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ace-in-a-shopping-cart · 4 years

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Jewel of the Sea: Chapter 10: . . . Now That I See You

Chapter 9

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Word Count: 1,553

Logan loved their debates, going into the late hours of the night. They never made it to midnight as Virgil always fell asleep before then. Logan assumed it was due to either his wounds needing a lot of sleep to heal properly or his circadian rhythm. Whichever one it was was fine with him as it meant he could spend time along in his room, winding down from the flurry of excitement that always came with the debates.

He enjoyed the times where Virgil would seek him out for the pre bed debates. Once, he had forgotten that he was wearing glasses. It seemed Virgil’s amnesia had caused him to forget about contacts so he had to explain that he had to forgo wearing his contacts the night before he changed them. Many times, their debates were carried from the library to Virgil’s room as it was closer to the stairs. These were times Virgil was most likely to fall asleep mid debate. Logan just tucked him under his covers and turned the lights off as he left.

Once, when Logan was looking for a quiet place that wasn’t his office, hoping the change in scenery would produce idea flow, he came across Virgil in the alcove he’d found when he was seven. They bantered for a few minutes while Logan set up his things. As he took his mind off his work for a few minutes, he was better able to focus when he turned his attention back to it.

Soon, he’d dissolved into his usual muttering and hair pulling while dealing with the papers in front of him. He was trying to understand the reports he was getting from his men but many of them contradicted others and Logan had no idea which were the right ones. He hadn’t realized he’d growled until Virgil had closed his book and was looking over his shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

Logan looked up at him from his seat on the floor. “I’m just trying to deal with the reports coming in from the coast guard.”

“About the pirates?” Virgil marked his place in his book before giving his full attention to Logan.

“Yes, about those. I’m just having a hard time getting people to believe the pirates were even there to begin with.” They were no longer at the beach near the cliff. This probably accounted for the conflicting reports. People were being lazy and not investigating, simply making something up instead.

Virgil’s hand in his hair brought him back to the here and now. “You’ll figure it out eventually. How about you tell me what the problem is. Sometimes, just going through it out loud helps.”

So, Logan talked about it to Virgil. He talked about the lazy people he had to deal with, about his personal research, about anything that came to mind as Virgil looked at him like he’d hung the moon and stars.

There were times when they both needed to get outside for some sun. Those were days filled with bird watching, Virgil making up a narrative to explain why the birds were acting a certain way and giving each of them a unique voice. Logan would have to remember to ask him to read a book to him as his voice was incredibly relaxing. Many times, Roman would come over and lay his head on Logan’s leg, occasionally falling asleep to Virgil’s stories but most times he would beg Logan to come and play with him. Unable to resist, Logan would usually acquiesce. He hadn’t even noticed that a month and a half had passed.

One day, Logan decided he and Virgil could both use a break from the castle. Realizing that he viewed Virgil as his best friend, he decided to take him to his favorite spot in the world: the cliff he’d been going to when he’d first found Virgil. When they got there, Virgil went to admire the view while Logan unloaded the picnic and set it up. He set up his easel and painting supplies close by, wanting to do that after eating.

Once everything was set up, he went and sat by Virgil. He took a deep breath of the sea air he could never get enough of before speaking. “It’s a nice view.”

Virgil smiled, nodding. “That it is.”

They sat there for a few more minutes. Looking over at Virgil, he had a hunger in his eyes that Logan had seldom seen in many faces. It wasn’t a hunger for food, but more of a hunger for home, for comfort. There was a sadness mixed with the hunger, as if he deeply missed something. Glancing out at the water, he wondered what Virgil saw when he looked at it. He thought about this for a few seconds before slapping his knees and standing, holding his hands out to help Virgil to his feet. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, a little bit.” Virgil responded as they walked over and sat on the blanket. Logan brought up the subject of their last debate and that was all the prompting Virgil needed to pick up where he’d left off. Logan admired the fire in his voice and determination in his eyes as he spoke of a subject he’d obviously been researching recently.

Once the meal was over, Virgil helped Logan pack up the trash and found the book Logan had put in the basket for Virgil to read throughout the afternoon. He went back to the edge to sit and read. Logan was planning on painting the sea again as it was an interesting color today but found his eye drawn to the way Virgil was sitting. No regard for the large drop, fully absorbed in his book, he had one leg dangling over the edge and the other pulled up. His fingers gripped the pages, one arm looping around the drawn up leg, while his eyes danced across the page. He had a faraway look in his eye that told Logan he was lost in the story being spun inside his brain. Grabbing his purple paints, Logan started to mix up something that would match the exact colors of Virgil’s plaid shirt.

While painting, the thought crossed Logan’s mind that he loved Virgil. He didn’t know where the emotion came from but it was there, sitting in his heart like there was a seat made just for it there. He paused, his brush poised above the paint tray as he tried to pinpoint the exact moment the feeling started. Was it when they’d first met and Logan had felt fiercely protective of him? Was it the first time he’d seen that gorgeous dark purple hair dry and known that it was purple and not black? Was it the first time Virgil had laughed, the hours of debating, the hours of venting and problem solving? Was it the first time he’d heard him narrate a story and known he could get lost in that voice? He found that there was no one instance where he’d fallen in love but rather a slow descent he hadn’t noticed until he was at the bottom looking up. Even so, he didn’t regret the descent in the slightest.

He finished his painting, Virgil hunched over a book framed by the sea and sky behind him, and moved to sit next to its subject. Turning, he smiled and pretended his thoughts weren’t roiling like a sea in a storm. He focused on the main reason he’d brought Virgil here in the first place, deciding to sort through the emotions later.

“You seem to be healing well.” He said as an opening.

Virgil nodded, eyes focused on the book in his lap, hands fiddling with the bookmark Logan had bought for him. “Yeah, I think I’ll be able to leave soon.”

Logan smiled, drawing his gaze back up to him. “Hopefully not too soon. My father and younger brother are coming home. My brother has said he will be bringing a bride back to present to the family. I would like to have you there for that. Would you like to be my plus one?”

Virgil frowned, a line appearing between his eyebrows. “What’s a ‘plus one’?”

“A guest of a guest. I am an invited guest who is allowed to invite another guest.”

“I don’t know what I’d have to wear.”

“I have some of my father’s old suits that might fit you. They’re good quality and you seem to be around the right size for them. If nothing else, we can always commission the royal seamstresses for something. Is that alright with you?” Virgil nodded as they both smiled and enjoyed the sunset before traveling home. Just as on the way there, Virgil’s head was placed between Logan’s shoulder blades. He decided he liked that.

Chapter 11

#jots #analogical #logan sanders #virgil sanders #adhd!virgil #mer!virgil #the little mermaid au #ace writes

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imamotherfuckingstar-lord · 5 years

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A Break Through

Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Childhood abuse, therapist sessoin, emotional abuse.

A/N: for the amazing @pansexual-activity

Summary: After years of hearing you’re not good enough, it’s hard to open yourself to someone new.

“So how are you today?”

“I’m okay, I guess. I went on another date.”

The room was small and quaint, the sofa you sat on was lush and the pillow placed across your lap was soft. The large bay window behind you brought light into the room that felt warm on the tips of your shoulders – it was comforting. Just like the woman who sat across from you once a week, a soft expression on her face and judgeless eyes, she was a saint – she was your therapist.

“How was it?”

“Good,” you admitted with a smile, thinking of Steve’s blue eyes and great laugh. “He’s a sweet guy, I’m starting to really care about him…”

The long pause after you said that gave away the hesitation you were feeling about a certain Captain America. The two of you have been dating for six months now, taking things slow and really getting to know each other but there was still that nagging feeling in the back of your brain; you were not good enough for him. You were not good enough for a lot of things, how you ended up catching the eye of Captain America – it had not gotten past you. It had pure luck that you agreed to meet co-workers at a local bar and even purer luck that Steve’s teammates had convinced him to go out that night. He had bumped into you at the bar and had noticed the way you flinched, apologizing immediately and offering to buy your friends a round on him. The two of you ended up talking all night and when he asked for your number before leaving, you gave it to him even though you thought he could do better than you.

“So, what’s the problem?”

Everything. “I- I don’t know.”

That was a lie.

You knew what was wrong but saying it out loud was too tender on your lips.

It was always something so minuscule, like a glass of water spilling on the dinner table trenching the lace cloth your mother used for special occasions when there was company or forgetting to take out the trash before heading to school – it was little things that always got you in trouble. The little things that brought fear into your mind every time they happened, because when was it enough?

Enough to not make someone mad, to feel the harsh slap of a hand or the sting of slewed drunk filled words, which always hurt more than any physical touch. Yet, once you turned nine, even then you realized it wouldn’t ever stop – your parents were perfect to the outside world, they were business owners in the community and everyone who ever met them, loved them. But inside the modest one story Brookstone home, among the duplicate suburban homes, they were your personal hell.

Something had changed after you turned six, your parents stopped loving each other and you were caught in the middle. Each parent treated you like their own personal punching bag, emotional and physical. Your mother was especially cruel, her words hurt and scarred you more than any hand laid upon you – it was enough to keep you from forming any meaningful relationships because of the things she drilled into you.

No one will ever love you.

You can never do anything right.

You are worthless.

“I guess I am just afraid of getting close to someone,” you said, looking at the clock on the wall adjacent to you. Time was about to be up, and you felt relieved. She seemed to sense your hesitation to talk and not wanting to push, closed the notebook she was writing in and smiled, telling you she looked forward to seeing you next week.

“As always, if you cannot wait, call me.”

“I will,” you said, not intending to.

…

It was mid afternoon when you made it to the coffee shop for a lunch date with Steve, he wanted to see you, had been wanting to for a week now. He was noticing, you figured, the distance you had placed between the two of you lately. Things were becoming increasingly serious, so serious, Steve had almost told you he loved you. It happened two weeks ago, after a night at your apartment together. It was a binge-watching sort of day and he had his arms around you, your head on his shoulder. You were comfortable with Steve, except when he gave you that look.

It was this soft expression, the way his eyes looked into yours, steady and filled with adoration. This look said many things and you knew in your heart, you were undeserving of his attention. So that night, as you laughed at what was going on the television, Steve caressed your hair and kissed the top of your head.

“I love your laugh, it’s a great laugh,” he cooed, holding you close. Your heart dropped when he said that, his fingers moving down to your shoulder. “I – I love yo -.”

“I have to pee,” you announced, interrupting him as you jumped up off the couch. His face fell in a panic as you excuse yourself, rushing to the bathroom. Inside, you stared at the reflection in the mirror and just saw the little girl from that Brookstone home with abusive parents who could care less about what they had done to their daughter – broken her. The physical scars had healed a long time ago, but the words they said to you, to hurt you, had been imprinted all over your skin but only you could see them. You turned on the faucet and splashed your face with cold water as Steve knocked on the door. You were afraid to open it, ashamed at what you had done to him.

“Yeah?”

“Hey,” he cleared his throat. “I’m going to grab us some take out, what do you think about some pizza from that place down the street?”

Holding back tears, you nodded even though he could not see you. “Yeah, Steve, that would be great.”

He said okay and promised to be shortly, and you listened and waited for the front door to open and closed before getting out of the bathroom. You were not sure if he would come back and you could not blame him, he deserved better than you. But then he did come back and acted like nothing happened, all smiles and warmth as he walked through the front door with pizza. He smiled that smile at you and asked if you wanted to watch a movie – and you knew then that he indeed loved you.

“Sorry I’m late, Sam wouldn’t stop talking about tickets to a baseball game. He got one for you, if you ;lwant to go.”

“Sounds good,” you said, eyes drifting over to the window. People were passing by as Steve got up to order drinks for the two of you. When he got up, you watched and felt a pang of guilt in your chest, he was so brilliantly perfect, and you were a broken bag of childhood abuse. A part of you wanted to tell him about everything, so badly but you did not want to push him further away. Eventually he would wake up and realize he was too good for you, and you wanted to enjoy the time you have left with him.

He came back, two cups of coffee in hand. Sitting down, he asked how you were feeling, and you said fine, putting a smile on your face for him. “So, when is this baseball game? And what team is Sam rooting for, so I can buy the opposing team’s finger foam.”

Steve laughed and shook his head. “You’re going to give him a heart attack, and it’s next Friday. Are you in?”

“Hot dogs, beer and peanuts? Yes, I am.”

He grinned and it made you happy to see him happy, and as the coffee house started to get crowded the two of you blended into the background – talking and laughing as people came and went until a familiar face appeared and sent your heart racing into an old feeling. Steve must have noticed the expression on your face because he turned to see who you were staring up at.

“Sweetie! I am so happy to see you,” your mother mused, her voice warm and light. She was beautiful as always, but you still could detect the coldness in her eyes as she brought a hand to your shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You never return my calls, must be too busy for little old me.”

Her words, to an outsider, seem lighthearted and teasing but you knew better. She was putting on a show, the truth was you had not been in contact with either of your parents in six years – yet, here she was still casting the same old spells. Her face, her eyes, the way she carried herself, it was shrinking you back down to that little kid who was so afraid to breath. The teenage girl who hid in her room, hoping to go a day without seeing either of her folks, hiding easy access foods, that she had brought at the dollar store, around her bedroom so she would not have to leave to the kitchen. The young woman who left home as soon as she hit that eighteen mark, leaving home with little to nothing and shouts as she walked down the pavement to never come back- you ungrateful bitch.

All those versions of yourself came back as Steve stood up to introduce himself and something snapped – she was not going to taint him. Your mother was not going to get to him, to lay a single finger on him because he was special – he was special to you and unlike all the other friends and things you parents had taken from you, Steve was not going to be one of them.

“We have to go,” you stood up, looking to Steve. The chair screeched as you pushed off it. Its legs were unsteady, like yours, as you looked into your mother’s eyes – wondering if she had ever loved you, maybe just for a moment. Maybe a time before you could remember, she held you close and kissed your newborn forehead. She would have sat there, happier than she had ever been, dreaming up dreams for you – like any mother would.

That often kept you awake at night when you were younger, even now, when the apartment was quiet. Sometimes even when Steve was over, sleeping beside you, his quiet breathing always put you into a trance and you would lay there and think. Think about everything you could have had growing up if you were granted two parents capable of loving their own offspring. It would seem like your head was melting into the pillow beneath you as you thought of all the ways you were bad and could have been better, because maybe then they would have cared – cared enough to love you.

Steve looked at you, looked at the way your hands balled up in two tight fists, body visibly shaking as the woman’s face fell and she chastised you for being so rude. He was not sure who she was, but he could tell how uncomfortable you were and that was enough for him. Quickly, he leaned down to grab his jacket, letting it rest over his shoulder as he nodded to you.

“She’s right, we have an appointment,” he smiled loosely at your mother, whose lips tightened as her eyes bore into the side of your face. You could not bring yourself to look at her and you felt bad again – felt like you were being a bad child and guilt ridden your bones.

“We have to go,” you whispered to her, head barely turning in her direction. “We have to go.”

“You said that already,” your mother snapped, the façade falling from her face – there she was, the cold hearted bitch you had wanted to please for so long, so much power in her eyes as she shrugged and acted like you were the one inconveniencing her – like you were the one that dropped into her life out of nowhere and maybe it was true. Maybe this was her favorite coffee shop, a place she had come to everyday since she moved to the city, after leaving your dad – a piece of information passed down to you by a cousin who wanted to give you a fair warning. You scoffed at the idea and told him it was a large city, the possibility of the two of you running into each other was slim.

It was an act too.

A good little actress like your mother because as soon as you heard your mother was in the city, you became afraid she would steal that too. Like she did your childhood, like both your parents did. They had stolen so much from you, the chance to have role models for what was a normal, caring relationship between two people. To know what a home felt like, because you never had one; what you had was a prison, a place that was not made for laughter or joy – it was a place to remind you of all the flaws you had and how worthless you were. That was,what that home represented to you and that was what you saw in your mother’s face when she moved aside and motioned for you to go.

“Don’t let me stop you, be sure to keep in touch.”

Nothing came out of your mind but as you passed her, hand clutching your purse, she stopped you with her hands. Her touch, her fingers laced the edge of your wrist and she pulled you close. The smell of her perfume, the one she always got at the mall, triggered the times she would lean so close into your body her breath was on your cheeks. She would whisper awful things to you, while her hands held your wrists until they bruised, but this time you had Steve.

“Ma’am, please let go of her,” he said sternly, his hand coming down over hers. She grinned and released you, holding her hand up in defense. She said nothing as he drew an arm around your shoulder to lead you out of the coffee shop, but not without hearing a farewell from your mother.

“Call your dad, he’s sick.”

Just like that – so nonchalant.

“Good,” was all you could manage as you moved from Steve’s arm. His eyes stayed glued to your mother as you opened the door and walked out. The sun was hiding but the fresh air felt soothing as you stood there for a moment, paralyzed by what had just happened; afraid of what Steve would think, afraid what he would say. Maybe this was the last straw for him – no one wants to fix a broken person, no one wants to love a broken person. You looked up to the sky, the clouds and above – you were not much of a religious person but you prayed; prayed that he would not leave you because in that moment you knew how much you wanted and loved him, and that you were worthy of love.

Maybe you were having one of those moments; the breakthrough your therapist promised would happen to help you finally open up to other people. Or it could have been the thought of losing Steve over your parents because they were awful people and decided they would do nothing to nourish their daughter. Why should you lose him because of them? Why should you continue to live your life hiding from them? Hiding from love because they had drilled into you that no one would ever or could ever love you – why are you still holding on to all of it? It has only ever given you loneliness and you were so tired of being lonely, so very tired.

“Sorry for making you wait.”

Steve’s voice came from behind you and a second later his hand was on your shoulders, causing you to stop looking up at the sky; his touch was always so warm, in every sense. When he touched you, it was the opposite of how it felt when your parents touched you – they were rough and careless while Steve’s touch was intentionally gentle. His touches never made you feel scared or in need to retreat, they were welcoming and earnest – they were touches of love.

You turned to look at him, all handsome and tall. “I’m sorry.”

Steve’s face fell and he took a step closer to you. “Why are you sorry?”

“I never wanted you to meet her or my dad – I never wanted you to know that part of my life.”

He sighed and reached down for your hand. “Let’s get away from here, I told her to never contact you again.”

“You did?”

He nodded. “I might not know what it was like for you to grow up with someone like that, but I know a bully when I see one. I hate bullies and I let her know that.”

Your eyes widen as he tugged you to him, wrapping his arms around your waist. He held you close against his body and you inhaled the smell of the coffee shop on his clothes – you felt safe in his arms. Felt like you could tell him everything and you wanted to – oh, how you wanted to tell him every story and secret, to show him all the versions of you.

“All my life they told me I was unworthy,” you whispered, clinging to the lapels of his jacket. “But I’m tired of listening to them.”

“Good,” Steve whispered back, squeezing you tight. “You deserve all the love in the world, and I want to be one of the lucky ones that get to give it to you. Will you let me?”

Pulling from him, you stared at him and smiled. He was so beautiful, and he was lucky to have you, as you were to have him – and that was it, that was what you wanted. That was the love you had been running from and now you are ready to face it – face the truth, all of it, good and bad.

“I love you, Steve,” you said, realizing it was the first time you had ever said that to anyone, ever - how wonderful it felt to finally say.

“I love you too,” he grinned, leaning in for a kiss. His lips were soft, and your eyes closed as your heart finally opened, and when he pulled away you confessed that you were seeing a therapist. Steve laughed and said he had been seeing one off and on for the last few years.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, reaching down for your hand. He gave it a lovingly squeeze as the two of you walked away from the coffee shop. “I was frozen for nearly 70 years; I think I have some issues.”

