched through his own chest, because it wouldn't hurt so much otherwise. Bending over, he clutches his hands on his weapon and shakes his head, hoping that it's just a hallucination. An apparition. That Salim is actually standing next to him in a fighting stance, ready to continue defending himself, and that Jason is simply losing his mind from prolonged stress.

It's not a hallucination. It's not stress. It's all real.

In the dim, ominous red light of the flare, the body lying on the floor of the shack in a pool of black blood looks like a huge blot on a clumsy child's drawing. Salim in general looks as if he had never been alive, like a mannequin. Maybe that's how the mind tries to cope, but it doesn't save Jason. It only makes it worse, thanks, brain, you dumb fuck.

The old spear, which had failed to strike him once thanks only to Salim's exceptional reflexes, is now sticking right out of the center of the Iraqi's chest, covered in rust and fresh blood. Kolchek's head is still trying to cope with the overwhelming number of traumatic events and tosses up the idea that the spear isn't real, and neither is the blood. Jason fights the urge to pinch Salim, so that he won't think to scare him like that next time. But in his mind, Jason knows it's pointless, because the man is dead, regardless of what this weird fucking psychological defense mechanism is trying to plant in his head.

Jason falls helplessly to his knees beside him and drops his own weapons - the flare and the no-longer-sharp knife - from his weak hands to extend his palms to what only a few minutes ago had been the exhausted but still-alive Salim. It is as if he is no longer fully aware of his actions: he pulls off the pouches with a sharp movement, undoes the other man's uniform on his chest and stomach, and looks at the rather neatly shaped hole, around which blood glistens wetly in the darkness. He gets blood on his hands and they remain stained, but Jason doesn't care anymore. The final realization comes quickly enough, but he doesn't have time to grieve. Because there's no one left to watch his back; because the rest of them perished long before that. He and Salim were the only ones who’d made it to the surface, just to end up like this.

The lieutenant has been at war for a long time, he's seen plenty of death before their march straight into fucking hell. But of all deaths, it's this one that seems to finally end him.

His eyes sting and he wants to cry. Understanding hits him hard in the face with a heavy fist and a hard boot to his soft, unprotected belly. Salim will not see his son again, will not tell any more of his dumb jokes, and will not pick up his iron stake with which he has scattered a good dozen of those flying fuckers. Salim, who deserves the most wonderful things in this life, will never do anything ever again. He will only lie on the filthy floor of the shepherd's hut, and then rot underground. Jason hasn't cried in twelve years - couldn’t even bring himself to shed a single tear when he'd heard about 9/11, but now the urge is so strong it’s unbearable.

A thought pops into his head: "Gotta fucking run," but it is immediately supplanted by another, a more vivid and distinct one: "What for?" And Jason really doesn't see the point. He sobs, unable even to hear the vile creatures screeching in dangerously close proximity to himself. In the recesses of his mind, he realizes that Salim would have wanted Jason to escape. So that at least he would get out of this fucking hell. Because Salim is a good man - too good. But Salim is dead, he's a lifeless, broken doll lying in front of Kolchek. He can't want anything now.

Jason is too preoccupied with his own feelings and stupidly misses the moment when another monster bursts into the shack through a hole in the wall. But even if he hadn't, he wouldn't have had time to grab the knife and the flare, or even just get to his feet. He just turns his head toward the sound and sees the creature's ugly face in front of him, swatting its paw with a downright happy growl. Jason is less lucky than Salim, because the creature doesn't kill him instantly - it pierces his chest somewhere in the side, lifts him off the ground, and, surprised to find no resistance in the victim who had fought so desperately before, shakes him off its claw as if he were a plush toy. Everything happens so fast that the lieutenant can't even get enough air in his lungs to scream right away.

The shitface that wounded him is knocked down by another, tossed aside in the process. A fight breaks out between the two huge creatures, and Jason's death is delayed by a few more minutes.

When he's thrown down, the pain doesn't even let Kolchek focus enough to cushion his fall, although he still doesn't understand why he should bother. It'll be over soon anyway, none of it is worth the effort. Jason falls to the floor, lucky enough that his shoulder and head land on Salim's stomach. The wound burns, his throat gurgles with either blood or the few contents of his stomach. Unable to keep quiet, Jason inhales and moans softly, not worrying about attracting monsters anymore, but soon he doesn't even have the strength for that, and all he can do is whimper softly. Each new inhale and exhale is followed by a terrible pain throughout his body. His blood flows profusely, mixing on the floor with that of the Iraqi soldier.

"Almost like a blood oath," Jason thinks with a bitter smirk in the last moments of his life. Except there's nothing to swear on - and certainly nothing he can do with that oath. If they were both fine, he'd swear to - well, to not turn Salim over to his own government, for instance. To help him move to the UK. To look after his son. A lot of things, really. But they're both dead now, so that's not happening.

Jason breathes spasmodically and twitches faintly with every breath, wishing he could just die already. He can hear the creatures fighting beside him and several more behind the thin wall, but it's all coming in muffled, as if through thick water. With a tremendous effort he lifts his hand, which feels like it weighs a ton, and puts his palm on Salim's chest - right next to the spot where the ancient spear pierced him - and then runs it almost gently across his abdomen. The skin under his fingers is still warm, so warm. It all happened so fast.

He's not even sad that he's dying. The last couple of hours - since Nicky's death at least, he'd been keeping it together exclusively for Salim, who needed to get home so badly. But now, what was there to fight for? Surely not his own useless ass, which no one was expecting back home and for which no one would shed a tear.

The last thing Jason sees before he gives up and closes his eyes forever is the strange silhouette of a thin, tall man in the corner of the shack. His vision is already blurry, the shack is even darker than before, and he can't make out the facial features. But he does notice the eerie shadow thrown by the uneven flame of a flare lying somewhere in the distance. The man is wearing something like a bowler hat, and it's so out of place that Jason realizes he's hallucinating. He squeezes his eyes shut, and resignedly waits for his body to finally give up.

Darkness envelops him.

The darkness smells of fine wine and incense.

Five candles light up in the darkness - and go out one by one.

Jason feels not the bloody, wet fabric of Salim's uniform under his cheek, but the hardness of cold stone.

Jason opens his eyes.

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

#house of ashes #dark pictures house of ashes #house of ashes fanfiction #fic translation #harpytranslates #jason kolchek #salim othman #nick kay #rachel king #eric king #jalim #jason x salim #jason/salim #time loop

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cloip · 3 years

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The last two years, my brain has been off. Autopilot. Call it cognitive restructuring. Call it survival mode. I failed to plan for myself, had to work menial, mindless jobs, and on some level, beneath the layers, maybe lodged between the cerebellum and hippocampus, I was trying to flip the switch back.

Now, one month back in school, I feel my old self awakening. Like only a week has passed. One month of thinking to work, applying myself, experiencing tangible expectations, and my old self has torn free from the layers of amniotic brain.

I have to let myself grieve my choices. I have to let myself grieve that I let the love of my life float away, that I broke a vase that can’t be repaired. I have to let myself grieve the misplaced love, the love I don’t know what to do with, the love that’s accumulated in the dark for two years I have nowhere to put. I have to let myself grieve so I can move on.

I’ve learned a lot these two years about taking care of myself, about communicating when something is wrong, about allowing my mask of happiness to fall when I’m not well. About letting others in.

I should give myself credit, though, because if I’m being honest with myself, my brain was never off. It was working. I was working. Some serious figuring out of some serious shit. Priorities, Aspirations, Plans, Coping mechanisms, Life skills, Weekly or bi-weekly therapy sessions for two years. Mental wellness takes a lot of work.

And my brain wasn’t off a year ago when I finally got the courage, built the self-esteem, felt the humming cord between my fingers and the things they touch, to apply to grad school. A rare instance of genuine vulnerability. How afraid I was to be accepted!

(I got in.)

So really it’s not that I’ve trapped myself away beneath layers of mental illness. It’s that two years ago I was in a bad, bad state and had to fix myself. I don’t think I was capable of a relationship. I don’t think I was capable of communicating my problems. In fact (speaking of vulnerability), I may talk a big game about how limiting toxic masculinity is, and how dumb men are for not expressing themselves, but I was basically a plaster statue of emotion back then. I thought I was above toxic masculinity! (Do I hear the phrase “shining example” resounding somewhere?) Of course I’m not above it. I’m steeped in it. A toxic tea of puffed chest and stony face.

So now that I was starting to feel more like myself, now that all I’ve worked for came to fruition, I opened my eyes long enough for them to adjust to the light, take a look around, and dilate in anticipation of the tsunami of unacknowledged grief as it came down over my head in a big blue wave.

I finally let myself read her letters again. (She sent three at the end.) And the wave hits.

Two years of misplaced love.

What have I done?

It’s okay.

It’s alright.

Why did I do that?

(To get better.)

I’m alright.

Deep breaths.

No emotion is permanent.

Let it wash over you.

I don’t know what to put here now. I love you. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I’m sorry for my side of things. What I wouldn’t give to feel you again. I love you. Goodnight.

I’ll get through this. I just have to let myself grieve.

#sorry again #so much emotion this week

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cup-ah-jho · 3 years

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So I finally finished Omori!

Uh...I got thoughts. Lots of them. They’re bulleted below for your viewing pleasure and my mental checklist. Spoilers abound below the cut, so please refrain from reading if you haven’t finished the game!

Omori is a love letter to video games. From its Earthbound inspired design to its various little nods to other games whether intentional or not. (The music at the train station and the musician whose song sounds like a K. K. Slider classic [Animal Crossing], the baseball and the bat [Off], the whale level [Kingdom Hearts], and the toaster and the blender [To the Moon and Finding Paradise, as included in the game per Cr*aot*c’s request to Kan Gao unless he lied about that, too...] are some of the one’s I noticed!) It feels very similar to the RPG Maker games I grew up with like Wadanohara and The Grey Garden, so I felt at home exploring the world!

I agree with a lot of the points that uricksaladbar (a fantastic youtuber, and I highly recommend his content if you like well-edited and well-written video game essays) brought up with regards to the use of Headspace and how the events there do not progress the plot, but I think Headspace’s main function is like a daydream to distract from what lies hidden and that the time spent there isn’t supposed to advance the plot. Traumatic memories are sometime repressed to protect a person and that’s the primary function of Headspace: to keep those memories from resurfacing. It’s kind of why it starts to crack, slowly but steadily, as Sunny leaves his house. It’s also why Sunny has a fear of heights, drowning, and spiders because his memories associated with them are intertwined with his trauma. Whether aware of it or not, those phobias actively keep him from thinking about Mari. Despite the pacing issues, I had a lot of fun exploring Headspace (except for the area from the Last Resort to Humphrey. Especially Humphrey. Fuck you, Humphrey), and it’s interesting to look at its “lack of progression” as being a meaningful design choice than “padding for length.”

I really like the Faraway Town sections more, but that’s because I prefer the more natural color scheme and grounded setting. My favorite gaming series of all time is Story of Seasons, so casually taking part-time jobs and getting to know the townspeople was definitely something I enjoyed more than the RPG elements of Headspace.

Omori does a great job of showing how different people grieve, and I love how it reconciles with the fact that there is no “right way to grieve.” I remember talking with one of my old roommates about the book The Sky is Everywhere by Jandy Nelson, and she said she didn’t like it. It conveys a very unconventional method of grieving, similar to the one found in the manga Haru’s Curse/Haru no Noroi by Asuka Konishi, which can make it hard for some people to relate to. More than anything, I do genuinely believe the crux of this story is learning how to accept and overcome grief, and it’s wrapped up in a happy little tale of friendship!

I don’t have much to say on the characters (except for Basil; he’s got his own bullet point after this). They’re functional for the plot. That’s about it. But I would like an IRL Hero for myself, please.

I...don’t really like Basil all that much. And while a lot of people, my brother included, keep calling him “best boy” and “the bestest friend you could ever have,” all I saw was an insecure boy. It’s true that the trauma haunting him may have contributed to it as well, but the need to be the photographer, to take pictures, to enjoy from a distance, tells me just how desperately he needed them in his life. (Note the photo album is called Basil’s Memories and not referencing the group as whole.) Which is why his involvement in Mari’s death and the ensuing fallout, while already traumatic for anyone, probably hit him the hardest. Because he ended up alone, unable to escape the trauma, compared to the other four who found other avenues of coping besides Constant Suffering, even if some of their coping mechanisms weren’t exactly healthy.

