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strawberryspence · 3 years

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A Dinner and A Future

Fluff | Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Spencer just wants your first date to be perfect and surprisingly, it goes really well.

Word Count: 3,7k.

Warnings: some cursing, first date nerves, but that's it. just pure mindless fluff.

Writer’s Note: Hello! I've been going through a writing dry spell and the thing that solved it was writing this. I've been seeing a lot of edits on tiktok about Spencer's traumas and I just wanted to give him something simple and happy. I was also listening to Kodaline on repeat while reading this, so yeah it's going be hella sappy. Enjoy! <3

Gif is mine. Lesley Smith-Juniment, you have my heart.

Spencer is nervous.

Wait no, scratch that, nervous is not good enough. He was brimming to the edge with worry and queasiness. What other synonyms does nervous have? Spencer was antsy, anxious, perturbed, uneasy, at this point he can recite the whole thesaurus.

Spencer closes his eyes and takes a deep breathe. He can do this. He has waited for this for a long time and he won’t waste it because of burnt pasta.

Okay, he looks back at the note that David Rossi himself wrote in his own special handwriting.

1. Cook 1 pound pasta until Al Dente. Boy Genius, Al Dente should be firm when bitten. You cook it on a boiling water with salt and oil. SALT AND OIL.

2. While that’s cooking, do nothing. LITERALLY DO NOTHING. Watch it. Do the sauce later. In some miraculous way, if you don’t watch the pasta you’ll burn it.

A grin spreads across Spencer’s face as he puts down the paper and reaches for the fettuccine pasta and dropping it on the boiling water (which he measured with measuring cups he borrowed from JJ)

“Okay, now I wait for it to boil.” Spencer stares at the pasta as it cooks. Did he buy enough parmesan cheese? or enough pecorino cheese? Oh no. He looks over the other side of his counter where all the (complete) ingredients sit and he sighs in relief as if he hasn’t checked it 15 times since he started.

The pasta was still cooking and isn’t going to be firm anytime soon. Spencer ponders if he should just cook the sauce while waiting but he knows he’s going to mess it up if he doesn’t give it his undivided attention.

He looks at the watch on his wrist as it ticks to 5:21. He has one hour, thirty nine minutes and forty six seconds. He still has time before the date. The date with you.

It took him nine months, Derek and Emily annoying him to death to just ask the pretty librarian out, one extensive background research from Penelope, two separate talks of the “You deserve to be happy” advice from JJ and Hotch and one lecture about marriage from Rossi to finally ask you out.

He’s kinda annoyed really because he spent so much time thinking about you and thinking of the perfect way to ask you out but he shows up at the library you work at one day with a cup of coffee in hand and his heart on the other.

You didn’t even hesitate. There was no pause to process what he asked, there was no questions following the embarrassing stumbling of the words, “W-will you go have d-dinner with me? L-like a date... Date?” You immediately said yes with a small hop and the biggest smile on your face.

This date has to be perfect. He asked you to come to his apartment at 7. Spencer would’ve picked you up but he was making you a home made dinner and the date was taking place on the rooftop of you apartment, which Penelope and Derek helped him decorate with lights.

He tries the pasta and when its finally firm to the bite, he takes this as his queue to read the paper again. Of course, he can remember all of the instructions but Rossi still wrote it down and reading it calms his nerves.

3. If its cooked, drain your pasta water but leave a little pasta water on the side. Then you can continue.

4. In a pan on MEDIUM heat (just around 2-3 on the stove setting) cook one pound diced pancetta and 1 cup chopped onions in olive. Put this down and chop chop!

Spencer puts the paper down as he follows the instructions to drain the pasta. After he was done with it he puts the pan on the stove and starts chopping up the ingredients he needs.

Cooking is strangely calming. He never thought he’d find it calming. He always found himself burning stuff. So he sticks to the microwaveable meals and fast foods, even if he knows the statistics about these kinds of food.

After finishing the chopping he reaches over the paper and reads it again.

5. Are you done? Okay. Put the chopped stuff on the pan with olive oil and cook it until the pancetta is browned and onions are soft.

He immediately follows the instructions written. The onion and pancetta create a silent hiss as it hits the pan. As it cook he looks down again.

6. That’s going to take a while, so leave it but stay by its side. I am giving you permission to do two things at once. Dr. Reid, please be mindful of it.

Spencer rolls his eyes before proceeding to #7.

7. Combine the two cheeses. Then divide it in half. Then pour the half into 4 egg YOLKS. Just yolks! The yellow ones! Then beat it lightly until its really combined.

He has already separated the egg yolks from the whites (a job he didn’t think would be that hard but was surprisingly very hard) before he started cooking. He adds the combination of cheeses to the eggs and lightly beats it as he watches the pan of onions and pancetta sizzle.

When done with the egg and cheese combo, he gives the pan a stir before looking back down.

8. Is the egg done? Yes? Good. Is the pancetta and onion good? Yes? Good.

9. Okay, now you put your pasta in the pancetta pan.

10. REMOVE IT FROM THE HEAT! REMOVE IT!

Spencer follows the instructions to the T. He puts the pasta on the pancetta, gives it a stir and immediately removes it from the heat. He sighs in relief. He hasn’t burned anything yet.

11. You haven’t burned anything yet? I am proud of you.

12. Now, pour the egg mixture into the pan and toss the pasta until coated. TOSS IT GENTLY. If you’re scared use tongs.

13. Pour about 1/4 cup of the pasta water I told you to set aside earlier. You don’t have to pour all 1/4 cup, just until you get the creaminess you want.

Spencer reaches over the nearest tongs. He’s not going to toss anything tonight that involves pastas or pans. He’s taking the safe road because he wants everything to be perfect.

14. Add the rest of your cheese! Toss some more and then add salt and pepper as NEEDED!

15. You can serve it with parsley.

16. Now, go take a shower and change into some cleaner clothes.

17. Just be you and have fun, Spencer. Goodluck! :)

Spencer smiles as he puts the paper down and makes the finals touches to the pasta. He starts doing what was instructed and it surprisingly, ends up in the perfect texture. Just like the one he tasted when Rossi had a pasta night.

He was proud of himself as he takes it off the stove and makes sure that all the stoves are turned off. There was this report he read in 2018, that cooking and leaving the stove open was the leading cause of home fires.

He takes the food, puts it into a fancy tupperware (another thing he borrowed from JJ) and puts it in the microwave. He cleans up a little and stuffs the pans and pots to the dishwasher, because you are coming in his apartment even for a second.

He starts getting himself ready for the date with a shower. As the warm water glides through his body he thinks of how funny life could be.

Spencer first meets you in the library. He has not slept well in weeks so instead he opts to go to the library to get some reading done. But as soon as he sits in one of the (surprisingly) comfortable leather chairs, its as if sleep knocks him out. It wasn’t until the closing time that you wake him up and he thinks that you were an angel sent for him. This elicits a giggle from you.

“I am sorry, I am not an angel. I am just the librarian and we’ve been close for over an hour now. I just didn’t want to wake you up. You looked like you really needed that sleep.” Spencer immediately jumps to his feet as he apologizes profusely to the kind librarian, “Oh, it’s okay! Don’t say sorry. I was also reading so I didn’t mind the peace and quiet.”

That’s how Spencer meets you. He comes back a few days later after a case with coffee, croissant and an apology. You immediately become friends and thats how all of this started. Spencer finds himself falling in love with the kind, gorgeous, clever librarian faster than he expected.

Every week after that, Spencer comes to the library with pastries and coffees for his favourite librarian and every week, you welcome Spencer with a warm smile and a new book for him to read. He can read it in one sitting but he reads it in the slowest pace he could so it can last for a week.

Spencer comes out the shower and stares at his closet. Should he go casual or formal? Casual or formal? Its just dinner, he’s chill and casual is the way. He picks one of the few plaid shirts that he has and puts it on with a white shirt underneath. He tries to brush his hair, it sits for a moment before it starts curling again. He cringes but leaves it be.

Spencer proceeds to the kitchen to start packing the food into a wicker basket (that he also borrowed from JJ, he basically borrowed her whole kitchen). He packs the utensils in a table napkin that comes with the basket. The main course for the date was the carbonara, and the dessert was a tiramisu Penelope made.

He reaches over his sofa where the bouquet of paper flowers are. He made it a few nights ago with Penelope’s help. He stayed up to make more of it with old books he found in the BAU.

Because what kind of flowers is the best flowers for librarians? Origami flowers made with old book pages.

He shouldn’t be nervous. You’ve been friends for all the months that he didn’t have enough courage to ask you out. You’ve taken trips to old bookstores together for book hunting. This shouldn’t be different from your other trips.

The pitter patter of rain against his window takes him out of his thoughts.

“Shit! Is it raining!?” Spencer yelps, before opening the closed curtains. Beads of water runs down his windows and if its any other day he would love it. But not tonight, when he planned a rooftop date. He cringes as he thinks of the fairy lights hanged up and the table set up that is probably soaked now.

“Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Think, Spencer, think.” Spencer thinks fast. He finds the extra table cloth that JJ gave him because “Just in case.” He reminds himself to buy her a bottle of wine as a thank you. He places it in his small kitchen table before taking the utensils out of the basket and placing it on the table in a fancy way.

Candles. Does he have candles? Spencer scrambles around his kitchen, like a chicken without its head, looking for candles and he finds it underneath the kitchen sink. He lights some of it up and props it into some glasses (he doesn’t have a candle holder he realizes after lighting it up).

With the lights dimmed down leaving the light from the window and the light from the candles, his dark apartment gives off a romantic, kind of comfortable, vibes. It was kind of perfect because with the books on his shelves and the lighting, it actually has the same vibes a library gives off.

He was ready now, bouquet of paper flowers in hand. He can’t believe how smooth things are going, minus the damn rain. Only thing that’s missing is you.

A knock comes to the door and he instantly opens it. There you were, hair a bit wet and messed up from the rain.

His future was bundled up in a cozy cardigan and a pair of jeans right in front of his eyes and he didn’t even know it.

“Hi.” Spencer smiles.

“Hi.” You smile.

“A little to the right. No. No. Too much right, now give it a little bit to the left.” You sigh, your hand under your chin, “No, no, baby, its crooked.”

“Love, can we do this later? The pancetta is going to burn.” Spencer laughs as he climbs down the ladder with the frame.

“But you said you’ll help me with putting up the frames!” You pout at him, Spencer chuckles before kissing your nose, “I know but you also asked for my famous carbonara and I can’t do both at the same time.”

“Hmmm. I still don’t think you can call it yours when its originally Dave’s.” You follow him to the kitchen, zigzagging through the boxes of books you’ve both barely opened.

“What he doesn’t know, won’t kill him.” He winks at you before giving the pancetta and onions a stir.

“It already smells good, love.” You snake your arms through his waist and lean your head on his back. Spencer lets go of the spatula and spins around to face you.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Go unbox some of the books and I’ll call you when its cooked so we can fix the frames. Okay?” Spencer kisses the top of your head and lets you go.

You walk out of the kitchen to the hallway full of boxes full of books. You chuckle as you open the nearest box and its just full of chemistry books. You push it to the room where Luke, Derek and Spencer has built shelves for all of your books. An olive green couch sits in the corner beside the built in fireplace.

Hmmm. This is your home library but as a former librarian the dewey decimal is calling you. But then again, the books you and Spencer have doesn’t have classifications on them. You began unpacking the chemistry books and placing it on the shelf. You can hear the distinct hiss of the pan and Spencer humming Kodaline’s The One.

You push in another box from the hallway to the room and its another one of Spencer’s, this one full of philosophy books. You start unpacking it to the shelf below the chemistry books before stopping as you pull out a book that doesn't belong with the philosophy books. A smile graces your face as your hands glides unto it. It was the book Spencer bought for you on your first anniversary.

The Peter Pan cover is a bit tattered, it was an older edition he found in your favorite old bookstore. You open the book and Spencer’s messy writing greets you with nostalgia.

“We are most alive when we are in love. Thank you for making me feel alive everyday for the past year. Happy Anniversary, love. I live a full life as I love you fully.”

You smile at the book before hugging it to your chest. You sigh deeply as you looked around the room and how it felt so surreal to be in the new home you share with Spencer.

“Love, I am finish. Come meet me in the hallway!” You leave the book on the shelf as you hear Spencer calling you.

“Are you helping me with the frames?” You clap, excited to finally put up the frames. Spencer smiles as he sees you excited to put up the pictures.

“Yes, okay you need to tell me if they’re straight okay?” He instructs before climbing the ladder.

“To the right, just a bit. Oh! Perfect!” You scramble to reach for another frame as he comes down the ladder to move it, “Here! This one.” He climbs again and you instruct him with directions for the frame again.

After a few more frames, he finally comes down and looks at the frames you asked to be put up.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Spencer smiles down at you and gives your cheek a kiss as he wraps his hands around your waist, “It is. Thank you for framing them.”

The frames comes in different shapes and forms, the biggest one in the middle is the picture of your wedding day. Your wedding took place in a library you immediately fell in love with when looking for places to get married at.

In the picture, you were smiling, your head rested on Spencer's shoulder as he reads a Harry Potter book he found in the kids section. It was a candid moment, both of you running to the back of the shelves to get a moment to yourselves after the wedding and the photographer snapped it before leaving the two of you in peace.

Beside it are pictures with the team on the wedding day, some on thanksgiving, christmas, new year with the BAU team, some with your family, some with Diana and in the corner is a shadow box containing the paper bouquet that Spencer gave you on your first date, the same exact flowers that was in your hands as you walk down the aisle to him.

“So, how's the first six months of officially being a Reid-Y/L/N?” Spencer teases as he lets you go from the back hug to face you and you roll your eyes at him, “Oh very hard. They hear Reid and they immediately expect greatness.”

Spencer laughs, “Same as the last name Y/L/N.” This time your the one who laughs at his statement, “Uhhh. I am not the one with 3 PhDs and 3 BAs.”

“And I am not the one whose a New York Times best selling author.” Spencer laughs even more when he sees your nose crinkles, making his heart dance and swell in glee.

“Hey, let’s dance.” He takes your arms and leaves it on his shoulders as he wraps his arms on your waist.

“We don’t have music, you silly goofy boy.” Spencer rolls his eyes at the endearment used, “I’ll sing.” He hushes you down.

“You make my heart feel like it's summer when the rain is pouring down.” Spencer’s singing voice was soft and sweet in the edges. Most nights you lull him to sleep with your humming to keep the monsters at bay and some days, his better days, he’s the one who sings and these were the days you treasure the most.

“You make my whole world feel so right when it's wrong, that's how I know you are the one... That’s how I know you are the one.” He sways you to the gentle buzz of his voice. You close your eyes as he sings the same song he sings to your ears on the dance floor for you first dance as a married couple.

“When we are together, you make me feel like my mind is free and my dreams are reachable hmmm.” Spencer hums as he runs his hands on your back. Your head on his chest and your ear listening to the way his heart is beating for you.

“You know I never ever believed in love, I believed one day that you would come along and free me.” Spencer feels at ease as he sways and sings, knowing that he’ll have you in his arms for the rest of his life.

The song ends but you and Spencer continue to sway to the music of silence.

“Can you believe its been 4 years since our first date?” Spencer asks, in disbelief of how fast time is running when he’s with you. You pull away from his chest so you can face him. You find a small spark in Spencer’s eyes as he thinks fondly of the night.

“Really? 4 years since our first date got rained on and Penelope cried because we broke all her fairy lights?” Spencer laughs before protesting, “Hey! I paid for that!”

"4 years later and I still can't get enough of that damn carbonara." Spence cackles, like an evil villain, "Don't tell Rossi that I stole his recipe for my beautiful partner."

"4 years later and I am still completely in love with you." Spencer smiles as he leans down to place a small kiss on your temple.

"4 years since I almost completely lost my mind because I was so nervous about our date." You roll your eyes, "Love, our first date was perfect. We've had this debate how many times now?"

"19 times." Spencer answers and you pinch his nose before looking around the room that’s still full of unopened boxes, “See. We should probably eat lunch and unpack. Why do we even have so many boxes of books?”

“Honey, you were a librarian and you are a writer. I am a professor and FBI agent that can read 20,000 words per minute.” Spencer answers as he looks around the unpacked house.

You smile fondly at him before standing on your tiptoes a bit to reach him and give him a kiss and he immediately steadies you with his hands. Kissing you was intoxicating and Spencer loves every bit of it. You only pull away when the kiss finally takes away your breathe.

“I love you, Spence.” You smile as you hold his face in your hands, “I love you more, sweetheart.” He smiles at you as you untangle yourself from him.

“Let’s eat your famous carbonara and unpack the rest of our house. It doesn’t really feel like home when all we can see is boxes.” You giggle before dragging him to the kitchen, making Spencer sit on the island as you prepare the pasta he cooked. Spencer watches you as you sing and dance through the kitchen in one of his old cardigans.

He doesn’t say anything but you were wrong. Home is not four walls with unpacked boxes and hundreds of books.

Home was when you showed up bundled in a cardigan, wet from the rain for your first date with him and home is still you, four years later, bundled up in his old cardigans and singing songs that magically fills and heals the crevices of his heart.

the recipe i copied for the famous carbonara!

taglist (if you want to be added, please message me 🥰): @all-tings-diego @shemarmooresfedora @averyhotchner @samuel-de-champagne-problems @bingereid

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sophie-jen · 3 years

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water lilies and tadpoles

read on ao3

James rolled onto his back. He looked up at the sun, shining joyfully in the cloudless sky, then immediately groaned, and rolled back onto his stomach.

"You look like a beached whale, honey."

James groaned again. "S'hot," he mumbled.

"Why don't you go down to the lake and take a swim?"

James did not dignify this question with a response. His mother had been trying to kick him out all morning. She clearly didn’t want him in her way as she pranced around in her sunhat, gardening tools in hand. James was too miserable to care. He just groaned louder and rolled over again. But this was the wrong move, he realized belatedly, as he felt the crunch of his mother's favorite lilies being crushed under his weight.

Five minutes later and a shovel shaped dent in his skull found James making his way toward the stupid lake. As he pushed his way valiantly through swarms of mosquitoes, he considered the very real possibility that he would drown in his own sweat before he ever reached water.

The suffocating heat made everything hazy. Overhead, branches swayed. Leaves rustled. Underfoot, twigs crunched. Moss whispered. Streams of light danced around him. Birds croaked. Frogs chirped. A mushroom tipped its cap to him.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, it occurred to James that he might be lost. Just as the beginnings of panic started brewing in his stomach, his foot caught in a root and he went toppling down a hill. He rolled to a stop next to a small glittering lake, and groaned. This was definitely not the lake his mother had been referring to. He hadn’t known there even was another lake in this area. It really was quite small, resembling more of an oversized pond.

