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kyberphilosopher · 4 years ago

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Androphobia

Requested? No Word Count: 7014

An Android attempts to offer comfort to someone with sleeping trouble.

Androphobia [an·drow·fow·bee·uh]; Fear of or aversion to men. A related concept is misandry, the hatred of men, but not necessarily fear of them.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

Every woman or female born member of society has experienced an off putting encounter with a man.

This is not to be entirely blamed on men- not as a whole, no. But individuals, the ones you run into on your way out of the grocery store, the ones who stop you on the streets, they are the ones to blame. Some women have the guts to tell them off. Not an easy task with the given anxiety, but one to take pride in for the capability that comes with it. Some women stay quiet, rush away as fast as their polite feet can take them and hope someone will see the problem. They usually don’t. And some women are outliers, tricking their ways out of interactions with these men one way or another, and to them I take my hat off.

There are men who are easily construed as monsters, when in the dead of night their silhouettes flash beneath the tallest of streetlights. And there is no reason to not believe them as such right then and there, for as spoken by our Lady Galadriel, “the hearts of men are easily corrupted.” And any look into statistics will back up this fear, any personal experience, any hug that’s gone on just a bit too suspiciously long, any catching of those wandering eyes and it’s easy to feel in your heart that men are not to be trusted. They are not to be confronted, nor left alone with, and they will jump at the opportunity to put down anyone for the validation of other men.

This is the reality of women and men in 2021. It is the same for several in 2039.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

You step out of your old, dusty car. Chips of the dark red paint flake away as the raindrops hit it. Above you, the gloomy, warm gray clouds roll against each other in different shades and sizes, high above the skyscrapers and the stress of the world.

Gathering your belongings for the day, you shut the door with your hip and shoulder everything. Then you make your way towards the Police Department, your work, with the heels of your shoes scuffing against the parking lot.

Across the way, you can see Detective Reid, who rubs his brow while he does his usual slamming of the car door. There’s no point in looking for Hank at this ungodly hour, he’d never be in on time. He’ll probably park his car next to yours as usual- a little too close so it’s hard to squeeze into your own and pull out without causing his vehicle damage, but you never say anything. Not because you are one of the people who feel threatened by Hank as a man- It’s more because you trust Hank as a person, that you’d never bring up the obvious annoyances he places upon you and everyone else. Though, once you had tried.

(“Cars parked a little close, don’t you think?”

“Shut the hell up.”)

The inside of the Department is bustling. A female Android brushes past you briskly, the others at the front desk all seemingly click clacking away in their own brains. Even months after they’ve gained independence, it’s not uncommon for you to remember how they were before. How still and lifeless they were. And looking back on it, it was awfully sad. They seem busier now, more alive and fast. A strange image, in your mind, but not an unwelcomed one.

You reach your desk in the lobby, on the right side of the room slightly separated from the officers. You’re a psychologist, so it’s not plausible for you to be seated next to bias. Instead you’re in your own corner, with a rather cluttered desk on the top and empty rows of drawers. You do, however, keep a small japanese cherry blossom tree on the top, courtesy of Hank, though his has all but fully withered at this point.

And then you’re ready to start your day. Pull out your chair, click your pen and type away reports and notes on the computer to send to the detectives. You don’t have any meetings scheduled today, so there’ll be no need to prepare questions or anything of the sort. Just an easy day.

And then...

As you and I, the dear reader, have already discussed, finding men to be generally scary is an easy task. And even though you are smart enough to know that it’s simply not possible to truly believe that every man or male presenting individual is terrible, or has done terrible things, or has experienced the desire to do something terrible, there are times where you can’t help the cautiousness. You can’t help the flinch, the distrust, the physical distance, the hand in your pocket grasping for anything to use in self defense. Seeing men like Detective Reid in power, brutish and given guns and easily agitated, certainly doesn’t help.

So when you swish your chair around and come to a stand, your heart drops. You’re looking into the presence of someone tall, with broad shoulders and a strong chest. A man.

[Sort of.]

“Good morning, Doctor L/N.”

“Connor,” you breathe out, eyes flitting down as you attempt to quiet the thump thump thumping of your heart in your throat. “I- I didn’t-”

“Your heart race has increased. You appear stressed, Doctor L/N.”

He cocks his robotic head to the side, his eyebrows creasing as the literal gears in his head turn.

“You just startled me,” you admit, grabbing the back of your chair and moving it over as an excuse to create a bit of distance between you and the [possible] threatening force. “What is it, Connor?”

Now, for context, you and he were not considered close. You’ve spoken a few times, though never as friends, only friendly. You remember seeing him last Winter, when he would stand out in the snow outside the station, just gazing up after Hank had already returned to his own home. You remembered how he was different from the other Androids, besides being more advanced to begin with. You’d never said anything about that. It was obvious the only person it would’ve really mattered to, Hank, was already aware of this. And Hank liked Connor. There was no point in interfering.

In Connor’s eyes, you could really do no wrong. You were smart, intelligent, and diligent in your work. Your job had been threatened by the presence of Androids for years by the time Connor had showed up, but it still appeared that they wouldn’t have done your legacy justice. But despite this, interactions were scarce. You were not friends. You were friendly. And you were always on your guard.

“I was hoping to hear your thoughts on a case Lieutenant Anderson and I have been working on,” Connor tells you. He’s always made efforts to keep eye contact with people, and the tilt of his head tries to follow your eyeline to do so. But it’s never to any avail. “I apologize for the abruptness, but the thought only occured to me last night and I think it could be a good one.”

“Yeah, sure,” you answer. “I can help with that. I’ll get the details from Hank when he comes in.”

“No need,” the Android quickly assures you. When you look up to him for a brief second, you can see his tongue sway against his bottom lip, creating the softest of imprints. His dark eyes glitter like a beatles in the catch from the light above.

He produces a light, manilla colored folder lined inside with papers. “I hope you’ll find all the details you need here,” he explains, offering the file to you.

You take it after a moment, watching his thumb let go in the softest, most normal way possible.

“Thank you, Doctor L/N,” Connor smiles. “I’ll go get you your morning coffee.”

Connor is like a dog in that way. Not in an insulting way, or an obedient way. In a kind way, in a warm way. With his chocolate eyes and the dimples when he smiles, it’s hard not to want to just believe that he is incapable of hurting anyone or anything. Especially a woman.

But when you snap back to reality, you can see his male form. His set back shoulders, the robotic strength, the fact that he was programmed to execute any task he so desires. And then you’re right back on edge, wanting to step back from him until you’re sure you can take a full breath.

It’s easier when he’s taken himself away. You can see him through the glass walls in the kitchen, waiting for the pot to heat up. Doesn’t seem so bad from far away, like most of them do.

You return to the chair and open the file. At first, your eyes flit to the pictures attached at the top- one of a woman that looks so familiar, another of a man whose angry brows cover his eyes. Then they move to the written report, and something clicks.

The woman in the picture was an acquaintance from college. The man next to her was the main suspect, and apparently her lover.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

“Morning Doc,” Hank waves tiredly. Then his tone changes slightly. “The fuck are ya doing at my desk for?”

You push yourself from your lean on the edge of his property anxiously. “I read the report on your case. The Carla Rodriguez one.”

Hank sighs in his classic sigh, tired and grumpy from the morning and being alive. “What about it?” he questions, rummaging through his large bag of prescription pill bottles he’s brought with him every day this year. You suspect Connor has something to do with this.

“I had a... personal relationship with the victim,” you begin, crossing your arms. “I knew her.”

Hank looks at you, bewildered. “You were sleeping with my victim?”

“What? No. What? I- anyway. Carla and I were in college together.”

Hank’s face changes. He leans back with high raised brows in the way he does when processing something.

“The boyfriend did it. I remember him from back then, I think. Real angry guy.”

“You’re sure you know what you’re talkin about?” Hank questions you, though not in an insulting way. You know it’s anything but that.

“I’m sure. I can tell you what you need but you know I can’t testify. You won’t be able to use my bias in your report.”

“But the bias is the whole point.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, along with your shoulders. It’s the universal symbol for ‘I don’t know what to tell you’.

“You talked to Connor about this?”

“Well, no. I- he wanted my opinion but I didn’t tell him this part.”

Hank glances around. “Where's he at anyway?”

You shrug again. You’re thinking about the disposable coffee cup on your desk, left there by Connor a few hours ago, that you’d never brought yourself to touch.

“Run it by the Android before we do anything,” Hank advises you. “Nutjob’s got this whole system in his head.”

“Yeah,” you mutter as Hank seats himself. “That guy’s weird.”

“Tellin’ me?” Hank groans.

And the rest of the morning you spend avoiding Connor, thinking at your desk, barely doing your job while you let yourself get lost in thought. You’re not usually like this. You’re very professional at work- you love this job. The thrill, the learning about criminals and their rehabilitation- it makes you feel so tranquil. Complete, even.

But knowing a victim, knowing the perpetrator, still adapting to the change of Androids looking happy for once, knowing Hank pretends you’re the child he lost- it... it...

You snap your drawer shut.

What’s wrong with you today?

You huff out dry air. When you turn ever so slightly, you can see Hank at his desk, eyes already on you with concerned and empathetic brows. Seeing him calms you down a little, at least makes you feel more in the real moment. After a moment, you turn back straight. Then you smooth back your hair, and open a your file again.

“Doctor L/N?”

You look up slowly, recognizing the boyish, sturdy voice of Connor. Sure enough, there he is. Tall, looking down at you with his warm, brown eyes. They remind you of an excited, loyal dog. Yeah, you think, Connor seems like a dog person.

And then you catch the sharpness of how broad his shoulders are, how little effort it would take for him to kill you, or pin you down, or come at you in the dark.

“Can I speak with you candidly, Doctor L/N?”

“You...may,” you say slowly. Connor begins to squat, until he is level with your eyeline, though he’s over on the other side of your desk. From your view, your cherry blossoms pink petals stand out against the paleness of his skin, and then the darkness of his hair.

“I heard what you said earlier to the Lieutenant,” he begins.

Truthfully, your eyes flicker around his face, mostly between his lips and his nose and his eyes. They’re all so realistic. Well, obviously that was the point in his creation, but still. They’re so human. Connor is human. Even the way he seems to move his mouth, like his lips are just a little dry, is human. Such a strange detail. Perhaps you would never have noticed it if he hadn’t gotten this close.

“When?” you question.

“About 3 hours ago, about the file I gave you.”

Your eyes snap away. Connor’s own eyes follow your movement.

“I know that this must be difficult for you-”

“Connor,” you sigh, slightly exasperated, but still holding it together. Your eyes close like you can’t bear to look at anything in the present moment right now. You must be trying to pretend that you’re somewhere else. “I’ll be alright. This was in my job description.”

The Android’s eyebrows knit for a split second, confused. “Overseeing the psychology behind your friends death was in your job description?”

And it’s a genuine question from him. That’s what makes it so hard to contain your laughter, no matter how frustrated or overwhelmed you are right now.

“Yeah,” you finally muster with a light chuckle. “Apparently.” Then you’re back to business. “This is my job. I’ll be alright. Thank you for your concern.”

“I just considered that, since you’ve been on the news before, the suspect could know that you’re involved.”

“So?” you ask, slightly more snappy than intended.

“He may know you’re here and subsequently attempt to cause you harm.”

There are two conflicting sides in your brain right now. The first one says: Now think about this. How could he harm you in a place full of cops? It’s not like he knows where you live or anything. How could he even find that out? When they bring him in, he’ll be in custody the whole time. Gavin won’t let him out of those handcuffs. Everything will be just fine.

And the other part? It shows you a dark, masculine figure, looming over you. Police department or not, he is there. He will cause you grief and harm, do something so terrible to you you could not even fully imagine it enough to anticipate yourself.

And, despite your better judgement, and to your full awareness, you listen to the second half.

“Okay, so,” you breathe out. “So what are you saying?”

Connor’s eyes draw to his left in a stutter, his mouth parting as if he’s in consideration. “The Lieutenant and I had talked about... having you stay in a... safer place.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. “What do you mean by that?”

Connor looks so human in this moment. it’s so apparent, and piercing in this exact second. The details in his eyes, slightest of blemishes on his cheekbones.

Connor leans in, his eyebrows raising. Subconsciously, you lean back ever so slightly in response.

“We were thinking of taking you to the Lieutenants place.” He sees your eyes widen, getting ready to give a vocal response. “It’s a very safe place,” Connor promises. “I can assure you there are many rooms to your liking.”

You take a minute, looking the Android right in his warm, hopeful, perfectly symmetrical eyes. “Connor, I’m not interested in having this discussion right now.”

“It’s just-”

“Back off,” you snap. It’s assertive. Something you don’t usually do towards masculine presenting beings.

As soon as you say it, you regret it, however. The person across from you just looks so heartbroken, almost. His big brown eyes, the ones that remind you of a loyal dog, are looking right at you. How could you not feel bad for snapping at Connor? Sweet Connor, who doesn’t take pleasure in hurting people no matter how much you convince yourself he does.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

The Carla Rodriguez murder case went on for two more days. Her boyfriend, unfortunately, was not yet found. Hank was working on obtaining a warrant based on your instincts that would give him access to search family members houses for the man. Things were becoming focused.

Each night you went home, you struggled to sleep. You did in fact, find out that Connor may have been onto something when he suggested the consideration of safety. You indeed stayed up later than usual, using both locks on your dirty apartment door for once. It was hard to fall asleep. Whenever you did, it became all too easy for you to imagine a solid, big, broad shouldered figure standing over the foot of your bed, waiting to strike.

A man, as usual.

Ironically, you did feel better when Hank- a man- would come into the station. And then there was Connor, who was somewhere between a puppy and a wolf, half following Hank, half fully capable of loading and discharging a gun. Connor made you feel safe too, but only by association. It felt bad to think about him after the snapping that occurred Thursday, but it could’ve made you feel worse to act unprofessionally in the work place. It was best you try to forget it, and try to forget that Connor has unlimited and invincible memory.

On Sunday, you and Hank had your weekly scheduled lunch. Nothing fancy, just fast food from a food truck by the train tracks. You��ll both probably get burgers, except Hank will try to add lettuce and some vegan bullshit to convince you he’s sticking to his diet. Of course he will.

You throw the keys to your locker in the backroom into your desk drawer, and slip it closed. Across the floor, Hank is already ahead of you, tugging on his crappy jacket and somehow standing patiently and grumpily at the same time.

“Ready to go?” you ask as you approach him, your own jacket in hand.

“Yeah, just waitin’ for the kid,” Hank replies casually.

“The kid?”

“I’m ready to go, Lieutenant,” the enthusiastic voice of Connor rings out. He has one of those voices where you can tell when he’s happy and smiling too, and he is in this very moment.

Nobody ever joins you and Hank. You knew Hank had taken Connor to the truck before, but that was just between them, and this was just between you. An odd decision on Hank’s part to make such a change.

“Alright,” Hank calls back. Then he turns to you, the smallest of knowing grins on his face. “Ready when you are, Doctor.”

You just nod your head and start walking out to Hank’s car, unsure of what to do think. In the end, you decide to just not think at all.

“What are you doing this for?” you’d ask Hank as you were walking, when the Android known as Connor was out of earshot.

“What? You got a problem with Connor?” You shake your head no. “Well good. Because besides bein’ a freak he’s perfectly fine.”

Yep. Thanks, Hank.

The drive over is silent, besides Hank’s music. You like his taste, but it doesn’t make you feel less tense around Connor. On the other hand, Connor is completely oblivious of said tension. You can see him in the rearview mirror, smiling and looking out the window every now and again.

Once arriving to the scene, Connor gets out first. You click your seatbelt away, about to pull the handle open when you notice Hank hasn’t moved at all.

“You coming?”

“Mm,” Hank fake thinks, flipping through his cd cases. “Nah.”

“Well then... well then are you even hungry?”

“I got food back at the office,” he sighs, not even looking up at you. “Indian from last night. Gonna wreak havoc on the ol’ plumbing.”

“Then what did you bring me here for?” you question finally, developing a tension headache from how often you’ve been knitting your brows together lately.

Hank looks up and over, an almost offended expression on his face. You can see it in his wide old eyes, the angry eyebrows, the slightly opened mouth.

“Because I’m trying to create a warm and loving social circle.”

“You one time told me die because I ate your jar of pickles!” you cry. “Oh my god- Hank, is this about me and Connor? Is that it? You want us to get along?”

“Yeah, and what if I do?” Hank turns to you fully, putting an angry hand on the steering wheel to clutch something.

“It doesn’t matter!” you exclaim. “It literally doesn’t matter at all!”

Hank is quiet. You can see his beady, angry eyes on you, his jaw clenching. “Get the fuck outta my car,” he says at last.

“Gladly,” you mutter. You open the door and slam it closed.

Looking across the wet, rainy street, you can see Connor looking up at the sign of the food truck known as Chicken Feed innocently. You breathe out, feeling the heat from the previous ‘discussion’ beginning to melt away.

Okay, Y/N, you tell yourself. Just go talk to him.

You begin your walk across the street, hearing the light tapping of the rain hitting the asphalt all around you. His back is getting closer and closer. You still have a chance to turn around.

“Hey, Connor,” you say lightly.

“Hello, Doctor L/N,” Connor greets in return warmly.

“Whatcha... thinking about eating, there?” you ask, both of you knowing damn well Androids can’t eat.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. Then he shrugs, and very genuinely says, “I guess I could have some french fries.”

“Alright. I’ll get you some.”

And you do. And you feel so stupid while ordering it. The guy in charge, Gary, looks at you with an ‘are you sure?’ expression on his face, but you only continue with the order, confirming that, yes, you are sure. Then you and Connor sit next to each other in silence, waiting for your food to be ready. You pretend to be very interested in a stain on one of the back menus for about three straight minutes.

“Here you go,” Gary hands you the food. You take the bags and speed off immediately to an umbrella by the place. Even though you’re essentially powerwalking at about 6 miles per hour, it doesn’t feel fast enough in the moment. Connor is right there beside you the whole time.

“Here’s your fries,” you mutter, pushing the bowl towards him.

“Thank you,” he says, formally. Then Connor just stares down into the bowl.

“I appreciate you paying for this meal, Doctor L/N,” Connor decides to say after another moment. When you look up, you can see he’s leaning down ever so slightly so that he’s closer to your height, and making pretty sturdy eye contact. It’s moments like this that you think you’re talking to Connor’s social programming, and probably not him naturally.

“You don’t have to call me Doctor, Connor,” you breathe. “We’re not at work right now.”

“I apologize. How would you like me to address you then?”

“Well... how would you like to address me?”

Connor thinks for a moment. You can tell because his led is switching between yellow and white. Then the beginning of his eyebrows start twitching, along with the corners of his mouth, just like a human would when they have several thoughts on the tip of their tongue but none of them seem just right. It’s cute when he does it.

“You can just call me Y/N,” you rush out in an attempt to save Connor from quite possibly exploding.

He does the twitching once more, then looks up to the top of the umbrella without moving his head. “And, is this outside of the workplace or in it as well?”

“What would you prefer?”

His led goes yellow again. He looks back to you. “That depends whether or not you consider us friends, Doctor L/N.”

This takes you back. You’re silent, stunned, looking at him with slightly widened eyes for a few seconds- maybe a whole minute- before you make the decision to look at your burger and change the subject.

“How’s been adjusting to life as a free man?” you ask, unwrapping the foil from your warm food.

Connor adapts to the subject change after a few seconds, and you know that he’s seen right through you. “It’s strange,” he tells you, deep in thought, but sincere. “But, people seem happy.”

“Are you happy?” you prompt further, biting a big bite into the meat.

Connor thinks again. He thinks a lot. “Yes,” he decides. “I suppose I feel alive,” he admits. It sounds like a confession, and when he turns his head to look over to you, he sees your eyes are already on him. “Are you happy?”

“Am I happy?” you repeat in question. “I... guess I am, overall.”

“Do you enjoy working as a criminal and forensic expert?”

Now it’s your turn to think. You swallow down your bite. “Yeah, I think so. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time. And now I have it, and I’m comfortable and all. So yes... And you? As a detective?” You bite into the burger again.

“Well, it is what I was created for,” Connor tells you, with an almost charismatic, joking tone. It looks like he’s smiling a little, too. Cute. “I think so. Working with Lieutenant Anderson has gotten better.”

“God, I remember when you first came in,” you roll your eyes. “Hank was all in a mood. One of the grouchiest days for him. But he likes you now.”

Connor watches you pull the burger away from your face. He’s thinking again, but also admiring your features from up close. He doesn’t usually get to do this with you. The proof is in the lack of response to the ‘would you consider us friends?’ question.

“You know,” Connor says, and you can hear the sincerity in his voice for the millionth time. “I really admire how talented you are in your line of work.”

You feel heat in not just your cheeks, but in the rest of your face as well, as if you have a very sudden fever. You decide to keep your face down, trying to naturally make it not look like you’re using your burger as a shield. “Thank you,” you respond.

The heat begins to subside, so you look back up to him. “I admire your...” and you can’t finish the sentence. Not because you can’t think of anything to admire. You know you had a good one in mind to say to him. But when you look up at his boyish face, with the innocent smile and the comforting eyes and the most human details in his skin, you lose your train of thought.

It seems too late and rude to continue by the time you regain it, so you just decide to leave it and eat your burger as quickly as possible.

“Are you done with your fries?” you ask, as Connor looks down at the untouched basket.

“Yes, thank you.”

You don’t even look into the waste of 2 dollars as you speed walk to the trash can and dump it full of everything. Then you hop across the street, Connor right behind you.

Getting back into Hank’s car makes you roll your eyes. It’s not that you’re mad with Connor anymore so much- not that you would describe the feeling as mad in the first place. You’re not even sure you’re ‘mad’ at Hank so much anymore. It’s more like you’re in the area that you previously had a yelling match in, so all that energy is still there. So stupid.

“Hey, you two,” Hank greets, though to you it sounds condescending.

“Hello,” Connor chirps back.

You just shoot Hank a glare.

“How was lunch?” The old man prompts, holding your eye contact knowingly the entire time.

“It was fine,” you tell him.

“Fine?”

“Yeah,” you practically seethe. “Just fine.”

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

You stay in your house for another two days. Sleeping has become far more difficult, though you’d never openly admit it. Hank can see it in your face. There’s dark circles under your eyes, far more noticeable than before. Your eyes are dragging themselves down, along with the rest of your body which seems to be in a constant slump.

You’re like a zombie. You’re just carrying yourself around, mindlessly doing your tasks while you try not to nod off at work. Hank hasn’t said anything. He just watches you from afar, not knowing how to apologize because he’s never been able to pull himself into one.

Connor hasn’t said anything either. Hank’s pet has continued his daily routines around the precinct, going where he’s told and sitting on the other side of the older man. You haven’t been observing them much lately. Been a bit too preoccupied with the threat of sleep paralysis to do anything that you find matters in a social sense.

Carla’s case is still open. Her boyfriend is still out there, watching and waiting. Maybe for you. Maybe for some other innocent woman. You keep picturing him towering over you, his shoulders looming, strong jaw twitching with anger. Those masculine brows, defined with the intent to strike at you. Kill you, like your old friend.

Finally, on the fourth day of little to know sleep, you fell asleep at your desk. Completely zonked out, your head slumped against the surface, squishing your cheek in the process. Connor jumped up from his seat, Hank following shortly after. But there was no threat, you were simply resting. Once the two realized this, they calmed a little. Hank opted to send Connor over to you to check you out, crossing his arms as he got ready to observe.

The Android creeps over. Your breathing is steady. So is your heartrate. You’re not in shock or anything at all. You’re not even hurt.

“Y/N?” he prompts lightly, now crouched to be close enough to your ear so he can whisper. His chocolate eyes glance around the precinct, looking for anyone who might have noticed you to try and save you some embarrassment. Then he glances towards the Captain in his office, and he knows he has to hurry himself so you don’t get caught and reprimanded.

“Doctor L/N?”

No response. Connor looks back at Hank, who shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly with little help.

“Doctor L/N, you have to wake up,” he tells you, poking the back of your slumped shoulder.

You were asleep, yes, but apparently not very deeply. You stir from your slumber, raising your head and your mousy appearance to look over at Connor with confused eyes.

“What happened?” you strain, stretching. Connor detects a bit of drool on the corner of your lips.

“You fell asleep at work,” Connor explains slowly.

“I did?” you squint, obviously still out of it.

“You have... drool on your lips.”

You wipe the left corner. “The other side,” Connor gestures lightly to his own lips. “Yes. You got it.”

“Was I out for long?” you look around, adjusting to the so very bright lights of the building.

“No,” Connor answers in that sweet, sweet voice of his. “Maybe a minute, or two.”

“Oh,” you say, your eyes wandering around.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

That night, it rains.

Thunder echoes, with ripples of light from the lightning that bears across the sky like great claw hands.

You watch the view out your window from the middle of your bed for a long time. You’re curled up in a ball on the blankets, not even under them. You’re just there, watching the sky that reflects in your eyes.

A sudden stir in you gives you a change of heart. Something you can’t explain to the fullest extent, something not even I, the one in charge of relaying all that’s happening to you, could explain the exact feeling. It’s like the snapping of a rubber band at 2:15 in the morning.

You can’t stay in this apartment anymore. Not even two locks are enough to protect you. Not your kitchen knives, or the gun given to you from the department for self defense. None of it seems like enough, because all of those things are used after something happens. They don’t prevent it.

You’re in a hurry. The comfiest pajamas you own are soaked in the salty rain water and protected only by the simplest of winter coats you own. It’s nice, though not appropriate for the current weather of course. Your hair gets drenched fast. Every individual drip that falls from the tip of your nose is felt, like you’re more hyperaware than usual.

Now you’ve arrived at a house. A one story, fairly inexpensive home with a garage and recognizable old car out front. As you approach, you can already hear the barking of a dog, see a neighbor turn their lights on briefly to observe you, and feel the shivering of your knuckles as they tap on the door sporadically.

Come on, Hank, you think. Please protect me. Please do this for me.

And, believe me, Hank Anderson would’ve done it had he been awake. But he hadn’t been, and so he didn’t answer the door. Instead, the door swings open, and inside you see an Android.

A tall one, with soft facial features. He has long, dark eyelashes framing dark eyes, surrounded by dark hair. He’s clean and clear cut, very put together. It’s Connor, Hank’s pet that you’ve never been able to get the hang of knowing. And he’s as shocked as you are.

Your drenched hair, shivering body, distant look in your eyes. Though, Connor’s unsure of how he would appear if he had to show up to anyone’s house at 2:34am. Probably unwell. Probably a little bit like you.

“Doctor L/N,” he says, though it seems mostly to himself. His parched lips barely move, though you notice how pink they look in comparison to everything else right now.

“Can I come in?”

Connor is still for a few seconds, obviously still processing your appearance. For what, you don’t know. Must’ve been one of the few things he’s simply unable to calculate. But then he moves himself to the side, and you carry yourself in.

As soon as the door closes behind you, everything is so much warmer. You haven’t been to Hank’s place in months, but it still feels as homey as it did before. It’s cleaner than it was a year ago. There’s more pictures on the walls, more clutter lining the shelves. He’s starting to care about things again. That’s good.

“What are you doing here?” you suddenly ask, turning around to face Connor.

That’s right- what is he doing here? He and Hank couldn’t be living together, could they? Or is... or is it that Hank is pretending Connor is someone else, too?

Connor’s led goes yellow, then blue, then back to yellow. “Lieutenant Anderson has offered me a place to stay until I’m ready to go on myself,” he explains, though the way it looks at you makes it seem like Connor doesn’t want to tell you this. Like he feels the need to explain himself.

“Are you alright, Y/N?”

You wipe your face, smearing your leftover makeup from your eye with the rain water. It burns, but you can’t feel it over the cold. “I uh- um... I’ve been having trouble- trouble sleeping.”

Connor’s lips close, and he looks at you in understanding as you stand there, now feeling your own pressure of having to explain yourself.

“Just like... at my place I can’t- can’t sleep. Not a lot of it.”

Connor knows he shouldn’t, but it’s right there on the very tip of his tongue. It’s so close to just spilling out, until finally it does, all at once. He’s too curious to try and stop it. “Why?”

“I just- I can’t-”

You’re looking everywhere. The floor, the wall, covering your eyes with your arm or your hand, shifting back and forth between feet, making a soggy spot on the floor from your dripping clothes.

“Can’t sleep.”

When you look up to Connor again, you feel better. Still panicked, but like you’re not in trouble. His eyes are so soft. They’re so human, and comforting. He looks at you like he understands, and like he’s not upset. You can see why Hank would pretend he is who he is now. But there’s no one for you to pretend who Connor is. He’s just Connor. And he’s better than you.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

Connor lets you wear one of his sets of identical clothes. It’s a grey t-shirt and blue pajama pants. Your hair is still wet, but Connor doesn’t say anything. He lets you sit on the couch and watch one of Hank’s basketball recordings while he goes to make tea.

He brings it to you and sets it down on the coffee table in front, but like days ago, you can’t bring yourself to touch it. Connor’s made himself a cup too, but doesn’t drink it. It’s deadly silent, the only light coming from the faint glow of the tv, the only sound coming from the biases of those annoying sports commentators.

“Connor?” you whisper hoarsely, turning your body to face him.

He looks over at you, at full attention. Such a soft boy.

“Do you think I’m afraid of anything?”

Connor’s led goes yellow. It flickers in circles until finally he says, “What do you mean, Y/N?”