The personification of their trauma is fantastic. Basil’s takes the form of roots that act like vines, trapping him. Sunny’s is the silhouette of Mari’s hanging body with her eye open, looking at him, haunting him like a ghost. Very symbolic!

I...uh...thought the twist was kind of...underwhelming. The game does a very good job foreshadowing Mari’s death being related to her hanging herself, which I did believe for most of my time with the game, but I was having second thoughts with what Shadow Basil, Basil, and even Aubrey was implying. Clearly Basil had something to do with Mari’s death, but my conclusion was that he killed Mari as an act of self defense to protect Sunny and Aubrey witnessed it. Like I literally thought Mari was a slimy sister that was wonderful and great to everyone but Sunny. (I’m so sorry, Mari.) This falls in line if this game were actually a psychological horror, but this game fell kind of flat in that regard. I don’t consider it as a psychological horror (more just psychological with slight horror elements), and I think coming in expecting a full blown psychological horror kind of dampened The Plot Twist for me. I was expecting to be absolutely horrified but...I just ended up feeling really bad for two kids who were so traumatized they literally Could Not Handle It.

Besides being a very good story for grief, Omori does a fantastic job in showing the affect that trauma has on people. I should also note that Sunny’s three phobias is a very typical when several traumatic instances happen in close succession. We often like to think of trauma as a result of a singular event, which it can be in cases like say a terrible car crash, but it sort of simplifies and reduces the effect of the trauma in a way. Trauma is best described, in my opinion, as an onion or a mille feuille, insert your choice of layered object here, because that singular event is composed of tiny little events or memories (perhaps broken down by senses). The game uses a simplistic way of doing it by breaking Sunny’s reaction to the drowning event into three phobias compartmentalized in Headspace, but it is something to note since most media likes to handle trauma as The Thing instead of the Amalgamation of Things that Make this Thing Traumatic.

Lastly, the soundtrack is a whole banger. Absolutely amazing.

To those who got to the end of this, thank you for reading! This isn’t necessarily a review for Omori, but it’s more so a place for me to jot down any thoughts and expand upon them. It’s been good practice for me in breaking down narratives and trying to see things from different perspectives or expanding upon why I don’t like things besides just not liking them lol.

#omori #jho speaks #game analysis #might as well use that tag now because i know i’m gonna have Thoughts when I finally play Nier Replicant #added additional commentary because of a kind anon’s clarification!

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harghoes · 4 years

Text

Your Memory is Killing Me.

Pairing: Wolffe x f!reader

Word count: 1854

Warnings: alcohol, grief, not taking care of one’s self, it’s really sad.

a/n: I had this idea stuck in my head after hearing my favorite song. (More Than a Memory by Garth Brooks obvi). It hurt me to think about but I realized it would be a good chance for me to get back into writing things I like! tagging @morganas-pendragons 💓 Enjoy, it’s sad. :)

—-

everyone tells him it’s all in his head. that the image of her isn’t anything but an apparition. he’ll over come it eventually, of course he will, he’s Commander Wolffe of the 104th. he’s the strongest of them all. except, he isn’t that strong. he’s barely holding on by a thread and the only comfort he gets is “it’ll take time, but you’ll forget, everyone forgets.” that’s the opposite of what he wants to hear. in fact, he never wants to hear those words in that arrangement ever again, not when it deals with her. the girl of his dreams. gone, like she was never there, and like no one even knows who she is. that’s who Commander Wolffe, of the 104th, is so tragically missing.

Wolffe tries to talk to his vod. the only words offered are a “c’mon Commander. move on. we all have to get on with our life.” and Wolffe knows this is true. in war, you lose things you never thought you would, but you also gain things too. Wolffe knew from the moment he met her that his life would change. he wasn’t just another clone in this fight anymore, he had a purpose, a home. he would’ve done anything to keep her safe. anything at all.

the thing with his vod telling him to move on is that he doesn’t think they understand what it means to him. they don’t realize the pain and trauma he gained with her loss. he can’t look at things and see them the same. he can’t hear certain words without thinking about her. he can’t do anything without her being with him. it was a blessing but now it’s a curse.

Commander Wolffe, as of right now, is on leave. his Jedi General saw it fit for him to take a break. General Plo is good at keeping his men healthy, but even now he can tell there’s something deeper going on. Wolffe, while stoic and not one to get emotional, had been near his breaking point for weeks now. General Plo could tell.

that leads back to Wolffe. he’s laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling empty. his quarters once held light and hope and now it feels cluttered and small. Wolffe decides he needs to do something to clear his head and that’s what has him reaching for his comlink. he starts dialing her number before realizing he can’t. he hangs up immediately, afraid someone else will pick up, and that he wouldn’t have an explanation. Wolffe has to clear his mind somehow.

he ends up at 79’s eventually. he can’t remember how he got here but all he knows is he needs a drink. Wolffe heads to the bar immediately and sits down. he orders a glass of whiskey and bows his head. he’s never been much of a drinker but he needs to get her image out of his mind. he needs to get her smile out of his mind. the whiskey is set down in front of him and he downs it right away. the bartender watches with curiosity but goes about her business. Wolffe just wanted time to dwell on his mistakes and to feel his grief.

a pretty Twi’lek woman walks towards him and leans against the counter. Wolffe doesn’t pay her any mind until she sets her hand on his.

“what’s a handsome man like you doing alone? whoever has you sure is lucky.” her voice is sweet but nothing like hers.

“i’m not looking for anything tonight, i just want to be left alone.” Wolffe registers the look on her face as concern before adding, “please.”

thankfully, she understands. she sets a friendly hand on his shoulder and leaves with a ‘good luck, soldier.’

Wolffe gives her a nod in response before flagging the bartender over. he’s going to need a lot more to drink to deal with this.

————

Wolffe is drunk off his ass. the bartender had to get a taxi for him to even make it near the barracks. Wolffe is stumbling his way through the hallways when he sees the familiar hair. it’s only a flash before it’s gone, but it was there. he knows it.

Wolffe is intent on following the shadow until he spots his vod. Boost and Sinker are heading his way. he doesn’t want them to see their Commander like this. by the time he’s figured out he needs to move, they’ve caught up to him and are now helping him to his quarters.

“Maker, Commander, what’s gotten into you? you have never acted like this before. is it because of... her?” Sinker questions on the walk.

Wolffe can only let out a grunt and the rest of the walk is quiet. once inside his room, Wolffe collapses. he’s sitting on his knees with his face upturned. he takes two deep breaths before getting up to reach under his bed. he grabs his lockbox that holds millions of memories and starts pulling out things she wrote him, photos she took, anything that had her presence. Wolffe was a grieving man and the best way to grieve? destruction.

he leaves his quarters for the second time that night on a mission. he heads for an empty room and finds an ashtray. once finding the ashtray, he looks for matches and sets the photos and letters on the tray. he finds the matches, lights one up, and looks at the top photo. the two are smiling brightly, their faces smushed together, and you can see the happiness in Wolffe’s face. he’s never been happier than in that moment. Wolffe grabs that photo off the top before setting the match on the rest. there’s no way he could get rid of her entirely.

——

by the time Wolffe gets back to his quarters, he’s exhausted. he lays on his bed and hopes to get a quick nap in. he hasn’t been sleeping properly since she’s been gone. it’s like she was his one and only comfort. Wolffe stares at the ceiling and recounts their time together. eventually, he does fall asleep.

it doesn’t last long though. within a few hours, he’s waking up in a cold sweat. there wasn’t anything he could do but the guilt is still there. he reached for his comlink again and stops himself from dialing the wrong line. instead, he calls someone he can trust.

Cody.

Cody answers after a few rings and he grumbles out a greeting.

“Cody, i don’t know what’s happening to me. i’m scared and i’m tired and i just can’t stop thinking about her. it’s been weeks and i still see her. Cody, she’s haunting me. she’s more than a memory, i’m telling you.”

Wolffe pours his heart out to his vod and Cody takes a minute to respond. finally, he sighs and begins to talk.

“Wolffe, do you know what time it is? it’s the middle of the night. i’m not angry at you, i’m sorry you’re going through this, but i’ve got a campaign in a few days. i need to sleep.” Cody let’s out another sigh before he ends the conversation with, “it’s going to be alright, Wolffe. i know it is.”

the comlink beeps signifying the end of the call. this is going to be a long leave.

———

when Wolffe gets a call from General Plo to check in, he goes immediately. he’s barreling his way down the halls to meet with his General, and when he finally reaches the room, he clears his throat.

Plo turns around, expecting to see a clean-shaven, sober Wolffe. what he sees in front of him is a broken man. Wolffe is swaying slightly, he has dark circles around his eyes, and he looks like he hasn’t shaved in years.

Plo is taken aback by Wolffe’s appearance and takes in a breath. Wolffe shakily raises his arm in a salute. Plo walks towards Wolffe and sets his arm down. he sets his hands on his shoulders and looks at his son. Plo had heard Wolffe’s situation had gotten worse. he knew about his excessive drinking, his bar fights, his erratic sleep schedule. Wolffe wasn’t taking care of himself and it was affecting everyone.

“Wolffe, you need to sleep. please, son, stop the drinking. you need to take care of yourself and your brothers.”

he’s been hearing the same message just worded differently from everyone. he’s at his breaking point now. Wolffe starts shaking with anger and Plo just watches. Wolffe’s fists clench at his sides before they loosen. he falls to his knees and looks at his General.

“please, General. please. i can’t do this anymore. Maker, please! i need her! Maker, this is a worthless life without her.”

Wolffe bows his head and, though never religious, starts to pray to anything out there that she’ll return to him. he needs to see her again. Wolffe is a strong man but even strong men need someone. she was his someone.

Plo drops to his knees besides Wolffe and brings him into a hug. he sets a hand on his back and one cradling the side of his face. Wolffe starts sobbing and screams until his voice is hoarse. he screams for anything and everything in hopes that she’s listening.

Plo just sits there, cradling his son, and sending reassurance through the Force. this is a time for Wolffe to get everything out.

a while later, Wolffe is finally calmed down enough to where Plo can talk to him.

“i’m sorry you dealt with this alone for so long. i’m sorry you lost her. i’m just sorry, Wolffe. you’re a good man, you deserved to be happy with her.”

Wolffe takes in a shaky breath and leans back. his back ends up against the nearest wall and his legs are outstretched.

“i‘ve tried everything, General. i’ve tried every coping mechanism available. nothing helps. i’ve left her old comlink messages saying i love her, i’ve walked by her old room, i’ve called my vod in the middle of the night and none of them can relate or help me.”

there’s a pregnant silence between the two. Plo is about to speak again before Wolffe finally explains.

“i’ve let myself go because i don’t see a reason to be put together. there isn’t a reason to look decent without her. i’ve tried to drown out her laugh with alcohol and it doesn’t work. the more i drink, the louder her laugh rings through my head.”

Wolffe takes in three deep breaths before telling Plo the main problem.

“the reason i’m not sleeping is because i know she’s waiting for me. i find things to do because i know she’s waiting in my dreams. and i don’t think i could handle seeing her without being able to touch her.”

Plo gives Wolffe’s shoulder a firm pat before bringing him into another hug.

with his head resting on Plo’s shoulder, Wolffe breaths out a soft murmur.

“people say she’s only in my head. it’s killing me.”

and the two sit there sharing the grief together.

#Commander Wolffe #commander wolffe x reader #commander wolffe imagine #Clone Wars #clone wars imagine #The Clone Wars

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esseegg · 4 years

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egg theory.

this occurred to me after i saw leaks from Ch. 290 of the My Hero Academia’s manga. it’s not really a theory, just speculation.

warning: contains manga spoilers, Dabi, the Todoroki family, and suicidal implications.

another warning: my thought process is very lengthy and a tad repetitive for the sake of evidence in reasoning. i also get a tad bit “Let’s see what’s in Dabi’s head today” at the end. writer instincts.

I don’t have any images of the manga to pull from, nor am I going to bother with grabbing them. This is more of a psychological analysis, anyways.