There was something emphatically off about the happy twinkle of the water and the ethereal glow that bathed everything in a golden light. He also couldn’t help but notice that the water lilies were eyeing him suspiciously. To their left, a large, judgmental looking trout poked its face out of the water, took a good look at him, and with a disappointed shake of its head, went back down to report what it had seen. And sat on an outcrop not three feet away, looking straight at him while her fingers combed through her long tendrils of red hair, was a mermaid. This was a little much for poor James to take, and mercifully, after one last groan for good measure, consciousness fled and everything faded to black.

James gasped awake. He lay in the dark for a few seconds, contemplating the strange dream he had been having, before sitting up. As he did, something cold and slimy slid off his eyes and down his face, taking his glasses with it. He felt around for the glasses, slid them back onto his nose, looked at the lily pad that had dropped into his lap, and felt his stomach drop with it.

"I thought it might help cool you off."

He looked over at the girl who sat not far away. She was looking at him with an expression of mingled apprehension and curiosity. And sure enough, when James looked down, he saw curled under her a long gray tail, scales shimmering in the sunlight. He had to make a considerable effort not to faint again.

"I’ve found lily pads are really refreshing. I was afraid you had heat exhaustion or something,” the girl said.

“Oh. Thank you.” James didn’t know how to explain to her that it most likely wasn’t the heat exhaustion that had caused him to swoon.

“I'm Lily, by the way."

James considered her for a moment. Considered at what point between rolling onto his mother’s lilies and meeting a mermaid named Lily he had lost his mind. Considered the lily pad laying limply in his lap. Made a decision.

"I'm James."

“So, uh…” James kept his eyes on the small blue fish eating out of the mermaid’s hand. He was trying not to stare at her webbed fingers. “You live here? In the lake?”

“No, I actually prefer to perch on tree branches.” She gave James such a deadpan look as she spoke that he was inclined to believe her. At this point, he was inclined to believe just about anything.

“Yes, of course I live in the lake,” she continued after a moment. She turned back to the fish, which was stretching as far as it could out of the water, vying for her attention.

“Ah. Right.” James mulled this over for a moment. “But where do you-” he paused, trying to think of the best way to ask the question. “Well, where do you, you know, live?” Well said. “I mean, have you got a bed at the bottom of the lake or something?”

“Yep. I even splurged on a water mattress recently.”

To James’ surprise, a snort of amusement escaped him. Lily smiled as she stroked the fish, which flapped its tiny fins happily.

“Honestly, I mostly sleep on land. I like looking at the stars.” She gave the fish a final pat, before leaning back onto her arms, her tail stretched out in front of her, and tilting her face towards the sun. “I couldn’t really do that much back home.”

“Back home?”

“I live in the ocean.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I got caught in a storm and washed up in a river somewhere, so I swam up here.” She leaned over and lifted a clump of moss off the end of her tail, where a large translucent fin lay. The left portion of the fin was in tatters, and an angry looking rip spanned almost the entirety of it. "I can't swim properly with my tail in that state."

"So, what, you're just stuck here?"

"Until it heals and I can try finding my way home. But I honestly don't mind. I grew up surrounded by angelfish and dolphins, so lake trout and tadpoles have been a nice change of pace.“

Despite her lighthearted tone, she didn’t look particularly thrilled as she said it. James immediately felt compelled to do something, though what that something was, or why he even felt compelled to do it, were beyond him. Instead, his mouth moved of its own accord. "Oh, so you're usually surrounded by a much more so-fish-ticated crowd, then," he said, placing emphasis on the “fish”. He regretted it immediately.

“Did you just-” She looked at him incredulously, but James was thrilled to hear the laughter in her voice. “That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Yeah, my bad, won’t happen again.”

“Unbelievable,” she said through a giggle.

Not wanting to push his luck, he stayed quiet, and they sat in silence together. The fish, realizing it wouldn’t be getting anything more from Lily, swam up to James and gave a hopeful wiggle. He stroked it distractedly as the mermaid next to him sighed and readjusted the moss covering her fin. James only hoped she couldn't hear the frantic whirring of cogs as he tried to make sense of the pretty redhead and her tail, quietly soaking up the sun beside him.

"Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at my tail."

"It looked at me first."

"It's impolite to stare."

"Social norms don't apply when your cousin is a guppy."

A lily pad thwacked James across the face.

The sun was beating down mercilessly. James sat at the edge of the water with his feet dipped in up to his ankles. He watched as Lily resurfaced, yet another trinket in her hands, and swam closer to add it to the row of eclectic objects she had set out on the sand. She called them her treasures, although they looked more like what a demented three-year-old might drag home from the playground.

While she fiddled with what looked like a vaguely heart-shaped ball of algae, he examined one of the rocks. She had said it reminded her of the hammerhead shark that would dig up her garden in search of crabs. It was oblong and one of the ends was slightly flat. To James, the resemblances ended there, but Lily had been thrilled at the discovery, so he had smiled and praised how hammerheaded the rock looked.

He set the rock back down and checked to see what Lily was doing. She was still poking at the green blob. Her hair looked darker now that it was wet, pooling like blood in her collarbones and trickling down her back in rivulets. He looked away as soon as she turned toward him, and stared intently at a chipped snail shell.

“I know, it’s not very impressive.”

“What? No...”

She raised her eyebrows in skeptical amusement. “I wish you could see the collection I have at home. I’ve got this gorgeous pocket watch I found with all these flowers carved on the back. It doesn’t tell the time anymore though.”

“Where’d you find it?” asked James. He slid into the water and made his way towards a water lily he had spotted.

Lily hadn’t seemed to notice, focused on smoothing out the wrinkles of the snake skin she had laid out. “We collect them from shipwrecks,” she explained.

“That’s morbid.” He snapped the flower off the stem and waded back over to Lily and her treasures.

“Is it? I remember when I was little, my sister and I used to go looking for sunken ships and scare the octopuses living in them.”

“Here, add this to your collection.” Lily turned toward him, and he handed her the water lily he had picked.

“I can’t add that. It’ll start wilting soon.” She took the flower from him, her fingers brushing his as she delicately held the white petals. He dipped his fingers in the water to quell the tingles.

“Oh. I just thought it was pretty.”

She studied the flower for a moment, before placing it in her hair and securing the stem behind her ear. He watched as she fussed with it, trying to get it wedged properly. “There. That way we can enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I can get you another when it turns brown,” James offered.

“No, I like this one,” she said. “I don’t want to replace it. Some things are meant to be temporary anyway.”

"GAAAHHhhbrrggllslg..."

"Pipe down, you'll scare the fish."

James came back to the surface, spluttering and coughing. “This clearly isn’t working,” he wheezed.

“Really? I thought we were making great progress.”

“Funny, ‘cause I thought that’s the third time you’ve nearly drowned me.” James rubbed his eyes a final time and opened them. Lily floated next to him, her hair like a pool of blood around her. He pulled a piece of it out of his mouth.

She rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair, picking out a snail that had gotten tangled in the strands. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Well excuse me for having a sense of self-preservation.”

“You’re acting like I’m trying to kill you!”

“Lily, I don’t have gills! You can’t just push me underwater without warning!”

She looked surprised at his outburst, her green eyes were wide with worry, and James immediately felt bad.

“Listen, it’s fine. I just got freaked out for a moment,” he backpedaled.

Lily wasn’t listening. “Maybe we should stop.”

“No, really, it’s fine! I’ll just make sure to plug my nose next time!”

But she was already swimming away, and with a flick of her tail, she had disappeared to a place where he couldn’t reach her.

The bite was oozing. Oozing what, he didn’t know. Didn’t really want to know. He had never thought he would be having to deal with fish bites. Hadn’t realized such small fish even had teeth. Evil little bastards. Always sweet and cuddly when Lily was around. But this was apparently a summer of firsts.

He poked at the angry looking marks, and hissed. Lily would know how to take care of this. Fix it. He had no idea where she was. She hadn’t yet resurfaced.

Not knowing what to do, he climbed onto the outcrop where he had seen her for the first time, and stretched out. Warmth enveloped him on all sides, immediately making him drowsy. As he drifted off, he thought about how unbothered he was. Everything was fine. He let himself be pulled under, into the depths of sleep, not worried in the slightest. She would turn up. She always did.

He’s sinking deeper into dark blue depths. His legs keep up a frantic pace as he kicks, trying to propel himself forward. All he can see is her: her long, slender fingers, her wrists, her collarbones, glowing in the murky water as she hovers, ethereal. All he wants is to go to her, but with a laugh she turns and swims further down, engulfed by the darkness.

He can just make out her tail undulating as she moves inexorably on, never slowing down. As he follows her, going ever lower, several jellyfish zoom by, their tentacles tangling together to form a billowing cloud of exhaust. Somewhere to the side, a school of clownfish float in a large reef together, studying. A preoccupied looking manatee comes out of a dense wall of seaweed and almost bumps into James, muttering an apology as it hurries away.

James is undeterred, his focus only on the mermaid in front of him. She turns to face him, curls one finger in a beckoning motion, and her smile is a hook that snags him, reeling him in, pulling him closer to her. Her lips are moving. He can tell she’s saying something, something important, but he can’t understand her. The water is filling his ears, muting everything, and he strains to hear her, to make out something, anything. Panic rises in his throat as her face grows troubled, panic so thick it’s suffocating. He can’t breathe, and she’s floating further into the murky shadows, and he hates the greedy gloom taking her away from him with every fiber of his being. As she grows ever more distant, his panic grows, and he’s never felt so lost, so helpless. He has to reach her, to stop her, and she’s screaming, screaming his name, over and over and-

“James!” He opened his eyes, gasping for air. After several steadying breaths, the darkness began receding. He blinked while the world came back into focus. The panic he had felt so acutely was already fading, dripping through his fingers, leaking out of his ears. It was replaced by the feeling of solid rock under his back, the sun wrapping him in warmth, and Lily’s hands cupping his cheeks. Her face was right over his, her hair forming a curtain around them.

“Here.” He felt his glasses being placed gingerly over his eyes. “You alright?”

Lily’s voice was laced with concern, her eyebrows knitted so close together they were almost touching. Her face was so close to his that he could see every individual hair in her eyebrows. He focused on one hair that lay slightly askew, pointing towards a freckle on her eyelid, as he finished catching his breath.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just had a weird dream.”

“Oh. Sure. I have those all the time.”

“Really?”

“Oh, definitely. The other day, I dreamed that I had climbed up a tree, and I couldn’t get down. And you were in the water, and I kept calling you, and asking you to help. But you insisted that you couldn’t, because you had to practice your underwater somersaults. And I was so angry that I started picking crabs off the tree and pelting them at you. But you kept catching them in your mouth and eating them. And you were laughing the whole time. And then you said, ‘Look, Tulip!’ and did a backwards somersault with so much force that you created a huge wave that knocked me off the tree. And then I woke up.”

“Sorry about that.” James was trying very hard to keep a straight face.

“I can’t believe you called me ‘Tulip’,” Lily said with a frown.

She looked so genuinely offended that James immediately felt compelled to comfort her. “Like I would ever forget your name!”

“What was your dream?” she said quickly.

“Oh, I was just drowning.”

“Well that’s not bad. Why do you get to have normal dreams?”

“Probably because I know how to do backward somersaults.”

James stared at the water intently, looking for any disturbances in the smooth surface. In his hand, he held a freshwater mussel the size of a large baseball. Lily had dug it up from the bed of the lake for the game she had devised. She had informed him that the mussels' name was Petunia, mentioning something about the mussel reminding her of someone.

He tightened his hold on Petunia, causing her to give an indignant shake in response. James had discovered that a firm grip was necessary when handling the mussel. She had a tendency to clamp down on his fingers when he wasn’t paying enough attention, and getting her to let go required threats of feeding her to the snapping turtle that lived nearby.

A sudden ripple drew James’ attention to a spot on his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of a tail flicking above the water. As he scanned the green surface, he spotted a smudge of red. Raising Petunia above his head, his eyes following the billowing of crimson under the water, he took a steadying breath, and aimed. He exhaled. Petunia went flying.

“Fucking ow!”

The cry told him he had hit his mark. The proud victor had only a moment to celebrate his success before a wave of water was flung in his direction, drenching him entirely.

“Bit of a sore loser, aren’t you?” James smiled as the top of Lily’s head surfaced. Her eyes narrowed and the green flashed somewhat dangerously, but he took no heed. He was on a roll. “Seems I’ve o-fish-ially won!”

His laugh was followed closely by a scream as Lily pulled him into the water, and he felt his nose being pinched shut as he went under, smothered by a wave of red tendrils.

"You know I can't stay here."

"Can't you? What's so great about the ocean, anyway? So it’s got dolphins. Did you know dolphins are actually vicious? I read that they kill porpoises just for fun."

“James-”

“And they’ve been known to attack people.”

“Are you honestly trying to slander dolphins?”

“I’m just saying, it’s a cruel world out there. But it’s safe here. I can guarantee you’ll never be attacked by a toad.”

“The other day, I woke up with a tadpole up my nose."

“Small price to pay.”

“Small price to pay for not being viciously attacked by a dolphin? Do you hear yourself?”

“I just don’t get why you have to leave right now. How could it possibly be safe? Your tail isn’t even fully healed yet!”

“It will be soon.”

Quiet settled over the little lake again. She broke the silence first.

"Mermaids can live for up to 300 years."

"My dad is turning sixty next month."

“I want to go home, James. You can go home any time you want. You can be sure that you’ll be able to celebrate your dad's birthday with him. What about me? All I've got here are the tadpoles.”

"You've got me."

"What?"

"You've got me, haven't you? Or do I not count?"

"Of course you count, you idiot. You count so much, you have no idea."

James' heart must have swollen so big it cut off the oxygen going to his brain because all he could come up with was, "I'm actually terrible at maths."

She sighed. “I will miss you. But I can’t stay here forever, hoping you’ll visit me occasionally.”

“That’s not-”

“It is.”

The heat had somehow worsened. The pair floated in the cool lake water together, incapable of anything requiring any more energy. He could sense her presence, sensed it constantly, incessantly, tugging on his consciousness whenever he was around her.

They floated in silence, the only sound coming from two particularly loud swallows. The birds were having it out over a spider they each felt entitled to. The angry chirping hadn’t ceased for at least the last ten minutes.

James felt a ripple and saw Lily shift over and look up at the birds. She rolled her eyes and smiled at him. He felt the sudden urge to bottle up her smile and keep it stashed away, to take out and enjoy on special occasions. Instead, he dunked his head in the water and pretended with all his might that his heart wasn’t being constricted so tight it would shrink to the size of a marble and roll out of his mouth when he was sleeping.

And then she was gone. Just like that, the lake was empty. James sat on the outcrop, and watched as a wilting water lily floated by serenely. A small blue fish poked its head out of the water. The fish looked around and then stared at James for a few moments, as though wanting to ask something, before diving back under with a small splash.

Here’s a painting that I think looks just like Lily

#this was supposed to be done so long ago #my bad #i guess i'll go burrow back into my hole now #mermaid!lily #mermaid au #jily #james x lily #james potter #lily evans #fic #oneshot #jily fanfiction

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gallickingun · 4 years

Text

moving target

Summary: Bakugou Katsuki’s reputation needs a little work. His manager suggests he take a job as a personal bodyguard to one of the donor’s daughter to try and increase his social standing. Bakugou agrees, reminding himself that whoever he’s babysitting is nothing more than a glorified paycheck, a stepping ladder to get closer to surpassing even All Might in hero status. But, when you’re kidnapped, he has to face the truth that you might mean more to him than he planned.

Rating: T for Teen Warnings: language, a little graphic violence, a creepy scene there for a second, a semi-spicy scene, etc.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Word Count: 12,310 (because i have NO CHILL!)

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“Absolutely not,” Bakugo huffs, kicking his boots up on the glass table in front of him, “I will not be some brat’s babysitter.”

His manager huffs, stepping forward, “Listen, your PR ratings are low. Helping out a big donor, being in the public eye actually helping will boost your ratings. Higher ratings mean more screen time which means more money, and eventually, a better gig.”

“...fine.”

As much as he hated to admit it, he was slipping through the ranks. Bakugo found it easy to rescue people, to punch out bad guys, but the press bit was where he severely lacked any and all prowess.

It only took one wrong encounter with a news reporter for Bakugo’s ratings to tank, which meant he was getting fewer sponsorship agreements and even less screen time on the nightly news. He needed this.

He hated this.

The way the suit clung to his shoulders reminded him of Ochako’s original hero costume from high school. All he had to do was send in his measurements, and the agency had five freshly pressed, perfectly tailored suits delivered to his apartment by the next morning. Still, he wished he was wearing his gauntlets and face mask instead of this silken suit.

His eyes wandered over the mansion he was currently standing in front of, the multiple stories forcing him to crane his neck to take it all in. Bakugo snorts, rolling his eyes as he steps out of the dark SUV, stepping up the flight of stairs to the large, intricate front door. He barely has time to knock before an older gentleman is opening the door, greeting him with a shrill accent.

“You must be here for the lady,” he makes way for Bakugo to walk in the door. The other two security guards are stalking around the homestead, securing the borders, so he walks in alone.

He can make out your figure sitting at the kitchen table, back to the foyer where he’s making his entrance. He read your file, studied your photos. You’re every bit as bratty as he assumed you would be when he was first offered the position. Your father was such a high contributor to the agency, and yet all of those dollars spent meant nothing. You were some version of a hedge fund baby - you went off to school with not a care in the world, money no object as you blitzed through life.

Bakugo despises everything that you and your family stand for. He came from nothing, built himself from the dirt up. Once he got his quirk, he swore he would never let anyone look down on him again, especially not those who were born endowed.

The older man calls your name and your head bobs at the sound before you turn in your chair, “Oh, is the next one here already, Miles?”

Next one? Bakugo thinks to himself. He didn’t hear about anyone before him. There were other bodyguards?

Miles, the butler-esque man standing in between you and Bakugo, chuckles, turning his head to slyly gaze at the young man in the foyer, “Ah, yes. The next one is here, ma’am.”

You laugh and slowly make your way across the room to inspect your newest victim. He’s wearing a dark suit, in contrast to his pale hair and light eyes. You tug at his tie and he snatches you by the wrists, “It’s expensive. Don’t touch.”

Raising a brow, you circle around him, “My daddy could buy you, hero, so don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Bakugo decides he doesn’t like the way the word ‘hero’ comes out of your mouth; like acid dripping from your tongue. He feels sweat begin to gather in his palms and he has to wring his hands out so a fireworks show doesn’t start on day one. God, he’s never wanted to wear his flashy costume so much in his life. Anything to get your eyes off of him.

“More of a briefs guy myself,” he offers after a beat, looking at you over his shoulder.