“That makes the two of us,” you answered, smiling as he threw an arm around you.

…

“How are you today?”

The room had not changed since your last session, but everything felt different as you sat on that familiar couch, with the sun on your shoulders that peeked from behind the curtains. The clock on the wall adjacent to you is ticking away but you aren’t in a rush to leave – no, you have time to talk.

“I’m feeling good, Steve’s moving into the apartment.”

“Are you ready for that step in your relationship?”

“I am,” you grinned, taking a deep breath. “I’m also ready to talk about my parents.”

“Where do you want to start?”

You thought of your parents, noting the lack of fear and guilt as you pictured them back in the Brookstone home, yelling and fighting but this time, they can’t get you. Their reign of terror is over, and never again will you let them hold you back – not from the world, not from living your life and not from loving Steve; it was over now.

“When I was six years old, I spilled water all over my mom’s lace….”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #steve x reader #captain america x reader #marvel imagine

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ephrampettaline · 4 years

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a day for downtime, and freddie and ephram discuss the nature of trauma, and change, and what the road ahead means when shadows start catching up.

Freddie had taken his time with Ephram that morning, deciding almost as soon he’d woken that he would be taking today as his own, to do with as he saw fit; relieving his sweet worked-to-the-bone husband of any sort of responsibility for a change here in Soapberry Springs.

Ephram needed a Day Off, in every sense of the word, and Freddie had made up his mind to provide one.

The tone of his voice had brooked no argument when he’d awakened his darling, ordering him off to shower and clean his teeth; and once Ephram had returned, warm and fragrant and scrubbed clean, the fairy - who’d made use of one of their many other bathrooms to do the same, and was now clad only in a pair of Off-White trackies - dressed his witch carefully in Ephram’s oldest and most threadbare pair of Levi’s and a soft rag of a blue plaid shirt that made Ephram’s eyes shame the sea in Greece; before sitting him down on their bed to fasten two delicate anklets - one gold and one platinum - to each ankle. Wanting to show him that prettiness and femininity need not always be so separate from his usual self; and then collecting the nail varnish, first painting each of Ephram’s long pretty toes, and then joining him on the bed to paint his fingernails too, instructing him firmly to blow on them as they dried. Making it clear that Freddie would not stand for smudges.

The varnish was a fae product, changing colour vibrantly to display the emotional state of its wearer, and when Freddie was done, he nudged Ephram down to the floor, warning him again to keep his nails tidy, before reaching for a hairbrush from Ephram’s bedside table, positioning his husband’s back against the bed and beginning to brush Ephram’s thick blond hair back from his face - still damp from the shower - in long smooth confident strokes. Counting to thirty before tossing the brush aside again, as he was eager to run his fingers through that field of gold instead, indulging himself just a little before finally stopping.

The sky outside their bedroom window was a dark chilly grey over the ocean they looked out on, and Freddie leaned down close to Ephram’s ear, giving it a little sucking nibble before murmuring into it, “Are your nails dry? Because I want you to build us a fire, love - and I want you to do it the old-fashioned way. I want to see you work, looking so pretty for me,” before stretching out on the bed again and reaching for his book from his own nightstand. Prepared to wait until his instructions had been followed.

Holidays were always a busy time at the Department. That was a given; Ephram looked forward to it, as his measure of holiday cheer ramped up in direct proportion in order to digest the added stress.

But even still, there was something about this year -- something emotional, some sea-change at work within himself -- that he'd found left him a little more wrung-out when he got home, weighed his step down a little more. The Cinquefoil had been a blessing in many ways, and … well, actually, Ephram told himself as he came slowly awake in Freddie's arms, it was a blessing in every way. Having the space and time and mental ability now, with the demon quieted, to think about things Ephram had lived through and shoved way way down because he couldn't deal with them -- that was a good thing. He needed and wanted to do it, to finally start to understand and heal, with his husband there every step of the way.

But it was so gosh dang tiring.

Ephram sleepily obeyed Freddie's orders, finding that his usual earlybird ability to spring awake just wasn't there this past couple of weeks. The motions of brushing teeth and showering were routine, at least, woke him up some, and being dressed in what his husband had chosen out for him (even if it was a choice Ephram was a little puzzled by; such old clothes! He didn't think he even owned them anymore!) was still along the lines of the ordinary.

Being sat on the bed to watch Freddie adorn his ankles with such pretty little fragile-looking anklets that it made Ephram's breath catch -- that was different.

And so was having his nails painted, without being asked or having it discussed, the way they normally tended to back-and-forth everything, second nature now. But Ephram, awake now and watching avidly as his darling swiped on the colour in sure, steady strokes, the bare muscles of his chest and arms a feast for the eyes as his cobalt wings stirred gently, found that this, this was good too. Right now it was more than good.

It was, somehow, exactly what he needed. He puffed cool air over his fingernails as Freddie finished with them, gaze fixed on his husband, realizing that Freddie was making a day of this. Taking care of everything.

Taking care of Ephram.

"You'll put me right back to sleep if you keep on with this," Ephram said as Freddie brushed and stroked his hair, loving the feel of it as always, still blowing on his nails to make sure he kept them as smooth and pretty as his husband had requested. Colours danced across them, pale spring butter yellow giving way to a sweet baby blue as Ephram tipped his head back, looking at Freddie with big soft eyes as the fairy leaned down to tell Ephram what he wanted next. A request that Ephram smiled at, wide and happy, before scrambling up to his feet and moving over to the fireplace to get started on his task.

"And you're gonna watch?" he asked, a little amused and a lot anticipatory at the thought, flutters in his stomach as Freddie stretched out on the bed with his book in his hand, looking relaxed and strong and confident, the picture of a man at ease in his home. Ephram opened the flue and then bent into an easy crouch in front of the fireplace, admiring the anklets for a moment before arranging the logs he'd neatly hewn and stacked himself into a proper peak for burning. "What're you reading? I started Madame Bovary, I saw it on the tv and she made no sense, anything she did, so I figured I'd try reading the book and see what all it has to say. It's going good so far." Ephram poked the little pinecone firestarters he'd made under the logs, taking the pack of long matches from the wood scuttle and carefully lighting them, watching the flares catch, fanning them with long, watchful strokes with a magazine he'd snagged from his own nightstand.

He turned, settling onto his knees as he looked at Freddie. "I think it'll go now. Pine fires ain't too hard to build up."

“And I’m going to watch,” Freddie confirmed with an indulgent smile, making himself comfortable and doing precisely that; watching as Ephram began building their fire in sure decisive motions, and grinning when his husband asked what he was reading. “I, my love,” the fairy answered, eyes sparkling as he held up his copy of The Ladykiller by Martina Cole, “-am happily reading trash, whilst I debate on whether or not to attempt the bookclub selection this month. You’ve got me far outclassed reading Madame Bovary. Are you enjoying it - or does she just make marginally more sense in the reading?”

Freddie watched as the fire began to burn in earnest, then smiled when Ephram turned round again, still on his knees, and didn’t even try to resist the urge to rake his fingers through all that lush blond hair again, dragging them gently down through Ephram’s beard. “Get up here with me,” Freddie said, “I want you close today. I want my hands on you.”

He waited until Ephram had begun to move, then went on.

“And I want you to talk to me, love,” he said, his voice warm and firm, “I want you to tell me how you’re feeling. Inside, yeah? Without letting anything else intrude. Without letting responsibility intrude, or what you think you should feel like. About Ciara and Asker, about the Cinquefoil, about our anniversary… about anything that might be making itself a fixture in your mind.”

“You have my undivided attention, sweetheart, so I want you to be my good boy and give yourself over to it. Let me take care of you the way that you need, Ephram. Do as you’re told and let out that breath.”

Rubbing his hands against his knees, the varnish on them spinning from blue to a fuschia and then through to a calmer rose-gold, Ephram sucked in the side of one bottom lip before moving, getting back up onto the bed with Freddie and curling up against him with one hand moving along his fairy's side. Letting Freddie's wings brush his fingers when they moved. "The book's better, yeah," Ephram said, starting out slowly. "I mean I don't understand her totally, but the way she wants stuff and then gets in her own way, that's understandable. Sometimes how you want something so big, and then when it actually happens you sort of go a lil bit off the rails and can't stop wanting more things. Leastways that's what I'm getting out of it."

Ephram inhaled, a little abruptly, and then he let his eyes close for a long moment as he exhaled. Doing as he'd been told.

"I think about Ashland," Ephram said. He didn't really want to, his words were halting, but he didn't want Freddie to get the wrong idea about why so he went on aloud instead of in his head: "--and I feel like I shouldn't because the Cinquefoil, it's made it all so much better, Freddie, infinitely fuckin' better, it's given me … well, I can't even say it's given my my life back because I never really had one, did I? All them years when I was owned, one way or another. By Otis Jenkins and then Rance Keller in Ashland, and then by Anaxis all the time after, and I wonder, Freddie, if I would of been a better man. Or -- a different man, I reckon I didn't turn out all that badly even with all what happened to me."

He let his hand rest on Freddie's hip, bringing the other one up to his mouth so he could chew on his thumbnail. "And now our anniversary's coming up, and this year we don't have to worry about how Ruby feels about it all, and I don't have the demon screaming in my brain whenever I let down my guard, and I love knowing that and at the same time, Freddie, I reckon … I'm scared."

The word tumbled out and Ephram's forehead crinkled, his eyes opening wider, startled. "Um. I don't … I didn't … I mean, it don't make much sense, does it? What do I have to be scared about? I don't know why I would feel this way."

“I think that’s the best description of Madame Bovary I’ve ever heard,” Freddie said with a soft smile, setting aside his own trashy novel to better put his arms around his husband and hold him close, “I think you understand Emma Bovary much better than you think you do.”

And he listened quietly as Ephram did his best to do as he’d been told - to unburden himself and share the thoughts he seldom gave voice to - only breaking in to murmur, “You couldn’t be a better man, my love. Not to me. Or for me. You overcame what the universe has put you through to become the best man I’ve ever known, and I want you to remember that. I want you to see it as the achievement that it is.”

“Can you do that, do you think? Can you try? For me?”

Freddie cuddled Ephram closer and kissed at his temple. “Shouldn’t doesn’t enter into it though, love. Your thoughts are your own, and if Ashland is on your mind, then that’s worth talking about. Shouldn’t doesn’t have any business here.”

The fairy was quiet again as Ephram talked about their anniversary, and his fears, and he kissed him again, his arms strong and unwavering as they held his sweetheart even as Ephram looked up at him with wide startled eyes. “You’re allowed to be scared, sweetheart,” Freddie said, “Feelings don’t have to make sense to be valid. But in this case, I think maybe it makes more sense than you think it does, hm? So tell me what it is that frightens you, baby... or tell me about the fear itself... and maybe we can work things out together, yeah?”

"It's okay, really," Ephram hastened to assure Freddie, when it came to his husband's assurances that he was a fine enough man as he was. "I mean, it's normally okay, I don't normally worry bout that. Not anymore, Freddie, not with you. Reckon I'm just a lil bit thrown when I start to overmuch think on who I am. Who I would've been without the demon. But all that's a moot point, ain't it?" Ephram gave a one-shouldered shrug, leaning into the kiss to his temple, content to be snuggled close. "Might as well wonder what I'd have been like if I was born left-handed in Albuquerque eighty years ago."

He was quiet for a minute, though, revising what Freddie had said and asked of him, and belatedly agreed, "--but I'll think on it the way you suggest. For you, honey. To keep at the forefront of my mind that it's an achievement and not a simple matter of survival. Which is how I'm more accustomed to lookin' at it."

Ephram brought his hands around to rest against Freddie's chest, feeling the firm muscle there, the steady comforting beat of his beloved's heart. "I'm scared because I don't know if I'm ready to think about Ashland yet," he confessed. "I can feel it pressing at my brain, wanting to come out, after I had it all locked down for so long. And in one way I wanna see it. I don't like having things buried and un-looked at. I had to do it, before, because there weren't no way I could deal with all that, but now I have … the space to let it surface. I just don't know if I'm capable of handling it."

Ducking his head so his cheek was pressed against Freddie's collarbone, burning hot with mounting shame, Ephram mumbled, "...I'm starting to want some things again, Freddie. Bad things. You remember when I told you that it helped, a lil bit, for me to think about what I went through in prison but to imagine it was you doing them things to me? That's -- it worked, for a while, it helped take the poison out. But now I want it. Nothing in specific, not to literally re-create the things that happened, but I. I want."

Squirming, shoving himself hard against Freddie, Ephram said breathlessly and bordering on tearfully, "--I want you to hurt me."

He tipped his head up, looking at Freddie, anguished apology clouding the blue of his eyes. "I'm so sorry, honey, I know that ain't something you can do, and I don't intend to ask you to, honest. I'm just telling you what it is I'm feeling that's gauming me up inside." Ephram's voice hitched, his hand curling against Freddie as he ducked his head back down again, unable to face his husband. "I'm sorry. I … it feels so fucking sick, it's disgusting that I could want that. I don't ever wanna put that on you. It'll pass in time, you don't have to worry. Now that you know, that's good enough. I'll manage."

“Moot for the both of us,” Freddie said with a small smile, “We are what we are, love. For better or worse.”

“But I’m glad,” the fairy went on, his voice low and gentle, “-that you’re willing to look at things a bit differently for my sake, sweetheart. Because I’m inclined to think the same way that you are when it comes to my own past - that just getting on with things is simply that - and it’s you that’s taught me differently.”

Freddie smoothed Ephram’s hair back. “So I think it might do us both a world of good to give ourselves credit where it’s due, eh?”

As Ephram began to elaborate about Ashland though, that desire to face the worst of his history coupled with an uncertainty regarding his own strength to get through it, Freddie made a soft sympathetic sort of sound, holding Ephram close to his chest, able to feel the heat of shame burning his sweetheart’s cheek as Ephram went on, admitting what he wanted, his body tensing and squirming suddenly as if to physically express the ignominy that he could only partially articulate. And Freddie felt his heart sink for a moment, feeling as though he was letting his husband down with his own limits. Hating that there was something Ephram could want that he was unable to provide - even if that thing was anathema to him.

He hated to deny Ephram anything.

“Shh,” the fairy murmured soothingly, “-don’t be sorry, love.” His voice grew firmer, “And don’t call yourself disgusting or sick either, because you’re not. Things get… tangled up... hardwired… and there isn’t any blame to be had, Ephram. You feel the way that you do because you had to feel some way - to survive, and to thrive. And I won’t have you apologising to me for it.”

Freddie refused to allow Ephram to hide from him, tilting up his husband’s chin in order to look him in the eye, his voice softening again. “Because you’re right - I can’t hurt you the way that you want me to. I just don’t have it in me to cause you that sort of pain, love. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t do something; that we can’t find an outlet for you together.”

“Because I’m willing to try, sweetheart. There isn’t anything you could ask for that I wouldn’t move heaven and earth trying to give you.”

Freddie kissed Ephram gently, blue eyes still open, still shrewd and searching. “So talk to me, yeah? Tell me what I can do. Tell me how I can help things to heal again; to take the poison away.”

Ephram couldn't keep himself from squirming, still, even with Freddie offering absolution for his confession about what he wanted. Something darker and more harrowing, something that he'd never asked Freddie for and still hadn't. Wouldn't. But Ephram pulled in a long, hard breath and forced himself to hold motionless against his husband, clinging to Freddie, heart beating hard and frightened. He didn't think Freddie would reject or repudiate him, it was nothing like that -- his fairy's love and support were constants in Ephram's world, never in question -- but he was scared of this entire conversation and where it would take them. Where it could even go.

"I'm --" Ephram started, but then stopped himself from apologizing again, letting Freddie bring his face up so they could meet each others' eyes. "I don't know, Freddie. I really don't. That's what's making it so confusing, I reckon, is that I got no actual idea what I want."

He sighed, pressing the tip of his nose against Freddie's before moving; rolling onto his back to blink at the ceiling, his varnished nails a swirl of a muddy khaki and dark sinister crimson where he kept one hand clasped in Freddie's. "I wish I could tell you something specific, or ask you for something, but I can't even begin to think of what. So … so that, I'm sorry about. That I can't figure it out. I should of, before I brought it up to you." Ephram squeezed Freddie's hand. "It's frustrating to hear, ain't it. It must be."

Freddie wasn’t about to let Ephram squirm away from him, or to put distance between them - not now, not today - and when his husband rolled over, the fairy took the opportunity to reposition them; settling himself back against the headboard and manhandling Ephram into place between his thighs, leaning him back against his broad chest and holding him tightly with both his arms and his legs.

“Listen to me,” Freddie said firmly, his lips at Ephram’s ear, “-you have nothing to be sorry for. It isn’t a crime not to know what you want, love - and I don’t mean to put you on the spot. I just don’t want you to feel alone in this, sweetheart.”

“Where you go, I go, yeah?” Freddie pressed a kiss to Ephram’s cheekbone, squeezing him tighter. “However dark or frightening it gets.”

“So you don’t need to ask for anything, love. You can just talk. Because there isn’t any right answer - I just want to know how you feel. Always, sweetheart.”

Being held and trapped within the grasp of his husband's extremely impressive muscles wasn't something Ephram wanted to get free of -- his more emotionally fraught moods and accompanying physical skittishness always calmed when Freddie held him tight and held him down and close -- so he let himself be moved and settled with a sense of deep gratitude, settling in.

"Okay," he said when Freddie assured him that no, there was no part of this he should apologize for, no matter his fevered instincts to downplay and express shame over what he felt. Ephram had come a long long way over the past couple of years with Freddie, but this … this was something so deeply buried, such unexplored country, that his most compulsive trauma responses were kicking up again. And that wasn't something he wanted to wallow in. Especially since the desire to be hurt in itself was enough to deal with.

"I don't want you to degrade me," Ephram began haltingly, "or … punch me, or anything. Like that. Not that. I just feel …." He made a whining, aggravated sound, wriggling, finding himself unable to move after a moment or two of testing Freddie's hold and settling back down again to take a few steadying breaths and try again.

"I feel fucked up inside. And the only thing that ever helped was to do something to my body, to myself physically, that forced me to be inside that for a while. What was happening to me physically. Because having my messed-up thoughts taking over was too much for me to handle, too overwhelming, too fuckin' ugly, Freddie. If I got in a fight or got high or drunk or got fucked within an inch of consciousness it would give me some space before I had to think about it again."

He shrugged, self-consciously. "I dunno. It don't make much sense even to me. All I know is it helped, somehow, to put myself in a situation where I didn't have any choice or control over what happened to me physically, to my body." Ephram sighed, slumping fully into Freddie's hold. "It's still ugly, I guess."

Freddie held Ephram firm, silent as he listened to his beloved try to explain his miasma of complicated needs, his own wheels turning as he considered these words; waiting until Ephram had announced the process ugly no matter how it was undertaken, to bite his lip, passing no judgment, before saying quietly, “Maybe …. maybe it would help to go the opposite way this time, love. To articulate it. That feeling of being fucked up inside. I mean, maybe it’s time, yeah?”

“After all, all that we drag around, Ephram, between us, all that weight that we carry... it’s a load we’re meant to share. That we want to share. And maybe it won’t be too much - too overwhelming, too ugly, too frightening - if I’m here to pick up the slack for you.”