For those who’ve read the manga’s most recent chapters, or perhaps even stumbled upon manga snapshots of Dabi, we’ve all noted a few trends: Dabi’s uncharacteristic smile and his uncanny, ecstatic hysteria. At first, we believed this to be a result of potential grieving for Twice’s death and/or the anticipation of finally facing off with Endeavor (for the last time, per se) and/or the thought of seeing Endeavor finally being crushed by Shigaraki’s current rampage.

However, upon seeing Ch. 290′s leaks, I don’t quite believe in such speculations. If anything, these possibilities are not alone. In general, the leaks contain these things: a confession to his mother and the consequent reveal of his Todoroki identity to both his mother and his father.

Setting aside Rei for now, most people have interpreted these details as signs of a final showdown between Dabi and Endeavor. I don’t discredit this. That idiot can’t waltz in with that much drama and not expect a fight in his head.

My problem with all this is that, as we’ve noticed, this energy is entirely opposite of what usually defines Dabi. Dabi is stoic. Dabi is cold. Dabi is not one to go searching for the limelight. Granted, there are a few exceptions to this, but none alike Ch. 290. Here, and as of recent chapters, his carefree attitude is unhinged, fueled by a thrill, an anticipation, a blind excitement, and pure, raw joy.

Now, let’s factor in Rei again. Rei received the news in clearly a much calmer, civil, more sensitive format. You see his body language, and you can see that there is a tenderness in posture alone. He doesn’t even try to put up a front with his expression. It’s plain and simple: a broken, irreparable son giving the last sliver of good he can offer to his mother... The truth.

In summary, Dabi has displayed two things: the giving away of something precious (his identity, tied to his goals and crimes and ongoing life) and blind elation. Most interpret these things as a complex display of vengeance, built atop the foundation of a still human heart. Now.. I do believe the man has a heart. He is certainly human. But humans are scary sometimes.

I don’t think Dabi expects to live. I think he expects to die on that battlefield when he confronts his father. He might not expect to go any further than that. He gave some sort of solace to his mother (as nice as it might’ve been to think him dead, rather than a lost criminal), the possibly last precious person to him in this life.

When suicidal people have finally made the choice, the plans, the preparations for death, they become happy. It’s a misleading thing, actually. They give away what’s important to them, spend a little more time with whoever is most precious to them, then they move on.

I don’t believe that Dabi is looking to die. However, his life’s purpose, which he had been building up to for who knows how long, has finally fallen into place. Once he witnesses or reaches a certain point, I don’t think he will have any complaints about death. And that scares me.

Think about it. His acclaimed ideology is a replicate of Stain’s. Aside from hero society being absolute filth, he believes that if one person has the will for it, they can inflict the change they want to see in the world. And quite frankly? Dabi is very well-equipped for such a thing.

He is a confirmed Todoroki son, son to society’s Number One Hero. Endeavor’s career, fame, prosperity is all at its prime. In public, at least. And Dabi knows this.

Dabi is arguably a perfect candidate to change all that, to inflict the destruction on the world that is his father’s dream. It’s that very dream that chained Rei to Enji, that gave birth to four children, that gave three of those four children complete neglect from their father. That dream, as we all know, has finally been recognized. Without the children. Without the mother. All Endeavor needed was the fall of the great All Might. Now, Endeavor is at the top. And the only direction you can go, after you’ve reached the top, is down.

I wouldn’t put it past Dabi to label himself the manifestation of his father’s corruption and mistreatment of the family. After all, what’s more life-shattering than the Number One’s son turned criminal, killer, and conspirator against society itself? What’s more slandering than the knowledge that the son was not born this evil? That it’s the father’s fault for planting the seeds of long-awaited vengeance?

What’s better than the disgusting climb for morals and virtue, as your old man tries to cry out heartbreak over what you’ve become? What’s better than being the one to kill him? What’s better than forcing him to mayhaps kill you by his own hand? What’s better than letting him know that this is a part of his past, his regrets, his guilt and grief and self-loathing, that he’ll never be able to redeem, fix, and glorify? What’s better than maybe... exposing your old man for what he really is?

Dabi doesn’t necessarily need to do it himself. He just needs to walk up on the stage that is the battlefield, wash his hair dye out, do a twirl, and reclaim the name he had left for dead. Shout it to the world. Go on monologues and maniac speeches for all the heroes to hear. Let them know what Endeavor’s done to his son, to his wife, to his children, to innocent people he didn’t view as humans, but as stepping stones to a dream he didn’t even attain with integrity.

It doesn’t matter who dies. It doesn’t matter who lives. As long as he gets to crush his father’s world, to inflict the change he always wanted to see... he’s happy. Truly, blindingly happy.

disclaimer: i have no idea what the leaks say, only that Dabi’s shirtless and a little dramatic. all my reasoning is based on recalled information, with no check for accuracy. i’m just scared that Dabi is going to canonly die, and the fandom will need to collectively feed itself with coping mechanism fanart and fanfics to pretend our burnt chicken nugget is still with us. have a nice day.

#bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha 290 #mha 290 #dabi #dabi my hero academia #touya todoroki #egg's thoughts #i'm probably an overthinker but i just think this train of thought was cool #i've already thought of counters to prolong Dabi's life for at least one corn chip's worth #but meh #the egg's gotta hoard a little

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runawayface · 3 years

Note

How would Harold and Harvey cope with the loss of there mother and having to clean out their old apartment that they used to live in

cw: death, coping with death of a loved one

For most of Harold’s adult life, he’s never really had any REAL struggles or hardships. Yes, he worked like hell to get through law school and that was no easy feat and the job itself is very demanding, but Harold’s a very driven and ambitious person. I wouldn’t say it was easy for him, but it was something he wanted to do, something he was working toward on his own behalf. As far as actual suffering, Harold hasn’t had to deal with much. At a certain point in his career he never had to worry about financial stability, he never had to worry about loneliness when a meaningful relationship was never something he thought he wanted, he never had to worry about much. His job is very stressful at times, but it’s a kind of stress he’s very capable of handling and in fact, he thrives under that type of stress. Yes, he deals with very troubling or traumatic events in his work, but he can pretty well remove himself from that. That’s all the problems of his client, not his own. As a result, Harold really hasn’t had to develop coping skills or know what it’s like to feel real pain, suffering, or anguish. The last time he really felt anything like that was over the death of his uncle Toby in his teen years, but certainly nothing he’s had to deal with in his adult life.

Harvey, on the other hand, has had to deal with a lot more stress and suffering. Harvey can’t brush things off the way Harold does, he connects to people too much. When people in his life are facing hardships, it has an affect on Harvey. Harold can dismiss the problems of his clients and remove himself from them, but it’s basically Harvey’s job to take on the burden of his patient’s problems. Delivering bad news to patients or their families never gets easier, nor does the soul crushing loneliness and inescapable feelings of inadequacy. Harvey has definitely had to adapt to hardships, struggles, and trauma in his life and it’s made him much more capable of dealing with difficult situations when they arise.

When Irene does end up passing away, Harvey steps up right away to start taking care of business. Of course he is grieving, but he knows himself well enough to know that busying himself and being productive will help him cope and help him mourn. He’s been through enough to know what his coping mechanisms are. Harold, on the other hand, is wildly unprepared to deal with loss or intense emotions and as a result, he falls apart. Harold absolutely cannot handle it. He locks himself away in his office and doesn’t speak to anyone, not even Amy or Harvey, and just tries to cope. Crying doesn’t help, anger doesn’t help, staring blankly at the wall for hours on end doesn’t help, nothing does.

In the end, it’s Harvey that handles almost everything in regards to their mother’s passing. There’s a few legal matters that need handling, but Harold passes it off to other colleagues of his to take care of. The old apartment is primarily packed up by Coin and Amy actually, they felt it best to do the bulk of the work and only consult with Harvey or Harold on questions of what to keep or what to get rid of. When the apartment is completely cleaned out and Irene’s most precious belongings are split up between Harvey and Harold, Harold places his box of mementos in a dark corner of his closet, unable to even open it. It will be years before Harold can bring himself to finally open it. As for the apartment, Harold will never be able to step foot inside of it one last time, not even when it’s completely empty. Harvey will go for one last look and even take a few pictures for posterity, but the ordeal will still be very emotional for him and he’s thankful to have Coin’s support during his last visit to his childhood home.

#cw: death #ask #anon #harvey #harold

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rosesareviolentlyread · 4 years

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Howdy!

So, despite being a lurker, and then a semi-active person for a while I’ve never made an intro post! And, well, as one of the mods for @whumpmasinjuly now speed running the event to catch up, I figure I can be living proof that better late than never!

I’m Rosy, she/her/hers, a 22 year old Bi baby using writing as a coping mechanism for our hellscape. I’ve always enjoyed whump, without knowing it until I found the term last fall. I’m also a comfort whore, so always know that nothing I write has a sad ending, there’s fluff coming.

I love exploring OCs, vulnerability, interesting conditions for whump, and world building/making my ideas way too complicated. That or writing random requests to prompts. There’s really no in between. I've either thought about it way too much or not at all. Which I guess is to say, if there’s a prompt or scenario you’ve always wanted written drop it in my ask box, I enjoy the challenge! I’m really passionate about creative writing as a tool to explore, which ties into my work with nonprofit alternative education models.

I’ve got a few things posted on my blog, but none are the main stories I’ve been working on, because busy but also as said above I tend to...spend forever researching/drafting haha. If you’re interested in checking out the ideas I got in the pipeline, check under the cut! Feel free to let me know if you’d like to be tagged, some will start being published in the next few days.

And lastly, hope y’all don’t mind, but I thought I’d tag some friends & my fav authors in the community that have helped me start to get more involved!: @sableflynn @bleedingandfeverish @straight-to-the-pain @softsweetsuffering @mottinthemainpot @burtlederp @killtheprotagonist @slaintetowhump @wildfaewhump @ashintheairlikesnow @deluxewhump @0idril0 @whumpywhumper @moose-teeth @endless-whump @bloodandbandages @whumping-every-day @card-games-and-pain @starrywhump @nowhumponmain @orchidscript @untilthepainstarts @whump-tr0pes @albino-whumpee @whumpiary ok gonna stop tagging people now wow I read too much/talk to people a lot

My WIPs:

(Note: I’m trying to edit at least one of each to post this week but my muse hops around a lot so consistent and chronological these stories will not be. They’re ordered vaguely by where my muse is rn)

Elias: The newest one, a spur-of-the-moment addition who’s got a few more prompts coming. A boy who’s gotten the shit end of the stick in life ends up in the basement of a frat, tortured after the mob boss who took him to get a ransom from his shit-stain brother decided to cut losses and gift Elias to his nephew, passing him off as a boxboy in the process. Some well-meaning college students decide to rescue him, only to get into who knows what, certainly not me. Variation within BBU, thanks to @deluxewhump for the idea. Mainly recovery from torture for now

Studying About That Good Ole Way/Fae bb: A modern magic world loosely inspired by @0idril0 & @whumpywhumper’s Nico/Clint & Marcus/Lucien series’ respectively. Under the increased scrutiny of the modern age, magical creatures come forward with their existence. Fae have always lived in a state of fear but now more so, as their existence as a source of magic means they can be used for great feats, both by humans and magic folk alike. In fear, some hide their young as changelings in the hopes that in growing in non-magical communities, they will not develop their full magical characteristics.

Faith is a young girl from a ‘perfect’ anti-magic Christian family, who goes to a liberal arts college to study Theology. In her thesis work to understand how to reconcile God with the magic community, the exposure to the magic sparks her transformation into her full, natural Fae self. A professor/local pastor offers to help, which does not go well. Her brother Adam, who abandons his family and his church after it disowns and demonizes his sister, is left to pick up the pieces. Religious whump, torture, intimate whumper, some body horror/gore, recovery angst, a not-great himbo caretaker trying his best, found family eventually.

Once You Are Real: Victorian Magical vaguely Steampunk Fantasy world. A shopkeeper specializing in magical refurbishment & repair comes across a life-sized porcelain ‘doll’, broken and pieced together in webs of golden cracks. He quickly discovers that not only is this ‘doll’ actually a construct, it’s a sentient construct, the most advanced he’s ever seen, capable of distressing amounts of emotion and physical feeling. An uncanny valley of past pains that now sits on his bench to fix. Caretaker fluff, emotional angst, psychological angst, discussing human condition, some creepy/intimate whumper flashbacks.