You look down at your hands. “W-when I try to sleep, I see someone,” you say, not bearing to look at anyone from that gender for a moment. “He never leaves me alone. I feel like I- like I’m seeing this thing everywhere. I can’t avoid it. It won’t leave me alone.”

“What is it?” Connor prods gently, leaning in in that innocent, but curious way he does.

You open your mouth like you’re going to answer, but then your mouth goes dry. Instead, you just shrug your shoulders in a weak attempt of lying.

“Um... why are you still awake?” you ask instead.

“Androids don’t need to sleep,” Connor explains to you. “We just power down to conserve energy, but I don’t need as much as others.”

A light puff of air escapes your nose in time with the flickering of the corners of your lips. “Sounds like you’re bragging,” you tease for a second.

Then it goes quiet.

“I don’t think you’re scared of anything,” you hear Connor’s voice say clearly. “At least, not that I’ve seen. You’re very diligent in your work.”

You take the compliment. It warms your chest for a moment, but the pit inside you is not so easily gotten rid of.

Your nails scrape against each other, breaking while you pick at one of your index fingers. “I think I have like... this fear of men. Fear of something.”

Connor’s led goes yellow.

“Androphobia, also known as the fear of male presences, affects nearly one third of the current female population.”

Connor watches you continue to pick at your nails. The memory of you standing at the door step, shivering like a kitten, drowning in the rain water stays on his mind. “Is this what you think you have, Y/N?” he asks, though this time it’s far more soft.

It sounds like he really cares.

You look up to him, your eyes glossing over from stress and the incoming wave of tears you can feel in the back of your throat.

“I can assure you, Doctor L/N, you are safe here,” Connor continues, holding eye contact as he speaks. “I won’t let any kind of harm get to you.”

The tears in your eyes seem less violent now. Like they’re disappearing already. And that’s how the story ends, in fact. With you, looking up at Connor, seated on Hank’s couch with your hair dripping around you- him promising not to hurt you. It ends on the silence that follows, right between the stare the two of you share.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

This is the first thing I’ve proof read. Also one of the longest things I’ve written somehow? It was fun. I apologize for any mistakes as English is not my first language.

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quietmyfearswith · 4 years ago

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the mission ; syverson x stucky x fem!reader

status — completed oneshot

word count — 4,350 words

warnings — SMUT, double penetration, triple penetration??? oral sex (giving and receiving), foursome, unprotected sex(dont do this), swear words, competition(ish)

pairing — syverson x stucky x fem!reader

a/n — DNI IF YOU ARE UNDER 18,, pretty self-indulgent so what about it,, wanted to post this as my first fic for 2021 so we can start the year with a bang but hey the year is still new so hope this counts,, feedback is appreciated

masterlist

“Tell me again, why are we meeting up with this person?” If you told people that there were times that Steve — Captain America as most of them are most familiar with — was egotistical enough to the point that he believed that intel from outsiders weren’t needed, they wouldn’t believe you unless they saw how he was currently. When the military told them that some of their men have discovered remnants of HYDRA, Steve was fine with that vague lead since he thought that they could take it from there. However, his pride took a hit when the military insisted that one of their men be sent over to the compound to assist them.

Y/N then scheduled for Captain Syverson to meet with Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes so they could discuss what the special operations captain saw. Sighing irritatedly, the assistant of the Avengers paused in the middle of the hallway so she could look the super soldier in the eye, “Look Captain, I know you think you can do this alone — you’ve proven to me and your fellow Avengers that you can — but the military and government believes that you need more hands on deck, okay?”

Crossing his arms, Steve opened his mouth to argue but opted not to, “Good, now behave okay? Bucky’s almost done training the recruits; so he’ll be joining us shortly.” As she walked away from where they stood, the captain bit his lip as he watched her ass and legs strut away in the green and white plaid dress that she was donning. Hearing her fingers snap together brought him back to reality and made him follow her steps.

“Captain Rogers, meet Captain Syverson from the military’s special operations,” Y/N introduced the two men to each other, who were visibly appalled at the thought of having to shake hands, but a stern look from the girl standing between them prompted the Texan captain to hold out his hand to which the Brooklyn captain shook briefly but with a tight grip before letting go. “We appreciate you coming here, Captain Syverson.”

His response surprised Y/N, but in a good way, and she smiled brightly at the simple interaction the two had. “You can call me Sy; only prefer being called Captain by those who are under me.” The wink he sent the only girl present in the room gave her the implication that there was a double entendre in his statement; whereas the enhanced super soldier caught on and was displeased with how he was hitting on Y/N.

Puffing out his chest and rested his hands on his belt buckle, “Well Sy, why don’t you share with us what it is you saw.” Nodding, Sy grabbed the folder he brought with him and handed it over to the Captain; Y/N was setting up the laptop and projector that was in the conference room. Steve skimmed through the files as Y/N displayed some of the satellite images that were taken. “Have you or any of your team members been inside the facility?”

Shaking his head no Sy explained, “We didn’t dare to. Though I had some soldiers stake out and in their week of monitoring they didn’t notice anyone come in or out.” Placing the folder on the desk, Steve instructed Y/N to show more of the pictures and she complied, “How come you didn’t get in and check it out? Isn’t that what a captain does?”

“Steve,” Y/N scolded him as she looked at him with a warning look but despite her piercing gaze he remained unfazed as he gave a challenging stare to the other captain — one which Sy wasn’t afraid of. “A captain’s duty is to lead his soldiers and make the right calls; it wasn’t our mission to look for the abandoned facility but we found it anyway. We just ensured that there wouldn’t be any criminals that we could possibly encounter that would interfere with our mission.”

The tension was thick in the air when Steve gulped down — not wanting to admit that Sy made a valid point. Striving to cut the tension in the room, Y/N stood up as she spoke, “Okay, great points. Should you plan to check the place out,” She was talking to Steve who was intently looking at her with a look he’s never given her before; she struggled to continue with her point with how intense his stare was, “Secretary Ross decided that it might be better for you to tag along,” Sy nodded as he was being talked to.

“Just me? Or would my men be included?” Sitting back down on her chair she browsed through some of the files she had prepared for their meeting as the two men watched her like a hawk, “They want you out on the field along with Steve and Bucky; but your other men can help behind the scenes.”

Displeased with the new information, Steve crossed his arms from where he was seated, “No, he is not joining us on the field,” He was now standing up, as if he was trying to assert his dominance and authority over the other captain who seemed undaunted as he stood tall. “Why the hell not?”

“Jesus Christ, stop it, the two of you!” Y/N held out her hands to create space between the two charging bodies, her hands landed on their pecs and she had to stop herself from enjoying the feel of their skin against her fingertips, “You both need to calm your asses down! I don't know what it is about each other that ticked you off but you guys are gonna have to work together. Now, why don’t we calm down and try to get along?”

Running a hand through his buzz cut hair, Sy was the first one to speak since he wanted to charm Y/N, “I’m really sorry about my behavior, love,” His larger hand reached for hers and placed a kiss on the back of her palm; Steve sharply looked at how affectionately the other captain gazed at the assistant who had been responsible for his orgams without her even knowing it, “I’m gonna be on my best from now on; especially when I work with the former soldiers.”

Having enough of what he said Steve made his way to the two of them, breaking off their clasped hands so he could hold Y/N’s, planting himself between the two he gruffly said, “You know what bothers me? Is the way you’re hitting on Y/N.” Sy could not hold back the smirk as he somewhat felt a sick pride rush over him seeing the infamous hero getting riled up because of him, “Don’t recall you being her boyfriend; so really I can flirt with her as much as I want.”

She doesn’t know why, but Y/N was extremely aroused with the way they discussed her as if she weren’t there. Ultimately it was the way they both battled for her really made her panties dampen. “Who would you rather fuck?” The blunt question had her jaw dropping in shock and disbelief; she always knew how Steve was direct to the point, but never expected him to be straightforward in a sexual context.

“I don’t know,” Her eyes darted back and forth from the two captains, “You’re both very attractive; but I never imagined both of you being attracted to me.” It was difficult for her to hide the faint traces of her insecurities which the two men were quick to pick up. Steve caressed her hand that he held as he sincerely cooed at her, “How can I not want you? And I’m not just talking about your divine body. Your patience in handling us is unlike any other. You’re extremely compassionate and kind. When I look at you I see a woman whose beauty on the outside matches the beauty within.”

The other hand that Sy held was being placed with a kiss that despite being gentle was contradicted with the rough sensations of his beard, “I’ve only known you for a while but I have to second the motion; you are a force to be reckoned with. While there are parts of you that clearly cannot be tamed and that your fire was meant to remained ablaze,” He hoped that she got his reference of her dangerous line of work and with the small nod she gave him affirmed so, “But you also have the tranquility that a mother possesses.”

A small smile broke out of Y/N’s face after their speeches; but the serene moment quickly faded when the super soldier brought her hand to his crotch, letting the wide-eyed girl feel the hard on that he frequently spotted around her. “This is just one of the other pieces of evidence I have about how great you are.” Walking up to stand beside Steve, Sy grabbed her other hand and pressed against his own staring erection as he smugly boasted, “But this is a bigger evidence of how much I appreciate you, sunshine.”

“I’m flattered,” Y/N nervously began as her eyes darted back and forth from the two large men, pulling away her hands from their hardened cock as she felt incredibly shy about the whole ordeal, but it wasn’t an answer that pleased either of them or answered Steve’s earlier question. “But the question is still left unanswered Y/N,” The blonde man to her right reminded her, “Who would you rather fuck?”

Gulping down her nervousness before answering, “Honestly? I want you both.” Even though she shyly confessed that, it was all the fuel both captains needed for their ego as they silently just had established a competition between themselves — get her to feel confident about herself as they both intend on making her so cum hard the only thing she’ll remember is their name. Steve brought a finger underneath her chin, lifting her gaze up to match his hooded eyes, “You’re beautiful, Y/N,” He affirmed to her before bringing their lips to touch gently. Eyes closing as the super soldier savored the feeling of her lips that he's been dreaming for so long; and his dreams couldn’t even compare to the feel and taste of her lips.

As their lips pulled away from the steamy kiss, Sy tore away her lips and planted his own lips against hers, “Absolutely stunning, one of a kind,” Were the words he spoke as their lips locked and tongues danced. Feeling his beard tickle her neck as his lips trailed down her jaw and neck, she giggled lightly and opened her eyes to view Steve whose eyes darkened — though she didn’t know that it was due to his lust and longing for her, as well as the jealousy due to the scene unfolding in front of him. Pulling away from the kiss, Sy then lifted her up to the table and sat her down. Without even speaking, he made his move to undress her — grabbing the cloth by her cleavage, ripping the dress in two to expose how she chose to forego a bra and was only wearing a poor excuse of panties; the Texas raised captain could only smirk as he went down on his knees while he slid her lace undergarment down her legs.

“What a devious little thing you are,” Her attention was shifted to the Brooklyn-raised captain as he spoke; she instinctively spread her legs which didn’t go unnoticed by Sy who smirked in appreciation before lunging forward to lick her through her panties — causing her to gasp out loud, rolling her eyes at the pleasure. Annoyed with how he was being undermined, Steve grabbed for Y/N’s cheeks and kissed her fervently, making him moan in bliss as the kiss exceeded his dreams and expectations. “This what you want? Want two men proving to you how goddamn beautiful you are?”

The question was rhetorical, but somehow she found herself whining as she nodded against his lips where their lips met for a heated kiss. Grinning at her state, Steve ended their kiss as his lips trailed down her chin and to her neck, searching for her sweet spot. Just as he sucked on the skin below her jaw, she tried to squeeze her legs together to alleviate the arousal she was feeling — but it only made Sy smirk and encourage him to push aside her panty and directly get a taste of her.

“I’m gonna taste this pretty pussy okay? Why don’t you show Steve over here what that pretty mouth can do besides ending tension okay?” With a shaky sigh, she nodded as her eyes watched as Steve got on the table, kneeling beside her, all while he undid his belt and pulled the zipper down to free his cock. “I’ve been fantasizing about what that mouth would feel like ever since you joined,” His filthy confession made her bring her thighs together again to relieve her of the ache she felt; but all it did was make her feel again the trimmed hair of Sy who was placing gentle kitten licks on her pussy, “And now I’ll find out if you’re as any good like I thought you would be,” Served as his final warning before kneeling on the table by her head and feeding his cock to her waiting mouth.

Groans were heard from the two captains but for similarly different reasons; Steve loved how his cock slid down her throat easily without gagging, and her hollowed cheeks and expert tongue providing him pleasure but it was also the way her one hand was sliding from his balls to the base of his cock that almost made him cum. Whereas Sy couldn’t get enough of how sweet her juices were; he was sliding two fingers in and out of her, and everytime he pushed them right back it became harder for him to do so with how her walls were resisting them — it made him think about how her walls would resist his cock. “You like this don’t you? Like being used for our pleasure?”

A pathetic whine was all that she could let out seeing as her mouth was preoccupied with Steve’s cock was prohibiting her from speaking clearly. “You’re too invested that you can’t even remove my cock from your mouth to answer properly,” Feeling her nod against his cock just added to the bliss he felt. Shaking his head as he licked her cunt and fingered her pussy, Sy loved it when her thighs were rubbing hard against his beard and some of her juices were sticking to his facial hair.

Y/N was surprised when Steve pulled his cock of her mouth, “Not yet baby, I’m not cumming in your mouth just yet.” With his lips still pressed tightly against her pussy lips, Sy smirked at him, “Or maybe you just can’t cum at all.” That statement reminded both men that even though they intended to make her feel how beautiful she was, they were still competing for her. Sitting up with the support of her elbows, Y/N watched closely as Steve grabbed Sy by the shirt, dragging him away from her pussy, resulting in him sitting up on the floor on his bum. He planted himself on one of the conference chairs and once settled, grabbed Y/N’s hips so she was straddling hovering his cock, “It’s because I’d rather cum inside her pussy.”

With one hand on her hip, the other one guided his cock in her tight canal easily. “Oh fuck, you’re so big,” She moaned as she rested her hands on his shoulders as she rode him slowly, getting used to his size. Calloused hands were on her ass as Steve guided the pace in which they were fucking. His lips were pressing firmly against her breasts, leaving his traes of desire on them. As her eyes were closed in pleasure, she didn’t see how Sy was freeing himself from the restrains of his pants; after doing so he stood up from the floor and sat down on the conference table.

“You’re gonna suck my cock while you ride his dick; so turn around,” It took a while before she did so, but Y/N had to push Steve’s face gently from where his mouth had been enveloping her nipple. She turned around to face Sy who was stroking his cock with hunger on his eyes; moving her hair from her face, she rested her hands on the knees of the man in front of her before lowering her lips to wrap it around the tip of his cock. “That’s a good girl,” He sighed out in pleasure, one hand finding purchase on her hair.

Jealous at the thought of having to share her or her attention, Steve kicked off the chair he was sitting on and stood on his feet and helped Y/N to do the same. With her bent over, the super soldier grabbed for her hips and rammed in and out of her pussy with short and rapid thrusts. Sy allowed her to take control of how she wanted to suck him, but he couldn’t help himself as he thrusted his cock in her mouth a few times, relishing in the moans she let out when he did so. “See what you do to us?” Steve asked as he felt his tip graze her sensitive spot, feeling her thighs shiver leaving him to hold both thighs in his hands.

“You make us feral,” Sy continued his train of thought as his hand added pressure on the nape of your neck, making you take him deeper, “You’re so goddamn beautiful that you make us lose all logic.” It was amazing to him how her tiny throat could accommodate all of him, and the way her nails dug into his thighs only added to his pleasure.

Bucky had just finished his training session with the recruits and was dying to get to his room to shower off the filth and sweat. Before getting to do that he first had to meet with a captain that was said to have intel about HYDRA; so imagine his surprise when he enters the conference room and sees three people fucking and not discussing mission details.

A man with a buzz cut — he inferred that was Sy — was sitting on the desk with his head thrown back in bliss as he was being given a blowjob by Y/N — the Avengers’ secretary whom he had been fantasizing about — while she in turn was being fucked in the pussy by Steve. “Well if I knew the meeting would look like this I would’ve ended the training session.”

Steve just smirked at his best friend who was leaning against the wall, “This is Sy,” He nodded to the man sitting at the desk who waved with his free hand from Y/N’s hair. Approaching the three of them Bucky inquired, “She any good at sucking cock?”

“The best; gag reflex is practically non-existent,” Steve recalled as he was now rubbing her clit, loving the way she was squirming against his body. Her hands were settled on Sy’s thighs, anchoring herself and leaving nail marks on his skin. “Her throat is tight but I doubt it’s tighter than her pussy.”

Bucky grabbed her hair to stop her from sucking on Sy’s cock, “Never pegged you to be a willing cumdump; you just needed a lot of cocks to fulfill you huh?” Despite her face having a mixture of saliva and the precum of both captains, she bashfully smiled at the sergeant. Stroking her cheek gently, the Texan captain demanded a verbal answer, “If he asks you a question you are expected to answer, beautiful.” Feeling the force of Steve’s harsh thrust, she managed to let out a choked out response, “Yes! I need a lot of cocks to satisfy me.”

Halting his assault on her pussy, Steve slid his cock out of her, “I’m gonna fuck her ass, Sy you get her pussy, Buck you start with her mouth first.” When Sy pulled her off his cock, Y/N was able to gulp nervously at the thought of taking all them at once; however she wasn’t given enough time to react to it as Sy was dragging her to ride him as he sat at a chair. Carefully, he helped her descent on his cock as the man groaned against her neck when he felt how her warm and wet she was, “Did the captain really fuck you, beautiful? You’re still so fucking tight.”

“I did, and I fucked her good,” Steve asserted as he lined his cock up behind her other hole, “That’s just another reason why you’re beautiful, doll. You’re just so fucking tight no matter how fucked you are,” And to emphasize his point, he slide his tip inside her ass and stilled upon feeling her walls constricting around him. “Goddamn, doll,” Steve breathed out as he shoved more of his cock inside her, his whole cock now shoved deep in her ass.

Her mouth hung agape as she felt two cocks having a go in her — loving the way she was never fully empty since when one thrust out, another slammed right back in. Taking advantage of her opened mouth, Bucky stood by the side of the chair and presented his cock to her, “Take it all in princess.” Like an obedient girl, she did wrap her lips around the ridge of his cock and began sucking on it as best she could.

“See what you do, doll? You make us go ravenous for you,” Steve emphasized his point as he mercilessly thrusts in and out of her ass despite her walls clinging to him, begging him to ease down. Agreeing with the captain, Sy sucked on her nipple harder as he thrusted sharply on her pussy, “Make us want to shower you with cum to prove how divine you are.”

Stroking her face gently contradicted how ruthless Bucky treated her mouth as his balls were slapping her chin repeatedly — allowing some of her drool and his precum to fall graceless from her mouth — before adding, “Only a pretty girl like you can make three soldiers fall apart.”

And fall apart was exactly what was bound to happen as Steve planted his hands on her hips so he could gain enough leverage to fuck her ass relentlessly, until his balls slammed against the rim of her opening, until he felt himself come undone with one final thrust all the way inside her. “Fucking hell,” He panted out against her back as he felt himself unload almost a year of desire inside her.

With much reluctance, Steve pulled out of her ass and rested against the conference table to catch his breath and recover. This then allowed Sy to knead his hands into the skin of her ass so he could move her up and down his cock, chasing his own impending orgasm. “Cum with me, beautiful,” He harshly demanded against her skin as moved her in time with his thrusts, “Let me feel you fall apart and come on my cock.” And to prove how badly he wanted — no, needed — to feel her hug his cock even tighter as she spasmed in pleasure — her to cum, he slid in and out of her at a rapid pace until she was clawing at his chest and he felt her body tense up then relax as she coated his cock with cum.

Moaning out at the relief of her release, Bucky enjoyed the added vibrations on his cock — adding to the pleasure as her tongue licked and swirled around the underside of his cock — while watching her ride out her orgasm. It wasn’t long before Sy too stilled his movements so he could release his seed in her. “Fuck so good!” He yelled out as he stayed inside her, relishing the feel of their combined juices. Seeing how her mouth went slack and her lips weren’t sucking on his cock anymore, the sergeant pulled out and stroked his cock as he rubbed the tip of his cock against her nipple. Shivering at the sensation, she stared at him with doe eyes as her dainty hands wrapped around the base of his cock and his balls, “Cum for me, Bucky.” It was the way she sultrily whispered it that made him throw his head back and moan as he covered her gorgeous tits with his cum.

Loving the way her breasts were marked with his cum, she tried to milk more out of the super soldier by rubbing the tip of his cock with her thumb as the other hand fondled his balls gently. “You’re one special girl,” Steve spoke as he watched intently the scene in front of him. Smiling at the praise, Y/N stopped stroking Bucky’s cock when she milked him already. After leaning down to press a chaste, sweet kiss on Sy’s lips, she removed his cock from where it was deeply planted on her — with a moan falling from her lips — before standing up and heading to where Steve was in order to do the same.

“Thank you for proving how beautiful I am,” She sweetly thanked them once she pulled away from the kiss. “Now hold on,” Bucky spoke as he made his way to stand beside Y/N, “I think you’re gonna need more proof of how beautiful you are.”

Catching his drift, Sy sat up straighter in the chair before agreeing, “Exactly, and we might need to give you individually are our own reasons.” She held her breath once more as she felt Steve pepper kisses on her shoulder, “Think you can handle us individually, doll?”

Desperately, she nodded as she enjoyed the feel of his lips kissing her skin. With two fingers grabbing onto her chin, Bucky made her face him, “Good, ‘cause I haven’t been inside that lovely pussy and ass of yours. Oh, and I got a long list of what makes you fucking beautiful.”

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kimium · 3 years ago

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Okay, yesterday I posted about a 2k story giving me troubles and... well it's still giving me troubles. I finished the scene? but I don't think this fic will go anywhere. The idea is too weird. (Which is a lot, coming from me.) Anyways, since I don't want to leave 2k to silently rot in my folders, I decided to post it here. Will I finish this? Probably not, but I hope it provides some entertainment. Let me know.

Also, don't read too much into the ghost talking stuff. I took elements I liked and ran with them. I'm by no means trying to accurately present IRL rituals/ceremonies to communicate with ghosts/spirits.

The rest is under the cut along with some warnings. PLEASE READ THEM.

Warning, this snippet contains:

Mentions of Bullying/Harassment/Children being Cruel, Hajime's canon inferiority complex with a hint of depression?, canon typical violence, mentions of Trial One's crime scene, the lightest Komahina, a sort-of shaman Hajime? (See note above cut), the smallest cameo from Kamukura, flashbacks, minor OC grandparents, Hajime realizing something is Rotten in the State of Jabberwock Island, Not A Complete Story.

Title: I can't talk to your ghost

“There is an art, Hajime, to communicating with ghosts.”

Hajime shuffled in his grandfather’s lap. Under him the couch, which was a combination of faded and too much floral pattern, lay lump and poked into his legs. Hajime’s grandmother always tutted when she walked into the living room to find them on the couch, muttering about replacing it. Every time Hajime heard her his heart would leap in his chest and tighten. The couch, like his grandparents, seemed eternal, a fixed point in his life. To replace it was to throw away the memories that had soaked into the fabric.

In front of them was an equally old coffee table, which scratches and softened edges. Two glasses sat on plain wooden coasters: a plastic cup with juice for Hajime and a dark mug of coffee for his grandfather. Behind it was a ceramic incense burner. Smoke billowed lightly from the holes, a mix of smells that Hajime couldn’t name but was familiar and relaxing.

“What do you mean, grandpa?”

“Everyone has a method they prefer,” his grandfather said as he lay a hand on Hajime’s shoulders. “Some prefer utilizing dreams. Others, Ouija boards or crystals. Regardless, all methods have a level of ceremony. Steps are important to follow.”

“What about your method, grandpa? What do you like?”

“I like falling into a trance. Remember, death is merely the soul opening the door to the great beyond. Our job is to find the right tool for you to use so you can open the door a sliver and communicate and bring comfort. Now, shall we practice?”

Hajime nodded, leaning into his grandfather’s bigger frame. “Yes, grandpa!”

The first thing Hajime learned upon going to school was this: Kids were cruel.

People liked to sprout nonsense such as “oh, they’re still learning”, “they’re growing up”, or “they don’t know any better”. They sprinkled it liberally like salt on food to mask a bland, undesirable taste.

They were wrong. Well, “wrong” wasn’t the right word. Kids weren’t always intentionally cruel; they’re cruel because they have rigid world views. Their world revolves around their experiences. A helio-centric model. If something didn’t fit their view or scared them it was “bad” or “wrong”. And when humans were scared, poking fun and ridiculing the other was an easy defense mechanism.

Horrible nicknames followed Hajime in elementary school. Kids would poke and prod at him, asking invasive, unwanted questions. They’d repeat what their parents said in the confines of their home without understanding the context behind the entire picture. Teachers could only do so much to discipline and cull the kid’s behaviours.

A bouquet of flowers lay on the side of the road where the lamp post and guardrails were still bent at an odd angle. Turquoise glass still lay in jagged shards over the asphalt along with bits of metal. Underneath it all were dark tire marks, signs of desperation. Orange traffic cones and wooden barricades surrounded the crash site. People skirted around, eyes darting curiously but swiftly. Cars gently followed the small detour. As if the barricade created a separate dimension.

After all, no one likes to face death and look it square in the eyes.

Hajime lingered, gripping his backpack strap. There were too many people and the sun was still high in the sky. He had spare candles in his room and a small incense burner from his grandfather. Perhaps he could return later, sneaking out after dinner… Hajime snorted and shook his head. If the police found him, what sort of story would he give? Certainly nothing they’d believe.

Turning his gaze, Hajime continued, skirting around the site like everyone else.

As the kids grew older their focus shifted and they ignored Hajime. Pretended he didn’t exist. No one wants to be known as the “asshole kid” because they still resort to name calling and rude questions. That was a one-way trip to the principal’s office with phone calls home. Childish. Elementary. How could they get in trouble at school of they’re not even talking to Hajime? No one could make them hang out with him after all.

The thing about loneliness is it suffocates. And humans? They can only live so long without air before they die.

Rumours stated the school was haunted. Hajime silently agreed (and confirmed) the rumours. Curiosity and all that. It was careless of him.

The next day, Hajime’s desk was upside down when he came to class. His textbooks were ripped to shreds but his pencil case and notebooks were mysteriously missing. The chair remained where he’d left it yesterday but a note was pinned to it with scotch tape. The white of the paper was barely visible over the thick black writing. Hajime didn’t attempt reading it. Instead, he tried to move his desk back. By the time he rearranged the desk his homeroom teacher had walked into the room.

It was mortifying but what was even more mortifying was, despite the school’s best efforts, they never found the culprits. Hajime never so badly wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

So, Hopes Peak came to Hajime asking about the “Izuru Kamukura Project” it was almost a relief to know that instead of throwing him a lifeline they had handed him an anchor.

Because who drowning wasn’t, in its own twisted way, salvation?

Kamukura looked at the pile of bodies, one of the many that lingered along Towa City. His fingers itched to light a match. His nose twitched, searching for smells that were unable to be created.

Kamukura frowned and walked away.

When Hajime first walked into the Old Building it smelled of dust, sun bleached wood, and stagnant time. The smell tickled the back of his nose and slid down to his throat, leaving a bitter taste that lingered.

Nothing about the Old Building was pleasant from day one. The entire building was a love letter to Western 60’s and 70’s interior design that somehow collided with a log cabin. While the wood at one point may have been beautiful, time was a cruel mistress and the sun her culprit in crime and the exterior was now a massive skeleton of sun-bleached wood. Inside the wood was covered in a layer of dust so thick that it obscured the colour of the walls, creating a disgusting brown grey. Just looking at it made Hajime’s stomach twist and coil, silently trying to evacuate the contents in his empty stomach.

However, the real criminal was the carpet. Unlike the wood of the building, which Hajime could argue once held beauty, he was confident the carpet had never held beauty once in its pathetic existence. Its first, and least heinous crime in Hajime’s opinion was it being orange. Hajime held anything against the colour, but when its default shade was “moldy orange that had at least seventeen hours of stewing in sunlight” it was hard to defend. Next, it added a bold geometric pattern in what Hajime assumed to be brown and red. Perhaps there was some white but Hajime wasn’t about to go down that rabbit hole of a debate. But the real crime was the carpet’s audacity to span endlessly through the building. The carpet boldly sat everywhere except the bathroom, committing crime in broad daylight. Even after Komaeda cleaned the place, a move that deserved nothing but respect in Hajime’s eyes, it remained an eyesore.

(Not that Hajime held it against Komaeda. After all, one couldn’t expect to make something stunning out of garbage.)

So, when the lights flickered back on and the gruesome scene lay before them for an unhinged moment, Hajime couldn’t help but think that blood helped the carpet rather than ruin it.

That moment passed with a hot flash of guilt and regret. Tears sprung at the corner of Hajime’s eyes and his hand clasped over his nose. Iron and copper thickly filled the air and mingled with the food and already stale smell of the building. Hajime’s stomach harshly churned and he gagged. Distantly, he heard sobs and retching. Hajime inhaled through his nose, as if it would do any good, and knelt by the body. Sorrow could be dealt with later. Hajime closed his eyes.

What did his grandfather always say? Death was merely the soul opening the door to the great beyond? Hajime’s mind spun and the quote slipped through the gaps of his brain like sand through fingers. Did he risk it? He had spotted candles as well as sticks of incense in the convenience store. An incense burner was preferred but not necessary.