You’re smirking, the start of a giggle on your lips, “Oh, I’m gonna like you.”

Something other than nitroglycerin bubbles in his belly, and Bakugo isn’t quite sure how to feel about it.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that you were a handful and a half.

You never tell him where you’re going, you refuse to keep your phone on anything but silent, and he swears that you’re trying to evade him everywhere you go.

“Dammit,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes as you slip away from him in a crowd.

Bakugo flanks off to the side, barely able to make out the top of your head as you push your way through the marketplace. He memorized your outfit - a pretty sundress and a pair of sandals, purse slung over your shoulder - so he should be able to spot you amidst the others.

He finally makes out your profile, but you’ve changed. There’s now a jacket covering your shoulders, a sun hat on your head. Bakugo narrows his eyes, but despite his rage at losing you, a small smirk works its way on his lips at the fire you have within yourself to try and escape him despite the circumstance.

You’re turning down a side street when you feel your body pressed against the brick wall. A gasp barely leaves your mouth before you lean back and jut your elbow into his solar plexus, stepping on the inside of his foot. A grunt leaves his mouth and you swivel to knee him in the groin, but your knee is caught between a pair of strong hands just as your knee cap brushes the fabric of his suit pants.

“Very funny,” he mutters, hooking his palm around your thigh to ensure you won’t wriggle free.

You push at his shoulders and he’s surprised at the fiery expression on your face, your nose scrunched and brows furrowed, “Get off me!”

Bakugo releases your knee and your foot stomps on his toe again, a bruise already forming. His nostrils flare as he glares down at you. You’re quick to straighten your spine, matching his stare with one of your own.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” Bakugo uses his thumb and index finger to tilt your chin upward, “Gonna try to play me like a little shit?”

You’re slapping him before he can process it, “I don’t need your protection. I’m fine on my own.”

Your answer surprises him, but the action of being slapped pisses him off. He growls down at you, “You ungrateful little…”

“Go ahead,” you shrug, pushing your way out of his hold, “leave, just like all the others.”

Bakugo follows behind you, muttering something into his earpiece that you can’t hear. Frustrated tears cloud the edges of your vision, but the sunshine clears your mind as you step back onto the street.

“You forget,” he sidles up next to you, “it’s my job to keep you safe. You run off, I don’t get a paycheck.”

The laugh that parts your lips makes him look down at you, the hat hiding part of your face so he can’t quite make out exactly what you’re feeling. He's never been a bodyguard before, but something tells him that this is going to turn out much different than he expected.

"Good to know as long as my daddy is feeding you money, you'll stalk me like an animal." You sigh, crossing your arms over your body as you walk toward the bridge overlooking the city. "You're lucky, then, all my father knows how to do is shovel money at people."

Something twinges within Bakugo's chest, like an organ begging to pop within his body. He watches as you lean forward against the bridge, your hands wafting in the wind as you wave them around.

If he had to say it, Bakugo would agree that you were pretty. Your frame was perfect, the profile of your face made for a beautiful shadow. Your eyes lit up even underneath the shade of the brim of your hat, and he wants to smack himself for noticing.

"Sorry," you break him out of his trance, "I don't mean to bore you, I know you're not here for my life story. Paycheck only."

There's a hint of hurt in your voice and he becomes curious - is this your normal? Are the only people in your life those who wish to drain your family bank account dry? He certainly can't relate; his family was never wealthy and even now, starting his pro hero journey is far from glamorous. The only reason he has a rooftop apartment is because the agency sponsored it, and Kirishima shares it with him.

Bakugo leans against the bridge, back to the water so he can watch for any threats behind you, "I'm your new best friend, sweetheart. Your daddy pays me to be all up in your business."

You reach out to smack his arm, but this one has much less force than the prior one you landed to his face. He winces dramatically, scrunching his side as if absorbing the impact. You can't help but snicker, tucking your nose against your shoulder.

Bakugo basks in the warmth of the afternoon sun, taking in the golden hour. There are times he wishes he could be fully decked out in his explosive gear, and then there are other times, when his restless heart finds tranquility in the quiet of the mundane.

People pass, wind blows, and yet his body remains at peace.

You’re drunk.

Bakugo hates when you’re drunk.

You’re sloppy and messy and handsy, oh god are you handsy. He’s watching from the bar, paying attention as you slur your words to the bartender and giggle with your best friend beside you. Every instinct in him tells his body to drag your ass back home, but he knows you’d put him through the ringer for it. Plus, that’s not his job anyway. His job is only to keep you safe.

So, as long as you don’t kill yourself stumbling out of the club, he’ll still get paid.

You’re touching his waistline as you pass him, laughing up at him with those bright, glassy eyes you always get after vodka hits your veins. You curl your fingers into his waistband and he has to push every instinct of his deep down so he doesn’t flip you over the bar.

“‘Suki?” you drawl, leaning your body into him so the person behind you can pass.

He tilts his head, acknowledging you in silence. You tug on his belt loops, “Gonna go to the bathr’m, okay?”

You know this means he has to follow you - he has to follow you everywhere.

You slip your hand into his, a habit you’ve picked up when you’re on the other side of sober, and squeeze his palm before tugging him towards the bathroom. You release him before you slip in the door, allowing him to stand guard like a good dog does.

Bakugo counts the seconds in his mind, coming up on six minutes makes his heartbeat a little faster. Once he’s gotten to nine, his palms are sweating. Small fireworks echo on his fingertips, the air scenting of ash as he starts to become worried.

He calls your name, knocking on the door three times consecutively. There’s no response from the other side, save a muffled sound that doesn’t resemble your tone. He crosses his arms over his chest and stamps his foot into the ground, his palms itching to slip into his gauntlets; he’d make much better use of the nitroglycerin collecting on his skin then.

After eleven minutes and thirty-seven seconds, Bakugo pushes the door in.

There’s no sounds of wretching or of peeing, so he’s at a loss. All of the stall doors are open, and your body is nowhere to be found. Bakugo presses his thumb against the small transmitter in his ear, asking the others if they saw you leaving the building.

As he turns, he notices an employee-only door. His feet are carrying him before his mind can catch up, muttering something into the communications unit before curling his palms to fists. He kicks the door in and just barely catches the sight of your body being dragged out the other side, eyes wide as you reach for him.

Bakugo is propelling himself forward with his blasts immediately, a shockwave rippling through the small employee room, but he doesn’t care. Somehow he manages to compose himself long enough to alert the rest of the team.

All he can see is red as he busts down the door. You’re his mission, the one thing that he needed to protect, and his whole being quivers at the idea that he’s failed.

Your voice is muffled but he can still hear you as they drag you down the alleyway. He’s got to make a precise blast so he doesn’t burn you, but still manages to knock the bad guys off their feet.

“Fuckin’ suit,” he mutters, praying to whoever is listening that he’ll be able to wear his suit, or at least some version of it, when he’s on guard duty going forward. Bakugo burns through the sleeves, the cloth turning to ash as he ignites his power.

He smirks, “Hey, dipshits!”

The two holding you turn at the sound of his voice, their faces covered by masks. Bakugo continues to push forward, bright flashes of orange and yellow lighting the alley behind him. He’s laughing maniacally now, because this is what he came for. He came for the bloodlust, he came for the mission. He came for the villains.

“Got ya,” Bakugo mutters before turning his palm to face the guy on your right who's much taller. The explosion knocks all three of you backward, incapacitating the one he targeted. The other scrambles to his feet, yanking on your body to try and drag you toward a black SUV parked on the side of the road not too far away.

You’re fighting back, Bakugo notices. You’re thrashing and screaming, trying to kick him in the shins from your position on the ground. Your whole body is like one big firecracker, arms and legs wailing at the guy. The hero can’t help but feel a swell of pride.

He propels himself forward, flipping in the air to stand tall on the opposite side of the perpetrator, hand held directly in the guy’s face - a threat, not a warning.

Bakugou chuckles, “Where you goin’, shithead?”

There’s a loud crunch of his bones when Bakugo lands a perfect strike between his eyes. He shakes his fists, thinking to himself that he should probably pick boxing back up, and turns to look at you.

The sight of your face smeared with tears, body shaking as you try not to cry. Your chest heaves with emotion as you try to sit up in the alleyway, your body a mess of limbs.

“Hey,” he’s surprisingly gentle as he squats in front of you. “Let me get that thing off you.”

He’s talking about the tape on your mouth. You stop squirming for a moment and he peels the sticky substance away from your mouth. You wince as he yanks it from your hands and feet, throat tight while you wait.

Secure the payload, Bakugo thinks, remembering All Might’s lessons from back at U.A. He let Deku get the better of him back then, but now he’s much more focused and precise. There is less collateral this time.

Bakugo helps you to your feet, holding your hands as you clamber to stand upright. Your spine straightens and he didn’t realize you’d lost your shoes sometime in the struggle, bringing your height below his.

There is a tiny thing within him that twinges at the sight of you, all in disarray.

He goes to ask you how you’re feeling, how you’re holding up, but something in him catches the words like a fish hook in his throat. It reels his concern back in, pulling it to the acid of his belly so it can die there.

Secure the payload.

That’s all you are to him - a paycheck, a payload, a mission.

“Just get me the hell home,” you manage, shoving yourself past him. “I’m sick of this place.”

“The hell?!” Bakugo is shouting now, hands booming at his sides, “You didn’t think that was something you should’ve told me before we started this job?!”

His agent sighs from the other end of the receiver, “Our officers are on a tight leash, they can’t give us any information that might leak.”

“You think I'm a rat!?” Bakugo snaps, his spine erect as he wishes his quirk were warping so he could whoop someone’s ass for keeping this from him.

“No, but if you were tortured, it was possible. These are big syndicates after their family, specifically targeting the daughter.” She takes a pause, waiting to see if the hero might retort. When he doesn’t, she breathes in audibly and continues, “Those were low level thugs at the club a couple of weeks ago. They have no connections, and they weren’t high enough on the food chain to have any information they could give us. Everything was nameless and faceless.”

“I swear to god,” Bakugo paces, ripping his hands through his hair, “I still can’t believe you didn’t think this was something you should’ve fucking told me! I thought I was just looking after some spoiled brat, and now you’re telling me this?!”

He hears his given name called out from your bedroom a few halls over and his attention spikes. The feel of sweat on his skin leads to the expelling of crackling explosions as he turns to walk towards your room.

“You better give me everything,” he seethes before hanging up.

There’s a sarcastic remark sitting on the tip of his tongue as he enters your room, but he’s shocked to find you still asleep. Bakugo steps closer, just to be sure, and something tightens in his chest at the sight of you curled in on yourself, brow tightly knit as you whimper under your breath.

Bakugo turns against any and every instinct in his body as he crouches next to your bed, his palm brushing gently over your back. He can hear Kirishima in his head, mocking him for being soft.

“The great Bakugo Katsuki, brought to his knees by a mere mortal!” Kirishima laughs, throwing his head back. He removes his face guard and boots at the table, his hands on his hips as he stares across the space at Bakugo, “You’ve changed since you started this job, man. I gotta say, I think you caring about others is really great. You’re manning up, dude!”

Bakugo accepts the high five from his friend, but not without a few miniature explosions popping off between their hands as he does so.

Kirishima is stuck clutching his palm to his chest as Bakugo swaggers away, a smirk on his face.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Kirishima sighs, “Maybe you haven’t changed a bit.”

Your bleary eyes bring him back to reality, your hand reaching out to touch his face. You blink slowly, a sleepy grin on your face.

“‘Suki,” you mumble, your cheek pressed into the pillow.

If you were awake, he wouldn’t let you touch him like this. He would keep you at an arm’s length, crimson irises focused on your every move. However, you won’t remember this in the morning, and maybe that’s the only reason that he’s actually leaning into your palm.

“Nightmares again?” he asks.

The phone call from earlier still rings in his head, his agent’s voice reverberating around. He looks at you a little differently now, he thinks, although he’d never admit it aloud.

You’re pouting, your hand falling from his face to tuck back under your chin. You nod and mumble something under your breath that he can’t quite make out, so he shifts closer. Bakugo sighs, “I’m here, all right? No need to have nightmares.”

You nod and pull the covers back to your chin and close your eyes, “Alright, ‘Suki.”

He stays squatted next to you until you’re snoring again, chest rising and falling consistently. He’s not sure why his body does what it does, but he reaches out and smoothes his thumb over the creases in your forehead until your face relaxes in your slumber.

“Fuckin’ dumbass,” he mutters with a grin, pushing your hair away from his face.

As he stands to his feet, he catches the sight of his dumbstruck face in your mirror, and he’s appalled. He’s not scowling, but instead there is the trace of a smile on his lips. Bakugo isn’t sure of the last time he genuinely smiled at something other than the breaking of bones.

Heat gathers in his hands and he has to force himself from blasting the mirror to shards, “Fuckin’ dumbass.”

“Can you find her?”

“No, have you seen her?”

“Last time I saw her, she was headed to the library.”

“And you didn’t think to.. Follow her?”

“Well-”

“Shut up, dumbass,” Bakugo pushes past one of the other bodyguards, shoving towards the direction of the library.

He’s slipping through the doorway to check around the bookshelves for your body. He’s getting ready to call for you when he hears your voice.

“If you wanted to get me alone, all you had to do was ask.”

“Tch,” Bakugo narrows his eyes, looking up.

You’re curled up in the loft, your body wrapped in a blanket with a book in your lap. There’s a small breakfast nook-like area looking out onto the lake in the center of the back lawn, moonlight filtering in through the etched glass.

You tuck your feet underneath yourself and pat the open space next to you, gesturing for him to take a seat. He mutters something into his ear piece before climbing the ladder to join you in the loft. He’s sitting opposite of you, his arms crossed as he looks down at the ground below.

“This whole escaping thing is getting on my damn nerves,” Bakugo snaps at you, nudging your thigh with his boot. “Would it kill you to stay in one place for more than a few seconds?”

Shrugging, you rest your arm on his leg, palm cupping his calf, “But then where would the fun be?”

“I’d love to not have to chase you around for one damn day in my life.” Bakugo licks his lips and rests his head back against the wall, eyes tracking over every square inch of the backyard as he looks out the window. His palms crackle in his lap, itching to be let loose on the world.

“Why did you take this job?”

The question comes out of nowhere, something he wasn’t prepared to have to think about. Bakugo’s voice is gruff when he speaks his answer, “My agent told me my reputation needed some work. Apparently I’m not a fuckin’ icon, or whatever.”

Your laughter doesn’t piss him off as much as it used to. You squeeze his calf and tilt your head back so you’re leaning on the wall, “Oh, you having a little image problem, Sparky?”

Bakugo narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no intent behind it. He sighs, “Your dad donates a lot to our agency. My manager told me to take it. Nothing else to it.”

“You miss the fight, though, don’t you?” Your eyes are swirling with some mixture of curiosity and something else he can’t quite make out. You curl your free hand into a fist in your lap, “I’ll bet beating guys heads in is the best feeling, isn’t it?”

If he wasn’t expecting your initial question, he really isn’t expecting those words when they tumble out of your lips. And he really wasn’t anticipating the utter excitement in your tone, either. A pristine girl like you, fantasizing about bashing villains?

Either you were faking it, or you’re too good to be true.

You chuckle, “I’ve always loved your fighting style, at least what I could see of it. Your quirk is so cool, so useful.”

Your voice is almost wistful now, the edges of your lips upturned in a grin. You’re biting your lip in consideration and his leg feels cold when you remove your palm from it, wringing your hands together in your lap.

The hysteria on the cusp of your voice reminds him of his own mania in battle - the way he bares his teeth when he lets his gauntlets loose; the way his palms crackle as he approaches another guy from behind; the anticipation settled in his chest every time they suit up.

Bakugo tilts his head, “What’s your quirk?”

“I-I don’t have-”

Your voice is too nervous, too high-pitched. He wants to laugh at your obvious lie, but instead he holds up his palm and lets loose a few explosions, sparking the air between the two of you with orange and ash.

The lingering scent in the air reminds you of marshmallows over a campfire, and you realize it’s what you’ve been smelling on him for months. You never paid much attention to how his quirk works, all you’ve ever known is that he has an explosive ability that matches his hot-headed personality.

“My sweat contains nitroglycerin,” Bakugo explains when he notices your look of bewilderment. He finds his face smoothing into a smile as you reach out and grasp him by the wrist. “It’s explosive, obviously. I use my gauntlets in my hero suit to store it so I can use larger impacts to take down buildings or bad guys, or both.”

You brush your thumb over the bumps of his palm, up over his fingers. Quirks have always fascinated you, mostly because your father indulges in every aspect of them save for having one.

“Wow,” you say finally, voice faraway.

He swears your eyes are glittering with the way the moonlight refracts off of the glass of the window. His chest heaves as you push your way closer to grab his other hand out of his lap. The way you trace over the lines in his palms as if they have all the answers makes his shoulders perk with pride.

“When did you get your quirk?” you ask.

“I think I was like, five, or some shit, I don’t remember.” Bakugo can feel himself retreating, his walls shrinking in fear as you get too close. Your body heat mixes with his own and his eyes almost cross at the dizzying feeling of your proximity.

You are chewing on your lower lip and his mind slips in the fog to wonder what it might feel like if you tugged on his mouth like that.

He’s about to stand up and walk away because he can’t- no, he won’t- feel these things for you. You’re a paycheck, an objective, nothing more. Just like the weapon from his U.A. classes - all he has to do is protect you, and his ratings will rise and he’ll be able to fall back into the higher ranks of heroes. And then he’ll be able to leave.

“My parents don’t have quirks,” your laugh is dry, much unlike your giggles from earlier. You are smiling but it’s not making your eyes wrinkle at the edges like usual, “I think that’s why my dad invests so much money into them; maybe he’s projecting. Or maybe he’s living vicariously through his investments, I’m not sure.”

Bakugo hears you suck in a breath and there’s a pain in his chest at the sound, “When I got my quirk, my dad was so scared of me. As soon as it started showing, he built me my own wing in the house and brought Miles in to take care of me.”

Your hands fall away from his, tucked into your midsection so you can worry over your shirt as you speak. “I don’t think I’ve had a real conversation with my dad since I was little, not anything that mattered, anyway. When he shipped me off to college, he would call every now and then, but all we talked about were the heroes he was betting on.”

You lick your lips and laugh again, this one turning dark. Your chest is caving in as all of the memories of your father’s distance play on loop, threatening to pull you under again.

“No one knows I have a quirk,” you admit breathlessly, finally looking him in the eyes. “I think it’s his twisted way of keeping me, and everyone else, safe.”

Bakugo wants to hold you, any part of you, but there is a pin still in his body’s grenade, keeping him from you. He swallows the growing lump in his throat and tries his hardest to control the sweat in his palms at your story. He’s never heard your voice this chilling before; normally you are a sunbeam incarnate, walking around brightening everything you touch, even if you’re a bit mischievous sometimes.