The Paths We Travel: A trio that takes place in @wildfaewhump ’s Pathverse. Technically the first piece of this is posted, but I’ve rehauled it since then so I’ll be rewriting that intro.

Oren is a former A-Class, used to experiment with the extent of Class-A’s potential. He’s now sickened by his own abilities and seeking to hide, to find a new person other than the one he was. He’s trying to write his way to freedom, all the while avoiding his own history that’s written into every part of his person.

Cass presents an easy out, a friend-with-benefits that’s a bridge between his old life and a new one. Cass is a wealthy Class-C who’s parents hid her ability since she was the only child, and heir, to their pharmaceutical fortune. She’s on a mission to rebel and take hold of her identity, as only a privileged girl can, not understanding the consequences that may follow for a free path.

Alice is a Class-C who has lived her life working with a more private sector company, where her empath abilities were combined with drugs to offer high paying clients orgasmic and euphoric experiences without those nasty side effects. When Cass decides to rescue her while at a party on a whim, it’s a whim that thrusts the trio into a collision course. Drug/withdrawal whump. Recovery whump. Some real shitty caretakers, but they mean well. Exploration of not great people getting better together maybe? I control none of my characters please send help

Bakery Box Boy: Della, an older woman in charge of a popular bakeshop in a lakeside New England town is gifted a refurbished Box Boy as ‘help’ by a nosy neighbor convinced it’ll be a good way to help her finally grieve her recently deceased son. Della disagrees, and our poor BB is caught in the middle. Featuring a strong willed tough older woman caretaker, and a Box Boy who’s been refurbished about 3-5 times. God this is from a post from forever ago, but dammit it got too developed to throw away so it’s got at least a few prompts in its WIP folder I’ll get to editing eventually.

#whump #whump community #whump intro #blog intro #introduction #wijday1 #RosysWIJSpeedrun #procrastination doesn't stop at graduation #whump meta #when will I post these stories #maybe after nap #new whump blog #Kinda #do I still count as new even though I now run a whump server and a successful event lmao

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jamiedc-they-them · 4 years

Text

The Little Things (Platonic)

Requested Imagine: “Could you please do an agents of shield x reader in season 4 when the reader got taken by Aida early in the season and was replaced with an Lmd so when daisy and jemma are escaping the base and coulson is chasing them the reader is with may and sacrifices herself with her. So when daisy and jemma find her in the framework it’s just sad and a happy reunion?”

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Anniversaries where weird, they came around every year and yet you were expected to do something different for them; maybe a party or going out for the night or whatever.

There were different kinds too; Birthdays, holiday seasons, time since abandonment/ death.

Wait, what?

Daisy had been celebrating the last and final time she had been abandoned and sent back to sent back to the orphanage. At least that one made her runaway and meet you guys.

Speaking of you guys, she was currently looking at a photo of you and your father that you had in your room. She knew that the death of him still weighed on you heavily. She had wanted to find you and try and provide some comfort but had instead found an empty room with that photo.

“Hey,” Daisy said in greeting to her scientist best friend. Jemma looked at her with a smile in greeting, “Have you noticed anything different about Y/N?” Jemma furrowed her eyebrows in thought at the question.

“I’m….not too sure. I haven’t seen her much. Maybe she’s busy.” Jemma suggested, but Daisy could tell her friend was now trying to piece it together.

“I mean, sure. But, with what? We’re all trying to stop the Watchdogs here. To my knowledge, there’s not much else going on really.

“There she is.” Daisy said, moving over to you when you entered the lab in a more dejected fashion, “Hey, Y/nn.” She said, giving you a friendly smile.

Yours was timid, but it was expected, “Hey.” You said in your naturally soft voice.

Daisy fought the urge to look back to Simmons, despite knowing her friend’s eyes were on you both like a hawk, “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you something….Are you ok?” She was blunt, both because she didn’t have another way to phrase it, and she just genuinely wanted to know what was hurting another of her best friends.

She knew Jemma was the same when someone she cared about was hurting, so she knew the British woman would back her up if needed.

You went to answer, but your eyes glossed over a little. She turned to see who it was, only to see Coulson talking to Simmons.

When Daisy looked back to you, she saw you gulp back those tears that had piled up. It was then that it hit her on what the issue was.

She softened her eyes and posture as it hit her, “Oh, Y/nn.” She said in a softened voice, as if not to scare a wounded animal.

“I’m sorry.” You said, as if at fault. But you had a slight laugh at the end of it, even if a teary one.

“No, you have nothing to be sorry for! We should’ve noticed –”

“It’s ok.” You assured her, but you could tell she didn’t fully believe it, “Daisy, I’m fine, really. It’s just a thing I’m going through. I’m not just this, you know.” You told her. You then left, not wanting to be reminded of your dad any longer.

She watched you leave, but her gaze was worried. She was older, so it was her job to look out for you. She knew how you could be at times.

It had been a few days since that time, and the sister figures had done a decent job of dealing with this latest issue while also helping you deal with your own. Or, rather, they thought they had been.

They both watched as you walked with more of a confident one. Don’t get them wrong, they were kind of glad to see it. But they couldn’t help the nagging feeling they both seemed to share when they met each other’s gazes with a look.

The look that conveyed that both thought something was wrong. They just weren’t sure on what that was.

“She seems….happy.” Daisy didn’t really have another way to put it. Part of her did feel a little envois of it.

Fitz, seemingly realising this, approached her and put a hand on her shoulder, “Maybe she’s found some peace with it. Grieving is different for everyone.” He reminded her, gently. Trying not to cross a line that had been drawn in the sand the second Lincoln had died.

She put a hand on Fitz’s, squeezing it. She did appreciate her brother’s attempt at comfort, really, “I know….it’s just, I didn’t expect it this quick.” She admitted.

Jemma couldn’t help the nod, “Y/N always feels before she acts. She never did leave things on the best of footings.” She didn’t exactly want to talk about this behind your back. But, the three seemed to agree one thing, anyway.

This flip of yours wasn’t normal.

It was later still, and everything was falling apart. Jemma and Daisy’s hunch was right, you were an LMD (a Life Model Decoy. A robot version of yourself essentially) and so where most of the team. Everything was spiralling. But none so more than Jemma Simmons.

The woman had just ‘killed’ the love of her life in a bid of survival. Daisy had watched it happen, the two sisters at each other’s throats for a moment. However, they soon realised that they were all that was left of the crew and were the only ones capable of bringing everyone else back.

“Hey, Jem, we will get Y/N back, alright? I promise you.” She said, firmly standing by that belief.

“I can’t lose you, either of you, Daisy! Please don’t do this!” Jemma begged one of her sister figures, the one she could save right now to not risk it all and die.

“I made you a promise Jemma, ok? Now, I can’t get out of here without your help. But, once we do, we will find the others. We will find Y/N and we will bring her home.”

She held out a hand for Jemma, one that was then clasped as the two rose up off of the floor, “We got this.” She assured her.

She was sure of it; she was going to bring you all home.

==================================================================================

Jemma and Daisy had met you at the same time, on the BUS when the team was first formed. You had been with SHIELD for a while, but you always seemed to be a background extra type of agent, you just kept your head down and did the work.

This would be your first time as a main and in the spotlight.

Skye was new, thrown into the deep end and told to swim. So far, she had managed to, barely. But, barely being above water was always more preferable than being under it and drowning.

When she saw you, though, she saw someone else who was slightly over in their head and out of their element. Hell, even the people she’d come to see as the siblings she never had (Fitzsimmons, but that list included you) seemed it as well.

Still, you succeeded in your mission, bringing Mike Peterson in non-lethally. However, it was what happened after that made Daisy want to befriend you both.

It wasn’t just that you both shared the same sense of humour, or that Jemma was one of the kindest souls she knew.

No, it was the way you all took care of each other. It was the way Jemma seemed to notice that you were a bit shaken. So, in her own awkward way that she had back then, she took you into the lab and helped calm you by injecting you with something to calm you with.

She then sat with you and got to know you, letting you rant and get it all out of your system. However, what made Daisy smile the most was the way she didn’t mind; she was more than wiling to lend an ear.

Who was there to talk to Skye when she relapsed a little with some of her old coping mechanisms? Jemma.

Who was there to pick her up when she fell or failed at a thing Ward wanted her to do? You were.

Who was there when you had a panic attack or had a depressive episode? They were.

Your sister hood was born through all of those factors.

They had released the sleeping gas, and it had worked on some of the agents. Other than that, it had alerted everyone else to their presence.

LMD Mace (the new face of SHIELD) made a b-line for Daisy. She didn’t mind, she was more then ready to kick fake-Mace’s ass anyway. It would help her vent her frustration over this whole mess anyway.

Plus, she knew it was something you’d do, it was a trick you’d picked up from the academy; to channel your pain and anger into your opponents, but not letting it rule and ruin you.

Still, pain was pain and pain hurt. It especially hurt more when the emotional turned physical. For her, it was when she was shot in the back by LMD Coulson, then by LMD Mack. Two of her closest friends coming to bring an end to her.

No, she had the real versions to save. She had a family to bring back home.

So, she channelled all that pain and hurt; the abandonment and scars she had endured and gathered over her time before she met you all, and put it into her Quake that sent the both flying backwards and threw the glass, shattering that that wasn’t already in that state.

Slowly, she got to her feet. She was bleeding from the bullet wounds, but also the scratches and bruises were finally catching up with her. She made her way to the door, having to lean against the doorway to steady herself.

As she did, Jemma noticed her and helped guide her to the cart they were pushing. They then hatched a vague plan of Agent Davis flying them out. He hadn’t had much experience, but she didn’t care at this point.

Daisy hit the floor, groaning as she did so. A hand was offered to her, she took it graciously. Once she was up, she faced you once again, “Neat trick, where’d you learn that one?” She asked. The trick in question was a bit of foul play in terms of getting your opponent on the ground. Something SHIELD definitely would frown upon.

“Dad.” You said, wanting to leave it at that.

Daisy, with her experience of parents, nodded and let it go, “He would always take me out to a place like this and train me. Told me it’d help calm me when I was anything but. He only did it when he saw that I was getting stressed, though.”

“No other time other than that?”

“No other time. I got myself through those one’s though.” You said with a cheery smile. Daisy mirrored it, but it wasn’t as bright.

‘You shouldn’t have had to, though’ she thought to herself.

One obstacle she didn’t bank on (or want to) deal with, was LMD you. However, it seemed you were a packaged deal in his one; with LMD you came LMD May.

And, with that deal, came a remote detonator in your hands.

“Y/N….May.” She said, brain working overtime to try and find a way out of this that didn’t involve getting blown up, “You don’t wanna do this.” She said, opting on that one.

“We have no other option.” LMD you said, “Coulson told us to stay here and stop you if you tried to leave, we’re doing just that.”

“But you don’t want to hurt us, right?” Jemma asked, trembling smile on her face as she looked between you both.

“Coulson says that doesn’t matter.” LMD May replied with.

“That doesn’t sound like Coulson.” Daisy argued.

“Either way, we won’t have to regret this decision.” May said, putting her finger closer to it.

“Wait!” Daisy called out, “You have to feel something.” She tried.

“Y/N, I need you to look at me,” You complied, “You have to feel something right now, right?” She was tired, oh so tired. But she was so close.

She saw something glimmer in your eye, “Something.” You agreed.

“That’s love, Y/N. That’s love for us and the team, you’re family. I know you care about us, and that you don’t want to hurt us. Please Y/N….” She watched you as the conflict in you grew and grew.

They made their way up the ramp, Daisy almost collapsing as Jemma held her, shouldering her weight. She was bleeding badly, borderline passing out.

However, she had bought them the time they needed to start up the Quinjet and have it rise out just as the explosions rocked the base, “Thank you Y/N….I’m coming.” She said in a tired voice as she gulped, finally processing the fact that her plan had worked.

She found you sat in an unused Quinjet (something she’d then do herself much later on in time) and just sitting there. You were spaced out, as something had clearly hurt you.

Jemma was sat next to you, hand holding your own as you seemed to hold it like a lifeline, your head rested on her shoulder. Her head rested atop your own.

She made her way over, sitting on your other side and grabbing your other hand. She didn’t ask the cliché question; she just held your hand.