Freddie hooked his chin over Ephram’s shoulder and held him tighter. “Maybe all of that has been given too much space already, to fester and breed in the dark. It might…” Freddie paused. “It might actually be time to dig our heels in, sweetheart,” he said finally, “-ugly or not.”

“You’re safe with me, love,” the fairy murmured, “There’s nothing I won’t protect you from.”

There were little whirls of sky blue creeping and twining across Ephram's fingernails when he turned in Freddie's arms -- his fairy allowing the movement, so long as Ephram wasn't trying to get away or put distance between them -- and pillowed one hand under his cheek while letting the other one sprawl on Freddie's chest. "I feel a lil bit like I'm letting us down," Ephram said, his voice wan and disappointed, but he kept on, not allowing himself to turn off or retreat or take the easy way out of this discussion. "I know you're gonna say I'm not, and that I'm allowed to feel how I feel, but … I just ... "

Ephram tucked his nose against Freddie. "I wanted so much to be well," he said, shakily. "That's all I want and I want it so much, Freddie, I'm so tired of being messed up. I wanna be normal and for the first time, with the Cinquefoil, I feel a little bit like I can be. It's within my reach." He flexed his fingers against Freddie's chest, starfishing. "And then it's not. And I can't help feeling like I'm making it seem like you ain't enough for me, or something, when that's not it at all. This, you, me, what we have, it's the best and most un-horrible thing I've ever had in my whole entire life, aside from Edith. That's why she loved you instantly, y'know. She could tell."

Mentioning his great-grandmother made Ephram go quiet again for a little while, and when he spoke again, his voice was slower and more tired. "It's been a lot," he admitted. "And I got the strength to deal with it now, the wherewithal, without Anaxis constantly eating away at me, and I don't wanna be fucked-up anymore." He gave a wheezing huff of a laugh, wiping his wet face against Freddie's bare chest fruitlessly. "I sound idiotic. Like what, I thought everything would change immediately? God, I'm tired of myself already."

“Oh sweetheart,” Freddie breathed, “Sweetheart, you’re putting so much pressure on yourself… Things take time, love. And a tangle like this? This will just take as much time as it takes. At whatever pace it takes.”

“And that’s alright,” the fairy said firmly, “That’s exactly as it should be.” Freddie stroked Ephram’s hair back gently from his face as they lay there, his darling’s worn-out tears sliding down the rounded slope of his chest and abs. “Now,” he carried on, his voice strong and clear, brooking no argument, “-I’ve got two things to say, and I want you to listen, yeah? Really listen, love, because it’s important. The first, is that there’s no such thing as ‘normal’, and if there were, I wouldn’t want it anyway. We are extraordinary, sweetheart. What we have is extraordinary, and our normal is something we’re still building. Together.”

“And secondly,” he continued, “I know that I’m enough for you. Because you show me that. Every day, Ephram - so put that nonsense about letting us down out of your head immediately, because I won’t bloody stand for it.” The fairy took a deep breath, then murmured, “Your trouble is that you’re looking at the road from the wrong direction, love - you’re so focused on how far you’ve yet to go that you’re refusing to acknowledge how far you’ve already come.”

“And you’ve come so far, sweetheart. You’ve never been short on strength, ever, and you’ve come so far. I mean…. think back to that first night I asked you not to hurt yourself, think about that man, and then look at where you are.”

Freddie turned his face to nuzzle softly at Ephram’s jawline. “Be proud of yourself, love,” he said, “-because I’m proud of you.”

“Give yourself the credit you deserve.”

Ephram listened.

He didn't say anything through all of what Freddie was saying, but his varnished nails told the story: the hopeful little wisps of sky blue thickened, and swirled faster, mixed in with patterns of rose gold and glittering silver. And by the time Freddie started to nuzzle at him, Ephram's eyes were swallowed up in love and admiration, his devotion to Freddie renewed all over again, shining from his face as he gazed at his fairy.

Because everything Freddie said made sense. In that Freddie considered what he wanted to get across, and he considered who he was saying it to, and there was no part of it that made Ephram feel like he was being placated, or shushed, or talked down to. Like he'd felt so many times with other people. Freddie, for all his talk about fairy lack of attention span and frivolous nature, never failed to make a loving study of Ephram and come up with thoughtful, loving advice and comfort.

Ephram didn't think he'd ever been so grateful to anybody in his life.

"Yes," Ephram said, simply maybe, but he didn't have the words right away to express the magnitude of what he was feeling, the rightness of it. The way that Freddie had cleared off the fog and the confusion and given Ephram a direction, a path, a new outlook on something that had plagued him for his entire adulthood. Then he leaned up to kiss Freddie, softly and plaintively, tasting the sweetness of Freddie's breath and the salt of his own frustrated tears. "Yes. Freddie. It's been a long long road and I come so far, and we're walking the rest of it together, ain't we? We are."

Ephram's nails painted over with gold and deep, intimate pink as he kissed Freddie slow, deep. "Freddie. I love you, I love you so much. I …" he trailed off, in little soft sounds of need, starting to squirm against his husband again -- but to get closer, not to get away.

“We are,” Freddie promised, returning Ephram’s kisses tenderly, “Side by side, sweetheart. For the rest of our days.”

And when Ephram’s kisses lengthened and deepened, Freddie returned those too, drinking them in greedily and gratefully, and turning Ephram in his arms to bring him closer. To gather him in; groaning low in echo of his husband’s own needy sounds. “I love you too, Ephram. More than anything. You’re the most important thing in the world to me, love - you’re everything.”

#freddiewatts #th: balance #trauma cw #self-harm cw

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butterflyinthewell · 5 years

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Headcanon: How to scare Godzilla.

It’s possible to scare Godzilla, but it requires a roundabout way due to his cognitive disability.

Godzilla feels the physiological reactions one gets when they’re scared. He gets that weird itchy feeling in his stomach, feels his heart beating fast, notices his breathing gets quicker and all he experiences is restlessness. There is no cringing away or turning to flee. His body is responding as if he’s fearful, but it doesn’t light up the emotional areas of his brain that tell him “dude, you’re scared, get out of there.” That connection is missing in his brain, it never formed.

The emotion that comes up instead is angry defiance. He processes the situation and thinks he has to stand up to challenge whatever is causing a problem and crush it. He thinks of himself as being very brave because of this.

Godzilla got in trouble all the time as a baby for not running away when he saw predatory animals coming at him. He stood there and stared at the huge teeth / claws, or he screeched and squared up to fight. His dad was always darting out to snatch him up and run away to safety. That was something his dad didn’t grasp-- he scolded Godzilla all the time for putting himself in danger, and he had to tell him constantly to GET AWAY if he saw a bigger animal come at him or he was going to die. Young Godzilla eventually got this and started ducking into the underbrush.

The only real way to scare Godzilla is to remind him of trauma. Trauma is different because it hurts really bad, or it leads to an unknown. Exposure to something that triggers memories of That Traumatic Thing will light up the emotional center of his brain first. He doesn’t want to feel That Traumatic Thing again, so that sets off the physiological fight or flight response. Then he feels actual fear as we know it. He can still get mad, he can still fight, but he’s running more on the instinct to GTFO than worrying about winning.

Scared Godzilla is a really sad sight. He screams. He’ll hurt himself trying to destroy or get away from what’s scaring him. He loses control of his bowels. Sometimes he throws up. He cries, tears and all. If there is no escape he will take a protective posture by hunching down with his hands up near his face to guard his eyes and viciously decimate anything that comes close to him. He will never take a submissive belly-up posture voluntarily no matter how scared he gets.

Fortunately, not much can trigger fear in Godzilla like that. The things that do seem irrational until you understand the trauma behind them. All of his fears ultimately tie back to one thing.

Sudden darkness that he didn’t go into by choice.

The most painful parts of his mutation were spent in nothingness because he went temporarily deaf-blind. This was when he was scrabbling around on the seafloor, eating sand and puking it up with blood. He didn’t know when it would end or if it would end. Mutating was not a kind or peaceful process for him.

Sudden darkness is Godzilla’s literal worst fear. He won’t be afraid if he swims or goes somewhere dark on his own because he’s choosing to. But throw a black bag over his head that’s thick enough to not let any light through the fabric and he will absolutely panic.

Bright white flashes close to his eyes

Mostly at night because it destroys his night vision and temporarily blinds him. It reminds him of the bright flashes he saw when he landed on the nuclear waste in the Bering Sea.

This one isn’t too bad because it passes quickly and he can see again after his eyes readjust to the dark.

But one of the quickest ways to make Godzilla mad enough to chase you and end you is scaring him with a bright white flash at close range.

Long falls

Heights don’t bother Godzilla until he falls off them. A drop of one full body length isn’t a long fall to him, it has to be at least a thousand feet or more (either literally or by scale related to his size). He has to see the ground he’s falling towards to trigger this fear. It comes from his plunge into Mt. Mihara in 1984. The high-pitched sound he makes as he falls is a scream. It’s different from his chesty deep roars.

Godzilla has a very wonky sense of balance, and standing on the edge of cliffs triggers his vertigo. Falling forward is extremely disorienting to him, the same disorientation he felt when he couldn’t see or hear while his body mutated.

The fear stops immediately when he hits the ground. It’s not the impact or heights he’s afraid of, it’s the disorientation of falling. This is a fear he forgets he has because it’s so rare for him to fall off anything high.

He runs into it in my Shrinking Project fanfic when he gets startled awake and leaps out of somebody’s hands. He ends up howling, hitting the floor and getting up totally fine.

Needles

This one is from the Shrinking Project fanfic I’m working on, and it’s a very conditional fear that sort of gets nipped in the bud before it turns into an all-out phobia.

Goro (villain of story) tricks tiny!Godzilla into using his beam and stabs him in the stomach with a needle to see what happens. Godzilla’s beam takes a path it’s not supposed to and literally cooks his internal organs. He’s kinda like an armored egg in that regard-- hard exterior of bones, muscles and flesh wrapped around a fragile interior. The uncontrolled radioactivity almost causes him to explode, but his body saves itself by venting the heat into his largest dorsal plate until it explodes instead. His innards still get cooked enough that he “dies” (cardiac arrest, agonal / guppy breathing), and his mutated healing abilities restart his heart and normalize his breathing again.

The pain was same pain he felt while mutating, so the needle created a new trauma memory. He actually doesn’t use his beam for awhile thanks to this.

Later, the heroes of the story have to take a blood sample to check on his health. He tries to escape the needle, freezes during the poke in his tail (caudal vein) and realizes he’s okay after it’s over. Reiko and Kenpachiro are really gentle about it and give him lots of pets and comfort to show him they aren’t out to be mean.

Godzilla recognizes / remembers every face he sees, so he learns needles are only scary if Goro is holding them and doesn’t panic the next time Reiko and Kenpachiro have to poke him.

But yeah, the unusual fear response is why Godzilla flattens anything that provokes him instead of turning and leaving. This issue doesn’t pose much danger to him when he’s full size because he can crush pretty much anything; being tiny is a totally different situation. The rushes of adrenaline aren’t good for his heart while he’s tiny, and he’ll do damage to or destroy whatever he sees as a challenge or threat even if it means he gets hurt in the process.

Basically, he won’t move out of the way of a moving car, he’ll yell at it until it runs him over. His spines will puncture a tire, he’ll get up and blast the car with his beam because it knocked him down. Something will melt or catch on fire and now it’s a huge mess.

Godzilla does not submit to anyone or anything. It’s never a smart move to subjugate him.

He’ll accept Junior (or Shezilla and Filia, depending on the headcanon) knocking him onto his back during play-fights because that’s not a serious battle for dominance, but he gets offended if an opponent does that to him. Then he gets pissed off and everybody’s day gets wrecked.

He doesn’t get scared if he sees his family (Junior, Shezilla or Filia, again depends on the AU) being threatened or hurt, he just gets murderously enraged and will trash everything in his path to protect them. That’s when Godzilla’s physiological adrenaline rush gets dangerous...

...for his opponent.

So anyway, that’s how Godzilla responds to fear. He doesn’t until something triggers trauma memories.

#Godzilla #Heisei Godzilla #disability headcanon #headcanon #gojira #tw feces #tw vomit #tw needles #tw animal cruelty #Godzilla Junior #Shezilla #Filia #godzilla family #long post

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itsbenedict · 5 years

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No Driver’s License: Index and Recap

No Driver’s License was a Madoka Magica game I ran for five players, using a homebrew of Yaruki Zero’s Magical Burst system. It followed five magical girls as they dealt with an upheaval in the world’s magic system caused by some strange new three-eyed Incubators. They figured out what was going on, who they could trust, and how to put a stop to the cycle of despair.

This is a masterpost of all the recap posts documenting the campaign. Past the index, under the readmore, you’ll find an overarching recap of the whole story, if you want a peek into what happened without reading through 42+ sessions of notes and screencaps.

(Note: Omakes became progressively more important to the plot as the campaign progressed, so if you want the whole story you should probably read those too.)

Session 0

Session 1

Session 2

Session 3

Session 4

Session 5

Omakes 5.1-2

Session 6

Omakes 6.1-2

Session 7

Omakes 7.1-2

Session 8

Session 9

Session 10

Omakes 9.1 and 10.1-3

Session 11

Session 12

Session 13

Omakes 11.1-3 and 13.1-2

Session 14

Omakes 14.1-7

Session 15

Omakes 15.1-4 and bonus

Session 16

Session 17a and Session 17b

Omakes 17.1-2

Session 18

Session 19

Session 20

Session 21

Session 22

Session 23

Omakes 23.1-5

Session 24

Omakes 24.1-3

Session 25

Omakes 25.1-2

Session 26

Session 27

Session 28

Omake 28.1 and Omake 28.2

Session 29

Omakes 29.4-6

Session 29½ (or Omakes 29.1-3)

Session 30

Omakes 30.1-3

Session 31

Session 32

Session 33

Omake 33.1

Session 34

Session 35

The most important NDL post

Session 36

Session 37

Session 38

Session 39

Session 40

Session 41

Session 42 (Epilogue)

0-1: So, okay, what happened in this campaign? Well, a tragic loner veteran, an exuberant trans girl, a justice delinquent, and a cult victim walk into a bar, and by a bar I mean they contract with Incubators for various reasons. Then, sometime later, they all get together to form a super-team at the behest of one of those Incubators. The good one, not the evil one that summons monsters. That one, they fight against. And then they finish that fight, and kill it, but a) new player Seina decides to contract during the fight, and b) it turns out it can survive the death of its body and it’ll be back soon to cause more trouble.

2: Right after that fight, though, the cult victim, Makoto, falls unconscious because of some kind of magic thing, and so the team carries her body to the nearest safe place they can think of- the trans girl, Sakura, has an aunt and that aunt has an apartment. Unfortunately, someone very spooky shows up at the apartment, and the good incubator, Tama-chan, urges them to run the fuck away. They do so more or less successfully, but have to clue the aunt in on the subject of magic. Also, the evil incubator, Nishi-chan, shows up and... uh. Helps them escape, and heals Makoto, which is suspiciously non-evil of her.

3-5: Also suspiciously non-evil of Nishi-chan is her telling them that there’s a safehouse they can stay at, which they go to investigate. Problem there is that there’s a witch, who they have to fight. Ibara fails to get mind-controlled and they win, but then the very spooky girl shows up again and shoots a giant ghost shark at them. They escape into the safehouse, but the safehouse belongs to someone. After Sakura trashes the place for reasons, Nishi-chan convinces them that the witch they fought is the owner, and if they hand over the Grief Seed, she can revive her. They argue over this but then do it, and Reiko revives! Woo! Except she’s mad about Sakura trashing the place, which Sakura tries to solve with hugs. Doesn’t quite work, and after staying the night in a spare room, they get kicked out.

6: After that, Tama-chan shows up, and some exposition happens. Apparently, yeah, you can revive magical girls after they witch now! But unfortunately, you can still use the seeds, and that kills them for good and also forces you to take on the victim’s remaining personal problems. And that’s what the very spooky girl, Yoshe, does, along with their friends. Tama-chan warns them not to fight the cannibals, but they’re all like, hell no! Also, the justice delinquent, Ibara, drops some backstory. Then they go home.

7-8: Later, they go to school and oops there’s a witch there. They fight it, with the help of a new MG named Emiko and a rude incubator named Fumi-chan, and revive Orino from the seed. Afterwards, they get some friends up to speed, and then after school decide to try making some magic items. That’s interrupted, though, when they have to rescue a new magical girl (Anzu) from a crazy monster cannibal (Sokoko). After they do that, Tama-chan shows up and tells them how the cannibalism works, which is so distressing that, uh... uh-oh.

9-10: Makoto witches out, and they have to go to space and fight aliens and UFOs to save her. It’s rad. After, Tama-chan exposits more, and then there’s a beach episode.

11-13: Then, they decide to go witch-hunting to get some old-fashioned non-resurrectable Grief Seeds to control their Trauma accumulation and prevent another Makoto from happening. Unfortunately, what they find is Emiko, who turns out to be a supercannibal in cahoots with Yoshe and... well, she calls herself Kimiko, but the tragic loner veteran (Yukari) recognizes her as Honoka, a big scary murderer from her backstory. They get in a fight, and Ibara witches, oops. The fight is super crazy, especially when there is a twist and they have to fight two witches actually. But they manage to survive, and take one of the cannibals hostage.

14-15: As a followup, they, uh... round up all their families and other loved ones and cram them into Reiko’s underground bunker so the cannibals can’t use them as leverage to psychologically fuck with them, which was the plan and the basis for like the whole campaign I had planned. Also, they interrogate their prisoner, Yoshe, and find out that if you witch enough times you become an Incubator. Yikes. Also, they play Candyland and it gets out of hand? And by out of hand, I mean Sakura witches and they have to fight her. There’s some fallout from that.

16-17: Then they go to the hospital for... some reason? I forget. Completely can’t remember why they were even there. They meet Kimiko-Honoka there, though, and they’re about to get in a fight when suddenly someone shows up. It’s a survivor (Cho) of the cult that abused Makoto, begging forgiveness but also still being a cultist and being super uncomfortable to be around. Makoto witches again, and Kimiko-Honoka helps because they took Yoshe hostage and having them die would be bad. Then they do some weird science to the corpses of Incubators, and then there is a heartwarming Christmas special.

18-20: Then they go to space. Nishi-chan tells them there’s important space shit up there, which turns out to be a secret orbital Incubator base. Nishi-chan, who’s not evil, reveals that she and Tama-chan are magical girls who hacked the Hell Engine (read: evil thing that powers magic with suffering) that they keep in this base, and she needs their help to try again and make magic suck less. They go inside and fight a demon as part of a ritual to fix magic, but it gets fucked up when Ibara witches and merges with the demon. They fight it, but in the chaos the Hell Engine sort of breaks and falls out of the sky and crashes into Tokyo Bay, which Sakura and Makoto have to use some crazy supermagic to keep from being apocalyptic.

21-24: They save some people from the space rock and prank Emiko, and- while Yukari is busy getting arrested for financial crimes, Sakura and Seina check out inside the Hell Engine and meet a real Incubator, which they have a tense conversation with resulting in Seina witching. They fight it, which results in the Incubator going insane and vanishing for reasons, and then deal with the emotional fallout. And go through a lot of trouble just to pay rent. And then there’s emotional fallout from that, too.

25-27: Then, for absolutely no reason, they magically engineer a giant rocket space pelican and go to the moon. They bring along Orino and the imprisoned Yoshe, which goes poorly when they forget Yoshe (not in magical form) needs to breathe. Also, Orino runs away to live on the moon. BUT THAT’S NOT EVEN THE CRAZY PART. The crazy part is that, uh, Yukari and Ibara corner the Devil herself, and kinda-sorta-befriend her and take on a quest from her. She lays down some exposition, and everyone kind of panics about this. Good news is, though, the Hell Engine is a source of infinite magic, which they can use to craft overpowered magic items.