“I can manipulate organic matter,” you say. “Anything living.”

The reality of what all facets of that statement can mean makes Bakugo’s muscles ache.

You’re chuckling at the expression on his face, “Yeah, exactly. Of course you’d want to keep me hidden away.”

“No,” he shakes his head.

As if to prove to him that you’re nothing more than a liability, you raise your palm in the air and summon the flowers sitting in the vase just a few feet away from you forward. The budding floral prongs are twirling in tandem with the motions of your fingers. In a display of your power, you make the flowers walk as if their stems were legs, up Bakugo’s thigh and over his knee, all the way down to the toe of his boot.

Once they’re close enough to you, you levitate them in the air again, the pink and yellow petals beautiful even in the shadows of the night.

Bakugo’s eyes go wide as the flowers begin to lose their color, the shades of spring colors beginning to desaturate until they’re nothing but brown, wilted buds. You curl your hand into a fist and the flowers ball up accordingly, mushing together until they are no longer recognizable.

“Holy shit,” Bakugo’s eyes track the object as you release your control over it and the squashed flowers drop with a thud into your palm.

You’re waiting for him to become frightened of you, to look at you with wide eyes as he fears for his own life. That’s what your father did when you showed the beginning signs of your quirk. He shoved you in a box, frightened you’d turn out something fierce, something evil.

“Do it again.”

Your voice catches in your throat, a short gasp parting your lips, “Wh-Wha-”

“You’re a fucking badass,” Bakugo shifts closer to you, the personal space he usually keeps between the two of you forgotten. “Can you do it again? With something else?”

“Y-You want me…” Your eyes are wide, pupils dilating as you gaze up at him. He’s smiling like a madman but it makes your heart light on fire, “Sure.”

You spend the next hour or so grabbing different living things from around the room, twisting them and manipulating them. Bakugo’s eyes follow your every movement, every motion. His jaw hangs slightly open as he watches on in fascination, your quirk a new experience for him.

You turn to look over the balcony, wondering if there might be anything you can grab from down there, when you feel his chest press against your back. He’s just leaning up to scout the area, but his chin might as well rest on your shoulder with his closeness. You pinpoint a basket of fruit at the bottom of the stairs near the entryway and you concentrate to see what types of fruit there are.

“Apple or pear?” you ask, turning just enough to look him in the eyes beside you.

He tilts his head, “Pear, why the hell not?”

You tug two pears up over the railing, dropping one of them into his hand, the other in your lap. There’s a crunching sound as he digs his teeth into the fruit, some of the juice landing on your shoulder. It tickles, and you go to wipe it off, but Bakugo beats you to it, brushing his thumb over the exposed skin.

The realization that you’re practically in his lap makes your chest constrict. You swallow and reach down to pluck the pear from your lap, turning the fruit over in your hands as a distraction.

“So, your dad was scared of you?” he asks, resting his chin on his palm so he can get a better look at you.

You take a chance and lean yourself back into him, his shoulders thudding against the wall at the impact. Your head tilts upward so you can look at the ceiling, the feel of his collarbone behind the crown of your head somehow comforting.

“He thought I would go on a killing spree or something,” you shrug, your thumbs busy with the pear in your hands. The memories you have of your father are not pleasant, what little you have.

Bakugo hikes his leg up so you can get more comfortable, giving you more space between his thighs. He tells himself that this is just part of the mission - he needs to get to know you so you’ll trust him, so you’ll stop running away. It'll make his job easier. That’s all this is.

You turn the fruit over, inspecting every speckle, “Just like with the flower, I can manipulate the life force inside of a person. I could kill them, if I were strong enough."

"Strong enough?" he echoes through his chewing. "What the hell does that mean?"

You laugh, cradling the pear in your palm like a child, "I was never trained on how to use my quirk. My father was so afraid of me that he forbade me to use it in front of others. I cared enough about him to respect his wishes; I wouldn't have forgiven myself if he lost business over my weird quirk."

"Your quirk isn't weird, dumbass," Bakugo's hand smooths down your hair from the back.

You laugh and look up at him, turning your body to lean against his thigh, "Thought I was a badass?"

He rolls his eyes, "You can be both."

You're tugging on his hands again, circling your fingers delicately around his wrists before yanking them forward. A strangled sound comes from the back of his throat at the sudden contact but you don't seem to notice.

Holding his palms outward, you rest your hands so the backs of yours are pressed to the insides of his hands, his much larger anatomy dwarfing your own. You're smiling but he's not sure why.

"I've wondered what it's like to be you," your voice is quiet now, the wonder giving way to sleep. "It must be amazing."

So Bakugo details all the stories he can remember. Eventually, after a few lines recounting the battles he's been in, your hands drift down from hovering in midair and he finds himself following suit. Your fingers are cold and for a moment he wonders if it's a side effect of your quirk.

He curls his fingers around yours when he isn't using his hands to tell you about a mission, the warmth from his palms leeching onto your own hands to keep you from freezing over.

It isn't too long before he hears the change in your breathing; it's slower, heavier now. Your body is more slumped against him that it was before and he knows that you've fallen asleep.

"Quirk must take it outta ya, huh?" Bakugo brushes his thumb down the length of your forearm. He sighs and looks down at how your body just so perfectly lines up with his, "Fuckin' hell...what're you doing, man?"

The last bit of his resolve crumbles when a small sigh parts your mouth and you turn so your cheek is pressed into his pectoral, one hand coming to curl around the fabric of his shirt and the other keeping his palm captive in your tiny grasp.

Bakugo can tell how much smaller than him you are; he could easily overpower you to get out of this situation, he knows he could. But for some reason, he doesn't want to.

For once in his life he really feels like he's doing something good, something wholesome. His body enraptures you like a cage and he keeps his eyes on the back yard, ready to act if there are any intruders. A fierce feeling prickles at the skin on the back of his neck and he wants to bare his teeth for some reason, but he tames the feral instinct before he can dig his hands into you to make sure you're safe.

Bakugo, for the first time since he met you, starts to wonder if maybe this could be more than just a mission.

You’re sure you’re not supposed to overhear his conversation, but he told you to stay close. So, really, you’re just doing as you’re told. Which is a pretty big achievement for you.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding, right?” Bakugo is laughing sadistically into the phone receiver, tossing his head back. You’re sure his laughter is to combat the growl that’s sitting in his chest. He’s hushed as he speaks, “You can’t pull me from this assignment now. There’s two international events in the next month and she’s got public outings. You won’t be able to train anyone new-no, I said no. You can’t-listen...I swear to god…”

The slamming of his phone shut startles you, but you’re able to cover your mouth with your hand before your squeak tumbles out. You press your back into the wall so he can’t discover your sneaking. When his loud footsteps come closer, you try to shrink down the hall, pretending like you’d just started to wander this way.

Bakugo steps out of the room and really, did anyone ever consider just how attractive he was before they assigned him to your team?

He’s tall, much taller than you, and built with dense muscle and thick sinew. His shoulders trim down to slimmer hips, but that is only misleading as his pelvis gives way to full thighs and rounded calves. You’re thankful they allowed him to stop wearing suits after his first couple of weeks - now he’s in a more relaxed outfit - black long sleeve t-shirt with a pair of jeans that lead into his signature black combat boots.

“Katsuki!” you call, stepping forward.

After that night, falling asleep against him in the loft, things have shifted. You’ve noticed that he’s more physical with you - whether it be with closeness, or with touch. He’s not afraid to brush up against you, and he doesn’t recoil when your body comes into contact with his own. Instead, it’s almost as if he’s welcoming it.

It’s a gentle hand guiding you towards an exit, or his palm squeezed in yours when you’re on the wrong side of sober and trying to get out of a bar. In the car, on the way home, he doesn’t mind if you fall asleep against his shoulder.

His brows perk when he hears your voice, crystalline eyes snapping up from his phone to make contact with your gaze. You swear the beginning of a smile touches the corners of his lips.

“Do you think we can go to the market before we get ready to go out of town?” you ask, pouting just enough to make him consider.

Bakugo puffs a breath out of his mouth, his jaw hanging open slightly. You reach forward and wrap your arms around his back, running your hands up his shoulders with a bright grin on your face, “C’mon! Live a little.”

He’s rolling his eyes but walking forward with his arm slung around your shoulder, “Whatever. Better buy me somethin’ real nice.”

“Of course!” You bob up on your toes to kiss his cheek, “Anything you like.”

His face is bright red, but you’re too busy thinking about the market to notice. As soon as you walk into the common area, his arm retreats from your form and his spine goes rigid. You know that things have to be more strict in front of your father’s staff and his coworkers. They have a short conversation before the others are grabbing their weapons and communications units, stepping out the front door to load up the SUVs.

It’s not long before you’re walking the cobblestone paths of the market, very reminiscent of your first escape attempt. The breeze is blowing, clouds offering some shade but not much. You’re in another one of your brightly colored sundresses, hair flowing freely in the wind. You twirl in front of him, “Hey, ‘Suki, do you think you’d ever do this full time?”

He tilts his head in silent questioning, and you elaborate, “I-I mean, if my daddy could pay you enough, do you think you could be my bodyguard for a long time?”

The color in his face drains just enough for you to know that what you heard on the phone earlier was true - he’s leaving you.

“Listen,” his voice is gruff, “I’m working to be a pro-hero, alright? I don’t have time to fuckin’ babysit for the rest of my life.”

Your heart twists in your chest but you force a smile anyway, “Yeah, that’s what I figured. I know I can be a handful, and not nearly as much fun as blasting villains.”

The slight downturn in your tone makes his chest feel hollow. Bakugo knows that he shouldn’t phrase things the way he does, but he’s on communication devices with the others and he can’t have them knowing that he’s fallen complete hook, line, and sinker for you.

You’re walking down the side of the road when an idea comes to you - you know just what to do to cheer him up, for old time’s sake. It’s been a while since you’ve tried to evade him for real.

Throwing a teasing glance over your shoulder, you wink at him before slipping away from him, blending in with the others around you. You manage to grab a ball cap off of a vendor table, leaving them a large bill to take care of the cost. A quick stop at a food vendor leaves you in the wind as Bakugo walks past your body, eyes high as he steps through the crowds to try and find you.

Katsuki is frantic - it feels like someone has just pumped ice water into his veins. His feet can’t carry him fast enough. If it weren’t for the phone call earlier, he might not have allowed fear to clutch at him like a vice, but the words of the officer on the other line ring loudly in his head.

“There have been talks in the underground of a possible kidnapping attempt. Soon.”

His saliva collects like a ball of tape in his throat and he can’t swallow it down. He speaks into his comms but he’s not sure he’s talking in full sentences or syllables. His body carries him down every alleyway, every side street, until he catches a glimpse of the tail of your dress curving down a street across the market.

Relief floods his body and Bakugo jogs to the dead end road, a sarcastic retort on his lips about how you almost got a rise out of him when his eyes catch onto something at the end of the alleyway.

There, pinned to the wall by a nail, is a swatch of your dress, covered in blood with the words don’t come looking written in crimson liquid.

Acid churns in his stomach. Heat settles behind his eyes. Explosions echo off of his hands.

“Wrong fuckin’ move,” he grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes as he snatches the cloth in his hands. He looks up to the roof where he’s sure some villain with a quirk has escaped with you, “Holy shit, wrong move.”

The past few hours have been nothing but a painful blur for you. There’s crusted blood on your head from where someone has slammed a blunt object to knock you out. Your wrists and ankles are burning from the cuffs wrapped around them, the chains echoing in the warehouse-like space. Your throat is parched from trying to scream through the gag in your mouth and the sobs that rack your body.

It was just supposed to be a game, something to cheer up his spirits, your running off. You never intended for it to turn into something that’s probably spiking his blood pressure and getting his ear chewed off. Another bout of tears sweeps through your lids when you realize that Katsuki is going to get in trouble due to your immaturity.

Someone has brought you a pale of water, but it’s so demeaning that all you can do is kick it across the warehouse. You’re surprised they’re allowing you to have your vision, given that they’ve taken everything else from you.

“We’ll get a hefty ransom for her,” a thug off in the corner mutters to his counterpart. They stare over at you and you feel violated just by their gaze. You curl yourself inward, trying to hide as much of your body as possible.

The taller of the two slaps the original speaker on the back of the head, “You touch her, you’re dead. You heard what the boss said. No nasty shit.”

Your jaw quivers as you think of what they could do to you, all tied up like this. You’re helpless. The realization multiplies the well of tears settled in the brim of your eyelids. They laugh at your tears and you want to kick each of them between the legs until they beg for mercy at your hands.

If Bakugo were here, he’d have already freed himself. He would have never gotten captured in the first place. Now you want to kick yourself. How could you be so careless? You were too wrapped up in your childish, foolish game to realize you were being tailed. Katsuki would be disappointed in you.

“The fuck you cryin’ about?” the taller thug asks. He cracks his knuckles before stepping to you, squatting down. He tucks his hand roughly under your chin to pull your attention up so you’re looking him in the eye. He smirks, “Gonna give you somethin’ to cry about, bitch.”

A set of slaps resounds in the empty room, both of your cheeks stinging at his harsh motion.

Your immediate reaction is to whimper, but you stamp it down in favor of being seen as strong. You grit your teeth together and snarl up at him, eyes hard as you glare. He chuckles, gripping you by the throat until your eyes bug out of your head, “Oh, you stupid bitch. Quit your whinin’.”

He slings you to the floor and your wound pounds in pain, reopening and leaving a gateway for a fresh stream of blood to trickle down your neck. You want to cradle the spot, do anything to try and dilute or soothe the pain, but your hands are stuck behind your back.

The two thugs are arguing about something, but the last thing you see is the two of them looking down at you as your vision fades to black.

The next time you wake, your body is in a chair, apparatus attached to every part of your body. Your mind is foggy and you hear someone calling Katsuki’s name so you start to search for him. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes when you realize that it’s your voice.

“Shut up or I’ll gag you again,” a brute voice hovers over your shoulder.

There are still black spots covering most of your vision, so you can’t see who's speaking to you. Your nose itches and you try to move your shoulder only to find your neck is locked into a metal casing. You swallow, your throat bobbing against the cold metal.

A man in all black, face hidden behind an intricate, colorful mask, stands in front of you. His demeanor is nothing if not calm and collected, a gun attached to his hip although you suspect he has some sort of quirk as well. He crosses his arms over his chest as he looks you over, as if he were sizing you up even though you’ve not managed to put up any sort of a fight this entire time.

“How much do you think your daddy will pay to have you safe?” he drawls, squatting down so you can look down at him.

He swivels a knife out of his pocket, turning the blade over before pressing it to his tongue, “I’m thinking a fat stack of paper will keep you alive. Don’t you agree?”

“Go to he-ah!” You’re stopped as the tip of the knife presses to the inner part of your thigh. Your nostrils flare and you glare down at him, shifting in your seat to futilely pull away from his weapon.

“I heard your bodyguard is kind of sweet on you,” he smirks, twirling the blade so the point stays connected to your skin, “and I’m sure he wants to see you safe.”

Your teeth chatter but you bare your canines anyway, “You’re going to wish you’d never been born when Katsuki gets ahold of-”

“Katsuki, huh? You’re on given names now?” The man stands to his feet, slinging the blade around before tucking it back into his belt. He chuckles, “You pregnant with his kid, too?”

You spit on him as he bends over in front of you, face mere inches from your own. It pisses him off to the point where he snatches you by the hair, pulling you forward so your esophagus is crushed by the metal chain around your throat. You can’t breathe, choking at the sudden impact. You see stars and you can’t do anything but thrash in the chair, arms and legs bruising on contact of the latches keeping your body as still as possible.

The one thing that you can make out above everything else is the coolness of metal pressed to your temple. It is not sharp, so you have to assume that there’s a gun to your temple. His voice is in your ear, low and slithering, “I’ve already taken photos of your living body, so I don’t need proof of life anymore. I’m being a gentleman by keeping you alive, you see? So don’t piss me off.”

“That’s not bein’ a fuckin’ gentleman.”

A gasp parts your lips and the thug turns to see Bakugo Katsuki standing in the doorway, a littering of unconscious bodies in his wake.

He glares with his ruby red eyes, tilting his head in a way that almost feels patronizing. You want to claw at the hand around your throat but your wrists are still tied down. Your face is damp with a mixture of tears and sweat, your voice trying to project despite the pain of your esophagus.

“S’okay,” Katsuki looks you in the eyes and you believe him.

“You take another step closer and I swear I will blow her brains all over the side of this place,” the man seethes from behind you. As the gun digs deeper into your temple, you whimper, a sob shaking your shoulders.

Bakugo lurches forward at the sound, hand outstretched, “You fucker! Let her the fuck go before I kill you right here!”

The villain smirks, “I thought you were Ground Zero, a pro hero?! You’d dare to taint your pristine record with little ole me? Wow, I’m flattered.”

You shake your head just enough to tell him to back away, and he does so by putting both of his feet on the ground, hands in the air. He’s making eye contact with you again, irises desperate, “You remember that night in the library?”

You blink a few times, taking in what he’s said. What was so significant about that night?

“Remember what you told me?” he leads you, his jaw quivering under the stress of his teeth. “About what your father was afraid of?”

“Oh please!” The man laughs maniacally but you’re not focused on him anymore. Your brain is trying to work, albeit a bit slow, to recall the words you spoke that night. Your eyes track over his face but his mouth is set into a hard line, “The flowers, baby, remember the flowers?”

The villain is mocking Bakugo again, but his voice cuts off in his throat when he feels the tips of his extremities begin to go numb.

Your lower lip is quivering, blood seeping out of your nose at the strain. Tears sit still in your eyes as you manipulate your fingers to try to find the source of the organic material you want to manipulate. You take a gasping breath, eyes straining in your sockets as you pull pressure closer towards you.

“What the-”

Your other hand twists and you hear the crushing sound of his esophagus as you manipulate the blood pumping through his veins. Your body is so unused to the stress of using your quirk that it makes your mouth hang open in hopes of getting enough oxygen to your brain, your bones grating against one another.

In trying to turn his hand holding the gun away from you, you have to dig deep, imagining the cells in his body so you can manipulate them. The chipping of his bones resonates in your ear, but the pressure of the gun is released from your temple. In turn, you feel a new bout of blood leak from every orifice of your face - eyes, mouth, nose.

Your vision goes black and your ears ring with the sound of an explosion. There are screams in the back of the room, but a quick thud tells you that someone has been rendered helpless.

“Hey,” the voice is calm in front of you, but you can’t turn it off. Your body craves the manipulation of something else, your quirk swirling around you like a dark shadow, begging you to hurt somebody else.