“My dad……he -- he….” You couldn’t get through it without choking on the words. However, it was all Jemma and Daisy needed to know as they both tightened their hold on your hands.

“We’ve got you.” Daisy promised you, “You have us.”

“….I know, thank you both. You guys being the closest things I’ve had to sisters and you’re all the closest thing I’ve had to a stable family.” You said, giving them all a teary smile. They mirrored it.

“Of course, that’s what friends are for.” Jemma pulled you both into a hug at the words.

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The framework was a world that they, obviously, didn’t know. They were outsiders here, having to adapt to a new world that they barely knew the rules of.

What they did know, was that HYDRA were in control and all of their friends were scattered all over the place.

So, they were off to a great start, it seemed.

Daisy had found May, but quickly learnt that the woman didn’t know anything about the other world. She was then called into a meeting. Following May, she found someone else she was looking for. That being you.

You were quieter in this world. You didn’t seem to really have any friends, you seemed to just keep to yourself.

She sat down in the chair and listened to the briefing, but you ignored her gaze as it flickered to you every now and then.

As she did what she could to really pay attention to the briefing on the target, she couldn’t help but wonder one thing: where you always like this? Was this a side to you she either didn’t know about or didn’t want to acknowledge?

You had, obviously, been in the field for longer than Daisy had. Still, she saw the way you handled yourself on the field like any other agent. They were still pieces of the person she saw, though, the friend she had made and the sister she had grown to know and love. It was in the blush you’d get at praise, or the way you would always give her an encouraging look whenever she was send off on a mission.

She had been found out trying to help Mack, only to find that he was forced into going with what she said. It had led to her being the cell.

AIDA had walked in, trying to offer a life with Lincoln. As much as she wanted it, she knew it wouldn’t be worth letting the rest of you all die. Lincoln wouldn’t want that.

So, AIDA tried something else, “You know….that Y/N sure is a tricky person to work out,” She smirked at the way Daisy fixed her with a dark look, “So many layers to unpack. Seemed her father was just the tip of the iceberg.” She seemed to enjoy the taunting.

“Leave her out of this.” Daisy tried to muster up as much hate as she could, but the beatings had taken it out of her.

AIDA, however, seemed a bit impressed, “Still got it, don’t you? That fire and spark, yet a caring and protective side as well?”

“If you touch even one hair on her head –”

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t hurt her. She’s living without her regret of opening up,” Daisy looked shocked at the news, “That’s right, she wished she was a little less open. Now, I wouldn’t have gone with that with everything she’s been through. But people can be surprising.” AIDA then got up, “Hope he doesn’t kill you.” With that, she walked away.

She was left in the hands of Fitz, hands that used to be caring but now were used for hurting. The darkness that Fitz had always struggled with had come to the surface, and this one seemed to relish in it.

She was alone, clinging onto what life was left within her. She was, at least, until the doors opened. Looking up, she saw not only May, but you as well.

A moment later, she had her powers back and the three of you were breaking out. She sent AIDA through the glass and looked at the body on the floor with a sense of triumph.

You were here, and you were on her side. Don’t get her wrong, she was happy May was too. But May wasn’t the name used to make her give into AIDA’s demands.

Turns out the robot was wrong, which Daisy was thankful for.

The way back was met with danger, but what was new? Well, mainly your cynicism.

They were talking about the Patriot (Mace’s alter ego in this world) having been killed in an airstrike. As you spoke about it, May revealed some key information on it. That being that it was her who had caused the death.

“You couldn’t have known.” Daisy comforted, looking at you as if expecting the same.

“She did, but she did it anyway.” She definitely didn’t expect that. May, however, nodded at it.

Seemed the cold and warmth you both had was swapped to a degree.

“What?” You asked her, finally confronting her on her staring and look she was giving you.

“Nothing.” She said, looking away.

You made it to the TV station, going in and uploading the footage May had that would put HYDRA in the ground.

When Daisy left the room after her talk with Ward, she saw you looking at the footage with an expression of anger. She approached you, “What’s wrong?” She asked as she came beside you.

“My dad was killed by HYDRA, turns out,” You said bluntly. Daisy was lightly taken aback by it, you had never been like that before in this type of fashion, “And only now am I just hearing about it.”

“I’m sorry.” She offered in a heartfelt gesture to try and find the sisterly bond you had back home.

You shook your head, “Yeah, well, I’m more pissed at just finding out now than the event itself. We were never the closest, so….” You said in a flat tone.

“Family is family.”

“Sure.” She could tell you just wanted to move on. So, she let that request be followed through with.

You had made it back to the base, where Daisy reunited with Jemma. She had a large smile when she saw that it was you, pulling you in for a hug. You may not have known who she was, but you returned it, for her sake. She seemed like she could need it if she was honest.

She pulled away, seemingly giving you a once over with a beaming smile at the fact you were there. As said, you didn’t know who she was, but this meant something to her, so you just let her have this moment.

Daisy and the team where waiting for you at the entrance to the base, you were coming home from a few months of undercover work and they all stood eagerly awaiting you.

The door had opened, but they had gotten their hopes up before only to be disappointed before. Still, they looked, and this time it was you.

You had a conflicted look on your face, but a smile was on your face as your eyes went glassy. Daisy was right over, embracing you, one you returned tightly.

“This is new.” She joked, in reference to how tightly you hugged.

“Just….I need this.” She complied with it, tightening her own hug as well.

Her family was whole once again, that was all that mattered.

She was then arguing with Jemma about how they unfortunately couldn’t save Fitz, when she said something that she wasn’t meant to, “We need to get everyone out first! Then we can save Fitz! Look, this Y/N isn’t the one we know, Jemma. I need my sister back the way she was.” She didn’t even think about it, she just wanted to get you all back home and get her family back.

However, at a scoff, they both looked and saw you stood a small distance away, clearly having heard those words as you shook your head.

“So, what, I’m the broken one?” You didn’t even give her a chance as you then walked away. Jemma took a shaky breath as she looked to Daisy, the two sister’s having a silent discussion about who should see you.

In the end, it was Jemma who had left.

Daisy sat on one of the spare beds, mind racing with thoughts of how to proceed. She knew that you guys needed to know eventually that this place wasn’t real, but she didn’t expect you to find out like that. Hell, she definitely didn’t expect the reaction she got from you, the scoff, and the look of anger.

A moment later, however, you came and sat next to her. She almost didn’t believe it, that you were here. But she only waited for you to talk. Now, she expected anything.

“So….was I like a square peg in ‘the real word’?” You asked, keeping your eyes straight ahead, but you decided to just be blunt in this moment.

Daisy chuckled a bit, lowering her head to the ground as she did so, “Yeah, or I thought you were anyway. Stupid, huh?” She chastised herself.

“Nah,” Now you both met eyes, “You….I only showed you part of who I was. But, there’s more to me than my dad’s death. I appreciate the help that you apparently gave me there, I do really appreciate it. But, that’s not the only thing I’ve got going on. Just like I’m sure that you’ve suffered a lot more than you’ll ever let on, which I respect not wanting to go into. But, there’s to us then one thing.”

She nodded, “I know, and I’m sorry that I did that. I just wanted to help.”

“I know you did, but I’m not always going to be that sad person you need to protect. I can do that myself, just like you can too.” You told her.

“Ok.” She said, finally letting herself believe it that she didn’t know everything about you.

She then moved it onto the issue at hand, “So….now you know….What do you think?” She asked.

You gave it some thought, “Oh, you know, it’s out there. Then again, most things here have been.” You gave her one of your soft smiles that she was used to.

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So, you had come around to it, and you were now all packing up to leave through a backdoor that Doctor Radcliff (one of the creators of this place) had left for you all to get out.

Now, you just had to get to that place. So, you all got the crew together, boarded the Quinjet, then went to that place.

That place was a factory, but you weren’t one to judge. Or, rather, this version of you wasn’t? Maybe? You didn’t know, no one had really told you. All you knew was that Jemma had approached this version of you the way you were here, which was nice.

On the way, Daisy had started to do that, you saw it was a pain and struggle, but she was trying. That was all you could thank her for.

You all entered the warehouse, with the gateway being a drop into lava. Not the best exit, but a way out was a way out.

Mack had then found out, and he wasn’t exactly taking it well. Like, not well at all. You, however, kept an eye out, it was going too well.

And it was, as HYDRA agents stormed the place and fired at you all. You all went for cover as you did what you could to keep them off Daisy as she held out her hand, her power opening the portal.

As you all did what you could, members slowly went through; May and Coulson were first, then a bleeding Fitz and Jemma, then it was all of you that were left.

As you made your way to it, a bullet struck you, taking you to the ground. Daisy wanted to stop and run over, but she then saw the look in your eyes that told her one thing; keep going.

You were bleeding, and you weren’t doing great on the moving department at first, but you then started to. Mack was still covering you, even grabbing your gun as a backup.

As you moved and Mack covered, she took a breath before putting her hand back out as the power left her hands again a hit the portal.

As it opened, she checked on you again. She knew some part of you would want help, but right now that part wasn’t the one that was there. This was the one that cared more about others, the one that let them be helped instead of you.

You finally made it to the portal, you gave her a look, “See you on the other side.” She smiled at you. Then, you fell into it.

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You were all out, and AIDA was defeated. You all sat at a bar, with your family. Daisy looked at your food, different from what you’d normally get.

“Look at you, being all reckless.” She joked.

“Maybe for today, sure.”

She smiled and shook her head. She didn’t know what else you had to show her that was new, but she was willing to see. She knew people couldn’t just be codified and put in a box. People were different, they grew and changed.

#agents of shield imagine #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d imagine #daisy johnson x reader #daisy johnson imagine

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doctoraliceharvey · 4 years

Note

hey, could you write malice where matthew gets angry (not necessarily with her but in general) and how alice deals with this because it’s been implied before that she can’t deal with shouting?

uuuuh this got long, but I hope you enjoy it and I really enjoyed exploring this entire aspect of Matthew and Alice.

it's of a different fic (and felt like it took me forever to actually write it), but honestly the idea of actually exploring a little of WHY Matthew yells and how that could affect a potential relationship with Alice was too interesting to pass up. The working title of this fic was "Matthew Goes to Therapy" and honestly most characters on this show probably should, but I'm very proud of Matthew actually sitting down with his feelings and anger and dealing with them. Please enjoy! - Dee

tw: mentions of abuse

Flowers In The Darkest Part of My Mind

AO3 | FF.NET

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"What brought you here?"

Matthew sighed as he shifted on the couch; it was a comfortable couch and Matthew had gotten to know it over the past few weeks of coming to Dr. Graves, but at his question, suddenly Matthew felt like he had at the beginning: out of place.

"Matthew?"

Glancing over at the doctor - a tall, quiet man about Matthew's age with his dark grey hair starting to go white - Matthew sighed again.

"There was… an incident."

"What sort of incident?"

"One of the constables - a little green around the gills, no fault of his own - messed up on a case and it happened that I was… stressed out that day. I'd been stressed quite a bit before this incident, but this was the day it all just kind of… blew up. A… friend and colleague overheard the yelling and… she pulled away from me because of it. Alice… I won't say much because I also don't know much, but she… didn't have a happy childhood and I'd seen the way she was like when someone raised their voice or moved too quickly towards her."

"Ah," Dr. Graves nodded as he jotted down a few notes. "So, Alice pulled away?"

"Yes, she stopped coming by the house for dinner, stopped bantering with me at work, only doing the bare minimum in interacting with me or the police, so… after talking with Jean - who knows a lot more of Alice's past - I realized Alice was afraid of me… of my anger."

"And that's not something you want?"

Matthew shook his head, "I don't think it's something I've wanted for a long time. Besides scaring Alice, who's a close friend… I'm just tired of being so angry for so long. Angry at my father, angry at my past, angry at Lucien, angry at the higher ups, angry at the world… God, I'm just so tired."

"Hm, interesting."

He liked Dr. Graves; the psychologist never pushed and had a sort of eclectic way of looking at the world - it almost was like he'd found another "Alice" and found it easy to talk to the man, regardless if he'd been nervous at first.

The way Alice had looked at him after running into him in the hallway once he'd been through with carpeting the constable, the way her eyes were wide, scared, and how she'd stepped back from him - flinched, really - confused him; they'd gotten through so much and had started to fall back into the friendship both enjoyed prior to Lucien going missing, that her pulling back so suddenly frustrated him.