“Hinata-san, are you alright?”

A warm hand pressed against his shoulder. Hajime opened his eyes. Komaeda was kneeling beside him. His fluffy white hair sprawled messily, like a sheep with tangled wool. Hajime’s fingers twitched with the urge to run his fingers through and detangle it. Hajime curled his hands into a fist.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Hajime dully replied.

Komaeda’s brow furrowed and he leaned closer. “Do you need a minute outside? This is a lot to take in.”

Hajime swallowed, tasted blood in the air. Tempting. He could use the excuse and slip out to perform the séance. But simply taking to a ghost wasn’t going to hold up in their trial. Investigating first. Séance later.

“No, I need to investigate, find justice for Byakuya. What about you? Do you need a moment outside?”

“Your concern is touching, Hinata,” Komaeda said and stood up. “However, you’re right. We cannot allow this tragedy to hold us back. We will solve this crime. I can help with investigating.”

“Thanks, Komaeda.”

Komaeda smiled crookedly. “I’ll look into the power outage. Perhaps another room will hold the answers.”

Hajime nodded and turned his attention to Byakuya’s body. Mercifully the body was face down, hiding the expression. This was going to be a long night.

Cataloguing the evidence and testimonies was mercifully made easier with his phone, but still Hajime’s brain spun in circles by the time he finished. The pieces to the crime scene floated, waiting to be put together but unwilling to cooperate. Groaning, Hajime stretched and his body sung silent praises. Now to sneak away for a few minutes and attempt a séance. If Hajime was quick, he could run to the convenience store and perform the séance in under twenty minutes.

“Are we done in here, Hajime?” Komaeda quietly asked at his side.

“Yes, we are.”

“Then,” Komaeda rocked on his heels, “can we make one more stop? I’d like to investigate the cabins. I think there might be another clue.”

“Do you think Monokuma would let us?” Hajime raised an eyebrow.

“It’s for the case, I’m certain he’ll allow it.”

True. Still, would he have enough time to perform the séance and check the cabins? Hajime bit his lip. Surely checking the cabins wouldn’t take too much time.

“Okay, lead the way.”

Komaeda’s hunch turned out correct. Monokuma put up little resistance and a clue was discovered. The note was cliché, with cut out letters arranged slightly jumbled but the threatening effect wasn’t lost. Hajime couldn’t fault Byakuya for taking the letter seriously.

Perhaps he could add that to his mental list of questions.

Smoothly, Hajime left Komaeda, with a half-baked excuse, and ran to the convenience store. The lights were off, as though it was an honest business and it was closed, but the door wasn’t locked. Hajime slipped inside and flicked one set of lights on. Beelining to the shelves, Hajime picked up a package of tea candles and a plastic lighter. The incense was harder to find, nothing dried, so Hajime settled for sticks. Grabbing a small pot and filling it with glass pebbles that were better suited for an aquarium, Hajime stuck the incense into the pot and flicked the lighter on.

A thin trail of smoke filled the air. Hajime inhaled and lit some candles, arranging them in a line. Closing his eyes, Hajime exhaled slowly. The events from the night lingered in the back of his mind, but Hajime forced them back, focusing on Byakuya.

Deep inhale. Deep exhale. Hajime drifted in the blank space behind his eyelids. A hint of orange flicked from the candles. Reaching out into the darkness, Hajime waded, searching for Byakuya.

Nothing.

Not even a flicker.

Hajime opened his eyes with a snap. The incense had burned away and his candles were smoking at the wick, light extinguished.

That… wasn’t right.

Hajime lit the candles again and replaced the incense.

Deep inhale. Deep exhale.

Nothing.

Hajime opened his eyes. A shiver ran down his spine. His set up, albeit a bit haphazard, wasn’t technically wrong. Blaming his tools would only get him so far. Hajime looked at his hand, fingertips slightly smudged from the incense and candles. He hadn’t done anything different.

So why was Byakuya’s spirit not responding?

Swallowing thickly, Hajime glanced around the dim convenience store. If his set up and actions weren’t wrong then was there something wrong with the island itself?

Another shiver ran down Hajime’s spine and didn’t disappear, even after he walked out into the humidity.

#personal #writing #danganronpa 2 #sort-of shaman hajime #mentions of bullying #canon typical violence #mentions of trial one's crime scene #read my notes at the top please #not complete fic

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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 4 years ago

Text

Deleted Scenes: A Character Study (Part 1)

Longer title -- “Deleted Scenes: if the Criminal Minds writers had any idea how to incorporate dramatic back story into a working narrative, A Character Study”

Every once in a while I get impassioned about something that happens in the show, or more importantly that doesn’t happen in the show -- but should have. This will probably be one of at least a handful, but for now, enjoy the pinnacle of my rage. Fueled by all the OPENINGS for Hotch to talk about his past and the writers taking advantage of NONE OF THEM, but this was my breaking point.

Rating: General

Warnings: mentions of past child abuse

Pairing: none

Characters: Hotch, JJ

Episode, and placement: Season 10, Episode 05, “Boxed In”; after the episode

Word count: 2,404

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796501/chapters/73302726

A Prime Example

Very few things get to Aaron Hotchner. Especially things that are said with no relatable context to him or the details people don’t know about his life. His past, in particular. He pushes them back in compartmentalized little boxes, carefully labeled and sorted and set aside to be unpacked at a later date. They aren’t important when he’s on a case. When a twelve-year-old boy is missing and his life hangs in the balance. When time is of the essence.

Which is why, on numerous occasions, he lets the things people say slide.

Especially on the topic of Nature versus Nurture.

He, himself, has written a handful of papers and reports on the very argument. There’s no doubt that Nature and Nurture have complicated roles in why ‘bad people do bad things’, in layman's terms. But the stigma surrounding it, cutting it into a black and white, all or nothing scenario will always rub him the wrong way. Not because he believes in it, one way or the other, but because he lives it. Day after day.

It’s not his team’s fault that they don’t know that. Hotch keeps those parts of his life to himself. Lessons only he has learned, and has grown from, and keeps as careful guidelines.

Until this case.

“I guess we all become our parents at some point.”

The way JJ had said this -- steady, with no hesitation, despite the choice in phrasing indicating it could be a right or wrong assumption -- gave the statement an air of inevitability. Creating a precedent in her mind that set Hotch's teeth on edge, though it had not been the appropriate moment to correct her on it. But it's not the first time JJ has said something along those lines.

“Does the son of a sociopath even really have a chance?”

Not a lot gets to Aaron Hotchner. Every other remark, observation, detail of an unsub’s correlation between their upbringing and their crimes he doesn’t let sting his exposition. It has never affected him before, and he vowed it never will. His father doesn’t get to take that away from him, too.

But the inevitability of her statement, indicating it was only a matter of time. No matter what he has done with his life or the person he has worked so hard to become and imbody, ultimately it wouldn’t matter in the end. That one day, Aaron Hotchner would be just like his father. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to live with himself, if that were to happen.

That single, throw-away sentence, with a pedestrian phrasing he has heard over and over again, gets to Hotch. It buries itself in him like a tick and refuses to let go, not for tweezers or fire or smothering indifference. It is still there, echoing in his head as if shouted down a long tunnel, even after they get back to Quantico and are finishing up the closing paperwork later that week. He finds himself barely able to glance at JJ for longer than a moment without hearing her words once more, and Hotch berates himself for it. Over and over again. This is why he shuts it all down and doesn’t talk about it. This is why he keeps it buried, where it will never resurface. It interferes with the present, with his work and his friendships and his relationship with his son.

His past needs to stay dead and buried in a plot in rural Virginia, where it belongs.

“I have those reports for you, Hotch,” JJ says, as if procured by his musings. He glances up for the briefest of moments, barely a blink, to acknowledge her and nod in thanks as she leaves the folders on his desk. Then he’s turning back to the SWAT team justification reports and expects that to be the last of it. Drowning himself in his work, where everything is strict codes and formal speech patterns and no emotional influence whatsoever.

Which is why he is surprised to hear JJ address him, again. Never having left his office.

“Sir?” The formal term catches his attention even more. “Is everything alright? Did something happen after you missed Halloween night?”

“What?” The question genuinely throws him off, though it doesn’t show on his face. He had missed Halloween, the first time he had ever done so, but Jack understood. He was always much more accepting of the parameters of Hotch’s job than Haley ever was. It was all he’s ever known. “Oh, no -- Jack had a fun night. Slept on the couch so I could see him in his costume when he got home. How was Henry’s night?”

“He and Will had a great time,” JJ answers, her careful, worried expression not waning in the face of Hotch’s slightly more upbeat tone. It’s something he slips into subconsciously when speaking about Jack, or to Jack, or anywhere Jack might hear. Compartmentalization. “I just… noticed you seem off.”

Hotch nods once, in acknowledgement, because he knows he has. He’s working on it. There was no need for an intervention like this. He’s the Team Leader and Unit Chief, he wasn’t the one people were supposed to be checking on.

“Delayed reaction to the case,” he answers, looking back to the SWAT team report and signing off on another section for mobilization after hours. Overtime justifications. Bureaucracy needs the ‘i’s dotted and ‘t’s crossed. “Nothing to worry about.”

JJ takes pause, and still doesn’t make for the door of his office. Like she needs to elaborate somehow, now that Hotch has left a small crack of an opening into his inner sanctum.

“I know we all have cases that hit us too close to home,” she concedes, the start of a much longer speech. “Young boys, even the troublemakers --”

“No, JJ, I appreciate the concern,” Hotch interrupts, and does his best to appease her by keeping the hardness off his face. “But it’s nothing to do with Jack or facts we found. It’s a personal matter.”

“Of course, it’s just --”

Years ago, that would have been that and JJ would have left his office. But time and history have blurred their relationship from boss and subordinate to friends and family. Personal matter no longer meant private, it meant a switch in barriers. It meant family.

She steps closer to his desk.

“You are always there for us, for these kinds of cases.” Her blue eyes bore into his, a technique Hotch recognizes as a fellow parent, to get through and make sure the person they are speaking to is really listening. “But, do you ever allow anyone to be there for you?”

He sighs through his nose. She’s not going to let this go, he can see that. No profiling needed.

“Sit.”

Closing the file, Hotch resigns himself to the fact that this was something inadvertently he’d been wanting to talk to JJ about, anyway. She had been a profiler for the team almost nearly as long as she’d been communications liaison, now, and although this could have waited for her performance review -- it tied into what was bothering him. The small smile of victory, and relief, slips from her lips as she sees the serious set to Hotch’s mouth. JJ is one hell of a profiler. The best ones did it without even knowing they were doing so.

“Wait… is this about me?” she looks mildly scandalized to even have to suggest it. Although really, it shouldn’t surprise her too much. Hotch knows he isn’t great about making things about himself, even when the conversation is supposed to be. So he gathers his thoughts, with such little prep time, and decides to start with where this whole debacle had begun.

In the car. When JJ had made her off-handed comment.

“The events of our lives shape us, and bring us here. As they do for everyone. It’s a technique that also helps us narrow down our profiles. How we were raised, what he have gone through. Heredity factors.”

JJ is staring hard at him, now. Deciphering the point, attempting to look ten steps ahead when Hotch has barely revealed three.

“You’re talking about Nature versus Nurture.”

“You could say that,” Hotch acquiesces. “In a lot of ways we are our parent’s lineage. Unless we choose not to be. I only became a prosecutor because my father was. But now, here I am.”

The parent’s lineage is a direct drop towards the conversation in the car. Both JJ and Hotch are intelligent adults, as is the entire team. Sometimes the most direct reference isn’t needed. Sometimes a key phrase is what links the mind back to the moment, replays it in the mind’s eye so it becomes fresh and there’s no confusion. Fewer words can connect more than a thousand, Hotch had learned that early on as well.

“I was… I was speaking more toward behavior,” JJ elaborates, still unaware where the conversation is going. How this has correlated to Hotch’s odd mood.

“I know you were. And my statement still stands,” Hotch answers plainly. “I’ve noticed that sometimes agents, myself included, let bias dictate their profiles. And we need to stray away from that kind of influence.”

JJ’s slight frown becomes defensive. Confused, but not angry. She’s learning quickly, Hotch notices.

“Nature and Nurture are a part of standard psychology practices. With a lot of information and testing to back it up. Spence could give you statistics for days, I’m sure. It’s proven.”

“Yes, as a theory. Not as a rule.” Hotch continues, giving her that steady, stern but gentle tone that borders on chastisement.

“I have yet to see an exception to that rule, when it comes to children of violent offenders,” JJ buckles down. “If they are the target of that violence, it warps them, Hotch. Plain and simple. How do they recover from something like that?” She’s shaking her head, getting caught up in the emotional aspect of it all over again. The hopelessness of its appearance.

“Any way they can.”

Now he has JJ’s attention, because she hears the shift as soon as it forms on his tongue. The air heavier, hazy like an old memory.

“Sometimes they leave home as soon as they graduate just to escape the situation, and spend their whole adult lives trying to eradicate it. By burying themselves in, say… Law School.” JJ’s stare goes vacant, and Hotch at least has the decency to look away from her as he continues. He has a point to make. “So they can put away people like their abuser. But when that’s not enough, prosecuting after the fact, they start to focus on ways to catch the offenders in the act. Save victims in the real world. Use what they know from experience, but in the field, so no one else slips through the cracks.”

“H-Hotch, I--”

“If there was a file on me as detailed as these on my desk, and there probably is somewhere in this building,” Hotch barrels on, not letting JJ get a word in edgewise. “Then the first seventeen years of my homelife would look nearly identical to John David Bidwell's childhood.” He didn’t need to go into further detail, though bullet points from the case all bust flash between them in neon.

Strict, domineering father figure. Church every Sunday, as a control and appearance factor. At home: a constant deluge of beratements, fear, shouting and fists. Something was always wrong, someone always deserved a punishment. No one was safe. They did what they could, followed the rules to a tee, but that wasn't always enough.

They survived, because that's all that they could do.

And he had.

“If you really require a physical, living exception to the rule, I’d like to hope we know each other well enough that you would consider myself that exception.” It’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting what happened in his father’s household, and Hotch knows that’s as far as he will let it go. No elaboration needed. “Even if I can be ‘a bit of a bully’.”

Stunned and shocked, the last part probably wasn’t needed. But, again, Hotch has a point he’s trying to get across -- and he wants it to make an impact.

“Hotch, I’m so sorry,” JJ croaks out, and he still can’t look right at her.

“Don’t be, you didn’t know,” he soothes her, swallowing a little hard. “No one on the team does, not even Dave.”

“--No one?”

“The only one who probably did was Gideon, but not because I told him. He was just that good of a profiler. You will be, too, one day -- I see that level of potential in you. Profilers are always learning, evolving, developing their skills.” Hotch finally turns his head, and catches sight of JJ with her eyes bright and her nose red. Her tell-tale physical signs that she’s been holding back tears. “Let this be one of those moments.”

She nods, wipes at her eyes discreetly, and collects herself with more strength than Hotch or anyone else ever gives her credit for.

“Was he ever convicted? Your father?”

“No,” Hotch says, level. “He died of colon cancer ten years ago. He never even met Jack. Neither did my mother, though I am sorry for that.”

Silence stretches in the wake of Hotch’s reveal, and JJ only breaks it when she can’t seem to keep it back any more.

“You’re… you’re not really a bully. You know.”

“Yes, I am,” Hotch tells her, the smallest traces of a smile smoothing the sharp edges of his face. “But only when I choose to be. When it matters.”

JJ huffs out a watery laugh, scoots to the edge of her seat as if to stand, but hesitates once more.

“You didn’t have to tell me. But thank you. I’m… I’m glad you felt that you could.”

The sentiment warms the inside of Hotch’s chest, ice cold from the memories he never dredged up if he could afford it. It helps ease them back under the floorboards of his mind, where they belong.

“Thank you for listening.”

She was right. He didn’t confide in anyone, and he doesn’t know if this will help him -- more than likely, not -- but it helped JJ. And that’s what mattered. His team. His family. Growing, learning, becoming all the better for it. The best people he had ever known.

The family he had chosen for himself.

“Goodnight, Hotch.”

“Night, JJ.”

-end scene-

#I got irrationally angered and wrote a thing #criminal minds fanfiction #Aaron Hotchner #jennifer jareau #no ships #angst #cw: mentioned child abuse #katyswriting #idk what I'm doing but I'm doing it in style

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julemmaes · 5 years ago

Text

Love her like she should be loved

Cassian and Nesta Archeron modern au

So, this morning I was scrolling through Tumblr and I saw this post who said “i just want a fic with cassian defending nesta!!! idc what the context even is i just want to see him being offended on nesta's behalf and being ready to throw hands” and I obviously couldn’t resist. The post is this one.

Nesta is not really present in this specific part, if you want more of this au you can always send an ask (and a prompt if you want) and yall know I would continue this without hesitation. Hope you enjoy, as always:)

Word count: 3,266

His day was not going well.

He was supposed to give an analysis exam that morning, but the professor had not warned any of the students that he wouldn’t show up because of something personal. After an hour in which they waited, one of the secretaries of the university came to inform them that no test would be held, Cassian just wished he was dead. In addition, he had spent the entire afternoon serving at Elain's small café and now he was exhausted. Especially since he had to argue with an old lady who insisted on ordering something that wasn't on the menu.

Sometimes the girl would ask him to help her, when it happened that the staff was not available and the customers were much more numerous than one would expect on a Wednesday in the middle of February. Cassian didn't mind, he would have nothing better to do anyway. With his part-time job at a bookstore and his classes at the university, he found it hard to have days to himself and never made plans unless he was sure he could get them done. Then, however, a little extra money would help.

He had just arrived at the door of the apartment he shared with his two brothers when he heard Morrigan's shrill voice, followed by Feyre's loud laugh.

Shit, he had completely forgotten that they were all going to be home tonight.

Puffing, he opened the door and as soon as he walked in he was welcomed by the exalted cheers coming from the living room. He closed his eyes, grimacing. They were all already drunk. He heard Rhysand calling out to him and, taking off his shoes very slowly, went to the others.

"There he is! Fucking finally," shouted Mor, lying halfway down on Amren's legs, "You took your time. Ellie said you left the shop more than two hours ago, where have you been?" she asked with shiny eyes because of the alcohol. Cassian took a look at the others and saw that the only one who seemed to be still sober was Azriel, but looking at the glass in his brother's hand he knew he wouldn't be like that much longer.

He moved his gaze back to the blonde and shook his head, "Taking a walk." he simply replied, then ran a hand over his face, "Well guys, I'm going to sleep. I would kindly ask you to keep it down, but I know it's impossible, so if you could not drag it out too long, you would do me a favor."

Rhysand burst out laughing and Cassian turned to him, noticing only now that Feyre was curled up on his lap, "I don't think so. You haven't partied with us in almost a week." Azriel made a sound of approval, whispering a faint true, "We miss you," he added, sulking.

Cassian snorted again, they were right. Actually, he hadn't been on the couch to have a drink with his friends for over a week, but there was a very specific reason. And the reason was called Nesta.

It had been five very long months and keeping their relationship hidden was starting to get tough.

"Listen," began Cassian, trying to find a way to escape it one more time and go to sleep. "I'm very happy that you only have three classes a day and then you can come here and get shit-faced, but-"

"Oh come on, my sister's coming later too." Feyre interrupted him, slurring her words. "We could play Risiko, with your rules. Would you stay in that case?"

He knew very well that it wasn't Nesta. No, it couldn't have been her. They never invited her. And he wasn't in the mood to play Drunken Risiko at all.

Cassian glanced at her involuntary, clenching his jaw and starting to walk backwards towards his room. "I repeat, I'm very pleased that you still have so much time to lose in these things, but tomorrow I have to work all day and I'm exhausted."

Armen scoffed, "God it's like hearing her sister," said the friend looking him straight in the eye, pointing with her chin to Feyre, who had tightened even more on her boyfriend. Cassian stopped at the living room door, looking at Amren in turn. Feyre nodded, with her eyes closed, "It's true, she’s been a bit of a bitch lately.”

As Feyre spoke, Cassian saw the image of Nesta smiling at him as she sat on her kitchen island, telling him he was an idiot.

Rhysand chuckled and leaned his head against the back of the armchair, "Take the 'a bit' away."

"The other day I met her at the mall and, like any sane person would do, I went to say goodbye to her and she just looked at me and left," Morrigan said, settling better on the couch, in what everyone in their group called the gossip pose. Legs bent under her body and a glass of red wine in her left hand.

Cassian wanted to leave, but couldn’t move. That was the reason why he hadn't been able to go out with his friends in the last few days: whatever they did, in one way or another, they were able to drag Nesta into the conversation and talk shit about her.

"I just can't figure out what's wrong with her," said Rhys, looking annoyed by what Morrigan had just told them. Cassian remained silent. He didn't want to argue with his family and it would have been avoided if he had simply left.

Feyre stood up to pour herself another glass of wine. She sat down next to Amren, resting her head on her friend's shoulder, "I really wish I knew that."

It would be enough if you talked to her from time to time, thought Cassian, crossing his arms on his chest. He caught Azriel's gaze for a second and saw that his older brother was watching him attentively. Too attentively for his liking. He raised an eyebrow, as if asking what he wanted. Azriel was about to open his mouth when the doorbell rang. Everyone's attention sprang towards the door.

"It must be Elain," said Azriel as he stood up, "hopefully she's not as dead as someone else is tonight," he said, making a snide remark to Cassian, who took advantage of the moment to turn on his heels and go to sleep. Elain wouldn’t have been offended if he didn't say hi.

As soon as he closed the door to his room he took a deep breath.

He undressed and lay down on the bed without worrying too much about getting under the covers. He let his hair loose, letting it fall on the pillow and then he starred at the ceiling. He picked up the phone shortly after and opened the gallery, starting to scroll through the photos in the folder called books' stuff.

Rhysand had a nasty habit of taking his cell phone and looking through his stuff and this was the only way to make sure he didn't see the hundreds of photos he had of Nesta and himself.

He thought about the last half year they had spent together.

He thought about how almost five months earlier Nesta had felt sick while she was alone with him and how she thanked him when he was able to calm her down and how she ran away soon after.

He thought of himself, losing whole nights of sleep thinking about what to do, whether to try to talk to her about what had happened or whether to let it go.

He thought of when Nesta had insulted him when he had given her the number of his therapist and when after talking to her for hours about his personal problems Nesta had looked at him with a completely different expression on her face.

He thought about when she had refused his therapist's number again, but promised him she would seek help.

After a month, she asked him if he wanted to go out with her. On a date. Cassian was a bit shocked at the invitation, convinced that Nesta was not looking for anything serious at the time. He had accepted regardless and this had led to several other dates, before they made it official about two months later.

Neither her sisters nor his brothers suspected a thing and both were inclined to keep it a secret. Nesta had had no problem doing so, as she hardly ever went out with the group, there was no risk of it slipping out of her mouth. For Cassian it was something else entirely. Especially in the last period.

Nesta was going through a very difficult period and Cassian was always nervous, on edge, ready to do whatever Nesta needed. While their families did nothing but insult his girlfriend.

There had been days when Cassian, worried that Nesta hadn't answered him for hours after calling him desperate because of something that had happened at work, nearly broke down. He had run to her apartment that time and Nesta had not opened the door. He had almost called Feyre to ask her for the spare key, but he managed to convince Nesta to let him in.

They had spent two days in her bed together, Cassian making up a stupid excuse with his brothers for not being home.

His flood of thoughts was interrupted when he heard the others laughing.

He put the phone on the bedside table again and lay down on his side, trying not to listen to what they were saying in the other room.

It proved impossible.

"Have you heard from Nesta lately?" Feyre asked. Cassian brought the pillow over his ears, but it was of no use. "No, not really. She doesn't even answer the phone," answered Elain.

"Yeah no, because I ran into her the other day while I was shopping and she didn't even say hello." Mor repeated in that shocked tone.

Cassian loved everyone in that house so terribly, but if they had continued like that, he would have had to go out.

"I really don't understand how she can behave like that." a little pause, "I've tried so many times to get her to do something with me, but every time she insults me and tells me to mind my own business." Cassian knew about Feyre's various attempts to help her sister. Nesta had told him about all the times she had tried to force her to dress up in a certain way so she could go dancing and meet some guy. Of all the times Feyre had told her that she needed a holiday, that they could go together to places like Adriata or on the south coast, where the beaches were populated with life and people their age.

"God that girl really gets on my nerves," said Rhysand. Cassian wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

"I feel sorry to even talk about her like this, but there are times when I can't understand why she hates me so much." Feyre spoke again. Cassian scoffed, knowing full well that she didn't feel sorry at all. Elain replied, "Oh no, Fey-Fey, don't feel bad. She's the one who gets away from everyone."

"But does she realize that if she continues like this she will die alone and sad?" this comment broke something inside Cassian's chest. Even more so because it was Mor who had said those words.

"Maybe she deserves it. With how she treats you, she doesn't even deserve you looking after her in this way".

"Maybe you are right. Every time I try something new, she pushes me further and further. It makes me feel like a bad sister," continued Feyre, in a lower voice than before.

"See? It also makes you feel bad. She's just a selfish bitch who seeks attention," concluded Rhysand.

Cassian couldn't take it anymore and got out of bed, slamming the door against the wall when he opened it.

"Cassian-"

When he entered the living room Mor looked at him with wide open eyes. She had got up and was coming towards him when he raised his hand to stop her.

"Shut up!" he shouted as he looked at Rhysand immediately afterwards. "Repeat what you said." he challenged him, keeping his distance. They were all looking at him in shock. His breathing ragged.

"Cass...what's going on?" asked Elain, getting up and standing next to Mor.

"I said shut up," he said, keeping his gaze fixed on his younger brother. "Again, repeat what you just said."

Rhysand looked at him with blurred eyes. Perfect, he was completely drunk, "Calm down man, we were just talking about Nesta." He looked at him frowning, "What's wrong with you?" said Rhys getting up and stiffening, staggering slightly. Azriel stood up in turn, shifting his gaze quickly from one brother to another.

Cassian contracted his jaw, clenching his fists.

"Why are you so upset?" asked Feyre, always sitting, probably too drunk to stand. Cassian looked at her and took a deep breath. Feyre looked at Amren as soon as she burst out laughing.

Everyone’s focus shifted to the girl, who looked like she was about to be sick from all the laughter. Mor kept looking at him though and he just wanted to tell her to stop staring.

"Why are you laughing?" Rhysand asked, even more confused than before.

Amren wiped her tears away, "It’s so fucking obvious that Cassian and Nesta are dating at this point that I really don't know how you haven't figured it out yet."

Cassian looked at her with his mouth wide open, "How...?"

"You have no idea how much of an open book you are for those who know where to look." replied Amren without even glancing at him.

"I was waiting for you to tell me about it." Azriel confessed in a low voice. Cassian turned toward him, frowning. Azriel raised his hands as a sign of surrender, shaking his head, "You have hardly been home for a long time, and perhaps I should have asked earlier, but I had my suspicions for a while." he smiled at him, "Well, congratulations." Azriel said, tilting his head and drinking a sip of beer. A toast. Cassian felt a weight lifting from his shoulders.

A weight that fell on him once again when he heard a choked laugh on the other side of the sofa.

"Congratulations? Azriel, are you serious?" Rhysand asked incredulously, passing his hand over his face.

Feyre and Elain were looking at each other in dismay.

"How can you think of getting with-" Mor was staring at him with her mouth open. "-shit, with Nesta? How can you be with such a person?"

Cassian saw red with anger. "Such a person you say?"

Rhysand approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Yes Cass, such a person. You know that she has no emotions other than disgust and hatred." Cassian moved to avoid his brother's touch. Disgust. Hate.

He saw Nesta smiling at him with one of his T-shirts on, lying in her bed, whispering I love you.

Cassian shook his head. "I really can't tell if you're joking or being serious when you talk about her." he whispered not being able to believe what they were saying. "Nesta, your sister," he said, addressing directly the two Archeron present, "is not doing good."

Elain had the decency to seem surprised. Feyre looked at him with shining eyes, whether it was alcohol or emotion he couldn't tell.

"Nesta is sick and the only thing you can do," he pointed out, "is to sit and drink and insult her until you feel satisfied with yourself.

"We've tried so many times to intervene," Feyre defended herself, in a small voice. She put her hands between her thighs. Cassian laughed and threw his hands to the sky.

"Intervene? Intervene, really?" he asked her sarcastically. He laughed again, no trace of amusement in that sound. "You mean when you went to her house, a few weeks ago, and yelled at her because she didn't want to go out with you and she answered you badly when you told her she had to stop being depressed?" now he was shouting. "Or when you told her that she sucked as being a sister and that she should be a better example for you and Elain?" Feyre held her breath, shutting her eyes.

Cassian turned to the other girl, "And you?" he asked her, a false smile on his lips, "Jesus, Ellie, I see you treating the rest of the world with gloved hands every day. You talk to people as if they were wounded animals and it never occurred to you that your sister might be the only one who really needs it?"

He no longer knew who he was talking to as he raised his voice further and started walking around the room. "If instead of telling her what to do, every day. You always say, say, say, try for once and ask for fuck’s sake. If for once you asked instead of doing whatever the hell you want. It would be enough if you were more interested in what she wants to do and less in what you would like her to do" his head was pounding.

He turned to Rhysand at the end. He gritted his teeth, a grimace of repulsion on his face. "You disgust me the most." his voice broke.