28-29: Then there’s a fun guest-star witch that they hunt. During that whole thing, they meet an elusive NPC who hates incubators, and manage to sorta befriend her (and her useful mind-reading powers.) Then, Yukari and Ibara go shopping and don’t get knifed, and Makoto tries to reconcile with Cho. Sakura goes and spies on the cannibals, who pose a threat to their fun new Devil plan, and Ibara befriends the landlord.

29½-30: Also, their prisoner escapes, which is bad but not that bad because Makoto power-of-friendshipped her into taking a neutral stance. Yukari reacts poorly to this, and also takes advantage of their mind-reading friend’s powers to uncover a shocking twist to her own backstory, which she also reacts poorly to. Other people also react poorly to the news. In response, Makoto tries to run damage control, and everyone more or less manages to calm down.

31-33: Calm down enough to GO TO THE FUCKING MOON FOR NO REASON AGAIN!!! Or- not no reason, they notice Orino’s up there doing some crazy terraforming and are concerned. And maybe it’s for the best, because Kimiko and Emiko also noticed that stuff, and also went there, which leads to a Big Fight. During said big fight, oops, Sakura witches. Which was sort of the plan, to trap the cannibals in Sakura’s barrier and take them down that way, but this was a lot more impromptu than planned. Both Sakura’s witch and the party gang up on the cannibals, and they get the upper hand right up until a mysterious person shows up to break up the fight. Things go south, and Kimiko witches, after which the team finishes off Sakura’s witch and revives her to help deal with the new witch.

34-37: They work on the barrier here, which belongs to Honoka’s witch, not Kimiko’s- this being a symbolic purification of Honoka, who was a very bad influence, from Kimiko, who wasn’t a saint to begin with. Then they finish the fight and rather cathartically destroy Honoka, but oops, Emiko isn’t letting them have the seed. Some negotiations take place, and they head back to Earth. Sakura makes plans for the future, and Makoto goes to negotiate further with the cannibals, getting them to agree to attend a peace conference now that Kimiko’s no longer kinda-possessed by a homicidal maniac.

38-41: The peace conference is held, and it’s pretty successful! The Devil intimidates them with eldritch horror magic, and that plus good arguments and emotionally-savvy conflict resolution gets them to agree to the Devil’s plan to instantiate Madoka in exchange for ending grief magic. Afterwards, they release their families from the bunker, and Makoto ties up a loose end in the form of Anzu’s abusive dad. Also, the whole team gets together to tie up another loose end in the form of Sokoko still being all fucked up on souls. After they fix that, they meet at Sakura’s aunt’s apartment to discuss strategy.

42: Then they save the world and it’s the end.

#no driver's license

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indarkstars · 5 years

Text

Somewhere Warmer (pt 1.)

Warning: References to past child abuse, depictions of abuse + violence in front of a child, murder

Michael Guerin's been east of the Mississippi since he was eight years old.

Single Parent AU. Inspired by @roswellprompts

ao3 link

Michael doesn’t slam the truck door closed but he wants to. He wants to slam it so badly it physically pains him, causing him to curl his fist and feel once again the way its badly healed bones shift and grind against one another. Ten feet away his childhood house stands like a grave site, pillars leaning towards each other and moldering with desperate need of support but getting none.

Even the supports know there’s no help left, especially not tonight. But the windows are dark and all Michael can hear is the rustle of long strips of white paint pulling against old wood.

Rotten, he thinks and wants again to slam the door, rev the engine, and shoot forward into the night and the late November slush that's already sopped the hills of Appalachia.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he breathes slow and even as he carefully shuts the passenger side door. Quiet. Almost silent. He sees blond curls shift under a blue blanket and lets out a careful breath as everything stills.

It's two am.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gregory, defacto father and a failure at that, had scoffed that night, “You barely got through school and now you’re, what? Going to throw it away?”

Michael had stared, dangling a fork on his fingers while the rest of the table waited. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Leave her here. We can take care of her.”

Like you did me? he didn’t ask because that anger came later with inwardly focused frustration close on its heels. Why had he returned, again? Hadn’t he promised himself at eighteen he’d never come back? He knew better. He knew better.

“I don’t want to stay,” Maisie had said, very clearly. He folded his hands on the table in front of the ‘good china’ plates that had been laid out for dinner. At six he was already better at stating boundaries then Michael was at twenty-eight.

And wasn’t that fucking depressing? Wasn’t that how they both had ended up in this drafty old dining room eating dry turkey and disappointment.

“Don’t worry, baby.” Marjorie patted Maisie’s hand, couldn’t seem to grasp pronouns or explanations--but this was mountain country. At least Marjorie was kinder about it then Gregory opting for baby, sweetheart, darling --which weren’t gender neutral except when they were. “We’ll sort it out.”

She was so good at smoothing things over when she wanted to be. Or maybe she was just good at sensing weakness.

“He’s really settled down,” Marjorie had whispered into the phone just six days prior and Michael had remembered in that quiet moments when her papery hands touched his and her cool, thin, mouth touched his cheek. That day he had been standing in a puddle caused by a busted pipe, an eviction notice in hand, and couldn’t help the hope and sheer loneliness that bubbled tepid at her offer. “It’s gonna be Thanksgiving. Let us take a little of it, okay?”

“Just Thanksgiving?”

He had forgotten the hundreds of broken promises.“Just Thanksgiving.”

He had thought he was the only one in danger.

But nothing was ever ‘just’ anything with Gregory.

Michael climbs into the driver's seat and sits, just staring out at the house and breathing until his breath comes out as fog and sniffles rise from the next seat over. “It's okay, darling, okay.”

He doesn’t turn the engine over. He doesn't have to to take off the break. Instead, he keeps the keys in his lap, releases the break, and waits.

And waits.

Waits.

They don’t move and Michael can see what is going to happen next. He’s going to turn the engine, his lights will flash into the master bedroom, and Gregory is going to drag him by the belt loops from the truck. Sometime around then, or just after, Maisie will start screaming.

Marjorie will try to sush him. Maybe she’ll pull the kid deep inside the house, into the ‘secret’ second kitchen in the basement where they can’t hear anything going on outside. Maybe she’ll make Masie hot chocolate with tepid water and no marshmallows.

“A treat for a treat,” she’ll offer because she always found something to give after Gregory lost it.

Maisie won't stand for it. He hasn't shown any inclination to bow since he was born three weeks early and screaming like a banshee. It's just like Maisie's mom, really, and damn does Michael miss her.

The sad thing is, this is Michael's hopeful version of what might happen next. He doesn't want to think about the other probable outcome. Maybe he can push the car instead? His control sucks, his telekine-bullshit-sis was always more of an emotional reaction than anything else, so he’d have to get Maisie out of the car first but…

His hand is on the door handle, his feet half ready to hit dirt road again when the car finally seems to realize it’s free to follow gravity and begins to roll.

“Thank you,” he whispers. The gravel crackles under the wheels as he turns the truck away from the house and into the long winding driveway. Above them, bare trees shake with cold against a starless sky. Beside them a broken lantern on a metal shepherds crook passes by. If they can just reach the rusted-out tractor he can turn the truck on properly. “Thank you. Thank you.”

If they can only… if they can only...

And then the front light turns on, throwing a glare over Michael and Maisie's tarp-wrapped belongings tied to the bed of the truck and brightening the cockpit. Maisie grunts, frowning, and Michael can't turn the key in the ignition fast enough. This good old truck, the truck that helped him escape this house the first time around and rabble-roused through mudholes and trash hauls all throughout college and beyond, sputters, turns over, chokes.

The passenger-side door hasn't locked in three years, not since Tommy spilled neon green slushy all over it, so Michael doesn't try to stop Gregory. Gregory didn't bother to put a shirt on and he's already moving faster than the car. Michael closes his eyes, just one moment, and then jerks the breaks on, letting them scream for him and jarring Maisie into sudden, awful, wakefulness.

"Dad!" His hands claw out of the blankets to brace against the dash. "How'd we… what…"

"You stay in the car," Michael barks.

Gregory is already at the window, ripping open the door. "Sneaking out at night? Really?"

"Don't you do anything, Maisie, I mean it."

"But--Dad!"

Michael is six and sixteen again--the old man grabs the back of his flannel shirt and the edges of his mop of hair and drags him bodily from the cockpit, scraping his boots in the dirt before Michael can catch his footing. There's something deep inside that whispers to him, be still, be unremarkable but he's not sure if that's a memory or just a learned reaction from every attempt to beat or unburden the wonderful from him.

"If you're going to act like an ungrateful child I'm going to treat you like one."

A palm cracks his cheek and it almost makes him laugh--open and instead of a fist? But then there's a knee in his stomach and what might have laughter lightens to a wheeze.

"We have someplace to be." Michael grinds the words out, arm around his middle, and he peeks up tentatively and sees that Maisie's stocking feet have moved to the driver's seat.

"Bulltshit."

It's then that Marjorie comes simpering out in fuzzy slippers and a plain white nightgown. She places her hands on her husband's arm like that same hand hasn't been brandished against her time and time again. "Gregory, what's going on? Michael--Michael had to leave, that's all."

"Before service on Saturday, of course." Gregory says it like a curse and a damning and Michael knows it’s both of those things. "Go get a belt, Marjorie."

"I am not a child anymore. Maisie and I are leaving." Michael takes a step back, closer to the car.

Marjorie stills, somewhere between the house and the fight. Gregory laughs. "You're not fit to raise her."

"Yeah? Are you really the one to give me parenting advice?"

The wrong thing to say. It was the wrong thing to say and Michael knew it--he just couldn't keep his damned mouth shut. Some things never changed.

Gregory grabs him, then grabs the metal shepard's crook, leaving the shitty little lantern to crack against the ground. Michael jerks away, shoving his palm so hard onto Gregory's bare shoulder that he's surprised the man doesn't jerk back. Michael's heart is racing and something inside him is building, building building. It frightens him, it should frighten Marjorie and Gregory because after all their attempts to pray it out and beat it out--it's still there. This something terrible that his adopted parents felt a calling to try and remove from him.

I know you're a good boy, deep inside, Marjorie told him over and over, stroking his hair when he cried. You just have to let go of the awfulness.

But the awfulness was Michael--until Lilia had looked at him and said otherwise and then made it otherwise with him and Maisie for five brilliant years.

"Gregory…"

There's nowhere to run except maybe the car and how long would the windows hold out? How long until Gregory just grabbed his child and…

Two things happen at the same time. His hand shoving Gregory's chest starts to glow and then, Maisie slams into Michael's side with his little hands outstretched and a shrieking, "No!"

Suddenly it doesn't matter if Michael was grabbing Gregory or if Gregory was grabbing Michael--because Gregory's being shoved away, tipping backward, possibly slamming his head against the ground before falling into a roll on the slushy ground.

"Fuck," Michael says and stands there, hearing the soft oof of his adopted father coming to rest. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thinks he can feel it--the surprise, pain, fear of the moment before everything goes dark. Marjorie, still standing by the house, is still, too.

And then Maisie starts to sniffle, then cry, big fat tears that Michael can instantly feel soaking his shirt.

"Shit, shit, shit." Michael drags Maisie up by the armpits, bracing his child against his hip for half a second like Maisie is two again instead of first-grade material. "Are you okay?"

Bloody nose. Bloody nose but fine. He shoves Maisie into the passenger seat by way of the driver's and slams the door behind them both. This time, when Michael turns the key the truck purs to life. He hits the gas, tries not to look back at the still body half hidden in the grass or the way Marjorie leans over it and wails.

"I'm sorry." Maisie's voice is small and quiet, buried under the blanket Michael might have stolen from his parents.

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"But you said--"

"You did nothing wrong." If anyone's done something wrong it's Michael. Michael who knew better than to go back there but still wanting to finally find family waiting for him. "Try to sleep a little, okay? You'll feel better."

Michael isn't sure he ever will, but it was his fault--not Maisie's.

Michael doesn't sleep. Not even when he pulls into a Waffle House parking lot four hours later and then idles for ten minutes before he remembers he should shut the car down at least. His body feels like a live wire--jittery and tense, thrumming with the worries he can do nothing about. By the time Maisie wakes by his own devices, Michael's hands have settled at his sides and he might have drooled a little--but he didn't sleep.

"Dad," Maisie says and Michael notices the sun peeking behind Maisie's head. It sets his hair alight, brightens the gray-blue of his eyes. Michael loves him. "Breakfast?"

They've had enough late night-early morning Wafflehouse runs that Maisie is more than prepared with both of their orders. He gets a waffle with chocolate milk. Michael gets hash browns scattered and smothered, covered, chunked, and peppered.

When he's almost full and Maisie is mostly playing with his food rather than eating it, Michael sops up syrup from one pudgy cheek with a napkin and asks, “What do you think about going somewhere warmer?”

“Where?”

“I dunno. West?”

There’s a map in his mind and it screams of the stars and whispers like a heartbeat: west, go west, go west. When he was younger, before he went to university, before he met Maisie’s mother and lost her, before Maisie was at all, Michael had to decide which instruction to follow first.

Stars or West. He had chosen stars. It had been the best excuse to get out of the house.

But now, with two funerals, a possible murder charge, and an eviction notice, there’s no reason not to try the other half. He can drive all them all the way west to California if he wants. Or at least he can until he runs out of money and credit cards.

Unless Maisie doesn’t want to go.

But Maisie nods, spearing up another bit of waffle and popping it into his mouth. “West. Okay. I'm still going to first grade, though.”

“Yeah,” Michael smiles and knows it's his first smile in days. “You'll be the best first grader in California.”

But they don't stop in California. They stop just outside Roswell, New Mexico.

#malex #malex fic #roswell nm #rnm fic #single parent au #still aliens #please heed the warnings #tw abuse #tw child abuse #tw murder #*myfic #Somewhere Warmer

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vanilla-blessing · 5 years

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qb anime of the year list 2018

Anime of the Year 2018 - the year of girls going to aquariums together

I’ve seen at least one person who claimed that 2018 was the best year for anime in recent memory and I’m inclined to agree. A large majority of my top ten list is shows that I would consider perfect and even shows that blew away what I thought was possible in the medium. It was a revolutionary year and makes a strong argument that anime wasn’t a mistake after all. - qb

Hugtto! Precure blew away my expectations every week for close to a year. I don’t exactly know what to say about it here, since this isn’t the last time I’ll talk about it for sure. It doesn’t even end in 2018, but it was such a huge part of my 2018 in anime that it would be inaccurate to not include it. The only way I can think to explain Hugtto! Precure is to talk about the Netflix She-ra reboot. She-ra’s a pretty basic modern Dreamworks cartoon, with some interesting ideas thrown in and likable characters, but mostly held back by what they could realistically allot for production. Because of this limitation, She-ra goes hard on a single perfect episode (if you’ve seen it, you know which one) that stands out in a big way and shows the full potential of what they set out to make. Usually, Precure is lucky to get a handful of these stand-out episodes in a season, and most of the time just gets by, due to being an annual series that can never, ever take a break. Normally, the first few episodes of a Precure season can be counted on to be strong, but the realities of anime production being hella tough inevitably catch up.

Hugtto! Precure started with an incredible opening arc, then never let off the gas pedal. Nearly every episode of Hugtto is a stand-out, never-before-seen, innovative tour-de-force. The combination of production miracles that resulted in Hugtto has been talked about by me on this blog before, (http://vanilla-blessing.tumblr.com/post/176000267859/hana-is-getting-unstable-a-pink-precure) but the length of time that Hugtto stayed in the paint, going extremely hard every single week with few exceptions, was just absurd. Every season of Precure has one or two peaks, sometimes a good season gets lucky and has even more, the best seasons bat a solid average, but are still expected to be held back by reality. Coming out of the fifteenth season of Precure with a majority of the best episodes in the entire franchise isn’t something that I can wrap my head around, but it definitely happened, mostly in 2018. It’s simultaneously a love letter to the franchise’s past, present, and future made by the biggest Precure fans on the planet, and it’s unquestionably the best season. Hugtto threw what we all knew was true and had accepted about Precure clear out the window, retroactively made older seasons better, watered my crops, brought world peace, ect.

Oh yeah and boys can be cures now.

I’m definitely not done with Revue Starlight and this won’t be the last time I talk about it. Revue Starlight essentially carried the Summer 2018 anime season on its back. Starlight absolutely dominated my anime watching schedule; my week was seriously just waiting for and watching different translations and releases with every other show being almost incidental, far less important than waiting for the song lyrics to get translated for an episode I had seen three times already. I won’t get into everything here, since I’ve already talked about it on this blog after all (http://vanilla-blessing.tumblr.com/post/179023723689/subtext-is-for-cowards-revue-starlight), but I need to reiterate that it was such a commanding, unique, stylized experience and didn’t drop a single episode in its entire absurdly high-level production. The only reasonable explanation for this is devil magic, and hell, it was worth it. Revue Starlight is probably in my top 5 anime of all time and I wouldn’t get this list out if I said everything I wanted to say about it. It’s great. Watch it twenty times.

Pop Teen Epic, or Hoshiiro Girldrop, was the most wildcard that has ever been in seasonal anime, and could have been absolutely anything. What none of us predicted was just how much of anything this show would be, encompassing an unprecedented range of artists, voice acting talent, and whatever AC-bu are, each giving their very individual takes on a self-described shitpost comic strip, sometimes covering the exact same material two or three times, with no regard for any sort of cohesion or structure.

Nothing about this idea should have been funded, nothing in Pop Team Epic has any reason to work, and as a straight adaptation probably wouldn’t have worked. PTE spun gold from trash through the raw effort of artists doing their own thing, which captures the original spirit that made the formerly-cancelled comic popular in a way that’s much too intelligent for haters to understand. Also it got a dub, which is the most ridiculously bad idea i’ve heard in my life, and it owns that it happened.

Spider-man into the Spider-verse is legit the best comic book movie ever made. It’s a fun, expressive twist on the most tired superhero origin story of all time, and showcases some of the most sssssssssstyle and raw, real emotion I’ve ever seen in animation. Its particular selection of influences is brilliant and poignant, rising far above the simple fanservice you’ve come to expect from Spider-man. The unrelenting individualistic spirit of this movie will stick with you the longest in the soundtrack, bravely incorporating a side of pop music that you don’t usually get to see in big-budget productions, pulling soundcloud rappers out of their grody (i’m told) dens into the spotlight with equal importance alongside the heroic score. Spider-verse is all about establishing your own unique flavor, and it manages to overwrite every other entry in this cursed franchise with its bold taste.

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It doesn’t make sense to me how amazing Aggretsuko’s dub is. The impeccable timing of each line, the perfect integration with the comedy, and the optimal length of the episodes are all far beyond what I expected from a Netflix show. It not only converted the original series of shorts that I already had on my top 10 the first year into a godlike longer series I didn’t know I wanted, but went to the effort to bring real metal singers in for the karaoke. Honestly just repeat everything I said in my 2016 list and multiply it by five. I hope they make more. They’re making more.