It wasn't until Alice didn't show up for dinner a few nights in a row, that he finally turned to Jean for her input.

"You remember the day you were reaming out the constable?" She'd asked him quietly as the tea steeped between them.

"I do."

"You weren't in the bullpen with us, but… Alice was shaking."

"Shaking?"

"Yes, she'd come by to drop off a report and was chatting with me and Peter when you started in; I nearly thought she would faint dead right then and there."

He couldn't picture Alice close to fainting, but Jean looked serious.

"She couldn't hide the way her hands shook or the paleness of her cheeks, so I told her to go outside for fresh air."

"I ran into her on her way out, and she flinched from me, Jean. She's… she's never done that before even before we really knew each other."

"But you don't know each other, not… I mean, you're close, but there's still so much you don't know about Alice and things she doesn't know about your past."

Matthew pulled at his hair as he ran a hand through it; letting out a frustrated sigh, he watched Jean pour them tea.

"What am I missing, Jean? I don't… I don't want it to be like this, I… I miss her."

Jean continued to pour the tea and fix their cups to their liking - staying quiet for a long time (and Jean could draw out her silences when she liked to) before she took a sip and sighed.

"I think… I think Alice was startled and got scared… by your anger, Matthew."

"My anger?"

"The yelling."

Scrubbing his face with his hand, Matthew frowned, "But… why?"

"That's probably for Alice to tell you, but… from what I can tell she didn't have an easy childhood. Lucien and Charlie once mentioned she'd told a suspect that she 'didn't need protecting since she was twelve years old'... I'll let you speculate as to why."

Matthew sighed, a tired, weary sigh, and leaned his head in his hand; he'd seen enough children abused by their parents to hazard a guess (hell, he'd been through some with his father), and the flinching, the startled, almost deer-in-headlights look Alice got when she'd overheard his yelling started to make a little more sense.

"Oh, Christ."

Jean hummed and pushed his tea towards him, "So… I suppose to fix this… you might need to do some thinking and reflecting."

At that he huffed a silent laugh, "Thinking never helped me get anywhere… just leads me in circles."

"Then maybe you need someone to help guide you… your brother-in-law works in the field of psychology, does he not?"

"Yeah, but I don't think I could tell him all about this… I know there are things that Vera never told him about our past and I don't want to drive a wedge between them. Vera's moved on as much as she could."

"Then see if he has a friend or colleague who might be open to new patients."

Matthew sighed again as Jean patted his hand and he stared off into space as he mechanically sipped at his tea - not really tasting it as Jean started on cleaning up the kitchen post-dinner. Would he really do this? Could he really do this? Go and talk to a stranger about… well, everything?

If he didn't, would he lose Alice?

And so, here he was, a few weeks later after a few days of self-reflection and knowing something needed to drastically change in order for his world to right itself; Matthew reached out to his brother-in-law, Daniel Anderson, and found someone to help him figure out where to go from there.

Doctor Maxwell Graves was certainly an interesting choice, but Matthew liked how he made him feel at ease even when asking deeply probing questions about his past, his father - everything, really. Through the psychologist, Matthew was able to take the demons of his past and shrink them down into more manageable battles; he gave Matthew new tools to work with - a journal, counting to himself when he found his anger rising, breathing exercises - and never judged Matthew if he fell a little behind or had to reschedule. The practice he ran with his wife - also a psychologist who tended to see the women of the practice, and specialized in victims of abuse - had become a place of comfort to Matthew in the weeks since his last outburst.

"Matthew?"

"Hm?" Matthew felt his cheeks grow warm, realizing he'd drifted off into his thoughts for far too long.

"What were you thinking of?"

"Just… just how much everything's gotten better since I started coming to see you, Doc."

At that, Dr. Graves smiled. "I'm glad to hear it, and I think that I've finally figured out the source of all of this."

"Really?" Matthew sat up slightly to make eye contact with the doctor. "What is it?"

"I don't think your anger is actually anger, I think it's grief."

"Grief?" That wasn't what Matthew was expecting to hear at all.

"Mm-hm," his psychologist nodded. "I think it's grief that you never let yourself feel; grief for your childhood, grief for your father, grief for your friend, Lucien. It comes out as anger, but I think you're lashing out from a place of sadness and hurt."

"I understand that part, but… I also get angry when things are unfair… is that also grief?"

"In a way, it's grief stemming from your immense capacity for empathy; you're sad - and angry - at the world because you genuinely wish it could be a better place and through all you've seen at work it feels like you haven't made a difference at all. You get stuck on all the things that haven't changed, all the good that hasn't been done instead of the good impact you've had, that it builds up and lashes out on unsuspecting constables."

Matthew chuckled, "I suppose that makes sense… does that change anything?"

"Not really," Dr. Graves smiled. "Same sort of coping mechanisms, but also allow yourself to feel everything… don't hold back if you need to grieve or cry or whatever when a case gets to you, or something happens in your life; and of course I'll be here for you to talk to - in person or over the phone if it's particularly bad."

"Hm…"

"I know it sounds very simple, and also goes against everything you've been told growing up about how to be a man, but allowing yourself to feel is a lot harder than it sounds. It takes quite a bit of bravery, but I assure you it'll be better for you, your emotions, and your relationships in the long run."

"I'll try, Doc."

Dr. Graves patted his shoulder, "That's all I ever ask, Matthew. Now, continue your journaling, work on the breathing exercises, and allow yourself to truly feel something this week besides frustration or anger."

Matthew snorted a laugh, but shook Dr. Graves' hand as he stood. "Thanks, Doc. I should get back to Ballarat."

"Have a safe trip, and, Matthew?"

"Yeah?"

"I would tell your Alice about all of this… it sounds like you really care for her and I think she should know the effort you've been making to deal with your anger."

Matthew nodded and headed out of Dr. Graves office with a lighter heart. It was still hard work to confront his past and unlearning old habits, but he deserved better.

(And so did everyone around him)

-----

Alice felt lost; this wasn't the first time (nor the last time), but this time she felt it much more keenly than before. It all started with a letter.

She didn't know how they'd found her; she'd left that life long ago - as well as her sister - and wanted nothing to do with her parents. Alice battled with the urge to read the letter or to simply throw it in the fireplace - the very sight of the return address bringing up memories that were never far from her nightmares. They affected her sleep, which affected how she came across to people, and Alice could tell Jean was starting to notice, when that fateful day in the station happened.

Her emotions were already holding on by a tightly wound string, and to hear Matthew yelling in that way had violently shook her to the core; his voice morphed into that of her father's - the letter still burning an image in her mind - and Alice tried to hide the way her knees suddenly grew weak and threatened to give out underneath her.

"Alice?"

"I'm fine," she'd tried to smile - to reassure both Jean and Peter.

"You're as white as a sheet, let's get you out for some air, hm?"

Flinching just a little away from her friend's grasp, Alice shook her head, "I… I can find it on my own, thank you."

All but running from the bullpen, and away from the questions that would arise if she stayed any longer, Alice gasped when she nearly ran into Matthew.

"Alice?" he reached for her and she flinched away - her mind not knowing the difference between him and her father, all it urged her to do was to get out of the building, to run to where it was safe.

'Matthew is safe though,' she tried to tell herself, but his sudden outburst of anger scared her.

Shaking her head with a faint apology and fighting tears, Alice tore out of the station and back to the hospital - trying to calm herself down in the process.

She knew Matthew got angry when things were unfair, and that he had to keep a strict hand on the station lest it got out of control, but… she'd never quite heard or seen him this way. He got short, yes, or abrupt, but not like this; the closest he'd come was when he'd snapped at Jean outside the morgue - she'd been more annoyed with his treatment of their mutual friend than scared, and still felt safe around him, knowing he was different than the men of her past.

But would he be safe now after this? Would he get angry again, and angry at her? Could she risk her heart like that?

Alice sighed and leaned back on her couch - no closer to answers than she had been weeks ago. Against her wants and wishes, Alice drew back from Matthew - not going around for dinner with him and Jean, no lingering conversations or looks in the morgue or station, and mainly going through the motions she had to for her job. It hurt; she missed Matthew, but she couldn't risk all the progress she'd made in her life to be around someone who got angry like that.

But has it really been progress? Has she really been getting over her past? Or was she still running from it like she had when twelve years old?

Eyeing the letter on her coffee table - still unopened - Alice felt so damn lost… and desperately wished someone was here to help guide her through it all.

The sound of her doorbell jarred Alice from her thoughts and she leapt to her feet - trying to calm the rapid beat of her heart as she wiped her sudden clammy palms on her robe and went to see who'd come around to her little bungalow. Peering through the peephole, Alice bit her lower lip when she saw Matthew standing there.

'Why is he here?' she thought, even as she slowly unlocked the door and peered out through a crack.

"Hi," he gave her a slight, nervous, smile. "Uh… I hear it's your birthday today, and I didn't want you to think I forgot."

Honestly she'd forgotten about her own birthday - most people did, at least until she'd come to Ballarat. The sight of the small bouquet of daisies (he'd remembered her preference for them over other more… obviously romantic flowers usually picked), and a gift bag in his hand nearly made her start crying.

"I, um, I understand if you don't want me to linger or come in, or even if you don't want to accept the gift, Alice," Matthew cleared his throat and continued. "But I want you to know… that I've been working on my anger, and the yelling, and the… overall grumpiness. That's… that's what I've been doing this past few weeks when you pulled back, and I don't blame you at all. I don't think I've been happy with myself for quite some time, and… well, I'm getting help - professional help - with all of it."

At that, Alice opened the door further and silently stepped up to Matthew; sliding her arms around his shoulders, she buried her face in the crook of his neck - smiling when she felt him hesitate before pulling her closer.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You're welcome."

Drawing back from the spontaneous hug, Alice wiped at the tears falling and waved him in.

"You're sure?"

Smiling at the way he shifted his weight like a schoolboy about to be scolded, Alice nodded; Matthew stepped into her home, watching her quietly as she closed the door behind him. Knotting her fingers in front of her, Alice shuffled nervously next to him.

"I… I've missed you," she admitted in the uneasy silence between them.

That got her a shy smile, "I missed you too."

"Tea?" She motioned further into her home and led him to the kitchen; it felt… right to have him here - sitting silently at her table as she bustled around readying a brew for two. Alice hadn't realized just how much she'd missed him until that moment; he had always made her feel comfortable (he shared a silence with her the same way Lucien always made her at ease by filling up the air with words and pulling her out of her shell).

"Still white with two?" she asked him.

"Yeah, you still take honey in yours?"

"Yeah," Alice smiled over her shoulder as the kettle boiled.

"Why honey?"

"It's what Mum had on hand most of the time… cheaper than sugar since one of our neighbors had a hive."

"Really? I didn't know that."

"Oh, the other neighbors hated it, but since it was up on the roof, they couldn't complain much," Alice shrugged. "At least we got free honey."

Matthew's faint chuckle warmed her heart as she brought over the steaming cups; watching him blow gently on his before taking a sip and (predictably) burning his tongue a little, Alice smiled as the warmth in her chest rose - she'd missed him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Why?"

"For… for pulling away."

"Don't be," Matthew reached out a hand and squeezed hers when she met him halfway. "Don't be, Alice. If you hadn't… I probably wouldn't have gone to get help."

"What do you mean?"

"I wondered why you pulled away, why you hadn't come by for dinner, and Jean finally sat me down and told me you'd gotten scared of my… yelling, my anger."

Alice squeezed his hand as he drew in a deep breath.

"And… as awful as it was not having you around, I'm grateful for it… it pushed me to get help and I can't express enough of how much better I feel for it. I'm… I'm sorry it took something like what happened in the bullpen to have me look for help, but…"

"You're still grateful for it, I understand."

"And… I want to tell you about why I tend to yell."

She could feel the way his hands started to shake in hers, and saw the nervous tick of him chewing on his inner lip; she'd never seen him this nervous, not even when he'd bucked up the courage to ask her out to dinner that first time.

(How she hated to have to let him down gently, as much as she wanted to finally go forward in their dance)

"Okay," Alice nodded. "Okay, yeah, do you want to stay here and tell me or move to somewhere more comfortable? How's your le-?"