"Cassian-" Azriel got in the way.

"No, Az." as he looked at his older brother he thought that he too was no less. He had never said anything about Nesta, never, but he had never even stopped the others or tried to justify the behavior of the older Archeron.

"You were sick once." Cassian said, as he approached Rhysand. He looked at him raising his chin, breathing heavily. "You were sick and I helped you. You treated me the way Nesta treats her sisters. You treated me worse," he whispered, referring to when he and Rhysand ended up beating each other, because Cassian had pushed him over the edge, "You know what she's going through better than anyone probably does, and yet you're the first one to throw shit at her." Rhys looked towards Feyre. "You don't even know her. And yet you’re ready to act like your dad.” Rhys’ eyes shot to him, any trace of color draining from his face. Cassian knew he’d just hit the right spot.

"And you Mor." He turned to his oldest friend. "You're better than that. You all are." he said to no one in particular.

He closed his eyes and ran both hands over his face.

"None of you ever tried to ask her how she was. None of you have ever made an effort. A real effort." he whispered, with anger coursing through his veins. "I get that Nesta can be difficult at times, but we are the only thing she has. The only thing she should have at least."

with that, he left, going to his room. He got dressed quickly, put on his shoes and grabbed the car keys. Before he left he turned towards the quiet living room, where everyone was staring at one another.

"Perhaps it would be better for us all if we searched our own hearts," he said, opening the door, "If something happens, send me a message. At least now you know where to find me."

Rhysand opened his mouth to talk, probably to apologize, but Cassian had already closed the door behind him.

acotar taglist (if you want to be removed or added, let me know with a dm or an ask) (I also tagged the people who seemed interested in the comments of the original post, I’ll just tag you for this part)

@tottenhamboys20 @sjm-things @kris10maas @awesomelena555 @sannelovesreading @queenamydien29 @ireallyshouldsleeprn @nxssian @lovelynesta @maastrash

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cyhyr · 4 years ago

Text

Whumpmas In July: "I Can't"

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: E

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka; Mizuki/Umino Iruka

WC: ~4990

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con

Notes: Deception, Drugging, Prison Break, Dissociation, Rough Oral Sex, Conditioning, Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Character Death, Triggers, Hair-pulling, Violence, Kidnapping

A/N: This story follows a Non-Linear Narrative, for the most part.

A sequel to “Secret”

For @whumpmasinjuly prompt list

Read on The Archive

The day Umino Iruka walked into the clinic seeking therapy was the day Rikona changed her plans to fit her new narrative. Sure, she’d been next and available to take patients, standing right at the check-in desk as he filled out his paperwork; and normally, there was a day or two in-between registration and the first session, just so the team of psychiatrists and therapists could best review the potential case and match the best team with the patient. But none of that mattered. She was going to take Umino Iruka, and as soon as he finished filing his intake forms, she took the thin folder right out of Aiko’s hands.

“Right this way, Umino-sensei.”

“I prefer to be addressed with my given name,” he said on the walk to her office.

“Of course, Iruka-sensei. I’m Rikona.”

It’s so simple to establish a baseline with Umino. He wants to tell someone about his story, he wants to get better, but he doesn’t have the words for it and he doesn't know how to get there. She gently prompts him along, learning his past and keeping him from dissociating—she finds out in the first session that good is not a word Iruka can hear in certain contexts. She discovers trauma hidden in every corner of his life, coloring every interaction he’s had since he was eleven. She hears about Naruto and how Iruka’s as good as adopted him, even if the village won’t let it be official; and about Kakashi, the partner who suggested Iruka seek out counseling, yet forgoes his own mental health.

Really, it’s not hard to understand him.

So they have a couple of sessions and it’s working well. She’s getting to know him, while at the same time getting him to trust her and tell her more about his story.

But after only a few sessions, he is captured and tortured and she has to make a hospital visit when he's inevitably brought home—by none other than Hatake Kakashi. And of course, Hatake doesn’t leave his side throughout the hospital stay except for required psychiatric consults. Umino comes out the other side of his captivity with minor injuries and almost no backslide on his mental health progress.

Rikona gives herself much of the credit for that. To Hatake, she initially gives a modicum of a nod; he’s certainly present.

Iruka trips for the third time in almost as many minutes, and puts a palm to his temple. “Rikona-sensei, is there somewhere I can sit down for a moment?”

She looks back at him, brows raised. “Another dizzy spell?”

He nods.

Rikona leads him to a bench and lets him sit, guiding his head to rest in his palms, his elbows braced on his thighs. She had said that they were going to go straight to the Hokage Tower, but the hospital never felt this far away before. It feels like he’s been walking for over an hour.

“How much longer to the Tower?” he asks.

“Not too much,” she says. “Ten minutes.”

That. That doesn't sound right. The hospital is only a fifteen minute walk from the Tower. Why have they been walking for so long?

He lifts his head and looks around, but the wooded park they’re in looks like any other in Konoha. “Rikona-sensei, why are we in a park?”

“You asked for a little time to make sure the medication I gave you is in full effect before speaking to Tsunade-sama,” Rikona answers quickly. “Do you not remember?”

The world is still spinning. He carefully shakes his head before putting his head back down. “Are these dizzy spells also a side-effect?”

“Unfortunately, yes. You may have to just power through them.”

Iruka groans. “Okay, let’s keep going, then.”

Rikona offers her hand to help him stand, and her elbow to keep him steady as they walk.

The trees go by.

The sounds of the village fade away.

And then they find out that the Sato event traumatized Hatake. And honestly? She kept her cool in the meeting, but that night when she’s home, she has herself a good laugh. The man went and got himself traumatized over someone who he’s been manipulating for months, if not years? She’s not heard of a successful Reverse Stockholm syndrome; it’s hilarious.

But she also harbors a deep-set anger because it was under Hatake’s watch that Umino went and took that mission—he’s not an active field agent, shouldn’t be in the field, it should have never happened. It was under Hatake’s watch that the Sato incident occurred.

And then Umino talks about moving. And Rikona knows. This is the time. He’s asking for her advice, blushing as he talks about someday asking Hatake to move in together. But Hatake’s influence has been nothing positive and she knows exactly who Umino should be seeing instead.

She knows because she’s been covering for his usual therapist for over seven months and she’s a professional. She knows how to recognize abusers, manipulators. She can form an emotional connection with a carrot if it needs therapy—she’s good.

So when Mizuki tells her about his old boyfriend, this wonderful man he misses so dearly, who has never once visited him in prison; Rikona resolves to be the one to help this man, her patient, receive closure at the least—or reunite long lost lovers at best.

She knows she’s making the right decision. She knows Mizuki is good for Iruka. She knows because when she told him about what happened to Umino, she could hear his heart break.

“That’s why I never let Iruka take missions without me, see? Because I knew things like this could happen, and I care about him—Rikona, I care so very much—I could never have forgiven myself if something like this had happened to him while we were together.”

And no one can fake that tone, those heart-wrenching sobs, the tears, oh gods the tears.

Together they make a plan. And she’s so happy to help him, so happy that she’s essential to his reunion with Umino. Mizuki says it himself; without her, the plan could never be implemented. She even lets him write the first letter, so Umino can hear his words straight from his own hand.

And on her way out of the prison that day, she grabs a few forms, and some extra envelopes, and if one happens to be a request for a conjugal visit, well… Mizuki’s been alone for so long. The least Umino can do is reconsider.

...

(She didn’t know what that first letter said until Iruka-sensei brought it to her office, feeling like he could dissociate at any moment and experiencing a moderate anxiety attack. When she read it, she felt a sting of doubt, like maybe Mizuki wasn’t how she’d diagnosed him. But then she remembers Hatake, and how Mizuki says he changes things to fit his stories; and she realizes that this note must have been tampered with before it reached Iruka-sensei.)

The prison break for one goes like this.

It starts seven months prior, with the head psychiatrist for the hospital getting swamped with paperwork and a sudden flood of new patients, and it’s only her, Rikona, and one other therapist working the clinic lately. Tomi-sensei asks—practically begs—Rikona to take her prison shift on Fridays, that they’ll shut down the clinic except for emergencies. It’s only until further notice, only until Tomi-sensei can hire another psychiatrist, or at least another therapist.

When Rikona gets to the prison, the guard is wary at first—she'd already been there that week—but after a quick explanation he waves her through. She's been treating inmates in the East Wing for months prior, so she knows her way through security. But Tomi-sensei treats inmates in the West Wing. Three inmates, specifically.

The first she sees for an hour and a half. The first half hour is talk therapy, the last hour she oversees his electroconvulsive therapy. The second receives a cocktail of anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers, a tranquilizer, and extra medicine to help with the side-effects of all these. Then, Rikona sits with them and talks for an hour. After that, she breaks for lunch. Finally, the third inmate of the West Wing; who receives one large dose of a mood stabilizer, and two hours of therapy.

Two hours a week, for seven months. Sometimes she stays later if the story he’s telling is particularly riveting, and she thinks that his telling of the story will help him.

But at the end of the day, she signs off on all three patients, carefully writing Tomi-sensei’s name in place of her own. Tomi trusts her judgement, and her conscience is clear. All three patients are steadily improving, some at slower paces, but improvement nonetheless. Rikona bills the hours in her own name, though; Tomi can take the credit for their health, but she needs to pay her mortgage.

So it’s easy to check out one of the East Wing prisoners for electroconvulsive therapy that Monday when she heads in. And she’s been working in the prison for years, so security knows her, and the East Wing prisoners are minimum security risks anyway—Rikona, thin and small as she is, picks an old woman to lead to therapy. And if the room for electroconvulsive therapy is in the West Wing, well security knows that Rikona knows her way around there, too.

The old woman is feeble, slow, gentle. The prison system broke her years ago. The poor thing doesn’t need to be shocked into submission. That’s not why Rikona brought her along.

There’s a seal she knows—the only advanced bit of chakra use she ever learned, before she determined that the shinobi way wasn’t her way—which can render a person invisible for a short time. She knows that the loss of his ability to mold chakra is very hard on Mizuki, and so when she leads the old woman into his cell and gives him the premade seal, she returns the grin he gives her.

“It’s time,” she says.

“You have him?”

“He’s all yours, Mizuki. You just have to promise to be careful. Whatever’s been done, he’s—”

“Rikona-sensei, I could never hurt him.” She presses the tag to his chest and he disappears.

She closes the door to the cell, leaving the woman in there alone, and walks away.

Confidently, she strides through the halls of the prison. She waves to the security personnel she knows. And then she gets back to the woman’s cell, and pushes another tag onto it—one to keep the door locked for good. They won’t be realizing that she’s gone for hours, if not days. They only use the flap at the bottom of the door to push her meals inside, and the tag leaves that part alone, she makes sure of it.

She toes it, just a little, just to be sure. It sways.

Rikona walks out the front doors, Mizuki a silent, invisible presence behind her.

Does she feel bad for lying to her client?

Gods, yes.

But it’s for his own good.

Hatake is a terrible, manipulative elitist. He doesn’t deserve someone like Iruka-sensei.

They’re five minutes from her home, a wooden cabin she maintains deep in the forests outside of the village. It’s there that the medication takes full effect and Iruka-sensei collapses. She’s so much smaller than him, and he’s heavier than he looks, but she pulls him onto her back and drags his feet along the ground and up the stone steps and into the house.

She’s careful, laying him down on the rug in front of the fireplace. It’s warm, so she doesn’t feel the need to start a fire. He’ll stay unconscious for a few hours, just until after sunset. She puts a blanket within reach, just in case he wakes up before they get back.

And then she leaves to collect Mizuki.

Kakashi doesn’t know how to explain it.

But something’s wrong.

There’s an odd scent in the air.

He had been heading to Iruka’s house, but he sighs and turns around to head back to the Tower. He’s still not going to take that mission, but he needs to talk to Tsunade.

Rikona watches as Mizuki strokes Iruka’s face tenderly. She’s making dinner in the kitchen and they’re laying side-by-side on the rug in front of the fireplace, now lit and warming the cabin. Her heart swells to see them together again after all this time, and she hopes that Hatake hasn’t poisoned Iruka-sensei’s memories so much that he can’t remember the good times he had with Mizuki.

They look good together.

Iruka-sensei hasn’t woken up yet, but she checked his vitals when they came back and he’s coming back to himself. They had pulled his vest and weapons off of him and set them on the couch once they got back, so he could lay more comfortably. He should wake any minute.

“A bad feeling?”

“A bad scent.”

“Like an intruder?”

“I don’t know. Very likely.”

Tsunade steeples her fingers. “Track it. Do not engage. Report back.”

Kakashi nods and turns to leave.

“It could be Akatsuki,” she warns. “Be careful.”

Kakashi is gone as soon as she finishes her sentence.

This isn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want to be a part of this. This isn’t love.

Rikona can’t believe she was so thoroughly duped.

The pack at large doesn’t know the scent he’s trying to convey to them. All he can say to describe it is wrong and bad and that can describe any fucker who hits their partner or child, or any stall vendor who deliberately raises their prices for a certain kind of person, or—

“The ripe, rancid one?” Pakkun asks, growling.

And those are the words he’s been searching for, yes. The rest of the pack catches that same scent and readies themselves.

“That’s the one. What is it?”

“That’s the prisoner Iruka-Boss fought a while back, when the prison had that major breakout.”

Kakashi’s stomach flips and his spine chills.

Mizuki.

“You’re awake.”

Mizuki puts his hand over Iruka’s mouth to keep him from crying out, leans over and whispers in his ear, “You could never get away from me, don’t start trying now.” The tears glistening in the corners of his eyes shimmer in the firelight and he looks beautiful when he cries. Mizuki dips his head and kisses Iruka’s neck, relishing the whimper he receives.

He removes his hand, knowing he has Iruka’s obedience.

“You’re not real,” he mutters. “This isn’t real. It’s-It’s a side-effect. Of the m-medication.”

“Oh, baby, this isn’t a dream,” Mizuki lifts himself to hover over Iruka, pressing the length of his body along the tan one on the floor. “I’m here. I’m here to stay.” He shoves his knees in-between Iruka’s thighs and rolls his hips. “Hmm, missed this. Missed you. Did you miss me, too, baby?”

“Get off,” Iruka hisses.

Mizuki grins and presses his teeth to Iruka’s neck. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Kakashi sends half of the pack to find Iruka, and the rest follow Mizuki’s scent.

He goes to the prison; he needs to check himself. He needs Pakkun to be wrong.

The security personnel confirm that prisoner 834-769 is in his cell. Been there all morning. There’s no log of him being taken out. Kakashi doesn’t growl, but asks if someone can go down to the cell and give him visual confirmation.

“Chakra confirmation is sufficient when there’s no cause for alarm,” he’s told.

Chakra confirmation???

“The fucker has no ability to mold chakra! And there is cause for alarm,” he grits through his teeth. “My pack caught his scent outside. I need visual confirmation of his presence in his cell now.”

Security at least pretends to take him seriously. They send a team down to the West Wing and Kakashi considers following them.

And then a bone-chilling howl echoes outside, and Kakashi doesn’t care about visual confirmation. Because the howl is the one that says scent lost and it’s coming from Bull’s half of the pack, the half that’s supposed to find Iruka—

And if they lost his scent—

Kakashi bolts.

Rikona leaves them to reacquaint in the living room. She steps outside. The stew will be alright on its low heat, and the rice still has plenty of time left to steam.

The stars are nice. The moon is waning from full, and she pulls a throw blanket tighter around her shoulders. In the distance, she can hear wolves howling and smiles softly.

It’s such a nice night.

He can’t explain it. He doesn’t stop to try, to tell an ANBU patrol what he’s doing, or to find Gai or anyone else.

The look on the security guard’s face was enough. No one will believe him if he tells them that Mizuki has something to do with Iruka’s disappearance. Hell, no one will likely believe him if he tells them that Iruka’s missing. After the Sato incident—and his reaction afterwards; he can admit that he was being a little overprotective—no one will take him seriously.

Kakashi has to do this by instinct. He has the pack flanking him, leading him along the ripe, rancid scent. They understand without him explaining, thank the gods.

Iruka is pack. This knowledge is as an intrinsic part of him as his family name, as chidori, as his loyalty to Konoha. More than this, the deeper part of him recognizes Iruka as his and recognizes the reciprocal possession Iruka holds on his very being.

Whether he knows it or not, Iruka owns him.

Boss’s Boss, indeed.

Mizuki hears the door shut behind Rikona as she leaves. He puts his mouth over Iruka’s, and when his lips won’t part he pulls on Iruka’s hair knowing that it will force a gasp as well as remind Iruka whose he is. He pushes his tongue into Iruka’s mouth when it opens and rolls his hips faster. With his other hand—the one not busy with the hair—he reaches to his crotch and pulls down the front of his prison pants and frees his dick. He fights with Iruka’s pants, and then lowers those too and eventually grabs both of them together in his fist.

Iruka’s limp. That’s fine. He’s used to working with that.

Iruka winces into their kiss, muttering, “Stop.”

“None of that. You know better.”

Iruka turns away. “I said, stop.”

Mizuki lets go of his own dick and pinches Iruka’s, watching him wince and hold back tears and bite his bottom lip.

“You know I don’t like that word. You don’t get to tell me to stop.” He grabs them both and strokes. “There, isn’t that better?”

“No, please—I can’t—I don’t want—”

Mizuki pulls his hair harder, twists his fist in the strands, and Iruka relaxes and his eyes turn glassy and there he goes. Mizuki grins, bites at Iruka’s mouth, and says, “Beg me to touch you.”

The response comes like the last two and a half years never happened. “Touch me,” Iruka murmurs.

“Tell me you missed me.”

“Missed you, ‘Zuki.”

“Aww, baby. Don’t worry. I’ll make you feel good.”

Kakashi runs through the forest behind the hospital and another sinking feeling hits his belly.

Rikona-sensei was supposed to be in charge of Iruka’s care.

But if Iruka’s missing.

Where’s Rikona-sensei?

“Pakkun.”

“Boss.”

“You know Iruka’s therapist?”

“Yeah. She went this way, too.”

Mizuki took them both. Fuck.

“Want to suck my cock, baby?”

Iruka comes back, just for a moment, just long enough to get the n sound of his answer. Mizuki tugs his hair again—training Iruka to become his personal little slut at the pull of his hair was the most brilliant idea Mizuki had ever had; he pats his own back every day he remembers the time he spent on it. And, damn it took time. Iruka never liked having his hair pulled, so the pain and the sex and his never-ending desire to please Mizuki combined together to make a perfect storm. And it still took months, almost a year, of hair-pulling and ordering Iruka around to condition him into the perfect whore.

And now, thanks to Rikona, he’s got that back.

He pulls himself up to the couch and sits, slides his pants to his thighs, and guides Iruka into position over his cock. There’s still tears on his lashes, and that’s just fucking perfect.

Mizuki’s been using his hand for over a year, and Tsubaki’s cunt before that.

Nothing compares to Iruka’s throat.

“Oh, good boy,” he groans as Iruka slides down over him. It’s tight, hot, wet—perfect—he put so much work into training this slut to take him and blow him right and two years isn’t enough time for Iruka to forget it seems, because he gets to slurping and tonguing and bobbing his head like he never left Mizuki’s legs.

Rikona stops in the doorway, blinking.

Iruka-sensei has dissociated. Mizuki seems to be aware of this, yet isn’t trying to get him to come back. In fact, he’s using Iruka-sensei’s mouth as-as—

She turns and goes back outside, closing the door quietly behind her.

She looks up at the night sky and suddenly the stars don’t feel so relaxing.

“My sweet, good boy, sucking me soo good. Look at you. Right where you belong.”

He remembers what he’s heard about Hatake from Rikona. What a joke. “As if blowing someone else could ever change who owns you.”

Iruka whimpers. Gods that sound fucking drives him crazy.

“Who owns you, baby?”

Iruka pulls off of him, just enough. “You, Mizuki.”

“Fuck, missed this.” He pushes Iruka back down, hits the back of his throat and keeps going. He takes Iruka’s hair in both hands and moves his head for him; Iruka isn’t going fast enough to get him off. This way, though, “You’re mine, baby. So good. Mine, mine, mine—FUCK!”

He shoots down Iruka’s throat.

The first time they did this, Iruka had spat it out. Mizuki made sure he never did that again. He knows that Iruka throws up later, once he comes back to himself; but whatever. Right now, he’s swallowing down Mizuki’s come, his throat working his pulsing cock and it feels great. He pulls back near the end of his orgasm, and lets the last pulses of come splash on Iruka’s lips and chin, watching it drip down his neck.

The tears are falling freely, but Iruka will stay on his knees until Mizuki tells him to get up. Fucking beautiful.

Why would Mizuki take both of them?

It doesn’t make sense.

Iruka, obviously. Mizuki’s had it out for Iruka since they were twelve, if not younger.

But why Rikona-sensei? If nothing else, he should have killed her. They should have found a body.

They still haven’t picked up on Iruka’s scent. There’s a third scent, but it’s muddled and weird and Kakashi can’t place it.

“Boss.”

“Akino.”

“Smoke, up ahead.”

“That’s where they are.”

He knows it in his bones. In his soul. He’d bet his life on it.

… He’s also betting Iruka’s life on it. The pack is already at top speed, but for this last sprint they all push just a little more.

Rikona walks off the porch and down the path. She’s reviewing the last four months of therapy sessions with Iruka-sensei in her head, and the last seven months with Mizuki, wondering where she went wrong. She hugs her arms tight to her body and watches her feet.

Hatake-san is an elitist. A genius, gifted child who advanced through the ranks too quickly and thinks too highly of himself. He’s Friend-Killer Kakashi, known for leaving a teammate for dead, for putting his own fist through the girl who loved him for the sake of a mission. He’s manipulative, and known for reading porn in public, and tampers with his partner’s mail, and-and-and—

She’s reaching.

She knows she’s reaching.

Oh gods, what has she done.

Kakashi watches Rikona stop on the path and begin to shake. He slides out of the tree silently beside her, and says, “Yo, Rikona-sensei.”

She gasps, startled. “Hatake—”

“Where’s Iruka?”

She points to the cabin behind her. “Please, I didn’t know. He lied to me.”

“Hmm?”

“He told me you were bad for him. He told me that he missed Iruka-sensei. He cried when I told him about Sato.” Rikona bites her lip. “How did he fake that? Did he fake that?”

“I’ll deal with you later.”

“I’ll turn myself in.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Kakashi says. He glares at her, exposing the sharingan for full threat. “If he’s hurt, you get hurt.”

“We should go to Water Country,” Mizuki sighs, slipping his dick back into Iruka’s mouth. “They’ve got good clubs out there. I could make a lot of coin selling the use of your throat.”

Iruka’s so far gone, so far down, he doesn’t even react.

“And with the ocean and all, your vomiting won’t be so off-putting each night.”

The door breaks open and a pack of mutts crash through the windows around him. Mizuki pulls out of Iruka’s mouth, reaches in Iruka’s weapon pouch beside him for a kunai. He may not have the ability to mold chakra anymore, but that doesn’t change how well a blade can slice through the delicate life beating in a person’s neck. Mizuki pulls Iruka to his lap and has him cover his body, pressing the kunai under his jaw.

“I wouldn’t,” he warns. Hatake stalks into view, coming around the couch. “I promise, I’ll kill him faster than you or your mutts can get to me.”

One hand on the kunai, the other around Iruka’s waist. He doesn’t even need to keep a hand in his hair now. Iruka’s his.

He put in the time.

He put in the effort.

He built Iruka.

He sneers at Hatake. “You and your mutts can leave.”

“Not without him.”

“Iruka? Tell Hatake to leave.”

“Please leave, Hatake-san.”

Oh, that was good. Like he was slapped, Hatake flinches; just barely, but Mizuki catches it. That was nice. Worth a reward.

“Good boy, baby,” Mizuki purrs. He bites Iruka’s shoulder, relishing the soft whimper.

He’s under. He’s so far under and Kakashi has to be careful or he won’t get Iruka back.

This wasn’t a warning Rikona gave him; that came from Tomi-sensei a few weeks back, when she heard about one of the dissociation episodes he’d experienced during the Sato incident. He can’t trust anything Rikona has ever told him now, but Tomi-sensei never had a hand in Iruka’s care and so is objective.

He motions for the pack to stand down.

“Actually, I changed my mind,” Mizuki says. “Don’t leave. Just stay still.”

He takes the kunai away from Iruka’s neck and aims it at Kakashi.

He won’t hit him; Kakashi’s faster than anything he can throw. This is perfect. This is his chance.

He just has to be careful.

Iruka could still not come back if he’s not careful.

The bite of a blade against his neck is odd, but familiar. The slosh of come in his stomach is uncomfortable, but familiar. The taste of musk and come on his tongue is gross, but familiar.

Mizuki’s rumble against his back is nice and familiar.

Slipping into following Mizuki’s orders is simple. It’s easy.

The pain of his hair being pulled. The claustrophobic sensation of being boxed in as Mizuki hovers over him. Their bodies pressed together. His dick—pain—being stroked alongside Mizuki’s own length. It’s all familiar.

Falling is easy.

He can’t. He can’t handle being there anymore.

And then—

“Don’t move. Just stay still.”

The blade leaves his neck, and Iruka tracks it as Mizuki levels it at—

At—

Kakashi—

“Just sleep, dearest.”

“Please, Iruka, I wanna touch you please.”

“I like asking.”

“Please kiss me.”

“Hello, Love.”

“What do you need?”

“I will always come for you.”

“I will be wherever you want me to be.”

“Hello, Love.”

“Can I use the g-word tonight?”

“Hello, Love.”

And Iruka wakes up.

He reaches for the kunai out in front of him, disarms Mizuki and stands up out of his lap. He fights the vertigo, fights the chills chasing each other down his back and his arms.

He remembers the day he came home to Mizuki and Naruto, and how he put two kunai in him before kicking him out. He remembers the rage, seeing Naruto pull away from Mizuki like hot coals, remembers sending Naruto to hide in his own room because they had been in Naruto’s room; there was still a small blood stain on the floor of that apartment when he left, one he couldn’t clean up in time.

Mizuki can fuck with him all he’d like.

But he can’t fuck with Iruka’s family.

And maybe Mizuki couldn’t hit Kakashi with a kunai if he were point-blank. Maybe a thousand kunai couldn’t hit Kakashi if Mizuki were the one throwing them. It doesn’t matter.

Iruka’s been teaching Anatomy of a Kill and running disarming practicals for years. They can call him soft, and say his humanity is a weakness or a strength. He preaches the Will of Fire and he burns with it; he will protect that which is precious to him.

Naruto.

His own sanity.

Kakashi.

Whether or not it needs protecting, Iruka will be the shield.

He plunges the kunai into Mizuki’s chest, drags it through heart and liver, snapping ribs and muscle tissue as he goes, and settles the blade in Mizuki’s intestines. He stands over Mizuki as the life leaves his chest, gushing red and bloodying Iruka’s hands and clothes.

Mizuki’s eyes are dark with betrayal.

He whispers, “I will always own you.”

And then… and then he’s gone.

And Iruka breathes.

Gods.

I’m… I’m free.