A pair of hands presses to your cheeks and your jaw drops at the contact. You turn your hands and you feel a new patch of skin ghosting under your fingers. The blood pumping through this one is hotter, faster. Your jaw strains as you grind your teeth together in concentration.

You hear Bakugo cough and your vision clears enough to realize that it’s him you have in your quirk’s grasp. Your hands fall to your lap as you relent, a cough parting his mouth as he lurches forward.

Katsuki uses his fingers to wipe the blood off of your face, “Holy hell. You really are a badass.”

You barely have time to register the words before your body passes out from exhaustion.

This time, when you roll your head, you’re still held in someone’s arms. You lean your head back and blink blearily, “K-Ka-Suki?”

You hear his voice, but he’s not talking to you. He’s angrily whisper-shouting at someone else you can’t see. You try to raise your arm to touch his face, slap him, whatever it takes to get his attention. Your whole body aches and you just want to go back to sleep.

“I don’t care what you have to move, just fuckin’ move it!” is the last thing that you hear before the silence returns.

You try to call to him again and this time you’re able to make out his eyes as he looks down at you. He’s carrying you somewhere, that much you know, but you’re not quite sure where you’re going. The relief that floods his irises, lightening them, makes your heart flip in your chest.

“Where’re we?” you ask in a slur.

Bakugo chuckles and you hear a door shut, “We’re back home.”

“Home,” you murmur, your head lolling into his chest. What does home mean to you now? Surely it doesn’t mean that big mansion that you’ve been a prisoner in most of your adult life.

You force your hand to inch upward from your lap to his chest, your palm seeking the heat of his body. Sniffling, you breathe in the scent of a fireside and you desperately want to be on a beach, in a hammock, as he holds you tight. Your fist curls around his shirt and he looks down at you again, taking in the pallor of your skin and the way your breath comes in short bursts.

Your body shifts in his arms and you whimper at the loss of contact as he displaces you onto a bed. Your head hits a pillow but you’re trying to sit up right after, grasping in thin air for something of his that you can hold onto.

“Lay down, idiot,” Bakugo grunts in annoyance, pushing you down by the shoulders. “You’re fuckin’ spent. You need to chill.”

Your eyes finally open as you feel your shoes removed from your feet. The way your ankles try to swivel sparks pain behind your eyelids, the raw splotches of skin from struggling against the cuffs more prevalent now than before.

“I told you to fucking chill.”

You do as he says then, your body unable to fight back any longer. You are more focused on trying to keep yourself from becoming a blubbering mess in front of him. Using your quirk took a lot of strength and focus, but now all you want to do is curl into a ball and cry yourself to sleep.

Bakugo’s palm is against your cheek, “I think you need a bath.”

“Mhm,” you can feel the crusted blood on your face and neck, sweat mixed in so your dress sticks to every part of your body it touches.

He chuckles, “I’ll go get Miles.”

“No,” you snatch him by the sleeve, “p-please, don’t go.”

You wince at the exertion of your muscles but the pleading look in your eyes must do it for him because he buckles, “I’ll go run the water.”

It’s another few minutes before he emerges from the bathroom suite to help you to your feet. You sway a little as the warmth from the steam in the room hits you directly in the face. Your eyes cross and he has to steady you with his palms on your waist.

You go to step into the tub still fully clothed when he stops you, “Uh, don’t you think-”

Your eyes can’t focus on anything, so Katsuki presses his palms to both of your cheeks and forces your eyesight to zero in on him. He says something and you reach out to grip his shirt in your hands, fisting the fabric as tight as you can manage in this state.

“D-Do you want my help?” he asks, cheeks burning. You nod, turning so the ties of your dress are where he can reach. You don’t think anything of it as his fingertips hesitate at your back, his palms threatening to burst with nitroglycerin.

Eventually, your dress falls away and you’re left bare in front of him. He takes you by the hand to guide you to the huge tub in the center of the room, full to the brim with warm water and bubbles. You wince as you step into the water, the heat from the bath making your open wounds twinge with pain. Swallowing, you submerge yourself entirely, only your nose to the top of your head remaining visible.

“Shit,” Bakugo swears as the water immediately tinges red with the blood that coated your body. He picks up a rag and gently swipes over your skin.

Bakugo has never considered himself soft. He is not gentle, he is not kind. However, all of his inhibitions about himself completely fly out the window when you’re involved. He’s sure he’s never been this caring with his own body. He winces when he has to scrub particularly hard at certain spots, the mix of blood and sweat cementing patches of red to your skin.

After he’s done with your body, he starts to work on your face. He has to use a new rag, one unsaturated with grime. His fingers are timid as he brushes under your eyes and around your nose and mouth. The pad of his thumb ghosts over your lower lip, his palm flat against your neck.

Your eyes are wide, pupils blown as you glance up at him. He shakes his head, “I can’t believe you.”

Bakugo has to grab the shower head to work on your hair. You feel his fingers nudging through your tresses for a while before the water turns off and he unplugs the tub. The water retreats from the bath and your shoulders go cold.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, eyes on your face as he helps you stand.

He pats you dry and you fumble around your room for a new set of clothes. As he pulls the shirt over your head, his palms brush your arms and you find yourself wanting to melt into him. You have to fight the trembling of your lower lip when he takes a step back from your; your body is empty at the loss of his touch.

Katsuki grunts, shaking his head, “I-I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you’re able to manage words, your voice hoarse from disuse and exhaustion. You swallow and reach out to him, but he backs away from you.

“I had one job, one thing to do, and I fucked it up. I failed at keeping you safe.” His fists curl up tight in front of him, but you still see the explosions muffled in his grip. He turns his head, “I’m leaving tonight.”

A single tear slips down your cheek and you cradle your arms to your chest, the bright red rings of raw skin easy to see in stark contrast to your dark sleep clothes. Bakugo gets just enough of a glimpse of them and knows that he can’t be here any longer, he can’t watch his failures play on a loop in front of him in the form of you.

“I ran away,” you whisper, looking down at your hands. “I-I did this.”

You allow a sob to break the seam of your lips, your body shuddering so hard that you fall to your knees. You cover your face with your hands, “I’m so sorry, Katsuki. I-I’m so stupid. You’re right, I’m nothing but a dumbass.”

“Hey,” he cradles you at the elbows, “no, don’t do that shit.”

“It’s the truth, and you know it!” You shove at his shoulders meagerly, falling back from the force of your own push. “I should have never run away. I should have listened.”

Katsuki tugs your head forward, cradling your body against his own, “Damn right you should’ve listened to me.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Suki,” you murmur into the skin of his neck.

He tilts your head upward with the gentle tug of your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Bakugo’s mouth is pressed into a fine line as he takes a short breath, “Me too. I shouldn’t have let you get out of my sight.”

A silent pause stretches between the two of you as you look into one another’s eyes, short breath passing through your lips. Katsuki’s hand threads into your hair and his eyes travel to each feature of your face as if he were memorizing it. You turn your face to flatten your mouth against his wrist, his pulse thudding solidly under your lips. The warm aroma that results from his quirk makes you dizzy in the best way; you could get drunk off of the sweet, fiery scent if you let yourself stay this close for too long.

Your eyelashes flutter when he slides you with a hand on your hip so you’re completely in his lap, your knees on either side of his body. He is warm and it is welcoming, your still damp hair sending chills down your spine as the cool breeze of the night sweeps in through the barely open window.

Finally, his voice breaks, “I-I thought I lost you.”

“Katsu’...” you shake your head and tears well up in your eyes.

You can’t take it anymore. You tilt your head further upward and press your lips to his. As soon as you arch into him, Katsuki is wrapping his arms around your body, bruising your mouth with the intensity of his kiss. His palms hold you steady - one on the back of your head and the other splayed out across the center of your back.

It is painstakingly quiet, the only sounds echoing off of your walls are the gentle smacking noises your mouths make as you part only to come back together. Your hands can’t get enough of him, searching the planes of his shoulders for somewhere to dig your fingernails into. You gasp as his tongue presses to the seam of your lips, leaving you wide open for him to invade your space.

His whole body is hot, steaming, as he palms at you to keep you close. Your cheeks heat, bright red at the proximity of him. Bakugo angles your head so he can thoroughly map out your mouth with his tongue and teeth.

You pull away just enough to breathe, “I never doubted you, not for a minute.”

Katuki’s eyes are wide, irises blown to hell when he hears those words fall from your lips. His chest constricts and the threat of an explosion curls in the palms of his hands. He has to stamp it down, because he doesn’t want to hurt you, but you do feel the increasing heat on your back.

“I knew you’d find me,” you brush a hand over his cheek, pushing his hair away from his face. You have tears streaming down your face, but he’s sure you’ve never been more beautiful to him than you are now, in this very vulnerable moment.

You chuckle, “You’re my hero.”

A growl opens his lips and you barely get a moment to suck in a breath before he’s devouring you again.

He’s been labeled a hero by his school, by the media, by a costume designer. He has an agent and a PR team and a set of sidekicks he’s training. He’s getting money, fame, and yet - in this moment, you uttering those words, releases something primal in him. The need to protect you washes over him like a wave - how did he think he could ever trust anyone else with your care? Would any of them try to keep you safe as ferociously as he would?

“I’m not leavin’ your fuckin’ side,” he mumbles as his mouth trails over your jaw, fingers tugging on your hair gently to get you to bare your throat to him. His tongue swipes over your jugular and your eyes screw shut, “No one’s taking you from me ever again.”

Your mouth hangs open, pants of needy air puffing out of your lips. You hold him by the back of his head, fingers wound in his hair, egging him on. You whimper when he bites the curve of your shoulder, but the way your hips roll forward affirms him that he’s doing something right.

“Fuck,” Bakugo mutters, picking you up with his arms around your waist, “fuckin’ hell.”

Your eyes are trained on him as he walks you to the bed. You watch his eyes dart over the space behind you so he can be sure he’s not bumping you into anything, keeping you safe even now, even as he wants to raw up your little body with his own set of bruises. Your legs stay latched around his waist, tugging him closer to you when it feels like he may pull away.

Kastuki shakes his head, “I’m right here.”

Tears well up in the corner of your eyes from the softness of his voice alone; you don’t know what you would have done if he hadn’t been the one to find you. Your hands palm at his face, thumbing over his cheekbones to try and memorize the layout of his face like a blueprint.

“Shh,” he hushes you, leaning down to kiss either of your eyelids, “stop cryin’, dummy.”

“You were right,” you shake your head as the realization dawns over you. “You can’t stay. You have other, better things to do. Your job isn’t to babysit me, Katsuki. You need to be a hero. You ne-”

Another kiss cuts your rambling short, his mouth harsh when he tugs on your lips. His teeth nip at your lower lip, “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Both of his palms slide under your shoulders, pushing you with the heels of his hands so your chest is pressed completely to him, his body aching to feel your own. He kisses you until your mouth is aching, your chest begging for breath. Your wrists and ankles start to burn, the reminder of your eventful night biting at your skin like an animal.

You wince and Bakugo pulls away, searching your face for the reason of your sudden movement.

“Oh shit,” he lowers you back to the mattress, tugging on your arms so he can unwrap your bandages to inspect your wounds.

Once he sees the injuries, his body begs to light on fire again, his rage bubbling like acid in his stomach. His lip curls into a snarl and he squeezes his eyes shut, your bloody body projected onto the backs of his eyelids.

“Will you stay with me?”

Your request interrupts his self-deprecating thoughts. He can see the glistening of tears on your face, feel the quivering of your body as your nerves get the better of you. Bakugo wants to protest, he wants to tell you that he needs to blow off some steam, but with the gentle pout and quiver of your lip, he’s completely forgotten his desire to blow a hole in every bad guy he can find tonight.

Katsuki wraps your wrists back in the bandages, taping them securely before leaning back, glancing over you as if it were the last time he would ever see you.

Before you can protest or start rambling again, he lowers himself down to curl around your body, holding your head to his chest. You cradle your arms between the two of you, looking down at your fingers.

“My father was right,” you swallow, curling your hands to fists. “I-I wanted to kill that guy. I...I almost hurt you.”

Bakugo nudges his knee against your thigh, “As if, I just didn’t want to blast your head off.”

You want to laugh, but the sound is stuck in your throat. He senses your hesitation and tilts your head back with his thumb under the sensitive patch of skin just beneath your chin, “Hey. You did what you had to do. Power is hard to control sometimes.”

He kisses your forehead, your skin smoothing under his warm mouth. You attempt to keep your lips from quivering with the threat of tears, “My quirk is scary, Katsuki.”

“Everything is scary if you let it scare you,” he mumbles, nudging his nose over your own. Your eyes flutter shut and you turn so you can kiss him again. He chuckles against your lips, “You scare me, sometimes. Or rather, the idea of you.”

You know that he’s just affirming what you’ve said - of course you’re scary. You have a quirk that allows you to manipulate a person’s body. You can snap someone’s neck with a simple twist of your wrist.

“Not like that, stupid,” Bakugo nips your jaw to keep you out of your own head. He takes a deep breath and slips his palm between yours, curling his fingers against your knuckles. “I mean, you hold me so high, when you look at me, I get scared. I can’t live up to this idea of what you think I can do. I’m not this perfect hero, I’m not this great guy.”

He licks his lips, “I want to burn everyone I’m with so they’ll stay away, but you’re different. And that scares the shit out of me.”

Your mouth parts at his declaration, words hanging on your tongue. You’re not sure how to respond. Bakugo loved seeing your quirk when it was being used on flowers and fruit, but now that it was used on a person - how did that not frighten him? How was it the way you looked at him that shook him to his core, and not the reality that you could snatch his blood vessels from his body, that you can control his muscles that sit under his skin?

“I told you, baby, you’re a badass. Okay? How could I ever get scared of someone who pushes me to be better?” Bakugo is smiling now, genuinely grinning, and that takes all of your nerves and pushes them away. You mimic his expression, squeezing his palm with gentle pressure so as to not aggravate your wounds.

“Now, c’mon, you little shit, close your eyes and get some sleep.” Bakugo tucks your head under his chin as he toes off his boots, kicking them off the bed. His mouth is in your hair, muffled as he speaks, “Or else I’ll knock you out myself, got it?”

“Sir yes sir,” you say through a yawn.

His body tenses under your words and he seethes, “Careful with that.”

You smirk, nipping your teeth against the thin skin of his neck just over his jugular, “Yes sir.”

“Ah, fuckin’ hell.”

a/n: lol i am so mean i’m sorry! also.. if you would like a part two, lemme know and i’ll consider it :-)

tag list (message me to be removed!): @kamehamethot @lady-bakuhoe @queensynderella @todorki-shoto @kacchanswaifu @redhawtriot @burnedbyshoto @cookies-n-chaos @katsukisprincess @rat-suki @cutesuki--bakugou @k-atsukidayo @bnhatrashh @succulent-momma @voiceofreader @multifandom-fanfic @that-one-enthusiast @bitchtrynafck @cutest-celestial-princess @blue-peach14 @pastel-prynce @bokunokangae @shoutodoki

#bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x you #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x you #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha bakugo katsuki #morgan writes bnha #bakugo katsuki fanfic #bakugo katsuki fanfiction #bakugo katsuki imagine #bakugo katuski one shot #bodyguard au #katsuki bokugou imagine #katsuki bakugou one shot #katsuki bakugou fanfic #katsuki bakugou fanfiction

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morning-might-arrive · 3 years

Text

Apparently the monster high fandom is rising from the grave again, so in celebration I wrote this instead of sleeping. I will be finishing it soon. Feedback is much appreciated! A series of misunderstandings involving a limousine and Spectra’s blog lead Jackson to the realization that he has way more friends than he thought.

Monday

It was 12:06 in the afternoon when Jackson Jekyll ascended the steps of Monster High. If he was quick enough, he could at least be on time for 5th period. He took his seat in Mr. Rotter’s AP contemporary literature class just as the bell rang and pulled out his class copy of 1984. The stoic teacher gave him a nod of recognition. A few minutes into the lecture, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“You were not in creepateria this morning.” Abbey stated in her usual matter-of-fact tone.

“Yeah,” Winona added, “Ghoulia wanted to show you the new Fastpoint comic she got. She seemed really bummed you weren’t there. I can’t wait for you to read it though. It retcons the whole DeathCap Comics universe back to the way it was before the reboot. There was even-”

“Where were you, anyway?” Howleen hastily changed the subject.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. We were at the doctor’s office. Something kinda came up unexpectedly.” Jackson replied, turning to face them. This caught the attention of Rochelle. She looked up from her book.

“Doctor? Is everything alright?” Concern dripped from her voice and Jackson instantly felt guilty.

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. We’re in a little bit of pain, but…” Jackson’s eyes both glanced upward towards his helix piercing as he spoke.”It won’t be a problem for much longer.” The four ghouls glanced at each other suspiciously and then back towards Jackson. Abbey opened her mouth to challenge his last statement.

“Ladies! Mr. Jekyll! Do not make me have to separate you!” Mr. Rotter’s stern voice boomed from the front of the room. Jackson muttered a meek apology and turned back to his book, his ghoulfriends quickly following suit. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

40 uneventful minutes went by and then finally the bell rang, signaling the end of the period. “Don’t forget to read the next chapter!” Mr. Rotter yelled to his students, but most of them were too far away to hear. Jackson dashed to his locker and quickly called his human friend Chad.

“Hey! I just got back from the doctor’s office. Yeah, she told me to just take some Advil and just let it run its course.” unbeknownst to him, resident blogger Spectra Vonderguist was perusing the hallways looking for her next story.

“Completely done for, they said. Apparently there’s nothing they can do.”

Spectra perked up at those words. She quickly pulled out her iCoffin and hid a few lockers down from Jackson’s.

“It’s true. We don’t have much time left.”

Spectra gasped and quickly snapped a photo of the scene in front of her. Did he say he was running out of time as in...death? Having always been a ghost, Spectra didn’t know a lot about death other than that it was something that happened to humans and to some breeds of monster. Even so, Jackson seemed a little early in his life to be experiencing it. In moments like these she really regretted snooping around in other people’s business, but she definitely had her blog post.

Tuesday

At 8:35 that morning, every phone in Monster High sounded at once as The Ghostly Gossip was updated. Conversations were halted and hallway traffic came to a standstill as several students stopped to check their phones.

Normie’s days are numbered?

Yesterday, sources caught a phone conversation of one Jackson Jekyll in which he confessed to being told by a doctor that he didn’t have much time left on earth. This story is still developing, and more details will be reported as they come in.

Deuce Gorgon’s eyes scanned the short article again. “Dude.” Was all he could come up with after a couple of minutes. “What?” Asked Clawd Wolf as he approached his best friend. Deuce handed over his phone.

“Dude!” Clawd exclaimed. “If this is someone’s idea of a joke, it isn’t very funny.”