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I was pretty slow to pick up anime in the Winter 2018 season, but I never missed Hakumei and Mikochi, maybe because it was like, the only simulcast on my favorite online anime streaming subscription service HiDiVE. The subs weren’t great, and it certainly wasn’t all that popular, but it was just the relaxing show I needed. Hakumei and Mikochi brought me back to my favorite non-racist parts of the Redwall series of books: friendly animals, delicious foods, alcohol, and rustic songs. I was ready to put it on my list for simply being a cute healing foodie anime, but to my surprise, it had much more in store within its tiny world: stark confrontations with mortality, a shy riverside necromancer, the inexplicable remake of The Raid: Redemption in miniature, fashion trends, frogs, carpenter weasels, carpenter skeletons, ghost celebrations, a country beetle with lofty dreams. The list of memorable people, places, and things contained in the gnomish roommates’ tiny world goes on and on.

Masaomi Ando’s directing went completely along with the storybook aesthetic, maybe even to an overall detriment, which is exactly the kind of reckless commitment to style I love to see. The distinctive paneling, constantly gorgeous backgrounds, and deliberate pacing perfectly captured the imaginative stories I loved to read as a kid, but with more alcohol, and more sophisticated themes under the surface. Even something anime rarely get right, endings, were perfectly capstoned every week with a short digest that explored more of the history, legends, and very personal lore of their small, unique world. At its core, Hakumei and Mikochi is the calming story of tiny roommates you think it is, but it’s also so much more. They have day jobs and get drunk and remodel their house after it explodes that one time. They gamble dangerously to escape a blizzard, help a photographer give herself a little credit, and rescue their neighbor from a fancy grave of her own making. By the end of the show Hakumei practically built half a town. The collective stories from their everyday adventures build into something tremendous, and it all wraps up on the most perfect ending sequence I could have hoped for, which calls back to every story thus far as a new verse of the show’s central duet is sung. In any reasonable AnimeOTY Hakumei and Mikochi would be my top anime of 2018, but this year, the competition was unreasonable. This show will just have to settle for being the best regular anime of the year.

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Bloom Into You is an incredible adaptation of an apparently yuri romance manga that raises the bar for anime adaptations in general. I don’t know when, but somewhere along the line I stopped expecting that serious capital R Romance anime would have a distinctive style, and gave up to the notion that there was no demand anymore and a stylized, seinen/josei romance would just never get made. Well that was 2016 and then Scum’s Wish happened which this blog has covered extensively.(http://vanilla-blessing.tumblr.com/post/168842023559/how-lerche-adapted-an-average-trashy-romcom-into, http://vanilla-blessing.tumblr.com/post/168789506264/scums-wish-and-our-messy-uncomfortable) To me Bloom Into You feels similar in concept, as a difficult romantic situation with no easy answers or completely happy people. The main perspective character, Yuu, is among my favorite romantic leads in any series; she doesn’t get romantic feelings, although she wants to, and despite being easily motivated, is kind of dispassionate. Her relationship that she was pushed into with Touko might as well be out of mutual convenience, since Touko doesn’t want to fall in love with someone who would love her back, and Yuu doesn’t think she can.

Yuu filters the developments of the series as they grow closer through a very different perspective compared to more emotional leads of usual romance stories, methodically breaking down and considering where she’s at, observing where others are at, before taking an action that makes sense to her. Her growth through the series takes a very different direction than the common dramatic formula; instead of running headfirst into misunderstandings to overcome romantic challenges, she’s compelled to take a step back and position herself in a way that allows her to understand and confront her girlfriend’s issues. The changes that she experiences herself during this process are extremely gradual, but are no less significant to her. Although the dramatic weight of the series is obviously all about Touko, the central thesis of Bloom Into You is to explore Yuu’s complex feelings, and ask to what degree our actions are dictated by our emotions. It’s a heavy topic to be sure, but what makes this anime adaptation special in particular is how the directing and production pull it off, to maybe an even stronger degree than the original material.

Bloom Into You’s most striking and noticeable feature is the incredible conservation of small movements that connect expressions naturally. Minute changes in characters’ faces are vital to observe the almost imperceptible changes in Yuu over the course of the series, and every aspect of the direction is in service of highlighting these subtle moments. In addition, repeated cinematic themes are reinforced over the show’s run, such as the use of light to impart a blinding realization, flower language to inform deeper personalities, even using a literal (not literal) cinema. Symbols such as trains, masks, and mirrors are used constantly and consistently to reinforce the show’s themes, which should be immediately obvious from the opening animation. I’m still kind of stunned that Bloom Into You’s ending theme is such a banger and managed to use an oscillating sine curve in a metaphorical way. These details might be lost without the brilliant layouts, intentionally resembling a stage, which always push the minute differences front and center. As an anime adaptation, Bloom Into You adds so much value in such a subdued, conservative way that it puts uninspired adaptations to shame.

Thunderbolt Fantasy 2 rounded out the year with a good old new-fashioned Japanese-speaking Chinese-Wuxia Taiwanese puppet show. The novelty of this wild series, like, existing at all, is still incredible to me, but I was really wowed by the new characters and the direction the series went in after the already high standards of the first season. Following the outrageous action and fights of the previous season, I did not expect that season 2’s introductory goon would 1. Live past the first episode 2. So quickly become my favorite swordfighter and 3. Have inarguably the most complete character arc of the entire show thus far. The Princess of Cruelty’s struggle against her inner and outer demons in a unreasonably stacked, desperate situation developed her into easily the most compelling character of the season, and the rest of the cast including a corrupt police officer with extremely disconcerting and bad puppet teeth, a ventriloquist rock-lutist, and a nihilist monk each bring their own unique flavors to the table. The table that they throw the puppets in the air from to make the show. All of the new elements of Thunderbolt Fantasy 2 improved an already strong formula even more, and revealed an emotional depth to the series that I’m excited to see developed further. Some people might not call this anime, but those people haven’t seen Thunderbolt Fantasy for longer than 2 seconds. It’s so anime.

I blasted all available seasons of Star vs the Forces of Evil early in 2018, and it was basically my first foray into straight-up American cartoon magical girl, despite watching all the Japanese ones, which was probably an oversight on my part. That’s because Star Versus is really good, and provided a flavor of magical girl I had been missing out on. I could talk about the excellent sparkle witch aesthetic of the show, fluid animation, and hilarious comedy, but I’d rather spend this blogspace posting Star Butterfly faces.

#10

A Place Further Than the Universe, or YoriMoi, or my preferred moniker That Antartica Anime, wasn’t on my radar until well after it had finished airing, but it stuck with me for most of the year. Although it’s definitely melodramatic at times, it utilizes this tendency in exactly the right way to enhance the individual characters’ emotional arcs. Even though I was personally sort of taken out of it for many of the girls’ personal trials, :penguin emoji: is obviously thoughtfully written and carefully constructed, and especially knows how to orchestrate an immense emotional reaction with pitch-perfect timing. If there’s one particular aspect this anime has absolute mastery over, it’s hitting that perfect note and cue to create a memorable narrative climax. And for all my bellyaching about not fully relating to some of the characters, Miyake is definitively the #1 qb-relatable character of the year.

Here’s the rest of my list. Don’t @ me about it because if its not on my top ten then it doesnt really count anymore i dont make the rules thats just how it is

11. Yuru Camp

12. Hisone and Masotan

13. Asagao to Kase-san

14. Devilman Crybaby

15. After the Rain

16. Planet With

- friend of the show @queuebae on twitter

That’s why the 2018 anime of the year award goes to Kaiju Girls 2.

#top ten anime 2018 #top ten pop team epics #pop teen epic #pop team epic #hoshiiro girldrop #poppiteppikiu #popttippiku #bob team epic #bob epic team #PTE 2018 #Pop Team Epic Season 2

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4wordletter · 5 years

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@say-never i’m gonna reply to the rest of your post tomorrow, if that’s okay. i didn’t wanna focus on too much at once and i feel quite down tonight.

I’ll admit, it’s sometimes a little hard to know where I stand with you. I do take your reassurances at face value, of course, and I know I often need reminding. but I also try to remember that you’ve been through a hell of a lot emotionally. I only know what you’ve told me; I don’t have your lived experiences. there’s a lot that you’ve gone through that I don’t even know about, and you don’t have to tell me about it– it’s enough to know it happened. I can’t expect you to be as open about emotion as I am, or even able to feel things like I do (and I’ve been pretty dulled myself). maybe I’ve been reading you wrong at times; it’s hard to, especially through text. but I can hear it in your voice sometimes, I think. something flat. could be exhaustion, could be everything. of course I forgive your lacking in reciprocal effort; I appreciate all that you do give me. I know you’re trying, and you’re trying because you want to, not because you think I expect you to. it’s not easy. but you know as well as I do that shrugging everything off and staying in the emotionless void isn’t healthy for you.

i think you’re spot on with your analysis: there is something flat in my voice. i posted last week something about how i feel “emotionally as flat as a pancake”, lol. i’ve felt that way for a long time now. well, for 2 years at least.

to be honest, it’s depression. it’s numbness. it’s a complete lack of anything. it’s not being tired or worn out or anything like that, it’s just a state of mind. at times, i’m just blank. i literally stare off into the distance with what i’m assuming is a vacant expression on my face.

it wasn’t always that way. i do try to remember when it wasn’t like that. i use my happy past self as something to aim for. something before all of this happened.

i don’t think it’s realistic. experiences in life shape you. they shape your personality like clay. i can’t somehow “unshape” myself. i’ve seen and experienced things, people, that will stay with me until i die.

on that topic, i feel i can confide this in you: i’ve been waiting to die for a while. not in an “i hate my life way” or anything like that. i’m fully committed to life and i want to live my life to the fullest. i want to spread love, peace and happiness to everyone i meet. i still want to do these things.

i do enjoy life. i just feel like...this isn’t for me. i have been given life by God and i will honor him by not rejecting his gift of life. i will never under any circumstances kill myself. i find it childish, something like throwing a temper tantrum because life hasn’t gone your way. so you throw your toys from the stroller. i don’t want to do that at all.

i do enjoy life. i just feel as if its passion and vibrancy has been stripped or stolen away from me by M’s parents. you don’t understand just how much i applied myself, how dedicated and loyal i was to these people. i had such passion and love, nothing would stand in my way. i lived with my whole heart and i loved with my whole heart.

i flew 3000 odd miles just to propose to her. to join her family. only to be met with silence, and a week later a complete cut in contact. not only that, but to be practically framed for something i never did into the bargain. with no explanation, no nothing. it’s now 2 years later and there has been no apology, no explanation. nothing at all. that really takes its toll on a guy like me. or, i mean, the guy i used to be.

i’ve awoken to the nature of reality and how people really are. how they treat each other. i was blind to everything before. i thought if a girl said she loved you, she meant it. i thought if you went to church with a family, it meant they were good, upstanding, God-loving people who strive for love and peace, who show it in their actions and thoughts. i thought if a woman’s father says “welcome to the family,” it means just that.

i want no part in a world that flips the script like that. where i cannot place my faith in people, where i cannot take people at their word. i don’t want to live in a world where common, everyday experiences are so corrupted, so tainted with pure darkness.

i think, at the core, the issue is disbelief. i cannot for the life of me fathom how on earth 2 fully grown Christian adults could possibly have done any of what they did in good conscience. to whisper all sorts of vile things about me into my then-girlfriend’s ear, to manipulate and warp her perception of reality in such a manner that i look like an evil demon that should be tossed aside like trash. to fill her head with such nonsense that she has absolutely no problem in blocking the man who proposed to her literally 3 days previous. to undermine her authority over her own life, her own destiny.

no. that’s not any kind of world i want to be a part of, no thank you. it’s horrible and it makes my skin crawl just thinking about what they did to me. i hope to God you never have to explain to your friends and family, when they ask about your trip and your proposal, that your “fiancee” is no longer speaking to you. that her mother practically took the ring from her finger and sent it back in a box, leaving me to figure out just what the fuck happened.

no thank you. i love God, i love his gift of life, but no thank you. i tried with all my heart and soul. no more. i have nothing else to give.

i’m sorry i mess you around and you don’t know where you stand with me. the reason is this: i will never let anyone close enough to hurt me like that ever again. never ever. this isn’t a conscious choice in any way, it’s my natural reaction now. i have a ton of friends but i’m not close to any of them. i don’t want anyone to know me. i don’t want to hurt anyone.

i’ve inherited this hand-me-down trauma from M and her parents. i want it to stop here. people who do fucked up things like what they did to me, it could easily turn me into a monster who in turn does fucked up things to others. by that mechanism, it spreads person by person. more and more people get hurt. it’s passed from decade to decade, century to century.

i’m not the first person they did this to and i won’t be the last, but i certainly won’t be foisting this shit on some poor unsuspecting woman who would be just as “emotionally innocent” as i used to be. i could never live with myself. that’s why i keep you at bay. that’s why i keep everyone at bay.

M told me not to try to fix her. she blocked and deleted me so many times before we even met in real life. i persisted. i thought i was a shining light and there was no wound i couldn’t heal. i was so full of myself. i thought there was no amount of darkness that could overcome me. i lied to myself. there was, and it bit me hard.

i will guarantee you this though: i will always communicate. i have these demons now too, but i can see them. i see them for what they are. i was never afforded this privilege, i was always left to figure out what i’d “done wrong” whenever she disappeared or wouldn’t want to talk. i won’t do that to you. the reason i don’t want to talk sometimes is because i’m dead inside. but, chances are, tomorrow might be better, and i’ll be back to my normal self. the day after that is anyone’s guess. that’s how this works, it seems. if only i knew back then.

i don’t want you to be feeling “if only i knew back then” in 3 years about me. i’m telling you now, straight and upfront what is wrong with me. i know what’s wrong with me, i know what caused this, i know the names of the people that did it. i may be pretty messed up but i’m also very self-aware. i know exactly what it is they’ve done to me.

still, life is sort of a waiting room for me now. yeah, i’m okay in here but i’d like to leave as soon as possible, if that makes sense. i’m sure it does. i’m not the first person to ever feel like shit.

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misspeterparker · 6 years

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Paper Cut (Peter Parker x Reader)

Summary: Ever since Peter Parker was inflicted with the infamous spider bite, he has had trouble adjusting to the changes that come with adopting the superhero life. The stress is getting to him, and (Y/N) is noticing. Big time.

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, minor swearing, minor mentions of blood, angst

A/N: So, this is the first fanfic I’m uploading to this site. Hope it’s alright! feel free to message me with tips ‘n stuff ‘cause trust me, I need all the help i can get. Hope you enjoy! (Also please request stuff, I love you) (... I kinda... I’m... eh... @peeterparkr tips pls?)

Genre: Mainly Angst, Little Fluff

(Gif: https://th.blogcrib.com/2017/10/07/damnsebstom-holland-as-peter-parker-in-spider-man-homecoming/)

You feel a sharp pinch on the tip of your smallest finger followed by the warm feeling and metallic smell of blood dripping down onto your psychology textbook. In that moment, the slight tingling was the only sensation that drew you from your trance; You had spent hours studying, not once even bothering to look up towards Peter who was seated at the desk beside your bed, books sprawled out on the wooden surface around him. It wasn’t a big deal; just a small slit which was practically invisible and extremely superficial. At least, that was your train of thought, contrary to that of your best friend, Peter Parker’s.

“Oh my god, (Y/N) a-are you okay? You’re bleeding!” He stood up from his position at your desk and rushed over to you on the bed, taking ahold of your injured appendage and examining it thoroughly. The look of concern on his face was immediately visible. You laughed tenderly, gazing at his disheartened expression. The way his eyebrows pulled together forming a deep set of wrinkles tugged at your heartstrings. He was so adorable sometimes.

“Peter, I’m fine. It’s just a paper cut.” His feelings refused to dissipate, his head lifting up to look into your eyes. His gaze held only one emotion: pure fear.

Your eyebrows furrowed at his expression. Peter’s ever growing anxiety hadn’t been something you’d overlooked and it seemed to be getting worse as time went on.

You began to notice Peter’s prominent paranoia a few months back, at the beginning of the second semester. It was a normal Tuesday, like any other. Peter had seemed a little more on edge than usual, but you didn’t question it. It was all in the hormones. His new found six pack and sudden lack of glasses were a strange addition to the boy’s identity. But, you didn’t question it too much. Puberty does wonders. After all, it turned you from a flat chested child into a woman with a new set of “friends”.

Just as it was a normal Tuesday, the time came for you and your friends to have a normal lunch period spent studying and debating whether Harry really belonged in Gryffindor to begin with. As the debate got heated, Ned, one of your best friends, had dropped one of his many AP textbooks onto the epoxy cafeteria floor, triggering a violent clatter at his feet earning a small squeal from your lips, but an even bigger reaction from the boy across from you.

The large clamor set Peter off in a way neither you nor Ned had ever witnessed before. The boy jumped up from his seat, his eyes growing large and wide, and let out an animalistic noise of terror - one that you couldn’t compare to any sound you’ve heard before. It felt as though the world had stopped for that moment, as the lunchroom grew violently quiet, and all eyes were on Peter. You remembered every detail like a scene of a movie; The trickling sweat down the back of Peter’s neck, the tears that pricked at the corners of his exhausted, brown eyes, how his fists clenched so tight that his knuckles were in danger of splitting, and the paleness of his fear-struck face as he stared down at the fallen book. He was a deer in the headlights - absolutely terrified to the core.

And the whole lunchroom witnessed his moment of weakness.

The moment seemed to drag on for a lifetime, each second becoming agonizingly long. Quiet murmurs begin to spread throughout the room, all about Peter. It was evident by the judging stares of the upperclassmen and the snickers from the mouths of the chatty freshman.

“Jesus, someone put that thing out of its misery.”

“I would’ve thought someone was dying. A little over dramatic much?”

“Penis Parker’s more of a chicken than I thought.”

The constant whispers were the cherry on top - talk about adding insult to injury. You looked up at Peter who was still standing, his eyes never leaving the fallen book. The tears that threatened to fall finally fulfilled their promises and were stained on his now red cheeks.

“Peter…” You tried to reach out and touch his hand, but he reeled back, not missing a beat, and ran out of the cafeteria.

You didn’t see him for the rest of that day.

“I-I’m sorry…” Defeated, Peter fell to his knees. He held your hand and rested his forehead against it.

“Hey… Peter…” you began. Your words were cut short by the sounds of sobbing; The wetness of his tears fell into your lap, dotting your grey colored jeans. “Peter! Hey! Don’t cry!” It was a stupid thing to say and you regretted it immediately, but you didn’t know what else to do. You've never had seen your best friend like this before; his fragile state created a pang in your chest, the feeling of helplessness took over your mind - what could you possibly do? You were never good at this sort of thing, and you preferred to cry in the comfort of your own room; You didn’t have this sort of experience with others. How does one comfort a crying friend? “Peter, it’s going to be okay,” you say, not expecting him to believe it.

His arms found their way around your waist, pulling your body close with his face buried into the fabric of your hoodie. You stiffened at the action, but when he didn’t pull away you tangled your fingers into his curly locks of hair. “Shhhhh… It’s all going to be alright… look, I’m fine… see?” You placed the palm of your hand under his chin and lifted until his head craned up to look at you. You kissed your finger right where the paper made its mark, the split skin already beginning to scab over, and you smiled. “It’s already healing… it doesn’t even hurt anymore! I’m fine, Pete… I really am.” He remained silent as he gazed upon your finger. The streets of New York were busy, being the only ambience provided in the dimly lit room. His eyes closed, taking in the sound of an ambulance rushing by, sirens blazing in the evening air.