#whumpmasinjuly #i can't #umino iruka #hatake kakashi #kakairu #my writing

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bettsfic · 4 years ago

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march pinned: ending the sex project

in the march edition of my lowkey writing-related newsletter, in addition to my writing-related post roundup and upcoming consultation availability, i have personal essay recommendations and a segment on the definition of a project!

for more information on my creative coaching services, check out my carrd.

if you want to receive my lowkey writing-related newsletter directly, you can subscribe here.

full newsletter below the cut, or you can read it here.

fuck february, amiright?

i thought january was bad. but february. february was the stuff of nightmares. my cousin passed away from covid (you can read about her here; she was really an amazing person and i feel so lucky to have known her). i was finally formally diagnosed with PCOS (bittersweet, i guess). my car broke down. i took two (2) days off and it took me two and a half weeks to get caught up again. i can only hope march treats us all a little more gently.

the good news is, i finished revisions on my short story collection to send to my agent, finished workshop submissions for the semester, and now i can return to my first love, fanfiction. that i am constantly working through original fiction to return to fanfiction has been making me think a lot about the nature of a creative, capital-p Project. so, this month’s BTALA (been thinkin a lot about) is going to inspect the concept of a “project.”

new resource

last month i unveiled a folder of my favorite short stories which i’m pleased to hear several of you have perused and gotten some inspiration from. this month i’ve compiled my favorite personal essays. there are fewer essays than there are short stories because i’ve broken them into two groups: personal and craft. next month i hope to have the craft essays compiled.

i’m always looking for more things to love, so if you have recommendations for your favorite short stories and essays, i’d be happy to hear them!

writing-related posts

how to physically maneuver the revision process

the difference between M and E ratings of fic

resources for worldbuilding (check out the reblogs for more!)

a couple syntax/prose book recs

how to break a long work into chapters

march availability

unfortunately i have to cut my coaching hours down a bit, so i don’t have any openings left in march, but i have some availability in april. if you’re interested in a writing consultation, please fill out this google form!

you can learn more about my services on my carrd.

what i’m into rn

for the past year, i’ve basically been trapped in a 10x10 room, and my health is definitely reflecting that, both mentally (does anyone else feel like they’re living in groundhog day? just, every day being exactly the same except fractionally worse than the day before??) and physically (i reorganized the kitchen and could barely move for two days).

reader, i have discovered something called “walking,” in which i put on real human shoes and go outside. it feels strange, bestial. neighbors wave hello to me. a harrowing experience.

while doing this, this walking, i’ve been listening to the lolita podcast which a friend recommended to me, a ten-episode series that dives into everything lolita: the novel itself, its context, adaptations, greater cultural responses, and — as a sticker on my laptop says — vladimir “russian dreamboat” nabokov. as far as i can tell it seems well-researched and presents the many perspectives of lolita in a fair way. i’m only a few eps in, but i’m entranced so far. highly recommended if you, like me, have a complicated relationship with lolita.

i’ve also found myself mildly addicted to a mobile otome game called obey me, which. look i know it’s like the definition of cringe but it’s also mind-numbingly fun and if i want to spend my minimal free time pretending 7 demon brothers are all vying for my affection then that’s between me and god. it’s a lot of what i loved about WoW: frequent events, bright colors, a daily to do list of simple but satisfying tasks, many many rewards, and it doesn’t take itself very seriously. and if i have 4k fic written of mammon/reader that’s nobody’s business but mine and my longsuffering ao3 subscribers.

i’m telling you this because i don’t know anyone else who plays it and am desperate to trade headcanons. so if you play, or start playing, hit me up!! i will give u mad tips and daily AP.

been thinkin a lot about

the project. the project. even the word “project.” PROject (noun). proJECT (verb). what is the project? “project” comes from the latin pro and jacare which means “to throw forward,” or projectum which means “something prominent.” a projector throws forward an image. to project onto something means to throw your perspective onto something else. to embark on a project is to make something prominent in your life. the concept of “the projects” comes from public housing projects, the government throwing forward affordable housing.

what is the project? in joseph harris’ essay “coming to terms” he says that “to define the project of a writer is…to push beyond his text, to hazard a view about not only what someone has said but also what he was trying to accomplish by saying it.” harris’ perspective is that of an english teacher encouraging his students to read critically, not just to summarize a text but to find its project, its greater purpose. and while i first read this essay in a seminar on composition pedagogy, it stuck with me as a writer. it made me reconsider the greater nature of the creative project.

how many of us, if asked to describe our writing project, would begin with a plot or character premise, the nuts and bolts of a specific story? maybe even the working title? but i wonder, is breaking out the plot really the project? is the discipline of sitting down and typing really the project? and when the story is finished, is the project over? what is the project?

in 2019, i wrote 86k words of a novel. i began revising that novel last fall, and i’m finding that i’ll probably keep maybe less than 10k of that initial draft. i’m not bothered by that. the novel i wrote before that started at 125k, then i rewrote the entire thing to 200k, then i whittled it back down to 160k, and next i’ll be tasked with paring it back down to 80k. i’m not bothered by that either. in the past five years or so i’ve written about 2 million words, and i’ve only published 20k of them. only 1% of what i’ve written, i’ve published. in the words of lauren cooper (catherine tate), i’m not bothered.

i used to see publication as the birth of the project, and writing it akin to a long gestation period. then i saw publication as the death of the project, and its life was lived in its drafting. now, publication seems irrelevant to the project. the confines of a story and its many revisions are also irrelevant to the project. the beginning of a story is not the start of the project and the end of the story is not the end of the project. the project is larger than the story, its revisions, its publication, and its eventual readership.

i think it took me so long to see this because for so many years i was still in my first project, the sex project, an exploration of trauma and sexual identity, which began in 2014 with destiel fanfiction, endured through many fandom shifts, my MFA, years adrift as an adjunct, all the way through 2020 with the completion of my short story collection. i used to wonder how anyone could write about anything other than sex. to me it was the only topic worth my attention. i was certain that i would spend my entire life being a sex writer and i’d never find fulfillment writing a young adult sci fi adventure or a highly literary novel about complicated family dynamics. i was baffled by people who were interested in other things, who could write entire novels without using the word “cock” even once.

then my sex project ended. i don’t know when exactly it happened or why, but suddenly i realized i never wanted to write another artful description of an orgasm or find a tactful euphemism for a vagina ever again (personally i prefer “wet cunt” because not only is it blunt, i find it phonetically pleasing). obviously i’m still writing explicit fanfic but it doesn’t feel the same as it used to. sex feels more sidelined to me, even if it’s still the center and drive of a fic. i no longer get any personal satisfaction from writing it, although i do get satisfaction in sharing the work for readers to enjoy.

it’s like i’ve somehow solved the biggest puzzle of my life. or i guess made peace with my meanest monster, that extremely complicated double-mind of desire that some non-sex-repulsed asexuals feel: you want to feel desire you can’t actually feel so you write it into fiction, to try to understand this thing you can’t have and which society tells you you’re missing, and you don’t even know if you don’t have it, because you still feel desire for affection and intimacy, and maybe even a desire to be desired. and for those of us who are asexual and have c-ptsd, sex you don’t actually want (but don’t know you don’t want, because maybe you’re ambivalent and mildly curious and touch-starved) and an unrelenting drive toward people-pleasing can be a dangerous combination. how can you ever know what consent is if you always put other people’s desires above your own?

maybe i’m alone in this. maybe i’m not. maybe for most people, wanting sex is a light switch: yes i want it, or no i don’t. but for me, i had to write a whole lot of words to figure out things like desire, consent, intimacy, forgiveness, the shape that good love takes. the lengthy theoretical flowchart of “i might be interested in having sex if this and this and this and this and this happens in this exact order and under these exact circumstances.”

it was hard to write something into reality that i have never seen except in pieces, in subtext i clung to with no lexicon to give it shape and meaning. te lawrence in lawrence of arabia. some of tarantino’s early work. the film benny and joon. and weirdly, the star wars prequels (that one’s hard to explain; i’ll spare you). i don’t think the sex project was about coming to terms with my asexuality as much as it was trying to organize my thoughts and feelings by continuously rendering my own experiences within a greater, shinier ideal — like how you sometimes have to unravel the entire skein of yarn to find the loose end, and only then can you get started.

i guess i’m in the infancy of the power project now. i’m moving toward themes of control, infamy, greatness. the exact circumstances in which atrocity occurs. how people rise into leadership and fall from grace. the consequences of success. i don’t know why this project has come to me, or what, if anything, it has to do with me. i’m not famous and have no intention of becoming famous; i don’t have social power or influence, at least not beyond my little corner of fandom, and i’m not interested in having it. and yet, here we are, already hundreds of thousands of words in.

my fics digging for orchids (tgcf) and a standing engagement (the hunger games) deal with the detriments of fame. and even float (breaking bad) to a degree is about the aftermath of being so close to power. my novel cherry pop, loosely based on macbeth, is about an ongoing power exchange between two teenage girls. my other novel, vandal, is about a girl who believes she has magic powers and casts a spell on her neighbor to fall in love with her. and i’m in the very early stages of a novel called groundswell, a cult story i’ve been wanting to write for years. i had no idea why i couldn’t write it until i realized it wasn’t yet my project. i’m not even to the stage of developing characters, let alone a premise or plot. i’m still just building my aesthetic pile (i discuss the aesthetic pile here, as well as vandal in more detail), watching documentaries on cults, reading books, finding inspiration, marking down ideas as they come. it may be years before i’m ready to sit down and write it.

now that i know what the project is, i have more patience with myself. it doesn’t bother me to rewrite a novel from the beginning, or to scrap novels altogether, because the story isn’t the project. the project cannot be diminished by cutting words, sentences, paragraphs, entire chapters. the project does not have a product. the project cannot be published. the project is in the practice, in dragging the impossibly large into clear, acute existence, so you can see it. so you can see the very center of what you thought was an unknowable thing.

#pinned #lkwrnl

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jjba-hell · 4 years ago

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Fate and Fortune

So this was sitting in my WIP folder forever and I was bouncing between self-insert and OC but I figured it was just too specific for self-insert... ✌︎('ω')✌︎

Part 1 of (?) and tagging some moots- @risottoneroo (I know you’ve been going through it recently, I hope this upcoming series can help distract you just a little bit- I know your writing always helps pick me up) @giogio-gucci-gangstar @rat-makes-stuff and @uttertrash (sorry =w= I get nervous tagging any moots)

Setting for this one is pre-Stardust Crusaders and the best dscription for this timeline is MY CANON NOW. This is a very short entry piece of how Vera (my OC) first met Muhammed Abdul. As the story progresses I’ll give more explanation and context to my OC but for now, all ya gots ta know is that it starts off in Egypt.

Content warning is pretty mild- maybe some mysticism if you’re not comfortable with that but nothing beyond that. (Ya’ll know you just gotta et me know if I miss something)

Also- my interpretation of the tarot crads is about like 20% more accurate than Araki’s- meaning its probably not completly right but it makes a bit more sense than canon.

1.4 K words

Life as an expat in a foreign country wasn’t easy to begin with. Vera grew up a bit isolated from the real world, safely hidden behind the tall walls that held her with the other expat children from expat homes. That was, until she decided to go to a neaarby local market- in search of some cooler casual fabrics, an alternative to the continuously wrong winter fabrics the expat camp gave them for ventures outside of the walls of the camp- even though it was much too luxurious to be called a camp.

The decision to desert the safety o fthe camp had been made on a whim, without much warning to her parents, as casual as if she were heading toward the expat gym.

In hindsight, so much could have gone wrong for a 16-year old foreign girl but the threat of danger was never something she had felt too greatly. She had always felt safe- in a way. It had felt like there was always this...presence around her when she felt any unease. Dangerous or nerve racking situations unfolded themselves as life usually does, but things had a tendency to go her way, danger seeming to veer out of her path. She chcuckled at the thought- how cocky she used to be. Her first few trips unaccompanied had only cemented her idea that she was untouchable.

One faithful day- a few months after continous visits to the market- among the many stalls, stood a tall dark skinned Egyptian man- looming over the wares of a vendor whom Vera had made good acquaintances with. “Ah Muhammed. This is that teenager I was telling you about, the foreigner.”

“Hello Hassan.” She smiled- trying to hint at greeting her first.

She turned to the man beside her, almost two heads taller than herself. Two markings moved down his handsome face, a playful smile on his face- slightly marred by his eyes that seemed to hide an impossible sadness behind the warm brown. “You must be Vera. Pleasant to make your acquaintance. I’m Muhammed Abdul.” He gave a courteous nod, hands folding into his somewhat overlflowing robe sleeves.

Hassan leaned in to chip into the conversation before you could answer. “Vera is a foreigner, doesn’t divulge what her parents do but they’re the first in a long time to walk out the camp unaccompanied.”

“Now Hassan, I’m not one of your wares, no need to advertise me like that.” She smiled at the wares dealer with just a glimmer of warning in her eyes.

Muhammed chuckled. “More importantly why would you want to?” He asked with feign suspision.

Hassan looked shocked, dramatically holding his hand over his chest. “Muhammed, was it not you telling me just a few moments ago that you needed a new assistant for your shop.”

Hassan then rounded on Vera. “And didn’t you say you’d like a part-time job for some extra coin.”

Muhammed threw his head back and gave a hearty laugh straight out of his chest. “Hassan, if I didn’t know any better I’d swear this was an elaborate scheme to get Vera to buy more of your wares.”

Hassan showed his open palms up beside his head in a sign of surrender. “Caught red-handed. Easier to persuade her to buy something when her wallet is full. But why don’t you just believe that it’s a kind gesture?”

Muhammed turned towards you, that same warm smile on his face. “If you’re willing, Vera, we can discuss these things in my shop if you like.”

In the back of her mind she was a bit apprehensive, she’d been taught to keep her guard up when out alone. But then again, she had some mace on her persons, just in case of an emergency. And that presence looming over her shoulder seemed to make itself a bit more known, bringing a comforting warmth to her shoulders. So ,impulsively, she had agreed. “I’d love to see what you have to offer.”

Vera and Muhammed bid Hassan a temporary goodbye, Hassan assuring her that he’d skin Muhammed alive if he laid a finger her. Somehow the image of Hassan attempting to skin this monstrosity of a man walking ahead of her -almost gliding through the streets to his shop- a bit comical but at least she could appreciated the gesture. Ducking under a stone arch and then curling up some stone steps the two of them stopped in front of an old wooden door- looking as if it came straight from the 14th century.

Muhammed unlocked the heavy black iron lock and pushed the door open to reveal a ceiling of stars, dangling charms and sigils. “Would I be stereotyping you if I assumed you were a mystic of some sort?”

Muhammed gave a warm chuckle.“Indeed I am. I am what you’d consider a fortune teller, and Hassan heard assistant, when in actuality I was looking for an apprentice.”

“Would you say there’s a difference?” She had chcukled as she entered deeper into the shop.

Muhammed kept the door open, stepping through behind her as her eyes travelled through all the trinkets, stones, and more.

“Unfortunately there is. If I overstep a boundary, you are more than welcome to leave but...may I ask. Have you ever felt...guarded? Or watched? As if nothing could go wrong and if it did, it would turn out your favor.”

For a moment she couldn’t help but smile to herself. “Sounds like some crazy luck.”

Muhammed laughed again. She spun around on her heel and saw a deck of cards in his hands, tapping the edges on the red clothed table. “It’s actually a phenomenon I study. It’s considered mysticism but...if you really want this job, I’d suggest you at least have some inkling of what that feeling is.”

Abdul’s eyes flashed dark as his gaze moved from Vera to just beside her head. She frowned in confusion, looking over her shoulder to see nothing but before she could ask, Muhammed immediately looked her head-on with a calm yet stern expression. The focus in his eyes back.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mr Abdul. I do possess that feeling. Although it wavers from time to time- probably makes me a little cocky but I’ve never faced a problem that didn’t solve itself.”

Muhammed smiled, straightened a bit and then seamlessly slid into the chair at the table.

“A tarot reading? Before we discuss money then?”

She had laughed but slid into the chair in front of him and watched Abdul’s skilled fingers shuffle the deck and spread it out before her. “Pick three.”

One. Two. Three.

He slid them back together and arranged the three chosen cards a specific way.

“The past. Judgement, reversed.”

“Care to explain?” Her gaze locked with his for a moment.

“Your past is a source of turmoil to you- a never ending fountain of self-doubt and self-flagellation.”

Vera shrugged, not reacting much to this. She wasn’t about to explain her whole life to him any time soon.

“The present. Death, upright. Big change is coming very soon. Be weary of the storm that lies before you.”

You nodded, a slow fear creeping up your spine. Even Abdul seemed to swallow a bit harder at the prospect, as if avoiding her gaze.

“And future. Wheel of fortune, upright. You are the guardian of your own fate- even through the ever-changing storm of fates.”

She nodded, feeling more at ease with the last prediction. “Is it normal to feel such a variety of emotions after a read?”

Muhammed only smiled as he folded his arms before him. “It is. However no one likes pulling the death card. But that beside the point. How does 300 a week sound to you?”

“Generous.”

“Oh it‘ll only seem that way at the start. Later you’ll cuss me out for paying you so little. For now, I think it best I show you the ropes first.”

There a was a beat of silence, before Muhammed gracefully brought his hand out to shake. “Do we have a deal?”

Vera hesitated a moment before trusting in her own character judgement and shaking his hand to seal the deal. Abdul’s warmth as well as what she had seen from his character thusfar had her feeling as though she could trust him. But she’d be lying if that was the only reason- that unshakable good luck she’d been carrying on her shoulders her whole life seemed to assure her that if a problem ever did arise- she’d still be in control of her own fate.

It was, however, not Abdul whomst she had to worry about...

For not a month into her apprenticeship- Death has already sunken its claws into her life, and a violent change would alter the course of her life forever.

#jojo kimyou na bouken #jojos bizarre adventure #jojo part 3 #muhammed abdul #oc content #my writing #stardust crusaders #Fate and Fortune

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that-vigilante-piedpiper · 5 years ago

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Welcome to My Discards Folder 🤩

[Here’s some context for people who didn’t see my previous posts, this is what I originally had planned for Midoriya’s USJ excuse, in this version he’s already much better friends with Kirishima and is already acquainted with Uraraka and Iida, his wounds weren’t as serious and the scar on his neck doesn’t exist, most of the build up is the same, just sped up as he doesn’t spend nearly as much time at home, he’s also already been to the hospital with the same excuse he uses in this scene 💞]

______________________________________

“Midoriya? What are you doing over here?” The voice belongs to Uraraka. He turns to see her pushing through 1-A’s door, walking towards him.

“Ah, just following the crowd, they’d seemed pretty enthusiastic about something.” The boy scratches at the back of his head, a shy smile on his lips. The action sends a flare of pain through his ribs and Izuku’s expression quickly melts and he drops the arm. “But, nevermind that. I heard on the news what happened, is everyone okay?”

“Mhmm. All the kids got out pretty quickly without having to fight. But, Aizawa sensei and Thirteen got injured pretty badly.”

His next words catch in his throat at the mention of Aizawa.

“Midoriya?”

“Are they okay?”

She eyes him worriedly. “Yeah. Thirteen’s injuries weren’t as bad as Aizawa sensei’s and he showed up at school today so… Midoriya?” she asks. “Are you okay? You seem pretty out of it.” She leans in, studying the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Ah Ha Ha!” he cries, stepping back, “I was just thinking that Recovery Girl’s quirk really is amazing!” He rushes to cover the unidentifiable surge of emotions that he’s feeling at the knowledge that Aizawa is here.

Kirishima comes up beside the girl as the crowd disperses and they continue down the hall together.

At some point Uraraka breaks away to catch up with Iida and Yaoyorozu to ask about some homework, leaving Kirishima and him alone to discuss Present Mic’s English lessons. It’s an easy topic, one that takes their minds off of the events of the days before.

The breath in his lungs catches when someone bumps shoulders with Izuku, pain flaring through his ribs. He takes in a choked gasp and tries to keep himself from bringing his hand up to cradle his side.

Kirishima catches the pained expression that passes across his face. “You alright dude?”

“Fine,” he gasps out, fists clenching as he tries to breath through the pain. “I’m fine.” He’s not fine, his side feels like it’s on fire, but the last thing he needs to do is make anyone at UA suspect what he gets up to most nights. “Just some bruised ribs from the dojo.” This time he does bring his hand up to his side, cradling the area.

Eijirou’s brows furrow. “Have you been to see recovery girl about it? I’m sure she could help.”

“I’m not a hero course student.”

The boy lets out a breathy laugh, “And Recovery Girl isn’t a hero course nurse. Now come on.” Kirishima grabs him by the wrist, dragging him through the crowd. Midoriya blinks, taken off guard as Eijirou cuts a path through the other students, careful not to let any of them bump into him.

It isn’t until the redhead is sliding the door to the nurse’s office open that he remembers his injuries are a bit more extensive than “just some bruised ribs from the dojo”.

“Recovery Girl, I brought someone to see you.”

From over his friend’s shoulder, Izuku is able to see the small figure of UA’s nurse.

“Oh? Well, bring them in. What’s the matter?” The woman scowls. “Your class didn’t have another training session with All Might today, did you?”

Midoriya can see Kiri’s cheeks flush and he brings up his free hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “No, ma’am. This is Midoriya Izuku, he’s in the Gen Ed department. He says it’s just some bruised ribs, but someone bumped into him earlier and it looked like he was in a lot of pain.” Eijirou turns back to him, shuffling over to make room to drag him inside. “Let her get you patched up, I don’t like seeing you hurt. It’s… weird.”

He catches Recovery Girl’s gaze before quickly averting his eyes.

“Please take care of him.” Kirishima squeezes his hand before he finally drops it and his head dips in Recovery Girl’s direction. “Anyway, I’ve got to get to class before Aizawa Sensei.”

Midoriya’s head turns to follow him out.

The boy turns back to look at the nurse. Recovery Girl, Chiyo Shuzenji, his brain supplies, the sole reason UA’s hero course is able to function as dangerously as it does.

She hobbles over to one of the beds and pats the mattress. “Well, come sit down then and I’ll take a look at you.”

He still hasn’t said anything, still thinking over what he could say. If he blames such a serious injury on his training at the dojo, Chee Sensei would suffer for it. But, if he gave the excuse he’d given Ji-Woo, then there’s no guarantee that she’d even believe him. But, he can’t think up any other excuse in the time it takes him to cross the room towards the bed. Either way it’s best to be consistent.

“So tell me what’s wrong dear.”

Izuku takes a seat on the offered bed. “I’ve already gone to the hospital for it so there’s really no reason to worry.”

The woman huffs, tapping her cane on the tile. “I’ll decide that for myself young man, now out with it.”

Midoriya raises his arm to scratch at the back of his head, but thinks better of it at the flash of pain through his side. “I... got too close to a hero fight the other day and I got hit by one of the villains.” His mind flashes him back to the USJ, to the monster that appears at his side without mercy. “I got flung a good distance. Broke a few ribs.”

A scowl appears on the woman’s face, adding more wrinkles to her brow. “And the hospital?”

“One of the nurses used a quirk on me that’s supposed to accelerate healing. Though I haven't really seen much of a change.”

Her scowl deepens, “Let me see it then, lift your shirt up.”

It’s a struggle to tug his shirt up, his side screaming at him every time the bruise stretches in the slightest. He can’t reach around and pull up the hem of his shirt without his ribs shifting and his breath leaves him with a wheeze of pain.

Chiyo eyes the boy at the noise. And, upon seeing the twisted grimace that’s on his face, goes over to help.

Midoriya can tell the moment she sees it, her brows riding low over her eyes and her mouth pulling into a thin line. “How on Earth did you say you managed this?” His side is mottled in varying shades of dark cobalt and midnight purple. The nurse from the hospital had somewhat accelerated the healing process with her quirk, but it had only managed to tint the edges of the bruise a leaf green.

Izuku opens his mouth to respond, but his words are replaced with a hiss of pain when Recovery Girl gently prods the area. “I have a bad habit of following hero fights…” he gasps out instead of answering.

“It looks like you got a little more than ‘flung’.”

He knows this, but what can he say? That he, a quirkless fifteen-year-old, was playing at vigilantism and as a consequence got pummeled by a monster that even All Might had trouble defeating? He huffs out a quiet laugh.

“When my dojo instructor found out about it she took me to the hospital to get it checked out. The doctor said I had three broken ribs and three that were cracked. They gave me pain meds, but I forgot to take them this morning.”

That’s a lie, Izuku tells himself, I’ve already taken them all.

“Your friend said you only had some bruised ribs.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I didn’t want to worry him. He’s got enough to worry about with everything that happened to 1-A.” He looks back down at Recovery Girl and startles when he catches the look on her face. That’s worse than Chee Sensei’s.

“You’ll feel tired after this, you can sleep in here until school’s out. I’ll let your teachers know.” She plants a kiss on the boy’s forehead.

It’s a weird feeling being healed like this. He hadn’t really felt anything when the hospital’s nurse had used her quirk on him, but now he can feel what’s happening. His side starts tingling violently, almost uncomfortably, but it’s over within seconds and he feels like the life has been sucked out of him. Midoriya droops forward a bit, drained and somehow more exhausted than before. It’s a new type of exhaustion, different from the late night vigilante work that leaves dark circles strung beneath his eyes.

“Lay down and take a nap, I’ll wake you up before school’s over.”

He does.

He’s still exhausted when Recovery Girl nudges him awake, but there’s a distinct lack of pain that snaps him into wakefulness. He pushes himself up with his elbows, staring down at his side in mild disbelief when there’s no fiery pain lacing through his ribs.

“There’s still some bruising so I’m sure you’ll be sore,” Recovery Girl says, startling him. He looks towards her, mind running through the marvels of such a quirk. “You seemed tired as it was so I didn’t want to push you too much. When you get home make sure you get some more rest.” Though the words sound as if they’re merely a suggestion it’s accompanied by a fierce glower from the woman that marks the ‘suggestion’ as a command.

Midoriya gives her a small nod as he pulls himself out of the bed, testing out his newfound range of movement. There’s a grin that slips across his face when he slowly extends his arm in an imitation of a punch and receives only a slight signal of discomfort from his ribs.

She hands him a handful of gummies that he quickly slips into his mouth. “If the pain gets too bad then over the counter pain medicine should work fine. Though the best brand would be staying away from such situations again young man, you could have easily been killed had your ribs punctured a lung or severed a major artery.”

“Yeah.” The grin melts away. “I kind of got in over my head with that one….” There’s a disquiet that Chio watches fall over the boy, a dolor expression carving furrows into his brow. He turns and bows. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“If you really want to thank me then do so by staying out of trouble.”

“Of course.” There’s a moment of silence as Izuku pulls his shoes back on and stands up. “I’ll be going then.” He doesn’t look back at the woman like she’d expected.

It seems I’ve touched a nerve.

#discard folder

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bubonickitten · 5 years ago

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TMA fic: Night Terrors

Summary: At first, Jon assumes his nightmares are just that: bad dreams. But it's only a matter of time before he is forced to acknowledge what it means to be the Archivist.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

[Spoilers up to MAG 132. CW for canon-typical horror, unsettling dream/nightmare imagery (think MAG 120), some passive suicidal ideation, and some spider mentions here and there.]

Jonathan Sims has had the same nightmare since he was eight years old, with only slight variations.

Sometimes he is the fly in children’s overalls being offered up as a meal. He can feel the anxious buzz of the delicate wings on his back, a foreign and sickening vibration humming its way across his exoskeleton. Four feet rub together nervously in front of him in an uncanny, insectoid pantomime of hand-wringing. The looming form of Mr. Spider is made all the more horrifying by his hundredfold vision and his inability to blink.

Sometimes he is the larger fly, offering up a victim as sacrifice. He can feel his face contorting, features molded into the horror-stricken face of Mr. Horse that still haunts him on sleepless nights. He is forced to watch his offering devoured, slow and excruciating. After, the monster turns its eyes on him.

Most often, though, he is the spider. Or, rather, he watches from the spider’s perspective, a prisoner trapped behind the creature’s many hungry, glinting eyes, as helpless as a fly caught in a web. The dream sequence unravels in slow motion and he is forced to witness the weeping faces of his intended prey for what feels like hours. Enormous block letters bear down on him, announcing the spider’s insatiable hunger, its demand for more, more, more.

Finally, blessedly, he is allowed to close his eyes, but the relief is always fleeting, for when he opens them seconds later, he sees the aftermath of a massacre: smears of reddish-brown blood coating the walls, the floor, the wilting flowers in their vase.

Then, he hears a knock on the door. He sees many – too many – hairy black limbs reach out to open it. He catches a glimpse of a terrified, familiar, but still nameless face through the crack. He always awakens just as the victim opens his mouth and begins to scream.

Jon may have managed to wrench himself away from Mr. Spider, but the fear and the guilt still cling to him years later, like the wispy strands of a broken web. It’s only right that they follow him into his dreams.

~~~

Jon isn’t sleeping well lately.

Well, that isn’t new. But he’s sleeping even worse than usual.

It shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise, Jon tells himself. The new job is stressful.

The Archive is a monument to entropy. A tornado could have swept through and blown things into a more sensible order than the previous Head Archivist left them. The Archives contain nearly two centuries’ worth of case files, and they're scattered about with no discernible system of organization. Material isn’t sorted by format: cassette tapes are thrown haphazardly into the same boxes as loose leaf paper. It isn’t sorted chronologically: case material from the mid-1800s can be found mixed in with recent statements from the 2000s. As far as Jon can tell, it isn’t even sorted thematically; on a cursory perusal, the statements boxed together seem to vary wildly in content, comprehensiveness, and verifiability.

In fact, the conspiratorial part of Jon’s brain can’t shake the feeling that there’s an eerie sense of curation to the disorganization. The more rational part of him knows that Gertrude Robinson was simply elderly, set in her ways, and secure in a position that she had held for decades. Elias isn’t one for hands-on management in the best of cases; there was little to no risk of him actually making his way into the Institute’s basement to observe the way Gertrude ran her Archives, let alone to actually discipline her for lax work ethic.

Either way, though, the result is the same.

The first thing Jon had noticed when he walked into his new office a week previous was a stack of unmarked boxes against the back wall behind the desk. They were partially covering what at first glance appeared to be fingernail scratches on the floorboards, but he told himself that he didn’t have time to dwell on that and deliberately pushed it to the back of his mind. He could deal with it later – or, with any luck, not at all.

The first box he opened contained a handful of unlabeled cassette tapes, a stack of blank index cards in a plastic sandwich bag, an empty manila folder, a nonfunctioning USB thumb drive, and a mess of loose papers with no coherent theme: some fragments of personal correspondence (unsigned and handwritten on yellowed paper in nearly illegible cursive), the scattered typewritten pages of a statement (pages 2 and 7 of 10 missing, presumed lost), and a hand-drawn map of what looked like a labyrinth. The second and third boxes contained more of the same: scattered documents and a yawning void of context. The fourth box was completely empty. The fifth contained only a single matchbook with a faded spider printed on its surface, rattling around the bottom of an otherwise vacant box.

Unmarked boxes, improperly-preserved documents, no rhyme or reason, a layer of dust, and an ignition source. It wasn’t a good start – and, unfortunately, it seemed representative of what the job was going to look like, at least for the first few months.

But beyond that, Elias had been insistent that Jon begin creating audio recordings of statements as soon as possible. Jon had initially chosen to interpret “as soon as possible” to mean “as soon as everything is organized,” and after seeing how big of a task that was, he was careful not to promise a time frame. After the third email from Elias inquiring about Jon’s progress with digitizing the old statements, though, Jon was honest: every day, he found himself adjusting the project timeline as they found more and more statements misfiled or missing.

“I believe it would be best for you to begin recording the statements as you go along,” Elias said. It was obviously an order, but he masked it as a friendly suggestion. Jon hates when he does that; it feels manipulative and condescending, like a parent (or grandparent, in Jon’s case) presenting the illusion of choice to a child and daring them to call it out for what it is.

Jon never was good at keeping his mouth shut, though.

“My first priority is to ensure that everything is cataloged and stored properly. Digitization will go more smoothly if everything is in order before -”

“You have three perfectly competent assistants,” Elias interrupts. Jon bites his tongue before he can make a snide remark about competence. “I’m certain they can handle a bit of filing without your close supervision.”

“But we -”

“I want you to begin making audio recordings, Jon,” Elias interrupted, finally adopting a tone that brooked no argument. “It all has to be done eventually, and it doesn’t matter what order you go in, so you may as well pick a place and start.”

“Some of the documents are incomplete.” Jon couldn’t quite manage to keep his annoyance out of his tone. “I found pages of the same statement scattered across three different rooms -”

“Start with the statements that seem complete, then. If you find more related case material elsewhere later on, you can simply make supplemental recordings.”

And with that, Elias had walked away before Jon could protest further.

So, yes. He’s stressed. The Archives are an unmitigated disaster, Jon only has three assistants to help him put them back into some semblance of order, and Elias wants him to embark on a massive digitization project when they still haven’t even inventoried the contents of most of the unlabeled boxes piled around the place. It’s like standing in the immediate aftermath of an earthquake and being told to start construction on a new building before the damages are assessed or the rubble is cleared. Oh, and he isn’t given any blueprints for direction.

Sleep troubles are to be expected.