“I know.” Deuce replied in a stern tone that contrasted with his usual jovial one. “Maybe the ghouls know something about this.”

Clawd nodded and quickly scanned the hallway. Frankie, Cleo, Clawdeen, and Draculara were all crowded around Frankie’s locker. They were looking over Cleo’s shoulder at something on her phone and talking to one another in a hushed whisper. The boys headed toward the group.

“Hey, did you ghouls see that weird blog post?’ Deuce asked the group.

“Uh, yeah,” Cleo responded. “Why would Spectra post such a far-fetched tale? And expect anyone to believe it?”

“But why would she post something like this if it wasn’t true?” Clawdeen asked. “You know how seriously that ghoul takes her blog.”

“C’mon guys,” Frankie cut in. “Spectra’s gotten a story twisted around before, remember?”

“But-” Draculara started.

“But nothing.” All eyes turned towards a fast-approaching Heath Burns, flanked by Abbey and Ghoulia. “Look, if my cousins were dying, I would know about it. That ghost writer has lost her spark.”

“Am not so sure.” Abbey responded, giving Heath the side eye. “He was acting very strange yesterday. Said he did go to see doctor.”

Draculara burst suddenly into tears, clinging to Clawd and Clawdeen. “But that means we’re gonna lose Jackson and Holt-” the rest of her sentence was cut off by sobbing.

“There there, sweetie,” Clawdeen whispered, handing her best friend a tissue. “That does it. We have to put this whole thing to rest right now.

“Yes,” Abbey agreed. “We go ask Jackson.”

“Well we can’t just tell him we know,” Cleo insisted. “What are you even going to say? ‘Oh, by the way, Spectra eavesdropped on your private conversation yesterday and now there’s a story posted on the internet about you for the whole school to read, so can you tell us if it’s true?’ He’ll be mortified.”

Frankie stared at her. “That’s actually a pretty good point. Okay, we’ll meet in the library during lunch to find what we can about human death, so we at least know what we’re looking for. Sound like a plan?” The group collectively nodded. “Good. I’ll see you there.”

At 11:30 that morning, the group re-convened in the dusty confines of the Monster High library. Ghoulia moaned as she typed away at the computer in front of her.

“Ghoulia says that when a human dies, they’re put into a box that is measured especially for them. The box is then put into a long black car to a place where it can be buried in the ground. It’s customary for the person’s box to be decorated with flowers, and then their family and friends are invited to a gathering to watch them be buried.” Frankie translated.

“Like some sort of going away party?” Clawdeen asked. “I’m glad i’m not a human. That’s pretty morbid.”

“But that proves it!” Heath exclaimed. “I’m Jackson’s family so if he were dying, I would definitely be invited to the going away party and so would my parents. This whole story is bogus.”

The other students weren't so sure yet, but they all let the subject drop for now.

At 2:56, the music stopped. Jackson blinked, suddenly aware of his surroundings. The sun beamed down and burned his eyes, and he quickly had to side step to avoid being trampled by the massive herd of students walking behind him. He’d apparently stopped in his tracks in the middle of the front walkway of the school. He looked down and discovered the cause of this to be his dead iCoffin. He plugged his phone into his portable charger and it blinked back to life. Underneath the time display was a message from Holt.

“You got any idea why D-low hugged me holding back tears this mornin? Did I miss somethin?” Jackson opened his phone to respond

“Um, no? I don’t think so. Did she say what was wrong?” He left it for Holt to find later and put his phone back in his bag. Not a moment passed before it began buzzing with a call from his dad.

“So anyway, I was all like ‘dude’ and she was all like-” Draculara recounted the events of the day and was suddenly cut off by her best friend Clawdeen, who pushed her back behind the doors to the school, pointing in Jackson’s direction.

“You’re going to pick us up right?” Jackson asked into the phone.

“Okay. Yeah, we spoke to the florist yesterday. We picked out this really cool arrangement of Forget-Me-Nots. Pretty appropriate for the occasion, right?”

The two ghouls in hiding glanced at each other. “Do you remember what Frankie said? About humans getting flowers when they’re-”

“SHH!” the two turned their attention back to the human in question.

“Yeah, I know. Moms will be devastated. They said they won’t be back until 11 or 12 that night, and we’ll definitely be gone by then. But we’ll be sure to take a lot of pictures before we go!” He continued to the person on the other end. “Okay, see you in a few minutes.”

The girls gasped as Jackson put his phone away. Clawdeen pulled out her phone and pulled up the group chat. They had to tell everyone what they had just heard.

#monster high #jackson jekyll #holt hyde #frankie #clawdeen #draculara #duece gorgon #abbey bomidable #Jackson and Holt use We instead of I #this is a hill i will die on

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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Anonymous asked: I really enjoyed your book review of Sebastian Junger’s Homecoming. Perhaps enjoyment isn’t the right word because it brought home some hard truths. Your book review really helped me understand my older brother better when I think back on how he came home from the war in Afghanistan after serving with the Paras and had medals pinned up the yin yang. It was hard on everyone in the family, especially for him and his wife and young kids. He has found it hard going. Thanks for sharing your own thoughts as a combat veteran from that war. Even if you’re a toff you don’t come across as a typical Oxbridge poncey Rupert! As you’re a classicist and historian how did ancient soldiers deal with PTSD? Did the Greeks and Roman soldiers even suffer from it like our fighting boys and girls do? Is PTSD just a modern thing?

Part 1 of 2 (see following post)

Because this is subject very close to my heart as a combat veteran I thought very long and hard about the issues you raised. I decided to answer this question in two posts.

This is Part 1 and Part 2 is the next post.

My apologies for the length but this is subject that deserves full careful consideration.

Thank you for your lovely words and I especially find its heart warming if they touched you. I appreciate you for sharing something of the experience your ex-Para brother went through in coming home from war. I have every respect for the Parachute regiment as one of the world’s premier fighting force.

Working alongside them on missions out in Afghanistan I could see their reputation as the ‘brain shit’ of the British Army was well deserved. They’re most uncouth, sweary, and smelliest group of yobbos I’ve ever had the awful misfortune to meet. I’m kidding. The mutual respect and the ribbing went hand in hand. I doff my smurf hat to the cherry berries as ‘propah soldiers’ as they liked to say especially when they cast a glance over at the other elite regiments like HCav and the guards regiments.

Don’t worry I’ve been called a lot worse! But I am grateful you don’t lump me with the other ‘poncey’ officers. Not sure what a female Rupert is called. The fact that I was never accused of being one by any of those I served with is perhaps something I take some measure of pride. There are not as many real toff officers these days compared to the past but there are a fair few Ruperts who are clueless in leading men under their charge. I knew one or two and frankly I’m embarrassed for them and the men under their charge.

I don’t know when the term PTSD was first used in any official way. My older sister who is a doctor - specialising in neurology and all round brain box and is currently working on the front lines in the NHS wards fighting Covid alongside all our amazing NHS nurses and doctors - took time out one evening to have a discussion with me about these issues. I also talked to one or two other friends in the psychiatric field too. In consensus they agree it was around 1980 when the term PTSD came into usage. Specifically it was the third edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-lll) published by the American Psychiatric Association in 1980 partly because as a result of the ongoing treatment of veterans from the Vietnam War. In the modern mind, PTSD is more associated with the legacy of the Vietnam War disaster.

The importance of whether PTSD affected the ancient Greeks and Romans lies in the larger historical question of to what extent we can apply modern experience to unlock or interpret the past. In the period since PTSD was officially recognised, scholars and psychologists have noted its symptoms in descriptions of the veterans of past conflicts. It has become increasingly common in books and novels as well as articles to assume the direct relevance of present-day psychology to the reactions of those who experienced violent events in the historical past. In popular culture, especially television and film dramas, claims for the historical pedigree of PTSD are now often provided as background to the modern story, without attribution. Indeed we just take it as a given that soldier-warriors in the past suffered the same and in the same way as their modern day counterparts. We are used to the West to map the classical world upon the present but whether we can so easily map the modern world back upon the Greeks and Romans is a doubtful proposition when it comes to discussing PTSD.

Simply put, there is no definitive evidence for the existence of PTSD in the ancient world existed, and relies instead upon the assumption that either the Greeks or Romans, because they were exposed to combat so often, must have suffered psychological trauma.

There are two schools of thought regarding the possibility of PTSD featuring in the Greco-Roman world (and indeed the wider ancient world stretching back into pre-history, myth and legend) – universalism and relativism. Put simply, the universalists argue that we all carry the same ‘wetware’ in our heads, since the human brain probably hasn’t developed in evolutionary terms in the eye blink that is the two thousand years or so since the Greco-Roman Classical era. If we’re subject to PTSD now, they posit, then the Greeks and the Romans must have been equally vulnerable. The relativists, on the other hand, argue that the circumstances under which the individual has received their life conditioning – the experiences which programme the highly individual software running that identical ‘wetware’, if you will – is of critical importance to an individual’s capacity to absorb the undoubted horrors of any battlefield, ancient or modern.

Whichever school one falls down on the side of is that what seems to happen in any serious discussion of the issue of PTSD in the ancient world is to either infer it indirectly from culture (primarily, literature and poetry) or infer it from a comparative historical understanding of ancient warfare. Because the direct evidence is so scant we can only ever infer or deduce but can never be certain. So we can read into it whenever we wish.

In Greek antiquity we have of course The Illiad and the Odyssey as one of the most cited examples when we look at the character traits of both Achilles and Odysseus. From Greek tragedy those who think PTSD can be inferred often point to Sophocles’s Ajax and Euripide’s Heracles. Or they look to Aeschylus and The Oresteia. I personally think this is an over stretch. Greek writers do; the return from war was a revisited theme in tragedy and is the subject of the Odyssey and the Cyclic Nostoi.

The Greeks didn’t leave us much to ponder further. But, with rare exceptions, the works from Graeco-Roman antiquity do not discuss the mental state of those who had fought. There is silence about the interior world of the fighting man at war’s end. So we are led to ponder the question why the silence?

This silence also echoes into the Roman period of literature and history too. Indeed when we turn to the Roman world, descriptions of veterans are rare in the writings that survive from the Roman world and occur most often in fiction.

In the first poem of Ovid’s Heroides, the poet writes about a returned soldier tracing a map upon a table (Ov. Her. 1.31–5):

...upon the tabletop that has been set someone shows the fierce battles, and paints all Troy with a slender line of pure wine: ‘Here the Simois flowed; this is the Sigeian territory, here stood the lofty palace of old Priam, there the tent of Achilles...’

This scene provides an intimate glimpse of what it must have been like when a veteran returned home and told stories of his campaigns: the memories of battle brought to the meal, the crimson trail of the wine offering a rough outline of the places and battlefields he had experienced. The military characters in poems and plays show a world in which soldiers are ubiquitous, if somewhat annoying to the civilians. Plautus, for instance, in his Miles Gloriosus, portrays an officer boasting about his made-up conquests – the model for the braggart in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum – and Juvenal complains about a centurion who stomps on his sandalled foot in the bustling Roman street.

Despite this silence, compelling works have been written that interweave vivid modern accounts of combat and its aftermath with quotes from ancient prose and poetry. At their best, these comparisons can illuminate both worlds, but at other times the concerns of the present-day author are imposed on the ancient material. But the question remains are such approaches truthful and valid in understanding PTSD in the ancient world?

So if arts and literature don’t really tell us much what about comparative examples drawn from military history itself?

Here again we are in left disappointed.

According to the Greek historian, Herodotus, in 480 B.C., at the Battle of Thermopylae, where King Leonidas and 300 Spartans took on Xerxes I and 100,000-150,000 Persian troops, two of the Spartan soldiers, Aristodemos and another named Eurytos, reported that they were suffering from an “acute inflammation of the eyes,”...Labeled tresantes, meaning “trembler,”. It is that Aristodemos later hung himself in shame. Another Spartan commander was forced to dismiss several of his troops in the Battle of Thermopylae Pass in 480 B.C, “They had no heart for the fight and were unwilling to take their share of the danger.”

Herodotus again in writing about the battle of Marathon in 490 B.C., cites an Athenian warrior who went permanently blind when the soldier standing next to him was killed, although the blinded soldier “was wounded in no part of his body.” Interestingly enough, blindness, deafness, and paralysis, among other conditions, are common forms of “conversion reactions” experienced and well-documented among soldiers today

Outside the fictional world, Roman military history tell us very little.

Appian of Alexandria (c. 95? – c. AD 165) described a legion veteran called Cestius Macedonicus who, when his town was under threat of capture by (the Emperor-to-be) Octavian, set fire to his house and burned himself within it. Plutarch’s Life of Marius speaks of Caius Marius’ behaviour who, when he found himself under severe stress towards the end of his life, suffering from night terrors, harassing dreams, excessive drinking and flashbacks to previous battles. These examples are just a few instances which seem to demonstrate that PTSD, or culturally similar phenomena, may be as old as warfare itself. But it’s worth stressing it is not definitive, just conjecture.

Of course of accounts of wars and battles were copiously written but not the hard bloody experience of the soldier. Indeed the Roman military man is described almost exclusively as a commander or in battle. Men such as Caesar who experienced war and wrote about it do not to tell us about homecoming.

It seems one of main challenges when we try to see military history through the lens of our definition of PTSD is to first understand the comparative nature of military history and what it is we are comparing ie mistaking apples for oranges.

The origin of military history was tied to the idea that if one understood ancient battle, one might fight and, more importantly, one might lead and strategise more effectively. In essence, much of the training of officers – even in the military handbooks of the Greeks and Romans – was an attempt to keep new commanders from making the same mistakes as the commanders of old. Military history is intended to be a pragmatic enterprise; in pursuit of this pragmatic goal, it has long been the norm to use comparative materials to understand the nature of ancient battle.

The 19th Century French military theorist Ardant du Picq argued for the continuity of human behaviour and assumed that the reactions of men under the threat of lethal force would be identical over the centuries: “Man does not enter battle to fight, but for victory. He does everything that he can to avoid the first and obtain the second....Now, man has a horror of death. In the bravest, a great sense of duty, which they alone are capable of understanding and living up to, is paramount. But the mass always cowers at sight of the phantom, death. Discipline is for the purpose of dominating that horror by a still greater horror, that of punishment or disgrace. But there always comes an instant when natural horror gets an upper hand over discipline, and the fighter flees”

These words offer insight to those of us who have never faced the terror of battle but at the same time assume the universality of how combat is experienced, despite changes in psychological expectations and weaponry, to name but two variables.

Another incentive for scholars and researchers is to turn to comparative material has been the growing awareness of the artificiality of how we describe war. A mere phrase such as ‘flank attack’ does not capture the bloody, grinding human struggle. Roman authors – especially those who had not fought – often wrote generic descriptions of battle. Literary battle can distort and simplify even as it tells, but if the main things are right – who won, who lost, and who the good guys are – the important ‘facts’ are covered. Even if one intends to speak the truth about battle, the assumptions and the normative language used to describe violence will affect the telling. We may note that the battle accounts in poetry become increasingly grisly during the course of the Roman Empire (perhaps owing to the growing popularity of gladiatorial games),while, in Caesar’s Gallic War, the Latin word cruor (blood) never appears and sanguis (another Latin word for blood) only appears in quoted appeals (Caes. B. Gall. 7.20, in the mouth of Vercingetorix, and 7.50, where the centurion M. Petronius urges his men to retreat). The realities of the battlefield are described in anodyne shorthand. In much the same way that the news rarely prints or televises graphic images, Caesar does not use gore, and perhaps for the same reason – to give a sense of reportorial objectivity.

Another element in the interpretive scrum is a given author’s goal in writing an account in the first place: Caesar, for example, was writing about himself, and he may have been producing something akin to a political campaign ad. Caesar makes Caesar look great and there is reason to believe that, if he was not precisely cooking the books, he did give them a little rinse to make him look more pristine. Given the many factors that complicate our ability to ‘unpack’ battle narratives, Philip Sabin has argued that the ambiguity and unreliability of the ancient sources must be supplemented by looking at the “form of the overall characteristics of Roman infantry in mortal combat”. Again the modern is used to illuminate that which is obscured by written accounts and the “the enduring psychological strains” are merely unconsciously assumed.

These legitimate uses of comparative materials have led to a sort of creep: because military historians have used observations of how men react to combat stress during battle to indicate continuity of behaviour through time, there appears to be a consequent expectation that men will also react identically after battle. This creep became a lusty stride with modern books written about the ancient world and PTSD.

After I finished my tour in Afghanistan I read many books recommended to me by family and friends as well as comrades. One of these books is well known in military circles - at least amongst the thinking officer class - as an iconic work of marrying the ancient world and the modern experience of war. I read it and I was touched deeply by this brilliant therapeutic book. It was only months later I began to re-think whether it was a true account of PTSD in the ancient world.

This insightful book is called Achilles in Vietnam by Jonathan Shay. Shay is psychiatrist in Boston, USA. He began reading The Iliad with Vietnam veterans whom he was treating. Achilles in Vietnam, is a deeply humane work and is very much concerned with promoting policies that he hoped would help diminish the frequency of post-traumatic stress. His goal was not to explain ancient poetry but to use it therapeutically by linking his patients’ pain to that of the Iliad’s great hero. His book offers a conduit between the reader and the experiences of the men that Shay counsels. In the introduction to this work he makes a nod to Homerists while also asserting the primacy of his own reading:

“I shall present the Iliad as the tragedy of Achilles. I will not glorify Vietnam combat veterans by linking them to a prestigious ‘classic’ nor attempt to justify study of the Iliad by making it sexy, exciting, modern or ‘relevant’. I respect the work of classical scholars and could not have done my work without them. Homer’s poem does not mean whatever I want it to mean. However, having honored the boundaries of meaning that scholars have pointed out, I can confidently tell you that my reading of the Iliad as an account of men in war is not a ‘meditation’ that is only tenuously rooted in the text. “

After outlining the major plot points around which he will organise his argument, he notes, “ ‘This is the story of Achilles in the Iliad, not some metaphorical translation of it”.

The trouble was and continues to be is that many in the historical and medical fields began to rush to unfounded conclusions that Shay, on the issue of PTSD in the ancient world, had demonstrated that the psychological realities of western warfare were universal and enduring. More books on similar comparative themes soon emerged and began to enshrine the truth that PTSD was indeed prevalent throughout the ancient world and one could draw comparative lessons from it.

Perhaps one of the most influential books after Shay was by Lawrence Tritle. Tritle, a veteran himself, wrote From Melos to My Lai. It’s a fascinating book to read and there are parts that certainly resonate with my own experiences and those of others I have known. In the book Tritle drew a direct parallel between the experiences of the ancient Greeks and those of modern veterans. For instance, Xenophon, in his military autobiography, presents a brief eulogy for one of his fallen commanders, Clearchus. Xenophon writes that Clearchus was ‘polemikos kai philopolemos eschatos’ (Xen. An. 2.6) – ‘warlike and a lover of war to the highest degree’.