In the silence between you, your mind wandered back to another memory, the time you walked in on Peter stressing about an upcoming chemistry test. His hand raked through his hair, creating a fluffy mess upon his head as he paced back and forth in his room, mumbling to himself about “stupid formulas” and how he could “never learn all this shit in one week.” Chemistry was his best subject. It was extremely odd for him to be stressing over an exam in that class - usually he was quite excited for them. He loved to put everything he had learned in the past few weeks to good use as he had described to you many times in the past. However, this time was different. For whatever reason, the room reeked of sweat, clothes littered the floor, and a pile of red bull cans were cramped into the tiny trash bin by his bed, some threatening to spill out onto the space beside it due to the can’s overflowed state.

“Peter, what’s going on?” You asked. He turned to look at you. His face appeared as though he had aged ten years and the dark bags under his eyes weren’t serving him any justice. He looked horrible.

“It’s this st-stupid formula! No matter what I try, the results just come out all the same! This is dumb! I’m dumb…” He punctuated his declaration with a flop onto his bed which creaked under the sudden weight. His eyes fluttered closed as a groan escaped from his lips, as he took a deep breath, making a great effort to calm his nerves. It was worrying.

“What do you mean, Pete? You’re not dumb!” You crossed the room and took a seat beside him on the bed. “You’re so good at chem! It’s just one problem. I’m sure with a little grit and elbow grease, we can figure this one out together. What do ya say?”

Silence.

“Peter?”

Still, no response.

Frustrated, you looked at the boy, about to go off on his annoying ass attitude when you heard a soft snore sneak it’s way out.

Oh.

He fell asleep. This was odd, not to mention sudden, considering the fact that he was on the verge of a mental breakdown just moments before. Your breathing soon fell into rhythm with the relaxed rise and fall of his chest. Giving up, you took a look at the papers on his desk.

“Super Secret Fluid Formula”

Super secret what? Whatever that was, it was a concept you had never learned in class before. Crap. If Peter was having a difficult time grasping the concept, then you definitely knew that you would bomb it. With that note, you frantically made your way home to study the new found information.

It never appeared on the test. Your teacher cut it out last minute. Great news for Peter, right?

The heat on your stomach left as soon as the boy rose from his spot.

“Yeah… I’m… Im sorry, (Y/N)... I overreacted…”

“It’s alright, Peter, I understand,” You lied. The reality was you didn’t understand, not in the slightest, and you weren’t sure you ever would. But you most definitely weren’t about to tell him that. It would most likely add salt to the wound which you were not at all looking to do.

“Thank you…” His eyes found yours. “I’m just… I’m so afraid… that one day I’m gonna lose you…” Another silent tear fell down his face. Looking deep into his gaze, you knew. He was broken.

“Peter, listen,” your hands found his face instinctively, and they cupped his cheeks. “I don’t know what’s going on with you - and maybe I never will - but just know that I’m always here to talk. No matter what. As long as I’m still breathin’, I’m never going to leave you. Do you hear me? You’re not gonna lose me. Ever. I’m your best friend, my guy… I love you and I will never let anything hurt you. And I’m pretty damn good at protecting myself too. Got it? Now, I don’t know what’s gotten into you… You've been acting off for so many weeks now. Just know, that whenever you’re ready to talk, tell me what’s bothering you and I’ll be sure to kick it in the ass for ya! Scare it right outta town!” This drew a small chuckle out of him. Peter looked at you, slightly amused.

“Thank you… I’m sure you’re intimidating enough to… kick it in the ass? What?”

“Well, ‘kick its ass’ is overused and boring. Plus, the alternative got a laugh outta ya, didn’t it? That was the goal.”

“Yeah, I guess…” He stared at you. The broken brown eyes, red and bloodshot from tears, pierced yours. Your (E/C) eyes met his. “You’re never going to leave me, right..? No matter what…?” He leaned closer to your lips, his gaze never breaking and your breath hitched in your throat, cheeks dusted with a brilliant shade of pink at his proximity.

“Never…” he smiled. He leaned in even closer, his breath landing on your lips, your body aching with anticipation.

“Is this okay…?” He asked. You nodded. All of your feelings that have built up over the past months rushed to your chest - feelings of love and admiration, fear and denial, worry and longing all flooded your heart pounding in your ears, rhythmically like the beat of a drum. His lips brushed over yours, daring to touch. Your eyes fluttered close. “Can I…?” And with that, your lips crashed into his, an eruption of pure bliss exploded in your chests, craving and wanting to taste the other, deeper and fuller and seemingly bursting with light. His hands found your waist and yours found his hair and the colliding of embraces was all too perfect. It was astonishing. It was breathtaking. It was amazing. With one final kiss, his lips separated from yours, your eyes opening to meet his soft gaze, no longer full of fear, but instead full of awestucking love. Your hand found his. His lips curled upwards.

And for once, after a very long time,

all was calm.

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catsandtruecrime · 3 years

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Historical True Crimes: Jonestown, and Why We Need to Stop Using the Phrase “Drinking the Kool-Aid”

The case of Jonestown is one that’s shockingly unknown to many young people today. I had personally never heard of this case until I was making my way through the Casefile podcast and I finally decided to dive into the episode titled, “Case 60: Jonestown (Part 1).” The description for the episode read “You may think you know the story, but do you…”

“Um…I don’t think I do know this story…” I thought, as soon as I read the description. I wracked my brain, trying to think of cases I’d heard before.

Jonestown…Jonestown…that sounds kind of familiar I think? Clearly it’s a town where something bad happened. I ran through my mental list of “Mass Shootings That Have Occurred in My Lifetime.” Aurora, Orlando, San Bernardino, Las Vegas, Sandy Hook….nope, no Jonestown there.

I pressed play and Casefile’s standard disclaimer filled my headphones. “Our stories deal with serious, and often distressing incidents. If you feel at any time that you need support, please contact your local crisis center. For suggested phone numbers for confidential support, please see the show notes on your app, or on our website.”

There was a pause, and then something that I had never heard from the Anonymous Host before.

“This series on Jonestown deals with horrific events. The series deals with mass murder and suicide of men, women, and children, as well as other abuses. The episodes are graphic and distressing, especially episode 3. It will not be suitable for all listeners. Please use your discretion.”

Distressing these episodes were, but most distressing was the fact that I had no idea what Jonestown even was before listening to them. At Jonestown, America saw the greatest loss of civilian life in a single event until 9/11 occurred. Many of us vividly remember the tragedy of 9/11, but the tragedy of Jonestown has fallen by the wayside, and is almost even mocked in a way, by the widespread use of the phrase, “drinking the Kool-Aid.”

After I heard about Jonestown for the first time, I wanted to tell everyone about it. So here is me doing just that.

In short, Jonestown was a compound populated by a church-turned-cult, led by Jim Jones. Jones was born in Indiana in 1931, and grew up in a troubled household. His father was a disabled World War 1 veteran, and his mother was an outspoken factory worker, who was rarely home. As a result, Jones spent a lot of time alone in his younger years.

Noticing that little Jim was often playing outside by himself, a neighbor decided to invite him to church with her one day. At her evangelical Nazarene church, Jones found a sense of belonging for the first time. When he looked at the preacher, he saw someone to look up to, not because of his faith, but because of what the preacher inspired in others; the preacher was loved, adored, and respected by his congregation in a way that Jones wished he could be.

Eventually, Jones branched out to other religious denominations as well, and began going to their various churches. Jones was especially intrigued by pentecostal churches, as he enjoyed the theatrics and faith healings that these churches often offered.

By the time he was 10, Jones had decided that he wanted to be a preacher, and he was practicing on his friends and pets whenever he could. Eventually, he began preaching in lower income black neighborhoods, and he tended to focus on social justice and inequality.

*insert record scratch here* Time to pause the story for a moment. Knowing that Jones would be the one to eventually head the cult that became Jonestown, it’s important to discuss how cults work. We all like to think that we would never join a cult and that we’d be able to see what’s happening before we were to get sucked in.

Cults, though, tend to prey on the disadvantaged. Whether it’s due to poverty, racism, or religion, people who join cults tend to be those that are excluded from “the rest of us” in some way, and they’re people who are searching for acceptance and belonging.

Jones was coming into his own during the 40s, 50s, and 60s, during a time of intense civil unrest and mounting racial tensions in America. On top of that, there was also the imminent threat of nuclear war, which absolutely terrified many Americans.

With that information, and with the scene set, back to our regularly scheduled programming…

It’s largely questioned whether or not Jones actually believed in the need for equality, or whether he was just REALLY GOOD at honing his message to effectively target the people that he knew he could rope into joining him. He certainly knew how to speak and he had mastered the rhetoric that would grip people most tightly, dropping the ideas of desegregation, equality and social justice on the ground, small pieces of candy leading them into his gingerbread house in the middle of a Guyanese jungle, where they would ultimately meet their demise.

But I’m getting ahead of myself…Jones really began building his congregation when he was 21. Initially, he began preaching at a Methodist church in Bloomington, Indiana. When he began calling for desegregation and racial integration between churches, though, the Methodist church’s congregation (made of 100% rich white people) said, “Um…yeah, no thanks, dude.” So Jones said, “Well okay, then, I don’t need you anyway,” and he started recruiting people to form his own congregation, which came to be known as The People’s Temple.

Eventually, Jones became a sort of civil rights icon at the time. He preached in black neighborhoods and welcomed black citizens into his church with open arms. As Jones felt his steam building, he started abusing amphetamines and other drugs, which gave him the energy to visit potential worshippers and preach at all hours of the day and night.

With the energy came some more negative side effects, however. Jones became increasingly paranoid and was terrified at the prospect of a nuclear war. He had an intense fear of abandonment and regularly threatened anyone who tried to leave his congregation after they had joined.

As he continued to build his congregation, he shifted his messaging after reading through the entirety of the Bible. Jones paid particular attention to any negative events or contradictions as he read, ultimately coming to the conclusion that God will protect no one. Jones began telling his congregation that he was their only savior, and that he would be able to do more for them and protect them better than God ever would.

In 1963, Jones urged his congregation to move to Redwood Valley in California, claiming that they would be safe from nuclear war once there. Around this time, Jones and his congregation also began crusades, where they would take busses around the country, stopping along the way to hold events where Jones would preach, oftentimes in low income, minority areas.

During these crusade events, Jones would perform “miraculous” faith healings, in which he would appear to fix ailments and injuries. What the congregation didn’t know, though, was that all of these “healings” were staged.

In one example, Jones had one of his aides pose as an attendee; she sat in a wheelchair with a cast on her leg, appearing to have broken it and was unable to walk as a result. Jones approached the “injured woman” and willed her leg to heal, cutting off her cast and pulling her up from her seat. To attendees, it appeared that this woman had just been granted the ability to not only walk, but run down the aisles, all thanks to Jones.

Jones was also well known for wearing sunglasses no matter where he was. This wasn’t because Jones cared deeply about his eye health, though. They also served a couple of other purposes, like hiding his eyes from giving away his emotions or showing what he was really looking at. For example, when new members would come to his masses, his aides would take their names and phone numbers under the guise of needing a way to contact them for future events.

In reality, his aides would call people’s houses and would sometimes even go so far as to travel to their house and sift through their trash, essentially doing recon on their new members and gathering information about their lives. At the next mass, they would slip Jones a piece of paper with specific details about particular people. Reading from behind his sunglasses, he would call them out by name and reveal details about their lives that he (supposedly) couldn’t possibly have known. He claimed that he had ESP and that he was a prophet, hence why he seemed to “just know” things about his partitioners.

Jones started organizing fake assassination attempts on himself as well; at a time when notable civil rights icons like Martin Luther King Jr. were being assassinated, Jones needed to create the illusion that he was just as important as they were; he told his followers that there were countless people and organizations that wanted him dead. He also used this as an excuse to begin testing his followers’ loyalty.

Jones and his inner circle would write false declarations of child abuse, sexual assault, and even murder on behalf of Jones’s followers. They would be forced to sign the declarations, or else they would be ridiculed and beaten by other members of the church. If anyone wanted to leave at any point, Jones had a signed declaration on file for the person, stating that they had committed some crime, which he could hold over their heads and use to ruin their lives if they left him. He also had his followers sign blank pieces of paper so that he had access to their signature and could make it appear that they had signed just about anything he needed them to.

According to Julia Scheeres in the Sword and Scale podcast episode on Jonestown (Episode 50), Jones was “fascinated with the idea of control, and he wanted to see how far he could push people.” It was around this time in the 70s that Jones became obsessed with the idea of revolutionary suicide. He took the idea from the autobiography of Black Panther, Huey Newton. Newton’s idea was basically that you shouldn’t be afraid to go down fighting; for example, if the police are trying to shut down a protest, don’t go quietly, even if it means being killed. This was still a radical idea, but Jones took it even further.

Jones spun this idea to fit his own narrative and said that revolutionary suicide meant being willing to die “for the cause,” which was really dying for Jones himself. Essentially, he believed that his followers should be so loyal to him and The People’s Temple that they should be willing, and even happy, to die if Jones deemed it necessary.

At the same time that Jones was building his congregation, Guyana was a newly formed country in South America, and the government was struggling to provide enough food for their citizens. Ultimately, the government decided to lease land in the jungle to people who were willing to come to Guyana and build farms to contribute to the country’s food supply.

After a negative investigative article came out in New West Magazine, alleging abuse in The People’s Temple. Seeing his opportunity, Jones and his family, along with several hundred of his followers, moved to Guyana to build The People’s Temple Agricultural Project in the middle of the jungle. The journey to their roughly 3,800 acres of land took them to the capital of Guyana, Georgetown, where they had to journey by river to their settlement. They were roughly 6 miles from the nearest sign of civilization at the settlement that Jim Jones called Jonestown.

When his followers arrived to Jonestown, his aides confiscated their passports, money, and other worldly possessions. They were essentially stuck there, as Jim Jones had reportedly once told them, “If you want to go home, you can fucking swim home because we’re not paying your way home.”

Away from the pressures of American society and the American government, Jones was no longer afraid to be truly himself and make his increasingly radical views known. Armed guards patrolled the compound borders and temple members were forced to spend long days in the fields and participate in “White Night” drills, where Jones conditioned his followers into complacency regarding the idea of revolutionary suicide.

While they started out as a means to berate “disloyal” temple members, the White Nights eventually turned into what were essentially suicide drills. Jones would bring out a vat of punch (which was actually of the British brand, Flavor Aid) and urged his followers to drink from it. This idea had been on his mind for some time, as he had practiced this with his closest inner circle, even before relocating to Jonestown.

After everyone had drank their cup of punch, he would tell them that the punch was poisoned and that they would all be dead within the hour. Guards and Jones’s aides watched his followers, and anyone who appeared to be mad at their seemingly imminent death became targets for the rest of the night. Their lives were made harder and they were watched more closely after the drill if Jones was convinced that they wouldn’t be loyal to him and his commands in the end.

Tim Stone, one of Jones’s former aides, said that Jones once told them at a White Night, “Now I would like each of you to stand up and tell me how happy you are to die for the glory of socialism.”

While Jones produced videos for his remaining congregation still located in the US showing how happy everyone was at Jonestown, the reality was far different. At Jonestown, residents struggled to produce enough food for everyone and many people went hungry most days. Since they were quite literally in the middle of the jungle, they were also responsible for building their own shelters and there weren’t enough shelters for everyone. They crammed into tiny buildings and some members wrote home to their families about the conditions at Jonestown.

Eventually, enough family members of Jonestown residents became concerned for their loved ones and went to the US government for help. They believed (correctly in most cases) that their loved ones were stuck in Jonestown and weren’t being allowed to leave.

Congressman Leo Ryan got wind of this and his interest in the American settlement in Guyana was piqued. On November 14th, 1978, Ryan, along with two of his staffers, nine journalists, and 18 family members of Jonestown residents made their way to Jonestown. Once they got to Guyana, Jim Jones was hesitant to allow them into Jonestown, but when Ryan and the other visitors insisted on meeting with temple members, Jones reluctantly agreed.

Jones and his followers did a good job of putting on a show for their visitors, appearing happy to live in this utopia in the jungle. To the skeptical visitors, however, the act wasn’t good enough. They saw through the propaganda Jones was orchestrating and their suspicions were only confirmed when multiple temple members slipped the visitors notes, begging to leave with them and asking for help. When Ryan confronted Jones about the notes, Jones calmly replied that there was no need for concern; if his followers wanted to leave, they were more than welcome to do so.

On November 18th, 1978, Ryan and the rest of the visitors, along with 15 temple defectors, prepared to leave Guyana. At 5:20 p.m. a plane filled with defectors was preparing to leave when People’s Temple loyalists emerged from the forest and from behind tractors that were parked on the airfield. They were armed with guns and began shooting at the defectors and the visitors.

At the airstrip, Congressman Ryan, one defector (Patricia Parks) and three journalists (Bob Brown, Greg Robinson, and Don Harris) were killed. 11 other people, including staffer Jackie Spear, were injured. Spear was shot in the arm, but survived after hiding behind one of the plane’s wheels. Reporter, Tim Reiterman, along with the rest of the visitors and defectors, survived after fleeing into the jungle to hide.

At approximately the same time, Jim Jones announced another White Night over the loudspeakers at the compound. He called everyone to the pavilion building that was located in the center of Jonestown. As residents filed in, 25 guards, armed with rifles and crossbows, encircled the pavilion. Jones’s aides carried a large steel drum to the center of the pavilion and filled it with Flavor Aid as they had countless times before.

Next, Jones’s medical staff emerged and mixed cyanide, valium, potassium chloride, and chloral hydrate into the Flavor Aid. Jones pulled out a tape recorder, hit record and began preaching.

“In spite of all that I’ve tried, a handful of our people, with their lies, have made our lives impossible…there’s no way to detach ourselves from what’s happened today,” Jones began, on what’s now known as Q042: The Jonestown Death Tape. Jones told his followers that an attack on the congressmen and the other visitors was occurring as he spoke.

He told his followers that once the world finds out about the attack, “they’ll parachute in on us,” and “they’ll kill your children,” referring to the Guyanese military and the United States FBI and CIA. Jones told his followers that the Guyanese military was already moving in, and that they would torture and kill all of them if they did not kill themselves. He instructed everyone to line up, babies and toddlers first, to take their cup of punch, which would bring them all peace. He told them not to fear death, and that it would be like falling asleep.

As Q042 progresses, you can hear children crying in the background, and the tape seems to stop and start throughout. On the Jonestown episode of Sword and Scale, Julia Scheeres points this out and describes that the reason for the starting and stopping is that people were protesting; each time someone would attempt to speak out, Jones would stop the tape, as he didn’t want it known that some of his followers were challenging him.

The only protestor heard on the tape is Christine Miller, who proposed that they should let the children live, or that they could instead take one of the planes at the airstrip and seek asylum in Russia.

As he shut down Miller’s protests, Jones kept preaching and encouraged his followers to drink. He urged parents to calm their babies and instructed older children to comfort their younger siblings. As everyone lined up, Jones’s nurses filled syringes with the punch. The first woman in line used one of these syringes to squirt punch into her baby’s mouth, before drinking her own cup of poison.

The nurses tried to coax hesitant parents into handing over their babies to have the poison administered, and those who refused were forced to hand them over by the armed guards. As babies and younger children began crying, Jones and the nurses told parents that it wasn’t because of any pain, that the punch was just bitter. Soon enough, though, the children started convulsing and writhing in pain. Their eyes rolled back into their heads, and eventually, one by one, they went limp with death, their mothers doing the same shortly after.