~~~

These nightmares are new.

It isn’t that all of Jon’s nightmares involve spiders. He does occasionally have standalone nightmares that are perfectly spider-free: finding himself back in uni and failing a class he’s never attended and doesn’t remember signing up for; being chased by something sinister and tripping over nothing, only to wake up just as its teeth puncture his throat; waking in an unfamiliar place surrounded by things just to the left of human, hiding behind names he knows well and faces he does not recognize.

But this is the first recurring dream he’s ever had where spiders do not feature prominently.

At first, all he can see is the fog, pressing in on all sides. If the dream lent itself more to cartoon logic, it’s the type of fog that could be molded like putty. He doesn’t make the conscious decision to move; the dream simply puppets him forward and he lets it take him. He doesn’t even notice the open grave until one foot is suspended over it, and when the dream loosens its grip on him, he throws his weight backward, swaying off-kilter and nearly stumbling into another pit that has appeared just behind him.

The fog recedes just enough for him to make out the dozens of empty graves now surrounding him.

Then it starts to move back in, tendrils reaching out to him like the myriad limbs of a living, breathing creature, coating his skin and filling his lungs, and all at once he is pummeled with the overwhelming revelation that he is alone. It’s not just that there isn’t anyone around for miles. It’s not even just that he will never again see another living person. No. It’s that he is, for all intents and purposes, an island. No one knows him. No one ever has, and no one ever will. And he has never known anyone else, either, only carefully constructed personas meant to mask the self – if there even is such a thing as the self.

He will die here, and nothing will remain of him, and no one will notice that he disappeared. And that’s… that’s okay. It’s right. It’s exactly as it should be.

Someone is screaming. Actually, he realizes belatedly, someone has been screaming for a while now, but only now does it manage to reach him through the haze.

Once again, the dream forces him to move. It maneuvers him around the vacant graves, drawing him ever closer to the voice. When he is finally brought to a stop, he is wrenched forward and his gaze is forced downward to behold a shivering figure sprawled six feet beneath him in the earth and mud. She looks familiar, but it takes a few moments before he can place her.

Naomi Herne.

She nearly weeps in relief when she sees him, another living, breathing person after so long lost in the mist. She reaches up to him, begs him to help her, but when he tries to kneel and extend a hand, he finds that he cannot move. He cannot speak. He cannot blink.

He can only watch, and so he does.

The seconds stretch into minutes stretch into hours, and the whole time she pleads with him to say something, to say anything. He watches as her fingers dig deep furrows into the walls of her prison and eventually her pleas dissolve into hopeless whimpers.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, feeling as if he never slept at all.

Untangling himself from the sheets, he stumbles into the bathroom, turns on the faucet, and splashes cold water on his face. As he stands and stares at his reflection in the mirror, he notices how pronounced the dark circles under his eyes have become. Naomi Herne’s statement had been unsettling, certainly, but apparently it’s affected him more deeply than he had initially thought.

It’s not all that surprising, he supposes. There have been a lot of changes in his life recently. The content of the statements he reads is… upsetting. He’s stressed. It would be strange if he didn’t have trouble sleeping.

It’s fine. It’s normal. He’s fine.

~~~

The next night, he dreams of Naomi Herne again.

And the night after that. And the night after that.

Every time, she begs him to say something, to take her hand. She needs to hear another human voice; she needs to feel a human touch; she needs an anchor, anything to chase away the isolation.

At some point, though, she begins to curse him. He is her jailor, her tormenter. She would rather be completely alone, to be left to suffer in dignified privacy, than to have her loneliness amplified by that unwavering stare. Why is he doing this to her? Why won’t he just say something?

As usual, he cannot make a sound, and he cannot look away.

~~~

Jonathan Sims and Melanie King rubbed each other the wrong way from the moment they met eyes, and she is no more pleased to see the Archivist in her dream that night.

They both watch as Sarah Baldwin pleads with an unseen, unforgiving assailant. They look on in revulsion as she staples her skin back together. The scene plays over and over and over again, and eventually Melanie wrenches her gaze away from Sarah and hones in on the Archivist. All of her fear transmutes into anger and she unleashes a torrent of accusations, railing against him for his arrogance, his callousness, his foolish conviction that he knows better than everyone else, that he understands anything at all.

He can’t open his mouth to argue with her, but even if he could, he’s not sure that he could counter her allegations.

Melanie is still shouting at him when he is pulled from the hospital and finds himself in the graveyard again. Naomi Herne is huddled in the corner of her grave tonight, knees hugged tight to her chest. She is utterly silent. He wishes he could look away, but the dream has his head locked in place and his eyes plastered open and he watches her for the rest of the night.

Jon wakes up all too aware of his skin and what lies beneath it.

~~~

The tables in the dissection lab are piled high with pulsating hearts, quivering lungs, and writhing bones.

Hand trembling, scalpel in hand, Dr. Lionel Elliott slices into an apple as if demonstrating how to dissect a human heart. The Archivist catches the glimmer of tooth enamel, the glint of a silver crown on one of the molars, and a shared wave of nausea crashes over both of them. The professor begs the Archivist to take the apple from him, but as always, the Archivist is immobilized. He can feel every ounce of the Elliott’s helpless fear as if it is his own.

The Archivist knows what Elliott is thinking. He wants to run. He wants to curse. He wants to beg. He wants to bury the scalpel in the Archivist’s unblinking eyes. Instead, his blood curdles and his limbs contort and his joints dislocate and he writhes like a live butterfly pinned to a board in front of an uncaring, ceaseless watcher.

The Archivist feels all of it along with him, and neither of them can scream.

It’s only a dream, of course, but Elliott feels so alive that Jon wakes up with a sense of pity all the same.

~~~

The Archivist wants to tell Helen Richardson not to open the door, but his jaw is wired shut with invisible thread.

The Archivist has lost count of how many times he has been forced to watch as the Distortion’s maze devours her, the scene playing recursively in its mirrored hallways.

Of course he dreams of her. She disappeared right in front of him and he could do nothing to stop it. In quiet moments, the scar that the Distortion gave him still twinges, and brings with it the deep ache of guilt. It’s to be expected that it would bleed over into his dreams.

~~~

Letter by letter, Tessa Winters consumes the keyboard. An eerie, cold glow highlights every detail of her pained expression. Although the Archivist’s mouth will not open, he feels one of his molars crack under the crunch of plastic, and as Tessa moves on to the monitor, a shard of glass slices into the roof of his mouth. The blood pools on both of their tongues, trickles down their throats, and they both wish they could gag.

The Archivist's thoughts unravel into acute angles and sharp edges, shredding his consciousness to ribbons. He is a collection of garbled text and rogue characters, of noisy pixels and castoff artifacts, of corrupted extensions and crossed wires.

It’s cold, and it hurts.

IT%’s/ côLd &&;t <<hurts>>.

I̴t̸'̴s̴ ̵c̸o̸l̶d̵, ̵a̵n̶d̴ ̸i̴t̴ ̸h̶u̸r̵t̸s̶.̸

Ï̵̡̻ͅț̴͘'̴̰̙͒̌͠ͅs̶̻̿̎ ̴̞c̵̮̒̾ơ̴̞͕̕͝ļ̴̱̅d̶̥̣͎̈ ̵̨͕̀̿̊a̵̗̪̽̆n̶͕̩̞͆d̵̦̮̳͐̏͗ ̵̢̻̑ȉ̷̪t̸͓̉͒ ̶̮͉̹̇͠h̵̳̻̞͝u̴̢̬̣̒ř̴̠́t̵͍̟͛ṡ̷̨̤͓͒̾.̸̦̭̓

I̶̢͚͓̤̗̹̱̠̱͚̤̾t̶̛̳̏̑͐͗́̍̈̿̄͒͗́̔̈́̈́̈́̚̕͠'̵̡̧̦̖͚͓͙͙͕̜̻̣̙̲͓̑͂͋̾̊̄͌̀̑͒̚ͅͅṣ̶̛̻͚͓̫̜̀̂͌͌̈̈́̃̽̏̐̔̌ ̵̗̫̓̊̾̇͆c̷̨̑̀̈́̇̊̇̑͊́̂̊̇͘̚͘̚̚̚͝ǫ̵̈́̎̿͑̔̔̑͛̀͋̉̋̓̾l̷̙̯͙͍͇̟̭̳͉̹̳̖͎͇̲͖̝̖͈̺̍d̴̡̫̼̗̮̹̎̌̽̏̂̐̑̈̏̀̃͆͗͂̓̚͝ ̴̧̛͈̭̼̭̰͔̥͓̟̲́̒̊̍̉̌͆̇̆̑͗̑̿̉̅̑͒̽̈̿a̵̽̌͆͂̏͒̌̓̔̕͝��̳̰͐̆̿n̸̨̢̧̧̲̺͙̗̪̻͎̥͉̥͔͇̠͙̫͒̌̅̃͒́̌̈́͐̀̈͘̚͘̕͝͝ͅḋ̵̢̡̧̜͇̜̤̠̺̜̦̲̳͓̼̩̣̼̭̱͐̿̿̍̿̀͌͊̃̿͊̕͠ ̶̭̩̥̲͈͚̟͇̱̹̼̩̪̙̱͒́͑̌͒͐̕͜ỉ̸̲͇̬͓̫̪̞̜̱̪̻̲̎̿́̃̽̕͘͠͝ţ̸̗͙͍͍̫̞͚̞͓̙̼̝͚͕̮̋͋̏̌͂͗̈ ̵̨̟̗͉̯̘̙̫̱̹̱̲̘̪͖̤̱̟̦̘̹̟̎̐̌͗̾̋̿̄͜͠h̴̢̡̨̢̛̫͓̠̤͉̠̩̮͙̞̪̏̇͊̈͂̿̅͋͌͘̚͠ư̵̰͙̯͖̈́̄̊͌͐̾͐̃̈̈͒̑͠ͅr̷̨̛̗͈̣̰̘̲̩̦̙̅̃̽͛͒̈͜͠ͅṯ̶̮͕̺͖̹̺̺̦͈̰̮͚͇̳̘̺̤̹̭͐͊̏̓̅̊̏͌́̒́̚̕͘͘͜͝͝͠͝s̶̺̻͔̹̙̟̭̜̏̆͗͂̔̄̔͋́͆̀̋̈́͌͂̚͝.̶̘͚͚͓͕̝͖̪͔̼̙̲̞͎͉̩̳͍̙̩̋̆̅͒̇̅͌̆͗̉̋͊͒͐̔̅̏̕͜͝͝ͅ

~~~

When Jon finally bolts upright into wakefulness, he knows.

These are not his nightmares.

They are shared dreamscapes.

No, not shared. Invaded.

Just recently he had noted how long it had been since last he was the spider in his nightmare, but maybe that was premature.

At least the others showed up at the Institute to give their statements on their own. Tessa Winters, though, was his fault. He wrote the forum post that drew her to him. She wouldn’t be in his dreams if he hadn’t cast that net. He spun a web and waited for the prey to wander in, all because he needed to know and was willing to lure someone in under false pretenses just to get the answers he craved. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t intend this – the consequences are the same.

And Tessa Winters knows it. She meets his gaze, equally unblinking, baleful and accusing. He is a thing with too many eyes, gorging himself on her suffering, devoid of empathy or humanity. When she looks into his eyes, she sees a ravenous, pitiless voyeur, and even if the Archivist was allowed to speak, he would not dispute her claim. After all, the Beholding is the feeling that something, somewhere, is letting you suffer, just so it can watch, and the Archivist is its pawn and its representative and its instrument. Tessa's eyes pin him in place just as effectively as the ever-present Eye in the sky.

He is becoming – has become? – that which he fears, and he cannot look away.

It really isn’t all that different from the spider dreams after all, except this time there are witnesses to his sins.

~~~

The words on the paper are blurry and his head feels full of cobwebs. His eyes itch and sting in equal measure, making it ever more difficult to keep his heavy eyelids from drifting shut. He keeps nodding off, leaning forward and jerking upright as soon as the sensation of falling grips him.

“-n? Jon!”

“Wha-” Jon startles as Martin’s voice finally reaches him through the fog. “I – what?”

Martin has a concerned look on his face. That seems to be his default state these days, Jon thinks distantly.

“I kept saying your name but you were just… you weren’t answering.”

“Oh.”

Martin worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Jon can tell that he wants to say something, but he just stands there waffling, and –

“What?” Jon snaps, and then he and Martin wince at the same time. “I’m… I’m sorry, Martin. I – I’m just tired.” He rubs his eyes furiously, trying to chase away the haze. “I’m sorry. Did you need something?”

“I… Jon, when’s the last time you slept?”

Silence.

“Maybe you should have a lie down? I made up the cot in the storage room, and –”

“I’m fine,” Jon replies through gritted teeth.

“You’re falling asleep at your desk. Actually, um,” – a small, cautious grin crosses Martin’s face – “I don’t know what paperwork you used as a pillow, but you have ink on your face.”

Jon groans and scrubs at his face with both hands.

“You really do need to sleep, though,” Martin ventures again, gentle but firm.

“I… I don’t want to,” Jon says stiffly. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he curses himself for the honesty – Martin is going to want to talk about that now, and –

“Why?”

Jon is silent, steadfastly refusing to look Martin in the eye.

“Fine,” Martin sighs, exasperated. “But you can’t go forever without sleep, I don’t care how stubborn you are.”

He’s right, Jon knows.

Jon did manage a full 70 hours awake before he started nodding off in spite of himself. For the past few days, he’s been allowing himself short naps, setting his phone alarm at hour intervals to wake him long before he can enter REM sleep.

It isn’t sustainable, but the alternative is haunting people’s nightmares, looking into their eyes and Beholding what they see when they look at him: Cold, calculating predator. Unblinking voyeur. Too many hungry, prying eyes, feeding on their terror, stripping them of their dignity, soaking in their trauma with cruel fascination –

“Jon.”

“Fine,” Jon grumbles. “Sixty minutes.”

~~~

Whenever he slips into the dreamscape, Daisy promises to hunt him down. Finish what she started. Bury him in a shallow grave and leave him to become yet another mystery.

The Archivist wonders if being killed in the dream would wake him up, spare the other dreamers from his scrutiny for just one night.

He wonders how Daisy would react if he was able to tell her that he resents the absence of her knife at his throat just as much as she does.

~~~

Six months.

For six months, he wanders, an uninvited, hated guest in those familiar dreamscapes.

The Archivist wants nothing more than to throw himself into an empty grave, to turn the damp earth into a prison with six-foot-high walls, to break his legs in the fall so that even when his resolve crumbles and he tries to clamber out of the hole, he will be unable to do so. The other dreamers would be safe from him, then. There would be nothing for him to watch but unyielding soil and the chill, impenetrable fog above.

He Knows that the Eye is still there behind the veil of fog; he can feel its unceasing gaze, but at least in the lonely cemetery, he cannot see it.

There is an open grave in front of him, its waiting maw calling him forward, promising to shackle him, to hobble him with blindness and paralysis. He stands at the edge, knees locked and eyes peeled, staring down into a plot that he desperately wishes belonged to him, and him alone. The dream keeps him there for what seems like hours, taunting him, holding relief just out of reach.

Then, the dream turns him around and pulls him inexorably toward his true objective. Once again he is forced to watch as Naomi’s freezing, bloodied fingers scrabble uselessly on the walls of her prison. Her tears have left trails in the mud on her face, and when she looks up at him, she asks the same question she does every single time: Why are you doing this to me?

Eventually – after far too long standing statue-still, eyes locked on Naomi’s pained, desperate face – the Archivist is yanked onward toward the waiting carnage of the dissection lab, the mournful singing of the coffin, the undulating mass of ants.

When Jane Prentiss shambles toward him, he can feel the worms burrow into his skin all over again. He wants to scream, to scratch, to grab a corkscrew and start digging – Dig, comes the intrusive thought, blinking in his mind like a marquee: Dig. Dig. Dig. – but his mouth and his hands are not his own, and his eyes – so many eyes, so reminiscent of the spider – are fixed on Jane. Her otherworldly screams pierce the night as she burns, and the Archivist desperately wishes he could clamp his hands over his ears to block out her death knell.

Being brought before Georgie Barker is almost worse than confronting Jane Prentiss. If she could still feel fear, the Archivist is certain she would wear the same expression as the others. Instead, there is only a mix of pity and resignation. Over and over again, Jonathan Sims has walked into burning buildings for even the slightest chance of having a question answered. She wishes she was more surprised to see what he has become, but she is so intimately familiar with his pattern of self-destruction and stubborn curiosity, and she has long since recognized it for what it is: a fatal flaw, coaxing him toward tragedy like a moth to the flame.

The exterminator makes no distinction between the Archivist and the Flesh Hive, and Georgie Barker likely wouldn’t, either. As always, the Archivist cannot find it in himself to argue.

When at last he finally awakens, he is not surprised that she leaves with such finality, her parting words condemning him as a lost cause. He pushed on past the point of no return, just like she always feared he would, and she has no desire to watch him burn.

~~~

Jon may not have been allowed to toss himself into a lonely grave, but the coffin welcomes him with an eager appetite, and imprisons him in much the same way. He may be unable to move, but at least his body is his own, unlike in his dreams; he may not be able to escape, but at least he can speak.

“After the mission. I was planning to kill you,” Daisy tells him, matter-of-fact. He knows why the moment she starts talking about her dreams. “Realized you weren’t human. Needed to die, as soon as it was safe. Never mind Elias and his… insurance.”

“And now?”

“Don’t know. I – I miss dreaming. You don’t sleep, down here.”

Jon finds the prospect of eternal wakefulness in this place downright horrifying – the endless boredom alone sounds like torture – but... no sleep means no nightmares.

“Daisy, you should know, I – I’m… if I wasn’t human before, I’m, uh – I’m even less now.”

The distant rumbling of the shifting earth picks up in volume until he can feel it in his teeth.

“Yeah.” Daisy doesn’t sound surprised. “Well, at the moment, I don’t care.”

“And if we get out?”

“But we can’t get out.”

“No.”

The noise grows in volume, drowning out his voice.

I really should have known better, he thinks to himself. Of course his rib wasn’t a strong enough anchor. He’s so alienated from his own body at this point, so far from human that he couldn’t even die properly. How many times has he found himself thinking, What’s another scar? In a way, he feels just as detached from his body when he’s awake as he does in his nightmares. The idea that a part of his body would call to him from outside the coffin… it’s just as ridiculous as his rushed, irresponsible deductions about the NotThem’s table.

“I’m s – I’m sorry,” Daisy stammers, snapping Jon out of his reverie. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“So am I,” Jon replies. For everything, he does not say.

The rumbling fades, and silence descends on them in a rush.

“You know,” Jon begins after a minute, choosing his words carefully, “I… I didn’t know, at first. That the nightmares were real.”

Daisy says nothing, and Jon interprets it as permission to go on.

“I – I thought that they were just my nightmares. That the first statements I took hit me harder than I’d expected. I was so dismissive to the first few people who came in to give their statements in person, and I assumed that my – my guilt over how I treated them was manifesting as nightmares, since I refused to process it in real life. That I was just…” He lets out a bitter laugh. “That I was just stressed about the new job.”

“When did you figure it out?” Daisy asks levelly.

“I… I think I suspected after a few months? But I just – I told myself that I was being ridiculous. I went through a bit of a – a paranoid phase, and I thought that I was just… overthinking things. I tend to do that, to just – obsess, and let my imagination run wild –”

Daisy snorts. “Yeah, I gathered that.”

“I – I've had a lot of practice with denial, I suppose,” Jon says, sheepish. “Or feigning denial, at least. Playing the skeptic was… safer. Admitting out loud that I believed in – in monsters felt like it would… draw unwanted attention, I suppose. That it would somehow provoke the thing watching me to strike. I convinced myself that pretending to be ignorant would keep the monsters at bay.”

“That’s…”

“Stupid, I know.”

Daisy gives a dry chuckle.

“I had to give up the act after – after Prentiss attacked the Archives,” Jon continues. “Even after that, though, I still wanted to believe that the nightmares weren’t real. But then one day I woke up and – and I just knew –”

The dirt around them begins to press in again, forcing the air from his lungs. Jon feels Daisy’s fingers brush his wrist and he takes her hand. Not alone. Not alone. Not alone.

Then the pressure lets up all at once and they are both left gasping in its wake.

“Keep talking?” Daisy’s voice has that desperate, pleading edge to it again. It’s so at odds with the Hunter that Jon knows, more like prey than predator. “I – I need – I don’t want to be alone.”

“Not alone,” Jon murmurs, as much for himself as for Daisy. “The dream that made me realize – her name was Tessa Winters. I took her statement, and that night she was in my dreams. The way she looked at me, I just… I knew. She was really there. Her eyes were so – so accusing, like she knew that it was my fault that she was there. And – and it was. The other statement givers came to me on their own, but she likely would have never come to the Institute if it wasn’t for me.”

“Oh?”

“I – I posted on a message board, soliciting supernatural experiences related to technology.”

“You can use a computer, then,” Daisy teases, a smirk in her voice.

Jon smiles too, and for the briefest moment he forgets where they are. “I just turned 30 this year, Daisy,” he says, rolling his eyes, and she snorts.

“Still, I can’t picture you making forum posts.”

“I had an ulterior motive,” he admits, his smile fading as the old guilt bubbles up. “I had found Gertrude’s laptop, and I needed help breaking into it, so I – I figured maybe I could lure in someone who knew computers, take their statement, find a way to casually ask them to have a look at the laptop for me. It worked, but then she appeared in my nightmares, and – if I hadn’t drawn her to me, she wouldn’t be there.”

Daisy makes a noncommittal sound. Jon shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep, faltering breath.

“And then – after the Unknowing, I – I should have died. I was dead, technically. My brain was still firing – dreaming,” he says with distaste, “but I had no pulse, no respiration, no… no other signs of life.” He feels the pressure of tears in his eyes and he fights to keep his voice steady. “You should have seen the way the doctors and nurses looked at me as they were explaining it. A – a medical mystery – a marvel, really – the sort of thing that most professionals would kill for a chance to study – but they couldn’t wait to get away from me, to hurry me out the door.” He pauses to take a deep breath, but between the crushing earth and his own grief, he can’t fill his lungs. His exhale comes out shallow and shaky. “And – and Georgie, and Basira, and Melanie, and –”

Daisy tightens her grip on his hand. It’s so surreal that Jon almost laughs. This is Daisy. Daisy, who seized him by the throat, who tried to kill him, who enjoyed seeing him terrified and begging for his life, who took such pride in the scar she left him with – and now she’s comforting him. He isn’t sure how to process that turnaround, so instead gives her hand a squeeze in return, clears his throat, and continues.

“So – so for six months, I was in a coma. If you can call it that. But the whole time, I was dreaming. For six months, I walked through the same nightmares, over and over and over again. There was no waking up to escape it, and – and it meant that the other dreamers couldn’t escape me, either. Up until then, if I was awake while they were asleep, they could get away from me, but – but I was in the dream every hour of every day, so I was there every night they slept. And the way they look at me – like I’m a monster – it just… they’re not wrong, but I just wish – I wish I could tell them that I’m sorry, that I don’t want this either, that I don’t want to watch. The Eye doesn’t let me speak, though – or move, or – or blink. I am an observer, and an observer does not interfere.” He laughs then, a little hysterically. “It – honestly, it felt like longer than six months. I lived through the same scenes so many times that I started to feel so numb to it all.”

“What about my part of the dream?” Daisy asks quietly.

“I – ever since the Unknowing, whenever I get to your segment, there's nothing but the coffin. I always enter it, but it never brings me to you. Until now, I suppose,” he says with a humorless chuckle. “Oddly enough, though, I always found myself wishing you were there.”

“Really.”

“Yes, I – it’s hard to explain.” He hesitates for a moment before settling on honesty. “You always looked at me like I was prey, instead of predator. Or – or maybe like I was a predator, but a – a weaker predator, something that could be killed. A monster that could be vanquished. I… I wanted you to catch me. I suppose I thought that maybe – maybe if I died in the dream, it would end the cycle, and release the other dreamers from the Eye.”

“Might have killed you in real life, though,” Daisy points out. “If the dreaming was the only part of you that was alive.”

“It may have,” Jon agrees.

Daisy lets that linger for a minute, heavy and revealing.

“I… I don’t think I want to die,” Jon eventually continues, “but I can't stop thinking that maybe it would be… better, if I did? All that would happen is that the world would lose another monster, and – and that would be fine. It would be right. But I still…” He chokes on his words, something between a laugh and a sob. “God, when did not wanting to die start to feel selfish of me?”

The dirt around them shifts, sibilant and imposing. They hold their breath, as if speaking might provoke it. Daisy waits for the rustling to settle again before she speaks.

“Why did you come here, Jon?”

“To – to find you, to get you out –”

“Yeah, but why? I nearly killed you. Would have tried again. Would have liked it.” She huffs. “I know you didn’t come here out of any loyalty to me. So, why?”

“I…”

“To get yourself killed?”

“No, I – I really did want to get you out of here.”

“Why did you come for me, then? Out of guilt? To justify not dying?”

“I…” Jon sighs heavily. “Yes, I – I suppose. And - and Tim was dead. Sasha is dead, and Martin is... gone, and when we found out you were still alive, I just - I didn't want to lose anyone else. I couldn't just leave you here, not if there was a chance I could bring you back.”

Daisy is silent. Jon knows that she wants him to say more, and he takes a deep breath.

“The others don’t trust me – not that I blame them, I don’t trust me, either. Martin is… he has his own plans. Georgie wants nothing to do with me. Melanie hates me for not having the decency to die, blames me for everything that’s happened. Doesn’t even think I’m me anymore, just – just some monster wearing a familiar skin, and – well,” he laughs uncomfortably, “I have a hard time arguing with her assessment.” He takes a deep breath. “And – and Basira, she… she doesn’t put much stock in my humanity, either. Sometimes she sees me as an asset to be used, but…”

He trails off, feeling faintly guilty for his mixed feelings on Basira. She encourages him to use his powers when it will help further their goals. She doesn’t go so far as to claim that the ends justify the means, but she does frequently remind him that they need to be pragmatic, like Gertrude. The rest of the time, though… she looks at Jon like he’s a dangerous animal, unpredictable and poised to strike. He knows that she’s fully prepared to put him down if it starts looking like he’s too dangerous to be allowed to live, and although that hurts, he’s also glad that there’s someone who he can trust to put an end to him if he loses himself.

Nonetheless, it’s frustrating to be hated and feared for what he can do – to hate and fear himself so thoroughly – while still being expected to embrace those powers whenever it’s deemed useful. He’s more of an instrument than a person now, a tool to be used and then locked safely away once he’s fulfilled his purpose. At the same time, though, it at least offers him some semblance of control. He may be a vehicle for the Eye’s machinations, but perhaps he can balance it by giving their side an advantage in whatever way he can, principles be damned.

And he did give Basira explicit permission to use him.

Sometimes he wishes he had Gertrude’s certainty, or Basira’s resolve, or any sort of confidence in his own convictions. Most of the time, though, he fears what he could become if he was more decisive. He doesn’t trust himself to live without doubt.

He doesn’t know how to explain all of that to Daisy, though.

“I don’t – I don’t expect them to trust me,” he says instead. “Or like me. It seems dangerous to be near me at all, and I’m not exactly” – he huffs out a short, bitter laugh – “I’m not good enough company to risk it. It hurts, and it’s lonely, but I – I do understand. But I can at least make myself useful –”

Without warning, the Buried constricts itself around them in a rush, strangling his words and stealing the air from his lungs. This time, it feels like hours pass before it finally relaxes its chokehold. The only conversation that passes between them for a long time is synchronized, frenzied gasping for what little chill, stagnant air the Buried deigns to permit them.