Tritle comments:

“The question that arises is why men like Clearchus and his counterparts in Vietnam and the Western Front became so entranced with violence. The answer is to be found in the natural ‘high’ that violence induces in those exposed to it, and in the PTSD that follows this exposure. Such a modern interpretation in Clearchus’ case might seem forced, but there seems little reason to doubt that Xenophon in fact provides us with the first known historical case of PTSD in the western literary tradition.”

Arguably in the West and especially our current modern Western culture is predicated at baulking at the notion of being ‘war lovers” as immoral. But such an interpretation speaks more of our modern Christianised ambivalence towards war; to the Spartans and Athenians the term would not have had a negative connotation. ‘Philopolemos’ is, in fact, a compliment, and the list of Clearchus’ military exploits functions as a eulogy. There are points where his analysis does not adequately address the divergences between ancient and modern experiences.

For all the talk of our Western culture being rooted in Ancient Greece and Rome we are not shaped by the same ethics. Our modern ethics and our moral code is Christian. There is no such thing as a secular humanist or atheist both owe a debt to Christianity for the way they have come to be; in many respects it’s more accurate to describe such people as Christianised Humanists or Christian Atheists even if they reject the theological tenets of the religious faith because they use Christian morality as the foundation to construct their own. Many forget just how brutal these ancient societies were in every day life to the point there would be little one could find recognisable within our own modern lives.

Now we come to third point I wish to make in determining where the Greeks or Romans actually experienced PTSD. This is to do with the little understood nature of PTSD itself. As much as we know about PTSD there is still much more we don’t know. Indeed one of the most problematic and complicated issues is the continued disagreement around the diagnosis and specific triggers of the disorder which remain little understood. We have to admit there are competing theories about what causes PTSD but, in terms of experiences that make it manifest, there are essentially three possible triggers: witnessing horrific events and/or being in mortal danger and/or the act of killing – especially close kills where the reality of one’s responsibility cannot be doubted. The last of these was strongly argued in another scholarly book by D. Grossman, On Killing, the Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society (1995).

Roman soldiers had the potential to experience all of these things. The majority of Roman combat was close combat and permitted no doubt as to the killer. The comparatively short length of the gladius encouraged aggressive fighting. Caesar recounts how his men, facing a shield wall carried by the taller Gauls, leaped up on top of the shields, grabbed the upper edges with one hand, and stabbed downwards into the faces of their opponents (Caes. B. Gall. 1.52). As for mortal danger, Stefan Chrissanthos in his informative book, Warfare in the Ancient World: From the Rise of Uruk to the Fall of Rome, 3500BC-476AD, puts it this way: “For Roman soldiers, though the weapons were more primitive, the terrors and risks of combat were just as real. They had to face javelins, stones, spears, arrows, swords, cavalry charges, and maybe worst of all, the threat of being trampled by war elephants.”

Such terrors are regularly attested. During his campaign in North Africa, Caesar, noting his men’s fear, procured a number of elephants to familiarise his troops with how best to kill the beasts (Caes. B. Afr.72). It should also be noted that it was not unusual for the reserve line to be made up of veterans because they were better able to watch the combat without losing their nerve. Held in reserve, they had to watch stoically as their comrades were injured and killed, and contemplate the awful fact that they might suffer the same fate. This was not a role for the faint of heart.

However, while the Romans certainly had the raw ingredients for combat trauma, the danger for a Roman legionary was much more localised. Mortars could not be lobbed into the Green Zone, suicide bombers did not walk into the market, and garbage piled on the street did not hide powerful explosives. The danger for a Roman soldier was largely circumscribed by his moments on the field of battle, and even here, if he was with the victorious side, the casualties were likely to be light: at Gergovia, a disaster by Caesar’s standards, he lost nearly seven hundred men (Caes. B. Gall. 7.51). In his victory over Pompey the Great at Pharsalus, his casualties numbered only two hundred (Caes. B. Civ. 3.99).

So we are left with the disturbing question: were the stressors really the same?

This is the part where I also defer to my eldest sister as a doctor and surgeon specialising in neurology and just so much smarter than myself.

My eldest sister holds the view in talking to her own American medical peers that despite similar experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq, British soldiers on average report better mental health than US soldiers.

My sister pointed out to research study done by Kings College London way back around 2015 or so that analysed 34 studies produced over a 15-year period (up to 2015) and found that overall there has been no increase in mental health issues among British personnel - with the exception of high rates of alcohol abuse among soldiers. The study was in part inspired the “significant mental health morbidity” among U.S. soldiers and reports that factors such as age and the quality of mental health programs contribute to the difference between the two nation’s servicemen and women.

She pointed out that these same studies showed that post-traumatic stress disorder afflicts roughly 2 to 5% of non-combat U.K. soldiers returning from deployment, while 7% of combat troops report PTSD. According to a General Health Questionnaire, an estimated 16 to 20% of U.K. soldiers have reported symptoms of common mental disorders, similar to the rates of the general U.K. population. In comparison, studies around the same time in 2014 showed U.S. soldiers experience PTSD at rates of 21 to 29%. The U.S. Department of Veteran Affairs estimated PTSD afflicted 11% of veterans returning from Afghanistan and 20% returning from Iraq. Major depression was reported by 14% of major soldiers according to another study commissioned by RAND corporation; roughly 7% of the general U.S. population reports similar symptoms.

It’s always tough comparing rates between countries and is not a reflection of the quality of the fighting soldier. But one finding that consistently and stubbornly refuses to go away is that over the past 20 years reported mental health problems tend to be higher among service personnel and veterans of the USA compared with the UK, Canada, Germany and Denmark.

However my sister strongly cautioned against making hasty judgements. And there could be many variable factors at play. One explanation is that American soldiers are more likely than their British counterparts to be from the reserve forces. Empirical studies showed reservists from both America and British troops were more likely to experience mental illness post-deployment. It was also worth pointing out that American soldiers also tended to be younger - being younger and inexperienced as well as untested on the battlefield, service personnel would naturally run the risk of greater and be more vulnerable to mental illness.

In contrast, the elite forces of the British army, such as your brother’s Parachute Regiment or the Royal Marines, were found to be the least affected by mental illness. It was found that in spite of elite forces experiencing some of the toughest fighting conditions, they tended to enjoy better mental health than non-elite troops. The more elite a unit is or more professional then you find that troops tend to enjoy a very deep bonds of camaraderie. As such the social cohesion of these fighting forces provides a psychological protective buffer. Not for all, but for many.

More intriguing are new avenues of discovery that might go a long way to actually understanding one of the root causes of PTSD. According to my sister, recent research carried out in the US and Europe and published in such prestigious medical journals as the New England Journal of Medicine (US) and the Lancet (UK), seems to establish a causal link between concussive injury and PTSD.

One recent study looked at US soldiers that concerned itself with the effects of concussive injuries upon troops after their return from active duty during the war in Iraq.

Of the majority of soldiers who suffered no combat injuries of any sort, 9.1 per cent exhibited symptoms consistent with PTSD. This allows a baseline for susceptibility of roughly 10% of the population. A slightly higher number (16.2%) of those who were injured in some way, but suffered no concussion, also experienced symptoms. As soon as concussive injuries were involved, however, the rates of PTSD climbed dramatically.

Although only 4.9% of the troops suffered concussions that resulted in complete loss of consciousness, 43.9% of these soldiers noted on their questionnaires that they were experiencing a range of PTSD symptoms. Of the 10.3% of the unit who suffered concussion resulting in confusion but retained consciousness, more than a quarter (27.3%) suffered symptoms. This suggests a high correlation between head trauma and the occurrence of subsequent psychological problems. The authors of the study note that ‘concern has been emerging about the possible long term effect of mild traumatic brain injury or concussion...as a result of deployment related head injuries, particularly those resulting from proximity to blast explosions’

Although these results are preliminary, if confirmed they have profound implications for anyone trying to understand the nature of warfare in the ancient world, especially the Western world.

So why does it matter?

In Roman warfare, wounds were most often inflicted by edged weapons. Romans did of course experience head trauma, but the incidence of concussive injuries would have been limited both by the types of weapons they faced and by the use of helmets. Indeed the efficacy and importance of headgear for example can be deduced from the death of the Epirrote general Pyrrhus from a roof tile during the sack of Argos. It is likely that the Romans designed their helmets with an eye to blunting the force of the blows they most often encountered. Connolly has argued that helmet design in the Republican period suggests a crouching fighting stance (see P. Connolly, ‘The Roman Fighting Technique Deduced from Armour and Weaponry’, Roman Frontier Studies (1989). However my own view is that the change in helmet design may signal instead a shift in the role of troops from performing assaults on towns and fortifications when the empire was expanding (and the blows would more often rain from above) to the defence and guarding of the frontiers.

While the evidence is clear that concussion is not the only risk factor for PTSD, it is so strongly correlated that it suggests that the incidence of PTSD may have risen sharply with the arrival of modern warfare and the technology of gunpowder, shells, and plastic explosives. Indeed, accounts of shell shock from the First World War are common, and it was in the wake of that war that those observing veterans suspected that neurological damage was being caused by exploding shells.

For soldiers of the Second World War and down to our modern day, an artillery barrage is like an invention of hell.

As one American put it in his memoirs of fighting the Japanese at Peleiu and Okinawa, “I developed a passionate hatred for shells. To be killed by a bullet seemed so clean and surgical but shells would not only tear and rip the body, they tortured one’s mind almost beyond the brink of sanity. After each shell I was wrung out, limp and exhausted. During prolonged shelling, I often had to restrain myself and fight back a wild inexorable urge to scream, to sob, and to cry. As Peleliu dragged on, I feared that if I ever lost control of myself under shell fire my mind would be shattered. To be under heavy shell fire was to me by far the most terrifying of combat experiences. Each time it left me feeling more forlorn and helpless, more fatalistic, and with less confidence that I could escape the dreadful law of averages that inexorably reduced our numbers. Fear is many-faceted and has many subtle nuances, but the terror and desperation endured under heavy shelling are by far the most unbearable” (see E.B. Sledge, With the Old Breed at Peleiu and Okinanwa, 2007).

The psychological effect of shelling seems to result from the combined effect of awaiting injury while at the same time having no power to combat it.

There is another aspect that I alluded to above which is the psychological and societal conditioning of the Roman soldier. In other words a Roman male’s social and cultural expectations of his place in the world. Feelings of helplessness and fatalism were probably a less alien experience for most Romans – even those in the upper classes. In general, the Romans inhabited a world that was significantly more brutal and uncertain than our own.

This another way of saying that the Roman and 21st century combat are very different in a variety of ways that subject the modern soldier to a good deal more stress than the legionary was ever likely to suffer. And the Roman’s societal preparation – his life before the battle – was far more robust than that we enjoy today.

Take infant mortality. In the modern developed world, our infant mortality rates are about ten per thousand. In Rome, it is estimated that this number was three hundred per thousand. Three-tenths of infants would die within the first year, and an additional fifth would not make it to the age of ten - 50% of children would not survive childhood. Anecdotal evidence supports these statistics: Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, gave birth to twelve children between 163 bc and 152 bc; all twelve survived their father’s death in 152 bc, but only three survived to adulthood. Marcus Aurelius and his wife, Faustina, had at least twelve children but only the future emperor Commodus survived.  

Then look at how that child grows up. The typical Roman child would be raised in a society that readily accepted ultra-violent arena entertainment, mob justice, frequent and bloody warfare as a fact of life. This was reinforced by religious and societal encouragement to see war as natural and beneficial, open butchering of food animals, a total lack of support structures for the poor and less able.

Compared to the legionary our modern soldier has been protected from such realities to a greater degree than at any other point in history, and will thus be far less well prepared for the horror of a warfare that contains far more stress factors than for a man who might fight a handful of battles in his military career, with long periods of relative calm in between, state of war notwithstanding. Modern special and elite forces training often emphasises the brutalisation and ‘rebuilding’ of the recruit in readiness for this step into darkness, but it seems likely that no such conditioning would have been needed two thousand years ago.

I would argue that we experience war very differently from the way the Romans did. Our modern identity is defined far more by our Western Christian heritage than our Western Classical roots. They are in fact world apart when it comes to ethics and morality. Consider the fact that when we talk of war and killing today we often do so through conflict between our civilian moral codes – which offer the strict injunction not to do violence to other human beings – and wartime, when men are commanded to violate such prohibitions. It is a terrible thing to try to navigate ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and the necessity of taking a life in combat.

It is sometimes the case that the qualities that make the best soldier do not make the best civilian, a point amply attested in Greek poetry by heroes such as Heracles and Odysseus.

The Romans, for their part, celebrated heroes such as Cincinnatus, who could command effectively and then leave behind the power he wielded to return to his humble plough. It is important, however, when evaluating combat and its effects in the ancient world, that we do not read our ambivalence about violence onto the Romans. They inhabited an empire whose prosperity was quite openly tied to conquest.

As M. Zimmerman writes in his academic article, “Violence in Late Antiquity Reconsidered’ (2007), “The pain of the other, seen on the distorted faces of public and private monuments, or heard in the screams of criminals in the amphitheatre, reassured Romans of their own place in the world. Violence was a pervasive presence in the public space; indeed, it was an important basis for its existence, pertaining as it did not only to victories over external enemies but also to the internal order of the state.”

Violence then was both the means and the expression of Roman power. The Roman soldier was its instrument. The Roman warrior then would have brought a different perspective to lethal violence, and would have had a far more restricted moral circle to his modern counterpart – his friends and family, clan, patron and clients, as opposed to millions of fellow citizens via the internet and social media.

Part II follows next post

#question #ask #PTSD #war #roman #greek #classical #legionary #spartan #mental health #depression #trauma #warfare #british army #mental illness #homecoming #soldiers #combat veterans #veterans

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undertaker1827 · 4 years

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For those of you who’ve been paying attention, you’ll know I ran a little voting competition to find out which character you wanted me to write about in lockdown with you, my dear readers, in honour of 200 followers. The votes were tied for Undertaker and Sebastian, so god damn I guess I’ll just have to write one for both.

Here’s Undertaker’s, enjoy!

Masterlist

You and Undertaker had realised some time before the actual event that the entire country was going to be shut down. You had both taken bets on the day when schools would be shut down nationwide, and ultimately neither of you owed the other anything at all as you were both correct. Your bets on the final shutting down of everything had also been correct (you had made them around 4 weeks in advance). As such, you’d had plenty of time to plan what you were going to do. When Undertaker had offered for you to stay at his place throughout the shut down, you had been overjoyed. You had been able to gradually moves the stuff you would need into his home, all taken in small loads. You had stayed over the night before you both bet the lockdown would start, only to be proved right by the early morning news report. You had gone back to your place quickly to make sure everything was in check and made one final trip to the supermarket. Then it began.

For the first week or so (okay maybe closer to four days) it was perfectly good. You had gotten some work done, learned how to cook a stew that you swore blind Undertaker hand made up on the spot and at least signed up to a foreign language course. You had also made a theoretically very successful workout plan … you had no idea how successful it would be. But after that short period, the boredom dialled up massively. You would have been alright by yourself, but if you thought Undertaker was full of energy on a normal day, you’d had no clue what you were signing up for by agreeing to stay with him for this whole lockdown.

Day 5

Your computer was open and you had been typing for round half an hour. Undertaker had made bacon and eggs for breakfast then you disappeared off into the room adjacent to the kitchen, headphones in and committed to getting as much work done as possible. You hadn’t heard Undertaker start singing, increasing dramatically in volume, nor had you heard him call you when you made no comment on the singing. He took in the situation as he leaned casually against the doorframe, excellent hearing even able to pick up the song you were listening to. A grin took over his features as he planned his next move, sauntering up behind you. He loomed behind you, but engrossed as you were in your word document, you were oblivious. This was absolutely not something he could deal with. He suddenly leapt forward, arms flying around you as you jumped so violently you knocked the chair over and would have landed painfully on the floor had the reaper not been there. That said, he turned out to not be much help when he collapsed to the carpeted floorboards, still holding on to you, with tears running down his face and rendered incapable through his howling laughter. You had barely recovered from your heart attack when you gave in to the infectious humour.

“You should’ve seen you face!” Undertaker tried to say through gasping breaths, unable to so much as get up from the floor. Given how strong he was, you had given up on trying to get away from him and just resigned yourself to your fate. You ended up just lying there together, work well and truly forgotten.

Day 9

You were abruptly woken up by a loud crash echoing up the stairs. Hair looking like a bird’s nest and bleary eyed, you stole one of the mortician’s black t-shirts and staggered down the stairs to the tune of raucous laughter, dreading what you would see. As you opened the door to the parlour, Undertaker was curled up on the floor twitching with a small anatomical mannequin stood in front of him. There was a crudely drawn black patch over one of its eyes, clearly done in sharpie, a sotoba propped up approximately at a hight the model could hold and the mortician’s own robe draped around its shoulders, his hat perched at a jaunty angle on top of its head. He had clearly also found a blue sharpie to colour the other eye to his liking.

“What the hell…” you muttered, carefully approaching the reaper. “Umm, Undertaker? You good?” He leapt up abruptly, as if he had only just realised you were there, then grabbed your shoulders to spin you towards the mannequin, still cackling. “Right…” you said by way of answer, nothing if not confused. As you apparently didn’t get the joke, Undertaker grabbed your shoulders again so you would face him, then waved an expansive hand towards the model. You made a general face and gesture of ‘what?’, which only served to amuse him further. The maniacal grin wasn’t doing much for your confidence either.

“It’s the earl!!” He exclaimed excitedly, before collapsing in tears once more.

The earl? What earl? Does he mean from a TV show? Or is it meant to be Phantomhi - Oh for God’s sake.

“Oh my God!” You yelled in desperation, whacking his shoulder and quickly making your way back upstairs, intermittent chuckling drifting after you.

Day 17

“Y/N?” You stayed stubbornly turned away from the reaper, curled up on the couch and feet tucked underneath you, doing your level best to just read your book. When he said your name again and you still didn’t answer, he stepped into the room and leaned over the back of the sofa. “Y/N, I know I’ve been messing about a lot recently, but this is actually important.” You scoffed.

“The last time you said that, it was because you’d put flour outside the door and wanted me to see that the postman had left footprints all the way down the street,” you told him, not lifting your eyes from the page. That drew a small pout.

“But it was starting to rain!” You just raised an eyebrow. “Okay fine, you’re right, but please just look at this, please?” He couldn’t stand it a second more. “Y/N, I mean it.” And if that voice didn’t send electricity up your spine. He never spoke in what you considered to be his true voice, the softer, lower one, when something was a joke. When you turned to look at him, you came inches away from burning chartreuse, grey bangs pushed well and truly to the sides. But he looked almost … guilty. Maybe he’d accidentally broken something?