Tim Carter was one of the few survivors of this White Night and is quoted in Part 3 of the Casefile coverage of Jonestown, saying, “Outside, I saw a woman named Rosie on the ground, holding her dead baby…inside I just wanted things to stop. I looked to my right and saw my wife with our son in her arms and poison being injected into his mouth…my son was dead and he was frothing at the mouth…my wife died in my arms and my dead baby son was in her arms.” Carter also stated later, “They were fucking slaughtered. There was nothing dignified about it. Had nothing to do with revolutionary suicide. Had nothing to do with making a statement. It was just a senseless waste. Senseless waste and death.”

As panic ensued, nurses began pouring the liquid into people’s mouths and injected it directly into them if they resisted. In the chaos, two of Carter’s friends pulled him away from his dead wife and child, and the three of them escaped into the jungle.

Christine Miller, the protestor heard on the Q042 tape, was forcibly injected with the poison and died soon after.

As Jones’s most loyal followers continued to drink their own poison laced punch, they left the pavilion after they drank, in order to shield remaining residents from watching them die. As the field outside the pavilion filled with dead and dying people, bodies were dragged into rows and placed on their stomachs so that remaining followers wouldn’t see their contorted faces.

Eventually, as aides ran out of room to line the bodies up, they were piled on top of one another and one of Jones’s doctors walked around with a stethoscope to confirm that each person was dead and not faking it.

Roughly forty minutes later, the light had left Jonestown. It was dark, except for lights coming from the pavilion, and Jones concluded his final speech. He switched the tape recorder off. Instead of drinking his own poison as he had forced his followers to do, Jones chose to die with a single bullet to his head. After seeing his followers contort in pain and after promising his followers that their death would be just like falling asleep, Jones decided that that wasn’t how he wanted to die. It remains unclear whether Jim Jones shot himself, or whether he had one of his aides end his life.

Ultimately, 909 people died in Jonestown on November 18, 1978. Of those, 304 were children.

The next day, a rescue team was sent to Jonestown, but they carried no medical supplies as they weren’t expecting to find any survivors. Shockingly, there ended up being 33 survivors who were either able to escape into the jungle, or avoided going to the pavilion all together for one reason or another.

Once recovered, survivors were airlifted to a Guyanese hospital, and then transported to a US Air Force medical evacuation aircraft. Some survivors who hid in the jungle remained there for up to three days before feeling safe enough to emerge. Many had been shot while trying to escape and had infected wounds by the time they were discovered, but all were simply glad to have survived the ordeal.

On November 20th, 1978, two survivors joined the recovery team to help identify bodies. In the end, only 631 of the 909 dead were identified, leaving nearly 300 people whose identities remain unknown. It took 8 full days to put all of the deceased into body bags.

The Guyanese government denied requests to facilitate the burial of the dead, leaving the American government to decide what to do with the 909 bodies being transported back into the country. Of the 631 identified bodies, barely half were claimed by family members back in the United States. The remaining 412 unidentified bodies and identified but not claimed remains were buried in a mass grave near Oakland, California where a memorial for the Jonestown victims now stands.

Larry Layton, who was instrumental in the attack at the airstrip, was the only one who was captured and faced charges for the Jonestown massacre. He was sentenced to 18 years in prison and completed his sentence in 2002. From everything I could find (which wasn’t much), it appears that Larry Layton now lives and works in Northern California.

One of the largest debates surrounding Jonestown is whether this should be considered a mass suicide, or a mass murder. Julia Scheere argues that it should be considered the latter, and that Jones had always had the intention of killing his followers in Guyana, pointing to the early suicide drills he conducted with his inner circle before moving to Guyana as evidence.

Scheere argues that a mass suicide was always Jones’s plan, and that many of the deaths that occurred in Jonestown can’t be considered suicides, as one third of the deaths were children who were forced to drink the poison, in addition to all of the other residents who were either forcibly injected with poison, or had it poured down their throats against their will.

Scheere also asserts that the use of the phrase “drinking the Kool-Aid” is insensitive and offensive to both survivors and victims of the Jonestown incident, and I agree with that assertion wholeheartedly. Since learning about the Jonestown incident, this phrase has essentially vanished from my vocabulary, and it’s my hope that it only gets rarer and rarer as more people learn about the atrocities that inspired it.

There are obviously WAY more parts and pieces to this story, which I would definitely recommend learning more about the next time you need an internet rabbit hole to dive into. From Jones’s “Rainbow Family” to more in-depth accounts of all of the abuses committed against his followers, this is only the tip of the iceberg that is Jim Jones and Jonestown.

I’ve included references and additional readings and recommendations below if you’re interested, but even if not, I hope that the next time you hear anyone talk about “drinking the Kool-Aid,” you’ll think of the 304 children and 605 adults who perished in Jonestown on November 18, 1978, and pass this story on to whoever still feels okay saying this phrase. Besides…it was Flavor Aid…it wasn’t even Kool-Aid, anyway.

SOURCES/SEE ALSO

Sword and Scale Podcast, Episode 50

Casefile Podcast, Case 60: Jonestown (Parts 1-3)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Truth and Lies: Jonestown, Paradise Lost, available to stream on Hulu

Jonestown: Rebuilding my life after surviving the massacre

Archive footage of Jonestown

Q042 Transcript and MP3

#true crime #jonestown

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ace-in-a-shopping-cart · 3 years

Text

Director’s Cut Chapter 10: ... Now That I See You

Director’s cut chapter 9

Logan looked up at him from his seat on the floor. “I’m just trying to deal with the reports coming in from the coast guard.”

“About the pirates?” Virgil marked his place in his book before giving his full attention to Logan.

Virgil’s hand in his hair brought him back to the here and now. “You’ll figure it out eventually. How about you tell me what the problem is. Sometimes, just going through it out loud helps.”

Sometimes, when it was clear that Logan needed the distraction, Virgil would go on about the books he was reading. He’d tell Logan about the interesting parts of the history books, the amazing amount of creatures he’d read about recently. He was always rewarded with a smile and full attention, as he’d succeeded in taking Logan’s mind off work long enough for him to relax. Logan loved when Virgil would seek him out, somehow knowing when he needed the distraction the most. Logan lets Virgil talk about his hyperfixations, which can be an ADHDer’s love language. Virgil is telling Logan he means enough to him that he’s willing to talk about his hyperfiations without getting bullied.

Once everything was set up, he went and sat by Virgil. He took a deep breath of the sea air he could never get enough of before speaking. “It’s a nice view.”

Virgil smiled, nodding. “That it is.”

“You seem to be healing well.” He said as an opening.

Virgil nodded, eyes focused on the book in his lap, hands fiddling with the bookmark Logan had bought for him. “Yeah, I think I’ll be able to leave soon.”

Virgil frowned, a line appearing between his eyebrows. “What’s a ‘plus one’?”

“A guest of a guest. I am an invited guest who is allowed to invite another guest.”

“I don’t know what I’d have to wear.”

Director’s cut chapter 11

#jots #virgil sanders #logan sanders #analogical #mer!virgil #adhd!virgil #the little mermaid au #ace writes #director's cut #jots bonus features

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lowat-golden-tower · 7 years

Text

Embracing Darkness

So. This took a while, and I’m sorry lol. Life and work have been bitches and I’ve been de-stressing a lot with some equally ego trash friends of mine. But I finally got time to write, so here it is.

It’s also shorter than I anticipated because I decided to split up the next chapter into two parts. Sorry guys. Not really.

But so yeah. @alcordraws, @galaxy-starheart and @kenmarlenn here’s the sads I promised and maybe it’s not as breaking as I’ve been advertising but I hope it still makes you cry.

#friendship

AO3 Mirror

Chapter 7: Hypothesis

Dark stared down at the prone form of Yandere where he lay in one of Dr. Iplier's few clinic beds. The ego was scarcely recognizable, covered from head to toe in a myriad of casts and bandages. Tubes and wires snaked out around the gaps, attached to various machines gathered at the head of the bed. One produced a steady beep. Dark knew it was Yandere's pulse; the beat of his heart buried away beneath all the rest.

He looked so small. Yandere was hardly large in size or stature to begin with, but like this he almost looked a child. An actual teenager, caught in the throes of a tragedy. Only a few tufts of red and black poked out from the bandages wrapped around his head. There was deep bruising around his eyes, and an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose blurred more.

Slowly and quietly, Dr. Iplier stepped up beside Dark. Having been the ego to bring Yandere in, he'd been by Yandere's side the longest. A few had stopped by after hearing the news: Host, Orville, Wilford. The doctor knew Artie would have been there as well, were he not out of it himself. (He wouldn't have allowed Artie to move from his bed yet anyway. His stitches had barely begun to heal.) They had all left eventually, as there was little any of them could do.

"It's catatonia, not comatose. His... everything, it's in shock. Post-traumatic stress disorder, to put it simply. It's... it's so severe he isn't even responding to extreme external stimuli. Only his eyes have moved since you brought him in, and... I felt it might be easier to just close them."

That had been Dr. Iplier's diagnosis, once he'd done all he could for Yandere's physical injuries. He was hardly a psychiatrist, but he knew enough to recognize the details of Yandere's condition. Part of him wished it was a coma, even if it meant there was less chance of Yandere waking up. At least he would be unconscious. At least he could be at rest, instead of trapped within this frozen state of muteness and loss of motor functions.

It was part of the reason for his quiet, besides the somber atmosphere. He turned to Dark and his tone, while hardened with accusation, was subdued. "...If he'd been human, he would have died before hitting the floor, from what you explained to me. If he were a weaker ego, he would have died before you could bring him to me. He should have... even with his materials and fan base, he shouldn't have survived the surgeries."

Dr. Iplier's grip tightened on the edges of his clipboard and he chewed at his lip. "I spent twelve hours alone realigning his bones. Another six painstakingly removing their fragments from his organs. Another six patching up the lacerations and tears, I... I don't believe in miracles, Dark." His brown eyes glanced to the older ego's face, but it hadn't so much as twitched. Those dark eyes were still locked onto Yandere, greyed hands clasped stiffly behind his back. Dr. Iplier sighed. "Some combination of his support and his abilities pulled him through it, but Dark... I can't do anything for his mind."

Finally, finally Dark turned to evenly meet his gaze. It was chilling and demeaning but beneath that noxious surface lay other suppressed emotions. He didn't say anything, though, so Dr. Iplier continued. "Your shadows broke more than his body. I think there's more to it than a disorder caused by the conflict. I think they left something behind."

Dark quirked one solitary brow, silently offering Dr. Iplier the chance to explain further.

Well, at least he was listening. That alone was more than the doctor had allowed himself to hope for. He sighed again, scribbling something down on the paper attached to his clipboard. It was just a doodle, but it helped him feel productive; helped steady his nerves. "Your shadows caused this, Dark. Your aura, whatever you want to call it. They did this... and I believe they're the only thing that can fix it. It's the only treatment I can think of."

When Dark spoke, it was akin to a subtle shock in the room. The already chilly clinic lowered a few degrees in temperature. "He's an ego. Not a human. Surely, he can work through this."

Dr. Iplier immediately shook his head. "I don't think so. We've never dealt with something like this before, but... Dark. Look at Host. Look at what your abilities have caused him. That was in a controlled state. This... this was catastrophic. There's no other word for it. You know this is something only you can address." He looked to Dark again, working up the nerve, his gaze sad and pleading. He might not be especially close to Yandere, but he never wanted to lose an ego.

Dark was tense. Dr. Iplier could see the frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. "...if I refuse?"

Dr. Iplier's brow furrowed and unlike the other ego, he allowed his frown to show. "Then... my prognosis is bleak. I don't think.... It's not a matter of him dying, Dark. If Yandere stays like this... if he can't be who he is... the fans will lose interest. They'll forget. He'll fade, Dark. He'll fade if he can't be everything Mark created him to be."

Dark turned away from Dr. Iplier, then, but the doctor could still see the tension in his face. He could see the internal debate swirling around in those dark eyes and knew in that moment the responsibility had been taken from his hands. He'd done all he could for Yandere. The rest was up to Dark now; the ego who had driven him to this state. "...I'll consider it. Leave us."

Dr. Iplier almost protested, concerned for exactly what Dark might be inclined to do, but in the end he knew giving Dark privacy would be for the best. Dark wouldn't do anything so long as he lingred, so long as there were witnesses. No, this was a matter he and Yandere needed to sort out themselves.

How Dark planned to do it, Dr. Iplier had no idea. But for Yandere's sake, he hoped it would be something successful.

Once left alone, Dark released a heavy sigh. His shoulders slumped and he allowed his rigid posture to fall as the full weight of the situation settled within him. He forced his fingers to unclench, hands releasing each other to swing listlessly to his sides. Still, the emotion didn't show on his face, only lingering in the depths of his eyes. Even alone, he had standards to uphold.

"Only I can fix this, hm?" He murmured to himself, stepping forward until he could grasp at the short bed rail. He leaned forward on it, looming over Yandere until the shadow he cast engulfed a majority of the younger ego. He didn't so much as twitch in response.

Dark's eyes narrowed. "Only I.... Why should I be required to fix anything? I warned the brat. I told him not to play with forces he couldn't even dream of. He didn't listen, and now he faces the consequences. It's a lesson." The words were a rumbling growl under his breath; a deep rumble in his chest. This was why he wished to be alone. He needed privacy to sort out his thoughts.

To make a decision.

He scoffed lightly and leaned back. "They all still blame me. For all of this. Everything. You were the one who stabbed the artist. You were the one who nearly destroyed the building. You were the one who signed his own death sentence- it was practically a suicide! Yet I am to blame for this. For everything. And now they want me to fix it. To fix you." He scoffed, again, harsher and more demeaning.

Dark forced his gaze away from Yandere, though he couldn't bring it to focus on anything else. He merely glowered into the liminal space. "I am required to do nothing. I have no guilt or remorse for my actions. I knew this outcome was a possibility. I knew the risks. Perhaps you should have considered them more."

He didn't know if Yandere could hear him. Catatonia, Dr. Iplier had emphasized, not comatose. Sometimes, that meant the victim was still conscious, or aware. Others, they might as well have been comatose. Even if Yandere couldn't hear or comprehend Dark's words, he felt compelled to address the bedridden ego. This was all his doing. All of the accidents. If Dark had his way, none of this would have happened. No one would have been significantly hurt.

Yandere would have broken, most definitely, but only to the point of becoming Dark's puppet. Not like this. Not so broken he couldn't even blink or breathe on his own, with his tattered and bruised lungs. Dark's grip tightened on the plastic beneath his hands until the grey of his knuckles turned bone white.

He hissed under his breath. "It failed because of you. It failed because you couldn't simply play along. You had to get ideas. You had to fight back. If you'd simply let me in...."

Yet, that was precisely a reason the aura was so attracted to Yandere. His stubbornness and strength of will; two qualities Dark had himself. Necessary traits if one were to even attempt to wield the darkness. Yandere had them, and he'd used them, and they were key factors as to how he was capable of undermining Dark in the first place. His aura had been all too eager for fresh meat and a more susceptible mind. It was precisely the outcome he'd tried so hard to avoid.

"If only you'd let me in... instead of it...."

Dark finally looked back to Yandere, expression grim and pensive. He allowed some of his tiredness to show; a weariness creasing at his brow and forming lines on his face. Ripping one of his hands from the railing, he hesitantly reached out. Grey fingers found the most prominent tuft of red at the front of Yandere's head and brushed it back with a gentleness that was not contrived. Again, Yandere didn't stir, not even the monitor shifting its rhythm.

He might as well already be dead.

But he wasn't. Yandere wasn't, and even if he did die, he would come back. But it was impossible to know if his resurrection would break the stupor. If his fans would even have faith enough to revive him. If Dark allowed the contaminent, the issue, the "infection" to linger, would it only worsen? Would it become truly impossible to address?

Dark did not want Yandere to fade. Like Dr. Iplier, it didn't matter what his relationship to any given ego happened to be. He would do everything in his power to make certain none of them faded or disappeared. It had always been his primary goal, since the beginning.

Yandere couldn't fade. Dark would not allow it. Much as he refused to accept blame, refused to acknowledge his mistakes or his guilt, refused to admit he cared. He would not allow Yandere to disappear, be it of his own devices or Dark's machinations. He was in control here. He was the king of the castle and all who lived in it.

Dark closed his eyes and leaned back, hand returning to the railing. He drew in a deep, steadying breath and focused all of his attentions upon his aura. His shadows. His darkness. He attuned every last sense to the writhing mass of power and malice.

It sang to him. Spoke to him. It caressed his skin and brushed at his hair like an old friend. Like a faithful companion, but Dark knew better. He knew how those gentle touches could turn to teeth and claws; the murmurs a biting demand gnawing at the unwary mind. He'd had years to learn about the aura and comprehend its every quirk. It took experience to control; to master.

Yandere never stood a chance.

Once certain of his grasp on the aura, Dark, pressed it forward. Like so many times in the past week, he let his energy seep into the ego before him. Yet this time, it wasn't alone. This time, Dark wasn't merely standing back to watch and to wait. This time, Dark was going with it.

He would find Yandere, and he would bring him back. Or else.

#markiplier #markiplier egos #egoplier #darkiplier #yandereplier #dr. iplier #embracing darkness #egos inc #injury #mental illness #ptsd

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chromemuffin · 7 years

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(Captive Prince Trilogy) Prince’s Gambit Liveblogging (Chapters 1 & 2)

Time to start the second book in my Captive Prince liveblog! This was sort of delayed because I was trying to read the extra chapter at the end of book 1, couldn’t get more than a page or two in, and kept putting it off. Then I got busy. I skipped it for now.

And, looking back, I completely missed the fact that all three books have a different crest on them lol...First book was a lion, second is...actually, I have no clue what it is, something with tassels. The third has something like a crown with two griffons.

Chapter 1

Yay, finally leaving the castle! I’m guessing this is where the story really picks up.

Damen’s analyzing mind, always relating things around him to what he knows (military stuff) is quite pleasant to read through for some reason. And considering we finally get a change of scenery, I can feel some of his relief at finally getting out of that castle (though he is not exactly free, we are, for a good while it seems).

lol wait the dogs like Laurent. Are very happy to see him, in fact. I guess he does get out of the main city every now and again, this keep isn’t too far away.

“...but, not being an owl, saw almost nothing.” lol sometimes I have to sit back and wonder, because this is in third person but clearly expressing all of Damen’s thoughts so like. Yes, he actually thinks this as he’s trying to look at his own back.

The better it heals, the less your back will trouble you with stiffness, both now and later in life, so that you will be better able to swing a sword around, killing a great many people.

lol you can just feel the deadpan tone and unimpressed attitude and sort of contempt for the business of killing.

All this tender care of his back, like soothing with a kiss the reddened cheek you have slapped.

Once again, I appreciate that Damen can clearly see through these actions, unlike a lot of ‘held captive by the enemy’ stories, he knows full well that these acts of kindness really aren’t done out of the goodness of the other party’s heart. He’ll go along with it, because he must, but doesn’t mistaken it for affection or care, he may be attracted to Laurent physically but for the time being that’s all it is.

Of course, that makes the transition to actual romance a little rocky but...I guess I’ll have to be patient.

“Men find themselves in the places they put themselves.”

I like this Paschal guy. The things he says are sort of lowkey really great.

omg the trash talk is starting again. trash talk is great too.

Damen...

You noticed things like his pretty mouth, even dripping with nosebleed.

Ew. Damen is, like, attracted to pretty people easily and it is hilarious how easily he/the narrative gets distracted when one shows up. Also, I recall he liked to sleep with guys who won brawls so like, this is the perfect combination for him I guess? To each their own...