“We’re the same, you know,” Daisy says eventually, forcing the words out even as she struggles to catch her breath. “I'm afraid of what I am, or - or was, or could be again. I needed the Hunt. Liked it, even – I enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the kill. But now I – I look back and I’m disgusted. I hurt people who didn’t deserve it. Even the actual monsters were… I wasn’t killing them because I cared about justice, or protecting others, not really. I was feeding on the fear of the prey. It made me feel alive –”

An abrupt coughing fit interrupts her then, and several minutes pass before she’s able to continue speaking through the grit coating her tongue.

“All I’ve felt since I came down here is fear and pain and guilt. I accept that – I should feel guilty, and I – I probably deserve more punishment than this. But still, I… I want to see the sun again, to breathe fresh air, to –” Her breath hitches. “I – I want to see Basira again.”

Jon can just barely hear her sniffling, but knows better than to draw attention to it.

“But – but if I leave here, I – I know I’ll hear the blood again. I don’t know who I am without the Hunt, but I – I still don’t want to go back to it. I deserve to be here – but I also want to leave – and that feels selfish. But I suppose it really doesn’t matter, does it?” When she laughs, it almost sounds like a bark, hollow and brittle. “There’s no way out.”

“No way out,” Jon repeats. “But maybe… maybe the world is safer without me in it – without… without either of us, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Daisy chokes out, her voice hovering between a laugh and a sob. “That’s – that’s pretty messed up, isn’t it?”

Jon lets out his own tearful chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He pauses. “You said that – that you don’t sleep down here, that you don’t dream?”

“Yeah.”

“That's probably for the best,” he sighs. “At least this way, the Eye can’t reach the dreamers anymore.”

“And at least we’re – we’re not alone?”

“No. Not alone.”

“I’m glad that you’re here, Jon,” Daisy blurts out in a rush. “I know that’s horrible of me, but – but it’s the truth.” She takes a shaky breath. “I don’t want to be alone. I’m… I’m glad I’m not alone.”

“I’m… I think I’m glad, too,” Jon admits.

He wasted so much time pushing people away, refusing to trust, rebuffing any offer of help. Georgie told him that he needed human connection to help him stay human, and she was right, but when he finally admitted that – by the time he finally resolved to trust the others, regardless of his doubts – it was too late. When he woke up in the hospital, there was no one left to offer their hand when he reached out for help. Even worse, he can’t exactly deny that it’s his own fault.

But now, trapped here in the cold and the damp and the cramped, suffocating dark, Daisy holds his hand. The firm pressure of her grip is comforting, despite the clamminess of their skin. He can’t remember the last time he was touched with anything less than malice.

“I’ve been alone since I woke up,” he continues, “and – and afraid of what I’m becoming. It’s nice to have someone who – who understands what it’s like. I think this is the most companionship I’ve had in… in a long while. It’s nice to be the one seen for once – by something other than a monster.”

Daisy tightens her grip further, and Jon marvels at how such a simple gesture is so much louder than words.

A silence falls on them then – a bizarrely companionable one, so incongruous with their current predicament. They clutch each other in the dark, focusing on one another’s breathing to coax them through the irregular ebb and flow of the earth pressing down on them, peppering the gloom with quiet conversation whenever the Buried gives them an inch to breathe.

Daisy talks about her childhood dog, and The Archers, and how people are always surprised to learn that she has a sweet tooth. She tells Jon about the first time she and Basira went camping: They had stretched out beneath the night sky and Basira taught Daisy the constellations, the origins of their names and the legends they represented. Affection welled up in her as she listened to Basira muse about how even though the constellations vary across time and culture, humans have always shared this collective impulse to look up at the sky and make meaning out of randomness.

For the first time in a long time, Daisy had been truly present in the moment; for once, she wasn’t gnashing her teeth, impatiently anticipating the next hunt. Basira’s voice anchored her in the present, and the call of the blood was drowned out by a flood of warmth and devotion.

Jon talks about the Admiral, and his brief foray into AmDram at uni, and how he's always hated poetry, but then he read some of Martin's, and, well... some of them were quite good, actually. Jon confesses that he too has an unexpected sweet tooth. Martin somehow guessed; whenever Jon was having a particularly rough day, Martin would make his tea sweeter than usual. Martin never drew attention to it, and Jon never commented on it, but it was... touching, if he's honest with himself. He wishes that he had told Martin then that he noticed, that he appreciated the gesture - that it made him feel seen in a good way for once.

Jon misses Martin desperately, worries for him fiercely. Worse, he knows with a certainty that Martin will never know just how much he is missed. He spent far too long underestimating Martin, taking him for granted. Sure, Martin had stumbled a lot in the early days, but when Jon learned that Martin had lied on his CV, he was actually impressed. It's remarkable how competent Martin managed to be with no prior experience or qualifications to speak of. Daisy listens as Jon rambles on about how Martin is so much braver and cleverer than Jon or anyone else ever gave him credit for, and how much he wishes he could tell him that now.

They go back and forth like that, confiding in each other about their regrets, and the apologies they will never get to make, and all the things they miss. They talk about fears, and monsters, and what it means to be human. They talk about choices.

Jon does not dream. Daisy does not hear the blood. Together, they listen to the quiet.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #just gonna tag those two since they're the main ones i focused on #anyway i didn't mean for this to get so long but i have a lot of feelings about jon and daisy's friendship sooooo #have 3400+ words of them comforting each other in the buried i GUESS #tma spoilers #up to MAG 132

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shineonmalcolmbright · 5 years ago

Text

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Eighteen

Table of Contents

Present

Malcolm pushes files back into their rightful place but pauses to get a good look at the room Colette and Dani are in. The door opens for a second. He can’t make anything out and sighs before looking back at the box he just repacked. Real quick, Malcolm looks through a little finding aid he created for himself when he started and makes sure it’s back in the same order. At some point somewhere he learned proper archivist approaches. The initial format a collection is in is important and should be maintained that way because it describes the context of the archive.

Next, he pulls up a new box finished with that one, and starts with fresh paper. He labels the top with the box number he’s on and starts to look at the first few folders. Making notes on what is what before spotting what appears to be an out of place envelope sticking out.

For no rhyme or reason, he plucks it free noticing the folders it’s in between. It’s an orange envelope but looks more like one for mail and inside of it are some old photos.

He’s about to drop it back into place and wait till he gets there but it’s as if the photograph speaks to him. It whispers some words, but no, it’s not the photograph but instead a memory. Great, Malcolm comes so close to freedom by looking away. A ghostly hymn snatches him, trying to drag him straight back to final moments at the Overlook.

Regrets. . .I’ve had a few but then again, too few to mention. I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption. . .

Sounds like the anthem an old cop would love.

Malcolm closes his eyes trying to banish the old ghostly hymn from his thoughts, his hand trembles not really helping him out with seeing the image. He holds it together as best he can with both his hands.

There’s Ian Turner.

Ian Turner is in this photograph.

But. It’s not Ian Turner who he’s thinking about and not Ian Turner who caught his attention, but a past that can’t give up. There’s two men in the photograph, there’s Ian Turner then there’s another police officer who Malcolm himself once knew.

Locked up in one of the front rooms at the Overlook Hotel. It was amazing how long those emergency lights stayed on. Even injured they kept him inside one of the front offices.

For some reason, they kept up sitting inside a pretty dark room and people were on the other side. Somebody had found a little radio underneath the counter. Other cops and paramedics out there, waiting around, checking out the scene, exploring the scene, doing whatever it was that they did. Those on break cranked up the volume listening to Frank Sinatra spit out words over a rusty speaker.

I ate it up and spit it out, I faced it all and I stood tall and I did it my way.

Malcolm kept trying to not look at the cop across from him. His big off white sweater was still pretty wet from the snow outside. It soaked through, chilling him to the bone, but he didn’t say a word afraid somebody would point out he was a liar or he was making it up or he was exaggerating or trying to get out of this locked up room and away from this man because he didn’t want to admit some alleged truth.

“Hey Malcolm, over here,” said the cop.

He wore street clothes and didn’t look like an officer or a detective. It was impossible to define his role, but life moved at a strange pace out on the snowy side the hotel overlooked. Malcolm kept trying to count the cracks he saw all around the room but the cop snapped his fingers in his face to get his attention.

“I’m Detective Shannon.”

He left room for Malcolm to respond, but Malcolm wasn’t about to open his mouth to say any words other than maybe I have to use the bathroom. It’d be hard to find words to better define how corners and darkness moved throughout the Overlook.

Once people went around yelling: The devil made me do it.

The devil was easy to blame because they were such a delight.

If Malcolm dared, he could try: The Hotel made him do it. But there were two of them. His father and the other. The man who seemed to exist in between realities who claimed out loud, the hotel wanted Malcolm dead because the shining or so he assumed. Before Jessica and Ainsley could find him with actual blood on his hands, he cleaned it off letting it stay a secret.

Malcolm sat there staring at Detective Shannon doing his best to not react in any sort of way. Except the whole time, the detective stood in front of him holding eye contact.

“Hey, I’m trying to talk to you, kid.”

Malcolm sighed, people couldn’t casually drop the ghost word or psychic word or any of those surrounding details. He should’ve spent his time counting the cracks running through the room.

Outside somebody started to sing along with the radio and somebody cackled yelling to stop. Didn’t they know? Malcolm stared at the door, it felt as if he were in both rooms at the same time but he wanted to wriggle into the next room to be there physically and mentally as he listened to those joking around. It’s bad luck to sing My Way because many met their death right after singing it for karaoke and nobody else sang after but laughed and laughed as if there weren’t. . .

Detective Shannon stood up, staying in full view of Malcolm’s vision. He tried to pick at the wet threads of his sweater while the detective spoke. “Yeah, we just wanted to review your statement about your father’s arrest.”

Except Malcolm put his head down, he pushed the other room from his brain and hoped to combat any ghosts that might try and pry in. The grogginess that once weighed him down so much had been lifted for exhaustion and fatigue to stop him.

He muttered into the table, “I already told you everything.”

Weird to think. He ran his fingers across the tabletop. It all started here. His father had been interviewed and received the position to work at the Overlook. Somehow those moments were trapped up in the table. He could pick them free. His father sitting there, doing his best smiles and charming the man who hired him while thinking such terrible thoughts about him. Ones he wasn’t ready to accept or form and couldn’t break free from the moment he stumbled into them.

Detective Shannon leaned across the table. “Yeah, but, um. . .here’s the thing. The security guard who called us and was on the scene before they took your dad away, said that he overheard you and your dad share some parting words.”

It felt like an eternity out there in the world. He trudged through the snow without much protection. Jessica worried about frostbite as she carried Ainsley. All Malcolm had was a pocket knife, it wouldn’t do much in a fight against a fully grown adult and an ax. To think, he’d called Gil right before then right before the snap.

Martin’d been fine and somehow it all came together, the reason behind the danger behind every corner beyond the ghosts who called the Overlook home. He’d called out to Gil then realized at Martin greeted him that Gil wasn’t going to make it and he needed to put a stop to it.

They pulled Martin away, he acted normal all over again first simply blaming the hotel for the reason to why he lost it. He and Malcolm fixed the boiler in time not letting the place explode. But Malcolm wanted to stay hidden down there, wedged between dust, out of sight of his father, out of sight of the police who soon arrived, out of sight of all the ghosts like the crooked woman who crawled around there. Somehow if he ever happened to hear her she begged him to Jump.

And Detective Shannon repeated the word Martin Whitly said to Malcolm as he was pulled away. One last moment and in the boiler room out of all places. The words left the detective’s mouths because for some reason, Gil apparently told him or maybe it was somebody else. A lot of people were around that night.

“‘We’re the same.” Detective Shannon leaned across the table. Malcolm dug some fingernails into the wood welcoming splinters while a tremor ran through his other hand. The detective watched anxiety wound its way all throughout him before looking him in the eye and asking, “Why do you think he said that? That’s what I can’t figure out.”

Malcolm catches his breath losing the photograph. He folds his hands together hoping to stop his one hand from shaking. Somehow the chill of the past finds him in the present, which isn’t ok. None of this is ok. None of this is ever going to be ok. Malcolm buries half his face into the backs of his hands and is stuck sitting there with the photograph of Ian Turner and Detective Shannon watching him.

This isn’t ok. None of this is ok. None of this is ever going to be ok. Malcolm turns catching Gil as he’s walking by with some hot coffee.

Gil? Malcolm calls out.

“Yeah?” Gil asks, letting it slip even though this conversation started elsewhere. Then he sees Malcolm there. His face still buried in the backs of his hands as he’s looking at the photograph. Gil takes one look at this and shakes his head. “No, no.” He takes a sip of too hot coffee unable to find a happy medium. “No, look for something else Bright, and then give me a shout.”

Except Malcolm peers up at him. Not gonna happen.

Gil sighs, he blows on his coffee and starts to walk away. Just. . .let me have this one thing first before you make more bad decisions.

#shineonbrightfic #prodigal son #malcolm bright #gil arroyo #Owen Shannon #silent night #prodigal son fic #prodigal son fanfic #prodigies #the shining

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listoriented · 5 years ago

Text

Cibele

: a discussion.

Cibele is a game by Star Maid Games/ Nina Freeman [Nina’s website], and released in 2015. Feeling that my friends had more interesting things to say about Cibele than I did, I decided to get their thoughts on the record. Thus was born the first ever List Oriented podcast.

Sian Campbell edits Scum Mag and once baked a very good cake. Xanthea O’Connor [twitter] is a writer, performance-artist, audio tech person and a million other things.

Xanthea also made the podcast theme song and helped with recording and EQ. Interlude music was excerpted from the Cibele soundtrack by Decky Coss [bandcamp].

Hit the "read more" button at the bottom there to see the transcript.

Some topics we discussed include: - representations of early/online relationships - is Ichi a creep? - the framing of the ending - to what extent claims to autobiography matter

Some other books and games mentioned: - The Passionate Mistakes and Intricate Corruption of One Girl in America by Michelle Tea - Sour Heart by Jenny Zhang - Minor Characters by Joyce Johnson - I Love Dick by Chris Kraus - Emily is Away by Kyle Seeley

Finally, many interesting things have already been said about Cibele. Suriel Vasquez and Kate Grey both made arguments that Cibele is one of the few games to get sex right. Brendan Keogh notes how Cibele makes players aware that "both the players and creators of videogames never stop being fleshy, meaty bodies in actual space." Lena LeRay compared the depictions of online intimacy in Cibele and Emily is Away. G. Christopher Williams read the game's ending through the similarly cynical lens that we did.

next is Cities in Motion

Podcast transcript

Sian: There needs to be a theme song. [Singing] Welcome to List Oriented. *Finger Clicks*.

Xanthea: I think that’s great.

Sian: Nailed it. Hashtag, nailed it.

Xanthea: We’ll doodle a ukulele over it.

Connor: Can you put some beats in?

Xanthea: Yeah I’ll put some beats.

Connor: Maybe I should just make it so that just pops up automatically when the blog starts.

Sian: Noooo…haha. Like Myspace circa 2006…

[Podcast theme plays]

Connor: So I’d like to begin by acknowledging the traditional owners and custodians of the land on which we meet today, the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation, and pay my respects to their elders past, present, and emerging.

Hey!

Xanthea: Hi

Connor: Hi

Sian: Hello.

C: Welcome to the first and possibly only edition of the List Oriented podcast, which is…a decision I have made to do a podcast instead of a blogpost for this game, Cibele. Cibele was made by Star Maid Games, which is the vehicle of Nina Freeman. It came out in 2015. To discuss it with me today I have some friends and experts.

X: [Laughs] That’s us!

S: Don’t fact check that.

C: Uh…Sian Campbell, editor of Scum Magazine, researcher extraordinaire…

S: Animal Crossing expert…and Connor’s housemate! Yay.

X: Correct.

C: Aaaand in the other corner… Xanthea O’Connor. Writer, performer…

X: Sims video expert…

C: …Connoisseur.

X: Mhm, mhm.

S: You’ve kind of made it sound like we’re gonna fight.

C: Yeah I mean…that’s probably not going to happen but…

S: Well we don’t know.

X: We’ve got the whiskey out…drinking coffee and whiskey at the same time.

C: Whiskey is a fighting drink. I have a friend who won’t drink whiskey because he says it makes him too angry.

X: That’s why I don’t drink tequila.

C: Oh! Cos it makes you too angry?

X: Mhm, yeah.

S: I don’t drink tequila because I end up with girls in bathrooms.

[All laugh]

C: So Cibele… or “Sybil” depending on who you are, uhm, is a game, which, kind of, is a bit different from other games, it is…uh. It has you play as Nina, the main character, uhm, who you see introduced at the start of the game in a like, full motion video when she sits down at the computer. And then the next thing we have access to Nina’s desktop so we are - kind of - Nina but we’re kind of also not-Nina. Uhm, and we can rifle through her pictures and her archived blog posts, uhm, and then eventually we get to open up this game called Valtameri which is sort of a Final Fantasy parody type thing, and we play Valtameri with this guy called Ichi, or Blake, uhm…

X: Spoiler he’s a creep.

C: Well. Arguably he’s a creep. Uhm. And we just talk to him. Aaaand… our other friends are messaging us while we’re playing but we’re not that interested, uhm. And we kind of have this cycle a few times where we play the game, and then we maybe send photos to Ichi or…maybe…I dunno what else happens but anyway there’s like three phases of the game and it takes place over a few months and then… that’s kind of… it. That’s the end of the game. I dunno. Anything to add?

X: Should we give a spoiler that at the end he lives in another state and he comes to see her, at the end…

C: Or us…

X: Or us… and then… they Have Sexxx. And then, the last bit of the game is him saying that it was a mistake, over the internet, and you see the last image of her at the computer looking very isolated and then it’s just the end of the game. Is that alright to say? The spoiler?

C: Yeah we’re not going to be able to talk about the game without saying that, so.

X: Yeah we need to say there’s unresolved tension at the end. Uhm…yes. That there’s no way to resolve.

C: Uhmmm yeah so it’s unusual, I mean, like I suppose some people at the time made a point about it’s not being a game you “play” so much as experience because you can’t really have any influence on it, it’s more just about exploring…the life that is presented to you.

X: And whatever influence that you do have, doesn’t really affect the main narrative. So you can do small little actions, like you can choose text that you say to people, but it doesn’t actually change anything that happens.

C: Yeah. You can’t make meaningful choices.

S: I did like that you can engage with, or not engage with, the background media as much as you wanted to. Because it’s got the interface of her desktop where you can look in her desktop folders, look at her selfies, pull up chatlogs all that kind of stuff. And you don’t have to in order to experience the game. And I liked that element of it because it was, I guess, immersive and, yeah. Again, it didn’t really influence the gameplay in any way. And you could safely assume that people would look at everything, because that’s kind of how most people play games. But, yeah, I thought that achieved the goal, which was to make it feel like you were her, on her computer.

X: Whereas for me I felt like, maybe as someone who doesn’t game quite as much – calling myself out here - but, the idea of going through those things maybe wasn’t as exciting for me so maybe I did speed through the game a bit more occupying Myself rather than the character of Nina. Maybe because I found looking through photos that were similar to photos I would have taken in 2008 deeply frustrating uhm, yeah. But it’s just different experiences I guess.

S: I found interesting in terms of, like, obviously this is a creative work that she’s made, so I came at it from the point of view of wondering about the inclusion of certain things. Like, why that photo as opposed to – I’m sure she has hundreds of photos of that time – like what does this photo or poem say about that time in her life that another photo taken in the same photo session didn’t? Or something like that, I mean, obviously everything that was included in the desktop interface was a deliberated choice and so I found that aspect interesting.

C: Hmm yeah, like someone else had made the point which wasn’t something that I’d picked up on but, that some of the photos were intentionally bad photos that were included, which I guess when we’re talking about the choice of presentation uhm. And her poetry and chatlogs and it’s this idea of airing your dirty laundry…

X: Well it’s still curated.

C: Yeah, very much so.

X: But, it’s very clear that there’s the intention there that it is a little bit more vulnerable than what you might just put online it’s like, yeah it’s more the sort of stuff you might just keep in a file somewhere on desktop, I guess there’s that vulnerability that you don’t normally get on a blog or Instagram or something like that.

S: And I guess that by being vulnerable she signposts to us as player or consumer in some ways that we should trust this as a confessional work.

X: Mhm. It does feel very much like rifling through someone’s diary, or…yeah that feeling of you’re totally not meant to look at someone’s phone, but there’s occasionally that impulse to do so, and it definitely feels like you’re doing something that’s…it’s kind of not okay, but within the game context…

S: Yeah. And so I find that interesting coz it’s kind of her giving us the phone and wiping everything on the phone other than the things that are on it, but the things that are on it are kind of not necessarily things that make her look the best, so I, yeah. It’s interesting from a curatorial point of view.

X: Mhm. Yeah it’s definitely curated from someone looking back at that self and being really honest. Which I find really interesting. And I haven’t really… again, not a huge gamer but I haven’t seen that in a game before, that really confessional, like, autobiographical…

C: Yeah. I mean it definitely comes from a place of there being not much autobiography in games and certainly not with this, uhm, mix of mediums that it’s sort of used where you’ve got this, like, video of the character which is played by the person who made the game who’s named the character after themselves and so it’s like…they’re acting as themselves, and then using bits from their life, and there’s a game element to it, and a movie element to it…and all these things are sort of slipping over. Whereas I think other autobiographical games have been more text based or uhm… traditional, in air quotes…

[Music plays: excerpt from “turn on” by Decky Coss]

X: So do you want to talk about…do we want to talk about what we did like and didn’t like…now?

C: Yeah. I find it — I guess I find it a really interesting game. And it’s almost like, for me, because it’s so unusual in so many ways it almost like …avoids the question, for me, as to whether or not it’s something “I like”. I guess what I liked about it is it’s something I haven’t really experienced elsewhere, uhm, it’s a very novel game to me. Like I do think it has identifiable shortcomings which I guess we’ll come to later, but, uhm…

X: So you like the experimentation of it?

C: Yeah. I do like the experimentation of it. I like the way it, uhm, mixes these things together and the way it plays with autobiography, which is another thing I’m sure we’ll talk more about it. I like it’s sound and visual kind of…the desktop artwork, it’s design. I have a basic appreciation of that I suppose.

X: She’s got a really strong aesthetic. I think that can be fully agreed upon. Sian, what about you?

S: I’ve never played online collaborative gaming like the kind of gaming this game is about and referencing, and that the game-inside-the-game is meant to, I guess, be a play on or be an example of. I… I found the game kind of rudimentary and not that enjoyable to play. As in the game “Valtameri”, uhm.

X: Also, I don’t think you even had to actually play it because Ichi was playing it…

S: Mhm, I couldn’t tell, I thought you did.

C: Yeah, I feel like if you did nothing it wouldn’t go forward at all…

S: Yeah I agree. But. I feel like it did what intended to do which was immerse you in the idea of being a person playing a game while listening to the audio of a story which is of people talking while playing a game, so it was effective in its aim in that sense, but it just wasn’t an enjoyable experience to actually play it. I found it boring and clunky.

X: I think I was beginning to dread having to go in there and do it, too.

S: Me too.

X: It’s almost like a meditative means to an end within the game. But the actual game itself is like…ugh. Just like, clicking. Like Diablo but…with worse monsters.

C: Yeah.

X: Does that make me sound really stupid?

C: No. I mean that’s what it is.

X: I think if…I think if there had been a little bit more, like, difference, so if it was a different kind of game, or if it was simple it was so simple it mirrored a game like Diablo or games like that…if it didn’t mirror a game like that it might be more interesting but I found myself clicking and just “oh I don’t want to play… I want to play an actual good game” and uhmm yeah

S: Yeah. I found it tedious and I found… I don’t know if it was just my Mac I was playing it on but I found it soooo clunky and awkward and like, to actually navigate inside the game was just a nightmare and so I was the same, I was dreading it every time I had to do that part.

C: Yeah I wonder like, uhm… if they had built Valtameri to be more interesting it would have detracted from the point of it which was I guess, uhm, the paying attention to the conversation or…

X: Well you’re forced to coz it’s so monotonous.

C: Yeah.

S: I was thinking the same thing. And I’m wondering if there was…I mean, there would be, there would be a way of having it simplistic in terms of goals and fighting and all that while also… not being as boring and annoying. But, yeah. I was also thinking the same thing in that because it was so straightforward it did give you that space to absorb the story better.

C: Yeah.

X: Mhm.

S: In terms of, like, bigger picture, I just didn’t really like the framing at the end. Which was, kind of the game ends and it leaves you with this message that… this is an experience of what first love is which I felt was, uhm, again a bit clunky and didn’t feel honest to me. Which I thought was interesting because the game itself is quite a vulnerable, confessional, honest game.

X: Yeah, it was very good at interrogating Nina, and very good at doing a lot of showing not telling but still interrogating the character of Ichi, but then… interrogating the relationship itself felt, like…yeah, when it said it was about first love… not… I dunno. Was it?

S: Yeeeah, you’re talking about a relationship that never was with someone you were never really with. Uhm, it was very unclear, I guess. And it was interesting – and I think most people have had relationships like this, online – where you’re communicating with someone primarily online and forming this relationship and this bond but also but kind of on one level… I guess, unsure as to where that relationship fits outside the box that is your computer.

X: Yeah, and I found that, actually, the whole premise of the game for me – as, like, someone who has left their early twenties, thankfully – of knowing that environment and knowing those people and that sort of relationship that gets built online, and as soon as we’re introduced to Ichi the character I wanted to just shut it down.

S: Mhm.

X: It was like “eurgh I know what’s going to happen, I… don’t want to be there for that”. And so there was that… again, I don’t know if it’s something I necessarily liked or disliked, I just found it a very confronting part of the game, that, I wasn’t sure… whether it was for me necessarily, or what the point of it would be for me to play.

C: Yeah, right. I feel like, that was really interesting for me actually, playing it this time, because I have played it once before back after it came out…I played it not long after… and I think my experience this time, it seemed a lot more like… obvious how, Ichi, the things he said seemed quite… bad. And I didn’t remember it being quite so bad. Like I felt like his actions were always questionable. But just the whole…like all of his dialogue…is

X: It’s very well done.

C: Oh it’s very well done. It seems very real.

X: But that’s the thing. If you’ve never been groomed online before. I dunno. Can I say he was grooming? I feel like it was kind of…

S: It wasn’t *not* grooming, it was…[sighs] it’s hard to tell, I mean, I guess. And that’s part of what’s interesting is that it’s her memories of how it happened and what their conversations were like, then portrayed by somebody else. So of course, we can only go on what we actually see but it’s referencing something that happened and probably what we’re listening to is quite different from what actually was being said, so that line is quite murky and unclear. I found it hard to tell exactly to what extent he knew what he was doing or even if he was doing anything other than just enjoying playing a game with someone who was showing him that kind of positive attention, like, a girl who was showing him that kind of attention. It was kind of unclear to me where he wanted it to go or even if he wanted it to go anywhere. She was kind of the one pushing them meeting up and things like that. I felt like he was toying with her, very much so. I don’t know whether I would say he was….hmm, I would say he was grooming her but I don’t know whether it was…

X: …a premeditated sort of predatory…

S: Yeah. Yeah.

X: Yeah, I think it’s quite interesting, thinking about that and where you are upon reflection making this dialogue, I guess as the maker of the game, as Nina did, it reminds me of…after we’d played the game, uhm, and I opened up my laptop and I got all my 2007 emails spat at me and, heaps of emails from old friends, and lots of guy friends talking about girl stuff, like putting in, like copy-pasting msn messenger chat things they’d had with girls like “I don’t know what this means, can you help?” And I was reading through, and it was very similar like baiting sort-of situations where someone’s like “well I’m not very good” and you’re like “no, you’re great!”. And like… very similar dialogue, where I’m sure these friends of mine were not predatory they were just, like, trying to get some affection, just being like – they must have been sixteen, seventeen at the time, like – really trying to figure out how to broach a like a sexual or romantically intimate relationship with somebody, and there’s just a lot of like, neediness in those conversations, that I forgot was a thing, until I got all those emails being like… oh we were so… like, if we now, in our late twenties to thirties messaged something like that, we’d be like… “you’re a freak”, like. You wouldn’t be able to say what we were saying back then. So yeah, I think it’s kind of interesting…what you’re saying, is that we assume that it’s predatory because as older people now, because that’s what it signifies but… when you’re younger…sometimes it can just be, like…

S: Yeah, on one level I felt like he was…just confused and out of his depth. Like this girl, that he’s obviously attracted to, and very much enjoying having the attention of, is then suddenly starting to push the line of, “well are we gonna meet up”, and he’s kind of thinking “Oh. She wants to meet up with me. I hadn’t actually thought…”. Like, it seemed like he’s just enjoying the online experience, and she’s the one who wanted to solidify things and meet up. From my memory I mean, I played it a couple of months ago. And then he’s kind of, it seemed maybe, internally wrestling with the idea of “do I want that? If I want that, it’ll obviously be beneficial for me in those certain ways”, but it’s obviously… most people, or at least most girls who have been through that wringer at least would be able to tell going into it that he didn’t actually…that there was not going to be a relationship, that he uhm… when he came to New York that wasn’t going to be a love story coming to fruition.

X: Yeah, totally.

S: But obviously she was engaging in these like fishing tactics too that we all did when you’re young and you try and feel out what’s actually happening: “Does this person like me? Do they not like me? Oh I’m ugly, I’m sure, oh…” you know, all that kind of bashful…

X: And, that as well, because you can see how vulnerable she is on her desktop, like you can see all those photos, and you can see the development of her sexualisation as well within the game because…it’s in three parts right? Where it goes, like, the first time, and then it’s a few months later, a few months later. And you can see every time the desktop refreshes she is like more sexualised, you can see her search history of things she’s looking through, you can see where it’s heading in her own mind. And there is those fishing tactics from both sides. It’d be really interesting to see, like, Ichi’s desktop as well. Like, I would love the other side of, what he’s looking at.