"Alice, sweetheart," Matthew smiled, cutting off her concerned questions, and her stomach fluttered a little at the term of endearment.

"Anywhere is fine, I just… it's harder to talk about this than I thought, which is stupid because I just talked about it all with Dr. Graves."

"It's not stupid, it's not."

Matthew shifted in his seat and sighed, "It still feels stupid."

"It's not," she squeezed his hands. "I know how hard it can be to admit these things to people you care about because you don't want things to change… or how they view you to change. How about we move to the couch and maybe that'll help you figure out what you want to say?"

"Okay," he nodded.

Alice made new, fresh cups of tea for both of them as Matthew shuffled out of the kitchen to the couch; as she brought the mugs in, she saw him eyeing the letter still on her coffee table.

"Not a fan of opening your mail?"

"Not overly fond of mail from Sydney… I'll tell you after you get whatever it is off your chest, that's what you came for after all."

He nodded and smiled when she handed over the fresh cup of tea. It all came out - slowly, and frequently punctuated with long silences as Matthew worked out what he wanted to say; she had no idea what a brute his father had been, and how similar their childhoods were. Matthew's father was more emotionally distant - with somewhat violent drunken outbursts - and tended to gamble things and money away rather than beat the living daylights out of Matthew, and Alice wondered if it was because Matthew started fighting back once he got older and stronger than Alice had been - ultimately more of a coward than her own father.

Matthew's upbringing along with the bullying he'd faced at the hands of McAvoy (no wonder he'd been so stressed during the Ballarat West case) shed light on his overall grumpiness and anger - it had all been a wall, a way to separate himself from the world, from getting attached because his heart felt too much. Alice squeezed his hands - their tea cups abandoned on the table, cooled and forgotten - as he went into all that the doctor had told him about how his anger was actually his grief manifesting from a place of hurt.

"Now that you know, what is he having you do to help?"

"I have a journal," Matthew smiled - their joined hands on his good knee. "Dr. Graves has me write down something good each day - even if it's just as simple as 'I had a really good cup of tea', and that way I can look back on the week and see how much good really is in my life, so I don't lose focus of that when work gets to be a lot."

"Good, I'm glad."

"Me too," his smile widened and he wiped away the lingering tears he'd shed earlier; Alice leaned over and kissed his cheek as she hugged him.

"I'm so proud of you."

Matthew sniffled some - clearing his throat in a way that told Alice he was trying not to cry again - but he held tight to Alice and she felt her shoulder grow a little damp.

"I'm so proud of you," she told him again as he drew back to wipe his tears.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

Alice felt her cheeks warm as he softly kissed one; Matthew smiled when she immediately reached for his hand while he took a little time to recover.

"Now, uh," he cleared his throat, "what about Sydney mail hits you the wrong way?"

"Where to start," she sighed, but with Matthew's hand tight around hers, she drew the strength to tell him of her past.

She wasn't quite sure what to make of the shining look in Matthew's eyes - not pitying like some had done - as he remained silent throughout her tale (exactly like she had in his - squeezing her hands reassuringly whenever her throat closed around her words), but she greatly appreciated finally telling someone the whole sad, sorry lot she'd received in life. Finally, Matthew would understand why she was so touch-averse from people she didn't trust. Finally, he'd understand why any type of raised voice could set her on edge. And finally, he'd understand why it took her so long to open up to anyone (and how Lucien had done that by simply accepting Alice for herself - no expectations, no restrictions, just pure acceptance of her as a doctor and her as a friend).

"Oh, Alice," he gently pulled her in for a hug. "I'm so sorry you ever had to go through that, and I'm proud of you."

Alice held on tight to him - taking comfort in his solid, steady warmth - and though the tears fell, she felt so relieved to finally get it out in the open; she was no longer running from her past - not quite confronting it, but willing to stop and walk with it instead of away from it.

"The yelling and the anger on my part… was that another reason you were so hesitant about… us?"

"I… I think so."

"Then I'm definitely glad I went and got help. I know, I know, I shouldn't want to change for the hope of a relationship, sweetheart, but I also wanted to change for myself and you're worth changing for."

Alice simply held him tighter - not knowing what to say, but it did give her a little bit of hope that maybe their dance could resume.

"So… are you worried that your parents have finally found you with this letter from Sydney?"

"Yeah," she wiped her eyes.

"Want me to open it for you and then you can read it?"

"Oh, would you? I-I don't know if I could ever buck up the courage to."

Matthew kissed her forehead and leaned forward to pick up the letter; the address of her parents' house glared up at Alice as she leaned her head on Matthew's shoulder - though she didn't recognize the handwriting. He gently ripped the envelope open and pulled out the letter.

"Can…" she sighed when he held it out, "Can you read it? Out loud, please?"

"Yeah, I can," he kissed her forehead again.

"Dear Alice," the letter began, "I know this letter might come as a shock, or completely unwanted, but I hope you've decided to open it and find out. It took awhile to track you down, but Father's lawyer finally did, and I'm writing to tell you that Father is dead. Mum's still alive, and I'm taking care of her as she deals with both her grief and relief over the fact that she's out from under his abusive thumb. I'm also writing to tell you that I never hated you for leaving, my dear sister. You got out when you could, and I was thankfully shielded from Father's abuse by Mum, who didn't want to lose her other daughter. You made your choice to leave, and I made my choice to stay after I got older, and I just… I wanted you to know that both Mum and I worried after you. I hope you reach out to us again now that Father's gone, I'd love to introduce you to your niece - she reminds me so much of you every day. Yours, Peg."

"Oh…" Alice covered her mouth with her hand as she gently took the letter from Matthew's hand - more tears springing up in her eyes as she poured over the slanting handwriting of her baby sister - so very different from when they were young.

"Oh, Matthew…"

"Seems like good news, hm?"

"I… I don't know."

He kissed her temple as she stared at the letter, "Well… your father's dead, and it sounds like your sister and Mum miss you."

"What if it's a trick?"

"There's one way to find out," he pointed to the phone number written down at the bottom. "If it is a trick, you've still got me and Jean and the whole of Ballarat's police force to help protect you. We'll do whatever we need to do."

That did make her feel better; she had a family here in Ballarat - one unlike she'd ever had before, and she felt more confident that she could confront any negative consequences from reaching out to her family.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

She nodded, "Okay. I want to call and find out."

"How about tomorrow, it's getting a little late."

Alice looked down at Matthew's watch and giggled at the late hour.

"Might have to sneak out of here, but first, you have a gift to open."

"I completely forgot."

"Sit tight, I'll get the gift," with another kiss to her forehead, Matthew got up with a slight groan and quickly retrieved the bag he'd brought in.

"Happy Birthday, Alice."

She peered into the bag and giggled at the familiar sight of Jean's biscuit tin. "Did you nick Jean's biscuits, my dear Matthew?"

"No!" He protested even as she laughed. "No, no, no, it was all that was on hand to hold your present. As if Jean would let me nick her tin anyways."

Alice continued to laugh and opened the tin - inhaling the scent of baked shortbread drizzled in chocolate; they weren't perfect, some of the pieces were a little wonky, but when she pulled one out to sample they were just as delicious as Jean's usual shortbread (and the added chocolate made her want to eat the entire tin in one go).

Matthew cleared his throat again, "Sorry some of them look weird, I'm not as skilled as Jean is in the kitchen - though she did hover over my shoulder while I made them."

"You made these?"

His cheeks turned pink (as did his ears), but he nodded, "I, uh, I wanted to give you something a little special, but not too over the top."

"It's perfect, Matthew," Alice leaned over and hugged him - the tin still in her hands as her friend laughed. "Thank you, I love it."

"Good," he kissed the top of her head as she lingered in his arms, "I'm glad."

"And I'm glad you've gotten help, and that you've trusted me with everything."

"Just as I am with you trusting me with your past."

She hummed a little happy hum before kissing Matthew's cheek as she drew back from the hug; he smiled at her - his hand coming up to trail over her cheek - it widened when she leaned into his touch.

"It's getting late," Matthew told her softly.

"It is… you'll come back tomorrow?"

"Yeah, or you could come over to the house - have some privacy in the studio before staying for dinner."

"Is this your way of asking me over for dinner?" She teased.

"Maybe," he kissed her cheek, "that and Jean also misses you coming by."

"Alright… provided we don't get called in on a Sunday, I'll drop by in the afternoon to make the call… you'll be there, right?"

"For as long as you want me to be, sweetheart."

"Good," she smiled and leaned in to press her lips softly against his. "Good."

Alice's smile widened when he stared at her for a moment before a wide, boyish grin spread across his face, and she giggled as he pulled her in for another kiss - the shortbread tin lifted from her hands to be placed on the coffee table as he kissed her again.

It was getting late, and Matthew probably should leave, but Alice mused (as they traded more kisses) that he wasn't leaving any time soon.

-----

"How have you been since our last meeting?" Dr. Graves asked him, and Matthew couldn't stop the goofy grin spreading across his face at the memory of kissing Alice the night of her birthday.

"Matthew?"

"Sorry, Doc," he cleared his throat, but the psychologist waved him off.

"It's good to see you so happy. What happened?"

"I, uh, I told Alice about everything."

"That's good," Dr. Graves smiled. "And?"

"And what?"

"What's causing the grin?"

Trying to bite back another grin - and failing - Matthew ducked his head.

"Ah, well… Alice and I have a date… after sharing a few kisses."

The answering smile from his psychologist made it feel even better.

"Good, very good."

#alice harvey #matthew lawson #matthew x alice #tdbm fic #writing of dee #Anonymous

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mostlydysfunction · 4 years

Text

From The Stars, Part 5

Chapter Summary: Kira talks with her dad and then makes a discovery in her barn. The Xenomorph is almost ready.

Warnings: Talks of death and grieving as well as some non-con touching at the end.

Author’s Note: Yeah, I have no control. I just really want to get the next part written cause that’s when things finally happen. But you do get a bit of Kira’s backstory in this one. I’m trying to keep things a little ambiguous because you’ll see later on in the story. But anyways, I hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

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

Kira chews on her lip as she sits across the living room from her dad. He looks good, tired and older than she remembered, but good. The last time she’d seen him he’d been storming down the driveway towards his car, not even looking back. Guilt and regret ate away at her stomach, twisting it painfully. He wasn’t even looking at her, studying the grain of the wood the coffee table was made of. He had cut that tree down himself and handmade it for her mother. Their initials were carved in the bottom. She had told him to take it with him, but he had said it belonged in that house. The house they’d built specially for them. The house they put so much work into. The house he’d rather forget was real.

“I um...I was heading out of town for a few days and I thought I’d come by and see how you were on my way out.” Her dad finally says, breaking the awkward silence around them. “I heard about the fire...wanted to see if you were alright.”

It had been almost a week since the explosion and he was just now checking on her. “Yeah, I’m okay. It didn’t make it this far.”

He nods. “That’s...that’s good. We could hear it and see it all the way in town. It’s too bad, the wreck.”

She had read that online. The cover story. An oil truck had been hit after a semi driver fell asleep at the wheel. The fire had caused the oil truck to explode. It was hard to believe as they didn’t get many semi’s in their area, but the people in this town were so desperate for something exciting to happen they’d believe anything.

Kira nods. “It was loud, the explosion. Woke me from a dead sleep.”

“I bet. I am glad you’re alright, though.”

It’s silent between them for a while before her dad finally stands up, going to the wall with the photos. He looks over them all, taking in the old memories.

“You left them up.”

Kira nods. “Yeah. Felt weird taking them down. Empty.”

He picks up the picture on the mantle of the three of them: her, her dad and her mother at the top of a nearby peak. Her mother had convinced them to hike it. Her being only 10, she had gotten tired halfway up and her dad had carried her the rest of the way to the top. She still remembers that day. Her mother had been so happy outside.

“I’m glad you kept them up.” He places the picture back on the mantle. “Remember all the happy times.”

Kira nods again, watching him as he makes his way to the kitchen. She gets up, following. He glances at the towels haphazardly thrown on the floor but thankfully doesn’t ask as he moves to the back door, looking out at the yard.

“The garden looks good.” One of her mother’s other joys. “You’ll have to send pictures in a few weeks when it really starts to bloom.”

“I will. I planted a lot this year.”

He nods, looking out past the garden to the barn. “The barn looks different.”