Ah, here it is. What I’ve been waiting for.

The first real glimpse of what sort of person Laurent appears to people other than Damen. Damen is obviously biased, so we’ve had nothing to go off except Damen’s thoughts and Laurent’s actions, and since Laurent isn’t exactly the most honest straightforward character, it was hard to tell in the last book what he really was like.

I really like this scene, I won’t go quoting the whole thing, but I really like the whole exchange (Aimeric is, like, a character I can maybe get behind and not be like ‘you’re such a little shit I guess you are also endearing but a shit nonetheless’ or Erasmus, who is in a class of his own (that short story on him did not help, ok, I couldn’t finish it, it’s too depressing).

Ha. Damen is still more intimidated by keeping Laurent waiting than he is Govart, that dude I fear we will not be rid of for quite a while.

Ugh, as good as it’s written, the sort of constant trash talk about Laurent and sex is really uncomfortable at times.

I feel like the ensuing conversation when Laurent returns at night is probably the only way it could have gone after the debacle that happened at the end of the last book.

I also feel as if they are starting to be a little more honest with each other, here. Just a little. They need to, in order to move on and sort of cooperate on this campaign.

Chapter 2

Have I mentioned I like gallows humor and find it hilarious that somehow everyone, even Laurent’s own men, seem to be on the same page about him and the no sex and being made of ice? Yeah, well, the latter is getting quite Not Okay now. Maybe because they are getting more vulgar and gross, but I’m on the same page as Damen now. The narrative seems to have succeeded in that respect.

Oh, the snake comparisons are back! I do like how creative the insults are, truly.

But Laurent actually relaxing a bit, wow, we are finally seeing that. I like the subtle (actually not subtle at all given how Damen devotes a paragraph of thought to the image of him relaxing a bit) reminder that hey, he’s just a man. Human. Not, you know, a demon prince or something.

Although he goes and pulls an all-nighter, and is ready to go in the morning. So, not helping that image, but still.

...whatever cold bitchy remarks he had made - sharpened by a night without sleep - had been enough to eject the Regent’s men out of their beds and into a semblance of lines.

I think I have no choice but to say I relate to this on a spiritual level because I, too, do not get enough sleep and subsequently am horribly grumpy and terrible to deal with in the morning. I’m trying to stop, because I really do act bitchy without enough sleep (which is like every morning) but staying up late has become a really bad habit. urgh

Damen is so prepared for this fight waiting to happen. In the meantime, he’s trying to play peacemaker.

“Getting massaged.” omg I missed you and your remarks Damen, it’s been too long (when did I finish the last book? two weeks ago maybe)

This tent is so fancy what the heck haha.

Ooh fight scene! Not the one Damen is looking out for, but.

It’s only been a month since this whole thing started? Geez, feels like longer...

omg

They are being more honest in this book. I mean, Laurent admitted Damen was better than him at swordplay, and he sort of blushed (and how good is he at shoving his emotions down, like can you even suppress being flustered).

JUST SOME FRIENDLY ADVICE HAHA did you really think he willingly did drugs before a fight or

Bailleux Keep: a broken-down structure with a fancy name = ‘fancy’ how I feel about most French words, honestly. I just. am not good at pronouncing things so French is like a nightmare to me.

Ah, Damen, you are actually quite good at this military leader thing. And, nice exchange just before the end of the chapter.

I really wanted to read more but ahaha need to pace myself.

#captive prince #prince's gambit #cp liveblogging #pg liveblogging

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not-close-to-straight · 7 years

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Loki’s Song (Part 2)

MASTERLIST HERE

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

It was white again.

Tony stared at the Mark, wondering idly what had happened this time, too far gone in his scotch to really care.

Over the years, he really had gone nearly numb to the pain every time the damn thing turned, when the blue leeched out leaving the white, or when the blue came pouring back in with a rush of heat.

It seemed more potent now, harder to ignore, ever since New York. It had gotten worse again, after the Mandarin, and worse again when the Accords had ripped everything he thought he loved out of his hands.

It had even takenRhodey. He’d never really bounced back from the accident with Vision and Falcon and even though he had tried over and over to reach out to Tony, Tony had pushed him away.

It was better like this anyway.

Tony felt like he was toxic, like everything he said was somehow poison. He couldn’t even be in the same room as most of his old team without an argument breaking out, couldn’t talk to the press without ripping into them, and ever since Pepper had—ever since Pepper had---

Tony gripped his glass a little tighter, trying not to think about her.

God, it still hurt to think about her.

She hadn't been able to take it, after Extremis. She had tried but Tony was too checked out to give her the help she needed. She had ran then, and he had let her go, knowing that he couldn't offer her anything anyway. Rumours floated around now, something about a hero named Rescue, saving the world one day at a time, and he knew it was her.

That was good. It was fine.

Pepper needed...she had needed more than Tony. It was fine. Rhodey needed more than Tony and it was fine.

Everyone needed more than Tony, which meant no one needed Tony and that was just...fine.

Even the company ran itself most days, with Tony just signing when needed, answering a phone call if he absolutely had to.

He didn't even live in New York any more, and he had never bothered to rebuild his California home.

The Avengers were…maybe doing something, he didn't know. He didn't care. He wasn't part of the team anymore, wasn't welcome anymore, and the Soldier had seemed to step right in to fill his slot next to Cap so that-- that was just-- that was just---Tony took a drink and quit thinking about that too.

He lived his life far away from that world. He wanted nothing to do with it. Nothing held his interest. Nothing piqued his curiosity. In fact other than the occasional burn of his Mark, Tony didn't even feel a whole lot of anything these days, just walked around in something like a numb daze and went to bed alone at night.

He sat on his deck, in the big house overlooking the giant lake just barely on this side of the United States border, and drank his scotch.

Played the piano every night.

Tinkered in his robot free garage.

And wondered how the hell he was in his mid forties and already done with living.

******************* ******************* It was a… thunderclap, maybe, that made Tony drop his glass, shattering the crystal, and spilling the dark liquor all over the floor.

Not a thunderclap. Maybe something heavy landing? It was sort of like the noise when Thor had landed unceremoniously in the Avengers tower, all loud noise and burn marks on Tony's overly expensive floors.

Annoying.

But did he care enough to go look?

Sighing, scratching at his arm unconsciously, Tony moved upstairs to the main living room, dragging his feet up the stairs, grasping at the railing to keep his balance, wondering for the thousandth time why he couldn't have settled on an actual cabin instead of a mansion that pretended to be a cabin. Really, the house was about two floors and five thousand square feet too big for just him, but Tony Stark had never owned anything modest and he supposed he wasn't about to start now.

Reaching for a beer from the fridge, unwilling to face mystery noises without a drink in his hand, Tony opened the door to his living room and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight in front of him.

“Oh this is…” the deep voice from the unexpected visitor sounded confused. “This is not what I expected.”

“Loki.” Tony laughed in disbelief, but it wasn't really a laugh, even if the disbelief was one hundred percent real, because when was the last time he laughed? “What in the actual fuck are you doing here?”

“That…” the tall man turned in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings with a wary look, “is an excellent question.”

Tony watched him for a minute, but the Demi-god didn't say anything else, still staring with wide eyes around the room.

“Well, do you want a beer?” He asked tiredly and Loki quirked a half smile. “I'm sure it's a long journey from… wherever you came from. And I'm still a decent host if I'm not much else. So. A beer?”

“That would be acceptable. Yes.” Loki stared up at the wooden beams of the vaulted ceiling. “Yes, I think a drink would perhaps...help.”

Tony rolled his eyes at the formal, condescending tone, but still turned back for another bottle, shuffling into the kitchen, well aware of green eyes following his movements.

“Tell me, Stark.” Loki began and Tony hid a shiver behind a cough, legitimately surprised that he felt anything at all, and hating that it had happened when that deep voice rolled over him.

“What could I possibly tell you, Odinson? Or is it Laufeyson? I was never all the way sure about that whole parental thing.” Tony tried for sarcasm, for snark, but the words fell flat, lacking their former bite. “Or since we are apparently friendly enough for you to drop into my house uninvited, should I just call you Loki?”

Loki’s eyes narrowed, his words full of the spite Tony had tried and failed to convey. “Tell me, Anthony, does your arm still bother you? Or have you given up trying to rip my name from your skin?”

Tony did laugh then, dropping his head against the fridge door with a thump, the sound of his laugh so broken that Loki put his hand over his heart, rubbing the Mark there uncomfortably.

“Of course it's your Mark.” Tony laughed again and this time Loki backed away a step, flinching away from the sound. “Of course it is.”

“I--” Loki hesitated now, suddenly unsure of himself. “I do not understand why you find that amusing.”

“It's not amusing at all.” Tony slammed the fridge door and tossed a bottle at Loki. “It's not amusing at all.”

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

“When did it first appear?” Loki asked, rolling the now empty bottle between his hands. “My Mark. When did you receive it?”

“I was born with it.” Tony answered in an even tone.

Loki raised an eyebrow in question. “Really? Born with it? That's quite um…”

“Yeah I know. I got to hear all about what a freak I was my entire life.” Tony wasn't looking, so he didn't see the flash of anger cross the other man's face.

“It wasn't all bad, not at first.” Tony continued. “Kids don't understand these things, so I wore tank tops and t shirts not realizing what it meant, you know, that not only did I have a Mark, but it was in a language that didn't exist. Didn't realize how much of a freak that made me until later.”

“My language has existed for millennia.” Loki countered. “Just because mortals do not understand it, does not make it null.

Tony only shrugged. “While that may be true, it didn't stop my father from staring at me like I was a…”

“Do not say ‘freak’ again.” Loki warned, anger sparking in his eyes, but Tony ignored him.

“Like I was a freak. But that's not anything compared to how he looked at me when he discovered my soulmate was a man. That was a whole other level of…” Tony's voice trailed off and he took a drink to steady himself. “That was a whole other conversation, whole other example of Howards A+ parenting. Ma never seemed to care, but Dad? Yeah. He cared.”

“Anthony…” Loki started carefully. “You know as well as I that we cannot choose the gender of our soulmates.”

Tony shrugged, a bare twitch of annoyance. “Anyway. The first thing that really highlighted my… situation...was when I was four.”

“What happened at that particular age?” Loki leaned forward, listening intently to everything Tony was saying, trying to gauge the emotion playing on Tony's face.

Only there wasn't any emotion. Tony was as blank as a slate, his voice never losing that even, dead pitch. He hardly even moved, looking frozen in his chair as he spoke and it made Loki… hurt.

“When I was four,” Tony said slowly, “you died for the first time. Or at least the first time during my lifetime. And I spent a whole week in bed, crying until I was vomiting, not even able to comprehend why I thought my heart was being ripped out of my chest. Four year olds understand soulmates you know? But they don't really understand death.”

Loki swallowed hard, thinking back several earth decades to a battle where a spear had gone through his heart. He had lain on the battlefield for days, his body healing so slowly that sometimes he didn't think it would work at all, and he would die on a muddy field on a no-name planet. He had healed eventually, though it had taken several days. It hadn't occurred to him once that his soulmate might have thought he died.

“And you… felt that?” Loki whispered. “You felt when I--”

“When my soulmate died? Yeah it was great, thanks.”

“I wasn't truly dead.” he offered. “I have a remarkable healing ability, being a god and all that. It just takes longer sometimes than others. If that's--if that's any consolation.”

“It isn’t.” Tony finished his beer and tossed the bottle, letting it bounce off the trash can with a loud clatter. “It absolutely isn't.”

Loki waved his hand and the bottle lifted from the floor, settling into the can quietly but Tony ignored the magic show.

“Right around my fifth birthday,” he continued, “you did it again. And again, like second grade-ish. And every time,” Tony tapped his chest, where his arc reactor had sat for so many years. “Every single time it put me on the floor. In bed for days. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't eat. My mom sat in with me and told me--”

He stopped talking abruptly, and stood up, looking for another drink.

“What did she tell you?” Loki asked, more than curious over why the mention of Tony's mother had brought about the first bit of emotion he had seen all evening.

Tony shrugged it off. “It doesn't matter now. It was horrible advice and didn't help. I didn't understand it then, and I don't care to understand it now.”

“I see.” Loki waited a beat before asking-- “When did I die next?”

“When I was twelve.” Tony said and that was all he said about that particular incident, dropping back onto the couch and staring out the window.

Loki thought for a long moment, then pulled on the sleeves of his leather jacket, standing up to place it over the straight backed chair. Dressed now in a sleeveless tunic over his pants, he crossed the few steps to kneel in front of Tony, waiting patiently until the brunette finally turned to look at him.

“Twelve.” Loki repeated, and traced several small scars on his bicep, that looked like a--

“I'll be damned.” Tony commented. “Pumice stone.”

Loki moved his fingers up to another, broader scar, with one end flat, the other curved in a wicked arc.

“Seventeen.” Tony said shortly. “Knife. Tried to burn it off my arm. So you did feel it.”

“Yes, that one was quite painful.” Loki raised his eyebrow. “Painful enough that I thought perhaps my soulmate had perished.”

Tony looked away, but not before Loki caught the small smile of satisfaction at the corner of his lips.

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

“Are you still here?” Tony's tired voice greeted Loki early the next morning. “God, you’re still here.”

Loki turned from the window with a raised eyebrow and hesitant smile. “Good Morrow, Anthony.”

“It's just Tony, there, Reindeer Games.”

Loki ignored the jibe, watching the other man carefully. “You don't sleep very much.” He stated more than asked. “In fact, I would think you didn't sleep at all last night.”

Tony’s expression didn't even flicker. “It's weird, you know, to comment on people's sleeping habits.”

“Forgive me.” Loki held up his hands peacefully. “It is difficult to ignore your struggles with our--”

“With our nothing.” Tony finished, cutting Loki off before he could mention the soul-bond, before he could intimate that they were linked in anyway. “I’ll walk you out, if my politeness needs to extend that far, otherwise the front door is that way.” He pointed over his shoulder, and started rummaging in the fridge for breakfast food, setting eggs and various vegetables on the counter.

Loki's lips twitched in a short smile. “You haven't even asked why I am here, Anthony.”

“Because I don't care.” Tony switched his stove on, and Loki moved closer, circling around him as he approached. “And it's just Tony. Not Anthony.”

“You honestly don't care.” Loki noted, genuinely astonished. “I tried to destroy your little world, brought an army of aliens to annihilate your little planet and now show up unannounced in your little house, and you have no questions. You just… offer me a beverage and go to bed. Even after discovering it is in fact my name etched into your skin and that it is my fault that you suffered as a child. You honestly don't care.”

“My house isn't little.” Tony huffed in annoyance, feeling another twinge of surprise that he had a reaction at all. “Never mind. No, I don't care if you think my house is little. Do I need to feed you before you leave or not?”

“I don't make it a habit to eat.”

“Really?” Tony kept crackin eggs into a pan. “Because Thor eats as if the world is ending at sundown every night.”

“Yes, well Thor Odinson makes it his life's mission to enjoy everything he does, whether it's eating, drinking, fighting, or whoring.” Loki sneered, perhaps still the littlest bit bitter over...everything.

But Tony didn't seem to notice and only nodded. “I could see that.”

Loki watched silently for several minutes, watched Tony methodically stir eggs and chop vegetables and cook them in a skillet, all without offering conversation, hardly even blinking, his expression perfectly blank.

It was like the man felt nothing, and it troubled Loki, bothered him enough that his hand went to the Mark over his heart again, rubbing at it absentmindedly.

Tony hissed and nearly dropped his plate, reaching up to scratch at his left bicep.

Oh that's… interesting. Loki thought.

“Something bothering you?” He asked as casually as he could, trying not to sound too terribly condescending, but tempted to be irritating just to garner a reaction from this man that was supposed to be his soulmate.

Tony walked right past him as if he wasn't there, settling at the table with his plate in front of him and taking a bite before bothering to answer. “Must be the ink of my Mark turning blue again, since you obviously aren't dead.”

“It changes color.” Loki said slowly, tapping his chin. “Every time? With every death and… resurrection?”

“Yep.”

“And it hurts? Every time?” Loki hands trembled at the wash of sympathy he suddenly felt for the man.

“Every time.” Tony started eating again, and Loki just watched, lost in his own thoughts until Tony grunted and jerked his head towards the counter.

Turning to look, Loki saw a plate, with half an egg and vegetable omelet still steaming on it. “Oh. You… cooked for me.”

“I cooked for me. I just made too much. So don't let it go to waste.”

Loki couldn't stop the smile spreading across his lips, and he took the plate gingerly, sitting across from Tony at the small table.

“Thank you, Anthony.”

“Seriously. It's just Tony.”

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

“How long have you lived here?” Loki joined Tony on the large wrap around deck later, looking out across the water.

“Couple of years.” Tony answered automatically, but Loki knew he wasn't really engaged in the conversation.

“And you are happy like this? No technology, no fancy parties and expensive suits. No… people.” He pressed. “I am surprised. I would think someone like you--”

“It works just fine.” Tony interrupted. “Just fine.”

“I heard about the attempt to corral your team.” Loki waved his hand, summoning a chair from across the deck to his side and sitting gracefully. “The Accords, was it?”

“Yep.”

“It cost you several of your friends. Almost your life, is that correct?”

“Yep.”

Loki fell silent again, discouraged by Tony's short answers.

The billionaire just sat, feet crossed at the ankle, one hand wrapped around a bottle of water, the other idly flipping a screwdriver through his fingers.

“You know, I never actually… died.” Loki tried again. “It is notoriously difficult to kill a god, and I seem harder to end than others. Each time…” he tapped his own arm to indicate where Tony's Mark sat. “Each time I received an injury that certainly would have ended a mortal, but I simply healed, whether it took a day or a week.”

Tony nodded to indicate he'd heard, but didn't comment on it at all and they sat in quiet for over an hour.

“Why are you here, Loki?” Tony finally asked, not even turning to look, still speaking to the water.

“I thought you didn't care.” Loki said with a smirk, and then a frown when Tony didn't take the bait. “I found myself in a bad situation, found myself badly wounded so instead of trying to run, I transported myself home.”

“So how did you end up here? Not even Nick Fury with his creepy all seeing eye knows where this place is.”

“I told you. I transported myself home.” Loki repeated.

“Is this like a riddle?” A flicker of annoyance in Tony's voice. “Because I have to say, my level of patience for other worldly bull shit has plummeted drastically since the last time we met.”

“What I am saying, is that when I gathered my Seidr, my magic, and called for home, instead of landing me in Asgard, though I am hardly welcome there, or even Jotunheim… it brought me to you.”

Tony's hand tightened so quickly around his water bottle that the entire thing crumpled, but his face remained unchanged. “Your magic thinks that I am...that I am home?”

“We are soul mates, Anthony.” Loki pointed out. “Is it so much a stretch that my magic recognizes that? That my magic would bring me to you instead of sending me somewhere to be alone?”

“So you have a Mark as well?” Tony motioned to him vaguely. “Your universe thinks that we are soulmates too?”

“We share the same universe, Anthony.”

“Right. So you have a soulmate. And it's...me.”

“Yes.” Loki said quietly, tilting his head back to try and catch the weak rays of sun, waiting for Tony to speak again.

“How long have you had it?” Tony's voice hitched just the tiniest bit, and Loki smiled at the hint of emotion, but didn't turn to look, affording Tony the privacy to feel whatever this was in peace.

“Anthony, I have had your Mark on my skin for over a thousand years.”

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#ncts fics #frostiron #soulmate au #tony stark #loki laufeyson

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