S: Yeah.

X: Because, for me, I can look at Nina’s desktop as long as I want – like, I get it. But I would love to know what he’s doing. And like, his intentions. Obviously, Nina doing that would be disingenuous. But it would be really interesting to have a game, of like, a 17-year-old boy’s desktop, and understanding where that headspace is.

S: I thought there were some interesting context clues, in the game, that were interesting on a few different levels, hinting at the idea that this was something he did with girls, that he kind of…played with them, that he was only interested in playing games with girls, obviously enjoying this attention. That was something that was I think said by at least one person she talked to, and possibly multiple people that she talked to was, oh. I kind of got the sense that she was new girl that he was “playing with”, in multiple senses.

X: And those things like, burned out, sort of.

S: Yeah. I kind of thought that context was interesting. Because, if you’ve been through this relationship, you have the ability to see what’s happening, which is why you and I both have a stronger feeling that this guy is in some ways… not necessarily predatory, but, in some ways manipulative and, just bad news. Just not… uncomfortable.

X: We’re playing through a pattern of behaviour that isn’t going to be healthy for either them…

S: Yeah, uhm, and so we can recognise that, it feels like we’re meant to recognise that, it feels like those clues are…they’re not even clues, it’s part of the dialogue, we can hear it, we can interpret it. And those context clues of other people referencing the fact that this has happened with other girls… well it seemed like what those other people were referencing.

C: Mhm.

S: Those were deliberate things put in the game by Nina, which is interesting when you think about the way that she then frames the game at the end as “this is just a story about first love.”

X: Mhm. It’s…yeah, it’s confusing, definitely, because it’s kind of undermining like what you think she’s setting out to achieve, and almost like… is that just meant to be…a joke? How intentional is that? Did she not know how to wrap it up? Wrap up the story to resolve it all…

S: Yeah that’s what I was unclear of. It did almost feel like she felt it needed one final, like, “and this is what the game is” flagging. Whereas I thought it would be more powerful and interesting if she just left it the way it was but without that kind of final message.

X: Mhm.

S: And so in some ways I felt frustrated by that messaging because I’d interpreted it so differently, and I was then being told that my experiences were incorrect, I guess? That maybe I’d interpreted it wrong. It also made me sad for her that she was interpreting it in that first love sense. And it made me feel guilty for feeling sad for her [laughs] like it was…it was an interesting choice for her to kind of….in such a cerebral, experimental game, where you have the power to experience it the way you want, for then for her to tell you how it should be read was… an interesting choice.

X: Mhm, yeah, totally. Coz it almost makes you second guess, like oh was she not upset? Did he not just do something that was, like, not loving?

C: Yeah, I though that was… uhm, like, a weird bit of the author coming to then tell you what the game is about. But at the same time it reminded me of – I recently read a memoir by Michelle Tea, Passionate Mistakes – and in it she talks about… there’s a scene where she says one of her early boyfriends, she says, that telling him “I love you” was like, a code for “we can have sex now”. And I thought that like, in the context of this game being kind of, like… I think Nina does the same thing in Act 2, she says “I love you”, like, “I think I love you”, and then it’s… it’s part of the development of the relationship and it’s like heading towards having sex for the first time. Uhm, and that kind of being framed as…maybe that’s more of an American thing? Like, a code, I dunno.

X: Nooo, it’s not.

[Laughter]

X: It’s not an American code. Unless I am American.

C: Or is it a teenage code?

X: It’s definitely, I dunno for me it’s definitely a teenage code.

C: Sure.

X: I think it was, another book that I was reading recently, and talked about constantly while I was reading it…was it Minor Characters by Joyce Johnson? Yeah. That’s the one.

C: I guess we can edit in the correct title later.

[Laughter]

X: And she…it’s like a beat memoir of a women during the beat era, and she dated Jack Kerouac, and it’s saying that…during that era, and I mean still it holds true, but like, women, or young girls are taught to safe guard their virginity, and boys are taught to safeguard themselves, and that idea of love being… like, giving, giving way to something that you can lose yourself to. And I think that it 100% feels like that, like when women say - when girls say - “I love you”, it’s like, very much about that idea of safeguarding their bodies.

C: Right.

X: And, yeah, I don’t know where else to go from there. But it’s very…it’s not just American, I think it’s like, across the board. In like, early relationships.

C: Okay.

S: Mhm.

X: What do you think, Sian?

S: I dunno, it was… I don’t necessarily have any opinion about the sexual element to it. I guess I feel like I got the sense that she wanted to have sex, like that was something she wanted to do, she was ready for and thinking about, and thinking was kind of her way of accessing that, in some ways. Uhm. Mhm. I was sort of…was very unclear of his… thinking, I guess, and what he was thinking about, where he was coming from, who he was as a character. Just, I didn’t get a sense specifically of who he was. Like I feel like I’ve probably met gamer guys like him… it… She gave us some ideas but I also… I think what you were saying in wanting to see his desktop was interesting because we got such a clear idea of who she was but we didn’t get any of that from the actual audio, from the actual in-game experience of them chatting. They didn’t talk about their life, pretty much at all. So, everything we learnt of her we got from her desktop. So, we didn’t get that same chance to learn who this guy was. What he did outside this game. Where he lived, who he lived with, what he studied. We didn’t get any of that. And I think, hmm, I agree with you – I don’t think she could have added that, I think it would have been disingenuous and it would have been against the point of what the game actually was as experimental memoir basically.

X: Hmm. But I also think with so many gamer guys as, uh, as a woman who has dated a lot of gamer guys, I think that…especially during that time when you’re just going into university, you are like plumbing for depth, like emotional depth in people that you’re dating, and often it’s just not developed yet, like, I dunno. From experience I think that, this guy I honestly just think – like I know I said his behaviour felt like it was grooming, but – he just, maybe, as well, had no idea what he was doing.

S: I kind of – yeah, I got that sense as well. I mean, I think he knew what he was doing in terms of fostering her attention, but in the larger picture I don’t think he was a particularly deep or interesting person.

[Laughter]

X: I remember… I dated this guy – anecdote! We can cut this out – uhm, but I dated this guy when I was like 17, and it was my first year of uni, I met him in my maths class – shoutout, you know who you are! Uhm… and he… I remember like in the first week of us dating he said that he missed his bus stop because he was thinking, and I was like “oh my god, he’s so deep, he like missed his bus because he was Thinking” and I, like, “I wonder what he was thinking about, probably me, how amazing I am”.

[Laughter]

X: And then maybe a month later or like two months later, he was like “oh yeah I missed my bus stop again”, and I was like “oh what were you thinking about?”. And he was like “oh you know, just what everyone said during the day”. [Laughs]. Like he was just, no further reflection. Just what everyone said in sequential order, and it was just that moment of like, oh… you weren’t, it wasn’t… there was no depth to the thought, you were just daydreaming about the sequence of events during the day, uhm. And that moment of, like, disillusionment was quite… upsetting.

S: Mhm.

X: But yeah I feel like that’s what we could have done during this game, is that we’ve turned him into this guy that’s like…. well, for me, definitely I’ve like, in my head while I was playing it, I was like “what a piece of trash”, like. But he probably just logs off and twiddles his thumbs, and, I don’t know… plays Fortnite.

S: Yeah it’s kind of like that, I don’t know. I was gonna say meme. I feel like there’s tik-toks about it where girls are like “urr I wonder what he’s thinking or why he’s not messaging me back” and he’s literally just playing games or asleep or just…outside! And there’s no greater mystery to it, it’s just that he’s not currently texting you, coz he’s a boy, and they’re boring!

[Laughter]

X: Mhm, yeah.

S: But yeah I totally agree that uhm…of having had so many times that experience of having had so many times that experience of just assuming people must be thinking these larger internalised thoughts like there’s this whole world of them we’re not accessing and that felt…I felt like that as well while playing this game. Or I felt her feeling that, while playing this game.

X: Totally, coz there’s so much of her planning in there. So much of her planning flights and looking at prices of flights and things like that. And it’s like, she’s putting so much energy into, and like I’m sure he had not even googled a flight until…

S: I don’t even think he was thinking about them meeting up really until she kind of…started, felt like she was…not pushing it but…

X: She was giving ultimatums kind of…

S: Yeah.

C: Which I mean, fair enough.

X: Yeah.

[Music interlude: excerpt from “what would happen if we met” by Decky Coss]

C: So…uhm, we sort of touched on it before but like, “who is this game for?” is a question that Xanthea you suggested we should talk about.

X: Yep.

C: Possibly because you didn’t think – not to put words in your mouth –

X: Put ‘em in.

C: - but you weren’t sure, like, you weren’t sure if this game had a target, or that if there was a particular set of people that should be playing this, or like. I dunno, what were your thoughts?

X: Yeah I dunno, I just felt like, especially by the end of it when it was…or even as I started it, and hearing the dialogue, I knew what was going to happen. And I felt that…like sitting and playing – I wouldn’t have finished playing if I wasn’t playing with you, Connor, because…I was like “I know what’s going to happen…”

C: Yeah.

X: “and it’s going to be annoying”…like “it’s going to irritate me”. So…yeah. I think that it’s… you don’t go into playing this game for like, excellent gameplay, or like…I, I dunno. I think it’s an experiment, and it’s a worthy and valid experiment of a game, uhm. But as a standalone, I’m not sure… if I’m like “cool I feel entirely satisfied, as a, as a consumer of this game”. Like I want there…coz it is that experiment, now I want something else to come out that’s inspired by it…

S: Mhm.

X: Does that make sense?

S: I sort of felt like… uh, I guess as wanky as it might sound, I sort of felt that it’s just a piece of art, and it didn’t need or even have a specific target audience, it was just created for art’s sake. And I guess if I had to say who it was for, I guess, people who enjoy immersive, experimental gameplay but… yeah I’m kind of the same mind in that I’m excited by it as a starting off point, in terms of gaming.

X: Unless we sell it to the government and they lock teenage boys in rooms and make them play it.

C: Do you think there’s like an educational element where teenage boys should play it and understand, that like…?

X: I dunno that girls are real people? Maybe.

[Laughter]

X: That’s another – okay, another boyfriend that i had, once, two months into dating the next boyfriend - everyone goes to take a drink - he said, uhh, “I didn’t realise that girls had feelings until I started dating you”, which was, like, the most –

S: Did you break up with him immediately?

X: No, we dated for a year and a half.

S: But he didn’t know women were…he didn’t know girls were people.

X: I know!

S: That’s scary!

X: And he dated a lot of women before me. Uhm…and yeah! But maybe I’m coming at it from a radicalised point of view, given my dating history.

[Laughter]

X: But yeah, I think that this game for like, Sian and I – and Connor as well I guess – is like, preaching to the converted that these relationships, these early relationships being fraught and problematic and, like… very difficult to navigate. Yeah, so, as you said, it does feel more as a piece of artwork acknowledging all those issues. But at the same time, I think it does have a message that feels…interesting. I just don’t think a young boy would pick it up and be like “I can’t wait to play this game!”

S: Mhm. I think I would love to have a conversation with a bunch of girls at different points in their life, like a fifteen-year-old girl and a seventeen-year-old girl and a nineteen-year-old girl. Like find out what someone thinks when they’re in the middle of these kind of relationships, playing this game, like…do they recognise it? Do they have thoughts about as being manipulative, or uhm, that kind of fishing idea that they’re both doing, engaging in that kind of fishing behaviour… I’d be really interested to know what I would have said about the game, when I was eighteen.

X: Yeah. I think if I was playing it at eighteen I would have a lot more internalised misogyny, of just being like “oh she was just super needy and”…

S: Mhm. And I think… it’s so hard to say, like, would…would I have felt more impacted by it? Would I have felt more called out by it? Would I have felt more seen, or…would I have wanted to… I think I probably would have read it the same way that Nina is now telling us to read it, which is as a love story, because…that’s kind of…I would have been closer to Nina’s, I guess, idea of who she was when she was…when we are Nina in this game. I think that’s what I would have…would have been my experience as an eighteen-year-old.

X: Hmm…

S: So it’s kind of interesting, I think I would have… shipped them. As it were.

X: Totally.

C: Yeah right?

X: And would have focussed a lot more on him being like, he’s so like…he’s so cute, or like… kind of getting really into that idea that’s like oh yeah… and like, actively shipping, as you say.

S: Mhm, picking up on things he said that indicated he was interested, as opposed to now, when your bullshit meter is just going Off The Charts.

X: Totally! Every, every bit…like literally the first game you play it’s like “ew, go away.”

[Laughter]

X: “Where is the option to never play with this guy ever again? Oh wait, it doesn’t exist. It’s the whole game. How horrible for you Nina”.

C: Yeah I remember you saying that you felt almost like a bit trapped by it, by the fact that you can’t get out of it, like you have to experience this…not, not that it’s necessarily trauma, but like-

X: Yeah it’s traumatic! And you…I mean, every line that he was saying was like ugh, it felt so close to…things…I’ve heard online because I was quite a vulnerable teenager, who was constantly fishing for things online – call myself out, hundred percent. And yeah, it’s very challenging to go back and look at somebody doing that and not being able to, within gameplay, do anything about that.

S: Mhm.

X: Like sit her down and be like. “Nina. We need to have a talk about this. You’re fine. Chill out. Go for a walk. This guy’s…not good.” Like, yeah, I dunno I think, uhm…coz you yeah I dunno I think I very much… immediately saw that and it frustrated me.

C: Yeah. That’s fair.

X: But, I mean, if it’s a work of art that’s okay! It’s allowed to frustrate.

S: I think that feeling of being trapped is interesting coz I had that same sense of being locked in, uhm, but at the same time I think that feeling is an effective one in making you feel immersed in this person’s life. Like it really…because I guess, you are locked in and because of the desktop element and because of the kind of immersing gameplay it really felt like you were experiencing this person’s life in a way that…I’m not sure whether it would have been as effective if you could kind of pause and click out and stop.

[music interlude: “cibele” by Decky Coss]

C: Uhm, I guess one final thing we can talk about is, this idea of it being autobiographical or not? Or where it kind of sits on that spectrum – I suppose because this isn’t something that’s been done so much in games uhm… we were kind of looking at the idea of it being “autofictional” because it’s taking the idea of, the intentional blending of something that happened in the life of the creator so it’s sort of like memoir, but it’s also an intentional, uhm, saying that it is not totally autobiographical because it’s not using certain elements, or it’s recreating certain elements. Uhm, so I dunno – Sian, because you are the autofiction expert in the room, what was your kind of idea about how it was positioning itself?

S: Uhm, I would say…on one level I would be inclined to say it didn’t read as autofiction to me because it just felt like it was a retelling of something that happened, it didn’t feel like we were meant to suspend our disbelief or that we were meant to uhm, assume that anything that happened didn’t happen exactly as it happened – I got the sense that it was almost in some ways quite literal. I dunno. I think I would have to think a lot harder about this. I think autofiction’s interesting because a lot of the time it relies on what you already know about the creator…

C: Yeah right.

S: …which is an interesting kind of thing to have to consider as a reader, and also as a writer of autofiction is…when you’re flagging something as inherently false, how is your reader or player or consumer meant to pick up that it is inherently false, if they don’t happen to know you? If they don’t know what actually happened, how do they know that this is you playing with the truth? Will they assume this is true? I’m not sure she put anything in there that we were meant to assume didn’t happen. I’m not sure she was playing with the truth – I think she was trying to get at the truth. But without knowing more about her I suppose it’s really hard to make that call.

X: Was it ever acknowledged to be based on true events at the beginning?

S: I think it was.

C: Yeah I think so and maybe not in the game specifically except for that author’s note at the end where it’s kind of like, suddenly not Nina the character speaking to you, it’s Nina who made the game – I think that’s the only time in the game where it acknowledges that the game was based on true events. But uhm, like, outside the game there have been interviews and articles that have been “this is a game about my first experience of like, hooking up with someone from the internet.”

X: Yeah coz it kind of feels like – who’s that author who wrote Sour Heart?

S: Oh, Jenny Zhang?

X: Yeah, Jenny Zhang, when she came to Australia and did an interview at Wheeler Centre she was talking about how frustrated she is that all of her fiction – even though it’s definitely fiction – is always assumed to be autobiographical…

S: Mhm.

X: Just coz she’s writing about, like, a demographic of her own experience it’s just assumed… and I think it’s like, kind of similar here. It’s like, does it matter if it’s autobiographical? Does it matter how much is true and how much it’s not? This is kind of more a universal truth of internet, uhm, intimacy. And like, I think that is enough to be a valid – frustrating, uhm, but valid, still…

S: If I was gonna think of where I would position it from a literature perspective – because that’s what I know, and that’s what I do — is, it is quite reminiscent of I Love Dick in some ways. It’s very confessional, it’s telling the story of someone’s relationship with someone else who doesn’t get a chance to…weigh in, I guess, and it is a retelling. It’s using real artefacts, I guess, with reimagined, and in some cases hyper-realistic…mmm

X: Re-enactments.

S: Yeah. So I think, that’s where I would position it. In terms of when thinking about literature which is what I do.

C: Yeah. Yeah, I guess, Xanthea you’re more of a memoir fan? Uhm..

X: Yeah. I love a good memoir.

C: You prefer it to…you prefer things that are passing things off as fully truthful? Or some version of…the truth?

X: Yeah “fully truthful”…whatever that is. Uhm. I like things that aim to be truthful. And I like things that interrogate themselves enough to feel like…anything that’s passed off as “this is entirely what happened, the truth”, I don’t believe… but uhm. Yeah. I think at this point it doesn’t matter who made it – for me, this has a larger truth to it, in some ways.

C: The universal experience…

X: I think it is getting at a universal experience of like, internet intimacy.

C: So you don’t… so it doesn’t matter if like, that experience, is making a claim to like, “this was my experience”? Like this is… or…

X: Honestly, I don’t think it matters. Like, uhm. I think it’s kind of beyond the point. And I think it’s why I’m more interested in stuff that’s made because of this work. It’s just kind of opening up to more conversations.

C: Yeah, sure.

S: I think I really…probably the reason I like autofiction as a literary genre, is because it interrogates that idea that you were saying of…does it matter or not matter if it’s true or not? I like work that plays with that idea, and I think this work is probably important because it does feel true, it feels like her version of events. And I think, I would definitely love to see more games that interrogate that idea of truth versus untruth. And I think…I haven’t played a lot of games like this, but I’m not super across all the games. I don’t know a lot of things. I play Animal Crossing, and the Sims, and Stardew Valley. And I don’t have, y’know, a large library, but when I do find experimental games like this I do seek them out, and I would be very interested to see what builds off this. I think in terms of that idea of does it matter if this is really her experience, I’m thinking of games like Emily is Away -

C: Yeah for sure.

S: Where, it’s very similar in some ways of, like, that experience of being on the desktop, being in the chatlog, having these conversations… And it is a different experience in terms of how, what you get out of playing that game versus playing Cibele.

X: Yeah and I think as well, uhm, making games around experiences that are, I guess popularly more marginalised, having that ability to play with truth and how much we know about things is kind of important. I’m just thinking back to a few months ago when I was really obsessed with Ned Kelly and there was lots of “based on truth” sort of, fictionalised accounts of Ned Kelly, but also, there are fictionalised accounts of like, the women in his life as well, so there’s novels around that. And how, I found, all of those novels coming together, all of those fictionalised entities coming together, it didn’t even matter at the end whether it was true or not, I just got a really interesting viewpoint of someone who has created so much drama and intensity and how that had affected other people. And I find that really, like, just as valid in terms of storytelling as someone claiming this to be the whole truth of like, a biography of Ned Kelly, which, I’ve never really gained much from. But, like, a fictionalised account of sister, I found really really interesting coz it was like, looking at, how…now I’m just talking about Ned Kelly. I’m gonna stop. I’m sorry. Uhm.

[Laughter]

S: What I liked about this game was that it felt aggressively female. And I mean, it is, it’s aggressively female, it’s aggressively confessional, and I think the gaming world needs more of that and I think it does, in some ways, carve out a little patch of internet or game, as it was, and opens a door. It starts a dialogue about what games can be – or continues a dialogue I suppose, I wouldn’t necessarily say it starts a dialogue but… I think the more people who understand that games can be for them, and games can be kind of art and games can be whatever they want and games can tell a story and games can be for women who have been made to feel that games weren’t for them by men, the better. Not that that’s what was happening here, but I can see that this game would make someone who had been made to feel that way feel that “oh games can be female” and that’s great and fun and cool.

X: I think that’s a good place to start, I mean finish, not start, finish.

C: Alright, so…

S: Let’s do it all over again!

C: Yeah, I think so too.

X: Any more final words?

S: Mmm, this has made me wanna follow Nina Freeman more and see what her other games are like. I haven’t played her other games, I feel like… it might be worth…

C: Oh yeah!

X: The date one is sick. [Laughs] I love the date one.

C: The date one, yeah, we played that? We Met in May, the recent one.

S: Oh wait, I have actually…

X: It’s absurd, I love it. You make a boy do weird things with his arms.

C: Yeah! There’s like a game where you grab his nipples…

X: Yeeeah, my dream.

S: Ohhh, I think I’ve played one of her other games which is basically just a very, very simple one.

C: How Do You Do It?

S: Yeah yeah I’ve played How Do You Do It, that was fun.

X: That’s funny actually, because, when we were playing it, I was like, “let’s make a game, this is like…I’ll play this game! I’ll play this game forever. Like. Give me a nipple-grabbing game.” Uhm…yay!

C: Yay!

S: Woo.

X: Thanks Nina…sorry we were so critical of your game.

[Laughter]

C: Yeah, uhhh, thankyou Sian, for doing this, and also thankyou Xanthea, for doing this.

S: I’ll see you when you get up to ‘E’ for Emily is Away.

X: I’m a sound person!

[Podcast theme plays]

#game90 #cibele #podcast #nina freeman #star maid games #games of 2015 #autobiographical games #internet romance #pod oriented

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jobtypeblog · 5 years ago

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As a label we have made efforts to properly engage in marketing bureaucracy and online visibility tactics that are required if you wish to engage certain audiences with your brand (especially younger internet-integrated generations). However, for creative satisfaction, and as experimental speculation with these micro-capitalist tendencies, as a transmitter of audio/visual media, we confront the orthodox of music marketing and media consumption by subverting these conventions in through poster design and music branding. We have continuously worked very closely with Gabriel Thomas, a visual graphics designer and 3D animator who has been instrumental in developing the accompanying visual language to our sound work. With 3D clay simulation software, we have designed typography and graphics that presents our collective warped vision of futurism and accelerated rave culture. We take inspiration from the radical science fictional and virtual visual styles of techno EDM music that has evolved through the 20th and 21st centuries. Below are some scans from a book titled Techno Style: The Album Cover Art, put together by Martin Pesch in 2003:

Below this is the artwork for DJ Haus’ Artifical Intelligence EP on Rinse:

Below are various Slump Sounds visual materials, flyer posters and visual branding eperiements:

^The above typographical experiments quite literally embody a visual comment market capitalist consumerist branding, by integrating the words ‘YOU MUST CONSUME’ backwards within the name ‘SLUMP SOUNDS’. To this end, we started plans for a website (shown below), and with Gabriel’s experience in web design assistance, have put together a conceptual mock-up that successfully incorporates the virtual potential of digital software and immersive screen art with DIY cyber-punk imagery. The visual concept is to can be accessed here: https://elated-shirley-a5af24.netlify.com/

These are collaborative efforts that involve a dialogue with Gabriel and direction from me and Al on the visual concepts behind the website, and though i consider this project a successful ongoing collaboration that will form a major part of my sonic practice, and that of the future of Slump Sounds, I am personally relatively unexperienced with design software and coding. Therefore I wanted to explore an alternative avenue of creativity, with the intention of a decidedly lower-fidelity visual language as a possibility for my final graduation exhibition in April. I have been drawn towards physical and more laborious methodologies of visual and sonic art, such as collage, printing, zine-making and sound production using analog hardware, without the need of a laptop. This sensibility can be seen in the virtualisation of non-virtual things such as graffiti or a marsh.

The search for meaningful and creatively satisfying sound work has led me to the world of analog art and audio programming with physical machines and tactile buttons and nobs. Admittedly, I’ve been very slow to embrace the potential of analog gear for a long time. I believe this has something to do with a sense of not believing myself to be as scientifically inclined as I felt was needed, or feeling the need to learn more about the engineering and mathematics of synthesis or sequencing. In hindsight, this is an unproductive outlook, especially considering the lineage of radical electronic artworks that were born from mistakes or glitches in systems of sound creation and reproduction that characterises a cyberpunk reading of experimental music. This desire intensified through a process of familiarising myself with pre-digital sound gear; what began as the need to hear cassettes and not owning a cassette deck, which forced me to choose one, locate it, buy it, and figure out how to get it to play what I wanted to hear, which then turned into vinyl and a mixer, and then cheap and simple drum machines. It still remains a part of my practice that I believe requires much more actual play and practice time... Still I contemplate the elusive nature of analog signal processing as when I first played a Casio electric keyboard at a young age. It is important to point out, however, that this does not thus lend me a masterful understanding of digital media processing either, only an ability to abuse to it to my own indulgent ends. Any effort to demystify this practice is a step in a right direction. Since my introduction to the keyboard, I can say for certain that my interest in electronic sound production and the history over human-machine interaction that defines parts contemporary society and techno-futurism has become a creative obsession. To live and work with meaningful creative disposition within the modernity of media noise and cultural saturation, and having been introduced to the infinite-possibility blank canvases of digital audio work stations at an early age, where my lateral creative mind quickly fostered an addiction to the stress of sonic novelty, erratic compositions that quickly deconstructed or changed an idea or process without allowing time for deep listening or trance-inducing sonic immersion, it has become impertinent for me to seek more visceral, authentic and tactile methodologies. Efforts to correct this habit of laptop art-making are a defining feature of my current personal interests, and my efforts to engage in a more authentically rooted and personal relationship to my sonic practice, extending beyond music and sound production into physical and visual art practices that steer clear from the transience of digital media online allow me to distance myself when I want to from digital work. My peers and I working within Slump Sounds are slowly making progress with collaborative analogue hardware production systems and studio building. Money and time are major factors in this process, though, as Simon Reynolds explains in his lecture on DIY, in some ways the romanticism of investing resources into more meaningful outcomes more appropriately reflects ‘a convergence of energies and passions‘. On the rare occasion I can return to Leeds during term time for longer than a day, I take the oppurtunity to connect with the label crew to work on the upcoming releases and discuss label business. Al owns a Roland SP808, an Arturia Microbrute and some decent speakers. I brought along my Korg Volca Beats, a reverb pedal and a folder of samples and noises from my own work and sampled from floppy disks and youtube videos. The attached Soundcloud file at the beginning of this post contains the resulting noises we made over about an hour of twiddling and listening. To me the sounds are an evocation of our collective interelations with Grime, Electro and DIY electronics. At the time we discussed as much as we could about the potential of performing with such a setup, and how possible it would be to get a project like that underway, with a focus on the ‘total package’ concept of physical releases, sleeve inserts, flyer promotion etc. that was conceptually a step back from the hyper aesthetics and digital marketting of Slump Sounds. We shared our fascinations with symbolism and aesthetic reflections of experimental arts cultures and avant-garde modes of living, carried through subversive strategies of music branding with the politics of contemporary DIY culture and cyberpunk. In an age characterised by rampant commercialism and media saturation, to what end can alternative practices provide meaning or transcendence from societal norms? Our decision was to begin developing a more DIY post-punk inspired subgroup uber the banner of Slump Sounds, where we could experiment with tactile art-making and more ambitiously conceptual projects not necessarily intended for club systems or commercial profit - enter, LosBundazGanks.

During this session, I talked with Al about my visual investigations into truth, hyperreality and simulation for my Major Research Project, and we decided to begin working on and combining the sounds we were producing with the visuals I have been collecting and researching. Of the 300 hundred or so images that we curated, all of them relate in some form to the idea of simulation and reproduction. The examples below consist of digital cuttings from an online version of the Official Gazette of the United States Patent and Trademark Office: Trademarks, which were selected on the conditions of their visual or conceptual affiliation with the idea of simulation, truth or audio/visual fiction. My intrigue in the catalogue, which gives a written description of each logo, was in the symbiotic relationship between the written definitions and meanings of the symbols, which in turn represented aspects of market capitalism and commodification. These first drafts were then processed through effects on an old version of Microsoft Word. The ‘edges’ function can, with experimentation, produce a digitally rendered appearance of stamping or screenprinting, much like the DIY Zine making methods of hardcore music and art communities:

After this, we highlights the inherent entanglements of audsio/visual simulation and truth by juxtaposing these images with other found visual materials. The intention was to build moodboard for reference in the future when we will have the time and resources to develop the idea of a Los Bundaz Ganks physical release or performance.

This process has completely shaped my outlook for future projects, and I have decided to introduce a significant portion of this research into the ideas for the graduate exhibition in April. For an effective audio installation or performance, I consider it important to side-step the context of a gallery situation, which too often in my experience has provided little to no communication in some form other than the actual pieces/sculptures/sounds of the conceptual analogies or research methods that brought the artist to design/build/draw attention to in the first place.

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