Kira glances out as well, looking at the barn. It did look different. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but something had changed. She hadn’t touched the barn since her mom died, so she knows it couldn’t have been her doing.

“Yeah, I was, uh, cleaning it up a bit. Maybe set it up and get a couple of animals again. It gets...quiet out here.”

The two sheep had been her mother’s favorite out of the animals they’d had growing up. She’d loved them almost as much as she’d loved Kira.

Her dad nods again. “I think that’s a good idea.” He looks down at his watch. “I uh, should hit the road here. I just...wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m okay, dad.” Kira nods. “It’s...” She chews on her lip. “I like it out here.”

“I’m glad.” He moves to the door, Kira following. “I, uh, I’ll see you later, I guess.”

Kira nods. “Yeah. I’ll be around.”

Kira watches him walk to his car, remembering the night he left.

It had been a week after the funeral. Kira knew it was coming, she’d seen the way he looked at the house, seemed to just wander around like a ghost. He’d stare out the window at the half-finished garden, stand in the doorway of the bedroom staring at nothing and everything. He was lost in the constant reminders of her and he couldn’t stand it.

It had been six years since the day that he told her he was leaving, that he couldn’t stand being around the memories, around her. She was haunting him in that house and he told her she could stay, he’d keep the property, pay for it. But he couldn’t stay. He had left her there, running from the memories of her mother, the woman he’d loved since they were children. It had been the last time he’d stepped foot in that house as he carried the last box to his car, not looking back as he drove into town, leaving her and the ghost of her mother behind.

At least, until his unexpected visit. Things had been awkward between them since her mother’s death. She had been the glue that held the three of them together and after she died, there was nothing there to hold them anymore. Kira knew he felt guilty for leaving her there, for running. She knew it was pride that had driven him back, pride that had brought him to check on her. He hated seeming like a coward, for leaving his 20-year-old daughter to move into an apartment in town to escape the memory of his dead wife.

Kira didn’t blame him. She’d seen how he just left himself when she died. It was like a part of his soul died with her. He had left to try to find it again, but six years and he didn’t seem any closer to fixing it. That’s what he did. He fixed things. Kira had long ago accepted that her mother was gone, that she wasn’t coming back. She missed her terribly, but all she could do was keep her memory alive while her father just wanted to forget. Everyone has their coping mechanisms. Everyone grieves differently. Kira just wished she hadn’t been so awful to her father when he left. Hadn’t said the things she’d said to him.

******

It’s late afternoon by the time Kira can peel herself out of the chair in the living room. She’d sat and stared at the driveway for long enough. The visit from her dad had brought up too many memories, too much to try to process in one day. She had things to do, and a barn to investigate.

She pulls on her boots and grabs a flashlight before heading out to the barn. It was far enough away from the house that the true damage to it couldn’t be seen. She hadn’t touched the barn in six years, and it certainly looked that way. She was glad for that, especially when she saw why it looked so different.

She slides the door open, nearly dropping the flashlight. All around the inside of the barn is a hard black substance. Lining the walls, across the floor, up onto the roof. It was like something out of a science fiction movie. She takes a hesitant step forward, having to step up onto the substance. It was slightly sticky and gooey, her boots making suction noises with every step. She shines the flashlight around, the only light coming from the window high in the loft. The goo had covered the others, making it dark and unearthly inside. She sees movement out of the corner of her eye, whirling around and falling backwards as she finds herself face to face with her alien.

She gasps in surprise, pointing the flashlight on it from her place on the ground. It hisses slightly at her, almost a sound of annoyance than anything. So this is where it disappeared during the day. It seemed it had done this in the week since it had arrived, making its own home in her barn.

The alien stands over her before dropping down so they’re face to face. Its hands are on either side of her, trapping her between it and the sticky ground. It nudges at her shoulder, making it throb in protest. She turns slightly, holding it away from him as he goes to nudge it again.

“Why did you bite me?”

It hisses at her; the sound vibrating the surrounding air. It seemed so still and stagnant in the barn with the goo around her, the very air seeming to vibrate with every movement. The air ripples as the alien moves, picking her up before moving deeper into the barn, towards the back wall. It settles down so her back is against a wall of the goo, holding her. Kira huffs out a sigh, having no choice but to relax in its grip.

“So it seems you’re not going anywhere.” The alien hisses in response. “You need a name. Something I can call you. Do you have a name?” She doesn’t get a response. “You’re not a very communicative species. Or maybe humans just aren’t smart enough to figure out how to communicate like you.”

The alien finally hisses, moving Kira rather roughly so her back is pressed against the floor now. It’s hunched over her again, one leg on either side of hers. I guess that was enough talking for now. Kira feels trapped as the alien lifts a hand, four fingers curling around the neck of her jacket before ripping downward. The fabric tears easily, revealing her bra. The air inside the barn is cool, making goosebumps form on her skin. Her heart is pounding despite the fact she knew this was coming. She knew this would happen soon.

The alien presses its face up against her bite mark again, making it ache and throb in response. Kira groans, attempting to get away from the pain, but the alien hisses dangerously in her face. She swallows thickly, drool starting to drip on her bare skin. The alien sits back slightly, a clawed hand reaching out towards her face. Its skin is rough as it runs its fingers over her face, feeling her. Her eyes close as it moves lower, claws pressing into her skin as it moves down her neck and onto her chest. Her breath hitches as its palm brushes over one of her breasts, causing it to pause before slowly moving lower over her stomach.

It lets out a soft hiss as it moves over her stomach, Kira holding her breath as it moves lower. The alien shifts over her, its hand brushing over the top of her pelvis. Kira moves as well, her hips shifting in response to its touch. Her eyes fly open as the alien presses its palm against her, clawed fingers curling around the hem of her jeans. Her brain catches up to her, beginning to process what was happening, and the panic begins.

“No!” She kicks out at the alien, landing one against its chest. It hisses at her, but she doesn’t cower in fear, wiggling and fighting her way out from under it.

As soon as she can she’s on her feet, racing from the barn and back towards her house. The fear that the alien could easily catch her, pounce on her before she even reaches her door drives her on faster. But she makes it inside, slamming and locking the sliding back door before she collapses to her knees, dry heaving as she sobs.

It wasn’t the fact that the alien was touching her. She knew that would happen. She had been expecting it.

No, she was upset about the wetness between her own legs. She had been enjoying it.

Part 6

#exophilia #aliens #xenomorph #xenomorph x human #xenomorph x oc #non con #grieving #death

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ICC probe revives hope among victims’ families By: Jerome Aning, Krixia Subingsubing, Mariejo S. Ramos - @inquirerdotnet Philippine Daily Inquirer / 05:30 AM September 17, 2021

WAR ON DRUGS A police investigator inspects the body of a suspected victim of extrajudicial killing. INQUIRER FILE PHOTOAfter five years of grieving, the families of thousands of victims killed in the brutal war on drugs on Thursday were seeing a glimmer of hope that justice would be served to their loved ones after the International Criminal Court (ICC) authorized the investigation of the charges of crimes against humanity against President Duterte.Llore Pasco, who is still in grief over the deaths of her two sons, said she felt “excited and vindicated” by the ICC decision. Her sons had disappeared and the authorities later said one was killed in a drug raid and the other in a robbery, and that both had fought back against officers, the typical excuse by the police in gunning down suspects.“We’re finally going to get an answer after our loved ones were slain brutally,” she said. “In the past, we were drifting in uncertainty, but now our hopes are being rekindled.” The ICC announced on Wednesday that its Pre-Trial Chamber I (PTC) authorized the start of an investigation sought by Prosecutor Fatou Bensouda before she stepped down in June. The investigation will cover the period from November 2011 to June 2016, when Duterte served as vice mayor and later mayor of Davao City, up to March 2019, after the Philippine withdrawal from the Rome Statute, the treaty that created the ICC, took effect.‘Reasonable basis’ “The chamber concludes that there is a reasonable basis for the prosecutor to proceed with an investigation, in the sense that the crime against humanity of murder appears to have been committed, and that potential case(s) arising from such investigation appear to fall within the court’s jurisdiction,” it said. The PTC said that the antidrug campaign “cannot be seen as a legitimate law enforcement operation, and the killings neither as legitimate nor as mere excesses in an otherwise legitimate operation.” There were indications of a “widespread and systematic attack against the civilian population took place pursuant to or in furtherance of a state policy,” it said. Randy delos Santos, an uncle of 17-year-old Kian delos Santos who pleaded for his life before he was shot in the back of the head in 2017, said their family only got “token justice” when three Caloocan City policemen were convicted for the murder.“But I want the truth to come out—that Kian did not have a gun and drugs with him. If they really wanted to show justice, [the court] should have included planting of evidence in the verdict,” Delos Santos said.Laila Martisano, whose son was killed in a drug buy-bust operation on Oct. 27, 2016, said the ICC investigation is a chance for all victims of extrajudicial killings to obtain justice.“I thank God that finally, justice may be served for the merciless killing of my son. I am happy, but I could not stop crying. We’ve been waiting for this [investigation] for so long,” Martisano said.After her son was killed, the 60-year-old grandmother had to take multiple jobs so she could take care of her son’s three young children. Now she’s actively helping other families cope with their grief and seek justice.Delos Santos hopes the ICC investigation would uncover the pattern of killings and other abuses committed by the police, and open the gates to justice for many others whose cases were not given the same attention.“For me, full justice means holding into account those who are involved in the killings—from those who ordered it to those who emboldened the perpetrators and carried out the killings. No one would be brave enough to kill if they did not get a blessing from the higher-ups,” he said.Roque: Cases will sleep Presidential spokesperson Harry Roque and Chief Presidential Legal Counsel Salvador Panelo repeated Duterte’s stand not to cooperate with the investigation.Roque, at a press briefing, said the President was not bothered when he informed him about the ICC investigation.“The President has no reaction because from the very beginning, he has been saying that he would die first before he faces foreign judges,”

Roque said.He said the ICC had no jurisdiction over the Philippines because the courts in the country “are functioning.”“My prediction is that those cases [against Duterte] will just sleep due to the absence of cooperation, particularly from the police, and no evidence will really be gathered,” he added.Panelo said the ICC never had any jurisdiction over the Philippines from the start as the Rome Statute was not officially published as required of a treaty that was “penal in nature.”“The timing of this development reveals that the ICC is bent on proceeding with a case against our government officials in violation of our Constitution and in contravention with the Rome Statute that created it,” he said in a statement. “It also reveals that the ICC is being utilized as a political and propaganda apparatus by those usual suspects who will do anything to dethrone the President from his seat.”International law professor Romel Bagares said the ICC move was the first time since World War II that a Philippine situation has become a subject of a formal investigation by an international criminal legal mechanism for mass murder involving high officials.Show probable cause Under the preliminary investigation stage, the Office of the Prosecutor (OTP) now headed by former British barrister Karim Khan will have to show there is probable cause to bring the suspects to trial, Bagares said.Kristina Conti, a lawyer of the victims’ families who filed the charges in the ICC, said the OTP would have to gather evidence “that would lead to a determination of the persons most responsible” for the crimes alleged.The court hasn’t named any suspects yet. However, the PTC explicitly cited Duterte and Sen. Ronald dela Rosa, the former national police chief who spearheaded the antidrug campaign, for their public statements that incited or encouraged the killing of drug suspects.Carlos Conde, senior researcher for the New York-based Human Rights Watch, noted that others could be held liable aside from high officials.“This could very well mean that lower-ranking officials can also be indicted and arrested,” he said.Expanded scope Under ICC rules, the OTP may request the PTC to issue arrest warrants or summonses, Bagares said.For this, Conti said, Khan will have to provide a higher quantum of evidence than what Bensouda had given to the PTC.The expansion of the scope of the preliminary investigation to cover all other crimes under the drug war means they would also have to reach out to other victims of arrests, detention and torture, she said.Pasco urged the government to cooperate.“This is not even the final stage of the ICC process yet, they still have a chance to defend themselves, unlike us,” she said. “Remember we were condemned without trial, and the court is giving them a chance to explain their side.”“Let’s not prolong each other’s agony,” Pasco said.

Read more: https://newsinfo.inquirer.net/1488952/icc-probe-revives-hope-among-victims-families#ixzz76ipuD7pq Follow us: @inquirerdotnet on Twitter | inquirerdotnet on Facebook

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