“There’s water running down the stairs.”

Your eyes widened and in a split second, you had taken in the pouring rain pounding against the windows and leapt to your feet, pushing past the mortician and rushing to inspect the damage. You looked around frantically for the flood, only to glance behind you when you heard a very badly concealed snort. Undertaker’s shoulders were shaking and his and was pressed over his mouth to stifle his giggling. When you looked back to the stairs, you realised everything had been so carefully planned that you laughed in spite of yourself. He’d gone and placed trainers, yours and his, on alternate steps with water bottles in the open part where your ankle should be. The reapers humour was infectious and try as you might, you couldn’t fight it.

Day 21

Your mouth fell open in shock. You had trusted him. Told him all your secrets, given him information that had never been shared outside of your family, and he had betrayed you in the worst possible way. You dropped your spoon back to the kitchen table with a clatter, levelling your most fearsome glare at a person you knew full well was entirely immune.

“Do you mean to tell me,” you took a breath, “that I told you the one thing I couldn’t stand,” another breath, “was that no-good, good-for-nothing aniseed, and you went and put it in my favourite soup as a joke?! Because you thought it would be funny?!” Clearly it was for him, already collapsed against the table with tears in his eyes. “You betrayer!” You stretched to hit his arm, only for him to cry out unintelligibly.

“That’s a-ssalt!” He yelled, dramatically waving the salt pot in front of your face, proceeding to allow his hand to drop back to the table as he silently wheezed. Right. That was it; this was war.

Day 23

You made sure you were up before him. You had no idea how you managed, but you snuck out of bed, crept downstairs and boiled the kettle before he woke up. You made two glass measuring beakers of tea, but replaced his heaped teaspoons of sugar with salt. You almost died of a heart attack before you had a chance to carry out your plan when you turned to find him casually leaning in the doorway, bangs split perfectly over one eye.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, smiling in thanks when you handed over the tea.

“Yeah, I don’t know what happened, really. Couldn’t seem to get back to sleep.” Smooth, Y/N, keep your cool.

“Should’ve said something,” he replied easily, raising the glass to his lips, “we could’ve stayed in bed bit longer.” You gave a small smile.

“Didn’t want to wake you up.” He huffed lightly and shrugged, taking a gulp of the tea. And then straight up chugged the rest. You were left in shocked silence as he put the beaker down on the counter then flashed his teeth in a grin.

“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t realise?” He took a step towards you. “Other than the fact I’ve been standing here the entire time,” he leaned up against you, hands on the counter either side of you, “I’m a remarkably light sleeper. So even though the alarm you set only went off in the headphones you wore all night, which is also something you never do, I heard it go off too.” The grin turned evil. “What’s the matter, love? Tongue-tied?”

#black butler #black butler x reader #black butler reader inserts #black butler reapers #undertaker black butler #black butler undertaker x reader #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji undertaker #undertaker #adrian crevan #undertaker x reader #undertaker x reader fluff #adrian crevan x reader

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argumentl · 3 years

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The Freedom of Expression Ep 16 - UFO expert's recommendation as the Japan Air Self Defense Force sets up Space Operations Squadron.

K: Hi, this is Dir en grey's Kaoru, starting this week's installment of The Freedom of Expression. Joe san, Tasai san, welcome.

J: You looked at us the opposite way then.

K: I did (laughs)

J: I don't mind though.

K: Hahaha.

J: Im sorry to be so pedantic.

K: No, i thought the same myself.

J: I just wondered whether you'd forgotten our names, or whether you were a bit tired.

T: He's probably tired.

J: I was a bit concerned *laughs*

K: You got me.

J: I just noticed it, so..

K: How have you been recently?

J: Well, how? hmm, well..

K: Its still around the middle of April now, as we record this, right? The shops are starting to open again. We are still in...what was it, a state of emergency..

J: It hasn't been lifted in Tokyo.

K: But the stores are slowly starting to operate again if you look around. Ramen places are really busy and such. But, how has it been for you guys?

J: Well, ive been cooking for myself as much as possible. Buying stuff from the grocers, and making salad and stuff every day. I don't have a frying pan though.

T: You don't have a frying pan??

J: No.

K: Do you have a microwave?

J: I do have a microwave. But a frying pan...well, recently, i bought some eggs, and tried to make fried eggs, but i had to cook them in a steel pan.*T laughing a lot* And when I tried to scrape them out, the yolk got destroyed. *K laughs* It was chaos.

T: How have you survived this far in life?

J: No, I mean I usually eat out, so this is a first for me at 52 years old, this self catering lifestyle.

T: I have a special pan for cooking eggs, its designed especially for eggs (tamagoyaki).

J: Really?

K: Oh, that square type?

T: Yeah, yeah.

K: Ehh!

J: Really?

T: I keep it really clean, and make sure I don't use it for anything other than eggs.

K: Oh, so do you cook a lot?

T: I do, yeah.

J: Kaoru, can you cook?

K: Do I look like I can? *laughs*

J: You don't, you don't. *everyone laughs loudly* You don't at all, sorry.

K: I can manage fried vegetables and stuff like that.

J: Oh, well, you are probably better than me then.

K: But honestly, I havn't cooked anything in years.

T: *To J* If you say he's better than you, that puts you at a super low level! *K laughs*

J: Well, now you mention it, maybe we are about the same level.

K: A long time ago, when I first came to Tokyo, I made curry once.

J, T: Oohh?!

K: Yeah..And with curry, if you let it sit for one night, its supposed to taste better the next day.

J: Yeah, the flavour deepens.

K: When I checked on it the next day, it had grown mould. *the others laugh a lot*

T: How?

K: I don't know.

J: What did you put in it?

K: Just the normal stuff...curry cubes and stuff.

T: It grew mould after a day...?

K: It did, yeah.

J: Ehhh? By the way, did you eat any of it on the day you made it?

K: No, because I thought it would taste better after leaving it for a day. Also, it was actually kind of watery. Maybe I got the measurements wrong. So I thought if I leave it for a day, it would thicken up, but it grew mould.

J: *laughing* Wow. If you cooked it properly, it wouldn't grow mould unless there was something wrong with it though, would it?

T: Yeah, exactly.

J: Thats incredible.

T: Yeah, were you living somewhere funny?

K: Haha, the place?

J: Lets do this sometime. Lets have a curry party with Kaoru making the curry.

T: Oh, yeah.

K: Um, in my blog magazine TheTheDay, I appealed for ideas of what people want me to do, and people said they want me to cook.

J, T: Ehhh.

J: Will you do it? Get your revenge?

K: Revenge? *laughs*

J: Curry revenge. We'd have to have a doctor on stand-by though. *K laughs* We'd end up with curry poisoning. Everyone who ate it would collapse one by one.

K: It would be dangerous.

J: It would, it would.

K: Okay, so today...Tasai san.

T: Yes, so..uh..finally we've reached this era! Finally!

J: What is it? What happened?

T: Well, uh, on May 18th, for the first time, the Japan Air Self Defense Force (JASDF) started a specialist division to monitor regions in space, the Space Operations Squadron.

J: At last!

T: Its like Space Battleship Yamato, its as if that kind of old sci-fi is finally becoming real in this current Reiwa era. Well, actually, its not really like Yamato. What they are really doing is keeping an eye on space junk, and watching for any suspicious looking man-made satellites. To begin with they will ????*1, and by 2026, they say they want to put thier own satellites into orbit too. Its true that America, Russia, and China are leaders in this field, but its like Japan has also started to think about self defence in terms of space too.

J: I see. This is quite serious news then, isn't it.

T: Well, Tokyo sports always has a different take.

J, K: *laugh*

J: Of course.

T: So, in response to the inauguration of this devision, a UFO expert had one thing he wanted to say, which was...well, there is the 'scramble', yes? A kind of emergency take-off, if for example, missles are heading towards domestic land, or if mysterious sightings*2 happen, there is stuff like this. And in 2018, the JASDF actually had 999 scrambles, where they saw something they thought was dangerous, and had to take off immediately. So, of those, 638 cases involved Chinese vessels, 340 cases involved Russian, and 18 cases were classed as 'other'. This UFO expert thinks these might be UFOs, so with the creation of this new devision, he says they could check to see if they actually are UFOs.

J: By the way, what is the Japanese government's stance on the existence of UFOs? It seems like America already thinks they exist, and are taking some action, right?

K: There is a lot of???*4

J: Yeh, on the news. I havn't watched it properly, but what do they think again?

T: ????

K:????

J????*5

T: The Japanese government hasn't clearly confimed whether or not they think UFOs are real or not.

J: Hmm, Kaoru what do you think? Do UFOs exist or don't they?

K: Well, I want them to exist. I like reading about them.

J: Well, its fun isn't it?

T: While I've been working at Tokyo Sports, we've had quite a few reports on photos people have taken of UFOs. Um, you know Hyper media creator Takashiro Tsuyoshi..?

J: Ahh, Takashiro san.

T: When he reported...where was it Australia, Byron Bay..or something. He went there for a festival, and he showed me a photo of a UFO that he took while he was there. And there really was a kind of triangle shaped UFO looking thing on it. And when he showed it to an expert, they said after about 2 seconds, 'Ah, yes, this is a UFO', without even checking properly. *the others laugh*.

J: You'd want them to analyze it a bit more

K: It seems too easy, right? Like, ah, yeh yeh.

T: Yeh, thats a UFO..

J: Saying its a UFO that quickly...

T: According to this expert, if you see a UFO, a big change will happen in your life....and then straight after that he ????*6 and stuff like that happened...Also, the former actress, who turned to that religious cult..

J: Oh, the Happy Science cult.

T: Yeh, Sengen Yoshiko. She captured footage of a UFO in Toyama, and showed it to me, so I kind of think they are real.

J: Have either of you ever seen a UFO yourselves?

K: I've seen things where I've thought, what is that?!. Like...*imitates zig zag movement in the sky*

T: There is something isn't there.

J: There are things that move like that, aren't there. They are different from shooting stars, and airplanes couldn't move in that way. I've wondered what they are.

K: And when you try to catch it on your smartphone or something, you can't, can you?

T: I just remembered! I did catch a UFO on my smartphone. I went to Mexico once to do a story.

K: Didn't you mention that before?

T: Oh, maybe I did, on the radio. Well, when i was in Mexico, what is it..when the sun takes a long time..

J: The summer solstice?

T: Yeh, on that day, we climed to the top of a big rock, and held hands with all the local people. At that time we took loads of photos of the sky, and when we checked later, they showed a UFO.

J,K: Ehh?

T: Yeh, and I don't know the first thing about it. Im in the club of people who've photographed a UFO.

J: A UFO was close to you....Isn't this the right time for him to come out? That guy?

Kami:.....

K: He's not coming.

Kami: Um..

J: He's here, he's here.

Kami: We're talking about UFOs right? When I saw that the JASDF had started a space army, I was excited. And when I wondered what they would get up to, it said they would be picking up space junk..

T: *laughs*

Kami: Its like when we lost at the world cup, and picked up all the garbage, then went home. So I was a bit shocked at what was written.

K: But thats just the starting point, right?

T: Yeah, starting with the little things, moving steadily.

J: But, hey, while they say that, they might be carrying out some bigger project behind the scenes.

K: Well, yeah.

T: Thats right.

J: Kami, what do you think about UFOs?

Kami: I've never seen one.

J: Oh, you havn't?

K: But from your perspective, do UFOs exist?

Kami: Do they exist?...Im not sure.

K:.*laughs*

J: He's not very articulate, is he? This is different from when he was talking about mahjong!

K: *laughs*

J: He never stopped when he was talking about mahjong. Losing 30,000 and such. Coming into Tasai san's conversation that much..He's changed completey since last time. A poor response, Kami. Hey, but what is it?...Can't gods transcend space-time?

Kami: Im not sure.

J: Wait, you're not sure?

Kami: Space-time? Well, I can't talk about it, cause I'll get into trouble if I do.

J: Ah, if you tell us?

K: *laughs*

T: Is this a new organisation?

K: An organisation, right?

J: Gods have them too.

K: They probably have unions, right?

Kami: Yes, yes. *K laughs*

T: Someone more powerful than Kami will be onto him.

K: Yeah, he'll be stopped.

Kami: But the gods know this, theres nothing faster than light, right?

J, T: Ahh

Kami: Did you know that?

J: Yes, I did.

Kami: Yeah, thats it. Theres nothing faster than light, yeh. Thats the thing. Do you know who decided that? It was a god.

J: Ohh.

T, K: Eh?

Kami: Not me, one of my distant relatives.

J: Distant relatives? *laughs* One of the gods in the group?

K: It wasn't himself, but..

Kami: Yes, thats it.

J: Hang on, wait a minute, so in terms of what we are talking about, Kami, what did YOU create? Gods make many different things I think.

Kami: I make parts in a factory. *J, K laugh*.

T: What? The old guy in a backstreet workshop?

K: *laughs* He's the type who can descend to earth very easily, right?

J: He really is one of the commoners.*laughs* Its funny.

Kami: Its because Im an ally of the common people.

K: Well, yeh, it seems like he often goes to Chinese restaurants..

J: Right.

T: And he likes Mahjong

K: Yeh, he likes Mahjong.

J: He's kinda just like my Dad.

K: *laughs*

J: Ah, but UFOs, right?

K: It would be good if they develop this.

T: There might be things like space wars in the future, in reality. With America and such. If they are competing for supremacy in space.

K: Ah, yeh, fighting for supremacy.

T: Right?

J: But Japan is a little late getting started, in relation to that.

K: Oh yeh, its impossible.

J: Right? We wouldn't ever take supremacy.

T: Well Japan can already be seen from anywhere by spy satellites, they'd get all our info.

J: Well, thats it. That kind of thing is going on at the same time.

K: Well, thats just how it is.

J: Thats how it is, right?

T: Thanks for listening.

J: This was a spaced themed chat.

K: Please look forward to next week, thank you very much. Please subscribe.

J,T, Kami: Please do.

*1,3,4,5 Couldn't catch these bits.

*2 mysterious sightings...or something like it.

*6 Sounded like, 'he got divorced', but i couldn't distinguish it clearly enough.

#dir en grey #the freedom of expression #tfoe #薫 #kaoru

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nofacenocaseblog · 4 years

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𝗗𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 #3: NARCOPISOS Inc. /Barcelona narcopisos, a necessary evil

The 3rd episode of Dope Stories is the most in-depth investigation of the series, so much that it took me nearly 3 years to gain the trust and respect of my contacts and more importantly, to get relevant insights about the local drug market and its players to show, under a different angle than mainstream media, what’s happening behind the closed doors of the Ciutat Veilla’s narrow streets.

Playground 1 - Raval, Barcelona / 2018 / iPhone

“Drugs are ruining our neighborhood! “, “Narcopisos are disrupting the real estate market!” , “ We don’t feel safe!”…

Those are the slogans or headlines you see in the media or written on banners hanging from people’s balconies.

“Narcopisos are filthy and dangerous!”

But are they though?

FOREWORD

Before getting started, I wanted to write a few words about Barcelona. After living more than a decade in New York, my wife and I moved to Catalan capital for about 4 years. After reading this article you might think that I m not particularly fond of the town and its inhabitants. I won’t lie, we didn’t receive the warmest welcome, especially from Catalans. This said, the town and its vibe are unique and galvanizing. Very much like Marseille (my hometown), Barcelona is an harbor city with the port/marina right in the center, meaning: lots of traffics, smuggling, immigration, corruption, drugs etc… There is always “something going on”, if you catch my drift. Shady, nasty, funny, ugly, beautiful, vulgar, the cast of “pirate-like” characters gravitating around the city center is fascinating.

Occupied - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / Nikon 3200

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been drawn toward the forbidden, the danger, the illicit, the hidden, the bad... To my eyes, “ugly” has always been more interesting than “beautiful”. Barcelona is not a dangerous city but you need to keep your guard up: pick pockets roaming the subway, gypsies asking for money on La Rambla (the city’s most touristic avenue) while releasing your back pocket from your wallet, junkies selling stolen goods or begging for change for their next fix #nextfixandchill , black people selling fake airmax on the Barcelonetta marina, drunken street fights in the early hours of the morning... Tragicomic scenes are unravelling before your eyes in an surreal backdrop: Gaudi’s most beautiful “psychedelic” buildings (Sagrafa Familia, casa pedrera, Palau Guell...) in a jungle of gothic buildings ending on a fisherman village overseeing a beautiful beachfront promenade ending with the native “star’chitect” Bofill’s famous W...

Poolside - Barcelonetta, Barcelona / 2018 / iPhone

Ok, enough with the touristic tour, time to get real!

Stairway to Hell - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Embark on a descend to the heroin inferno that became Raval. From the fields of Afghanistan to the bloodstreams of Spain...

La Ruta [Spanish for “the route”]

19,414 Pakistanis live in Barcelona, 6,600 of them are established in the neighborhood: El Raval (1) meaning more than 30% of the total community. El Raval has always been my favorite barrio in town. With 47% of immigrants (2) , the mosaic of faces, cultures and shops you encounter is dazzling . Going back to the Pakistani population, I used the word “established” for a specific reason: they actually own many of the businesses in Raval: barbershop, cheap bars and restaurants, wholesale shops, import/export businesses, money transfer services (Western Union, Moneygram), food and grocery shops... I’m not accusing here the Pakistani business owners of backing the drug traffic but they basically created a web of small businesses in a tight net community with their own language, making it hard for the authorities to see through this social fabric potentially sheltering illegal activities.

Why the Pakistani population is subject to speculation and doubt from the local authorities? The answer is simple: Afghanistan. Afghanistan is by far the biggest producer of opium in the world. According to the US military, 90% of the world's heroin is made from opium grown in Afghanistan. It makes up 95% of the market in Europe (3). The country has been the leader in opium poppy production since 2001. Based on the 2014 report from the UNODC (United Nation Office on Drugs and Crime), Afghanistan not only grow opium but also process heroin in several laboratory as well as morphine (easier to produce from raw opium by adding calcium oxide and ammonium chloride). From Afghanistan, several routes are used to smuggle their prime commodities: the Balkan route has been the primary route but things are changing and the Southern route has become more and more used. Afghanistan share 2,400km of border with Pakistan and over 50% of illicit afghan opiates are trafficked through Pakistan which enjoys a a strategic location making it a perfect dispatch zone with readily accessible by land, sea (Gwadar and Karachi seaport) and air ways .

The same UNODC report also indicates that the majority (37%) of the heroin seized in Pakistan was en-route for Europe..

*** Read and/or download the full report here ***

By the way, let’s not forget that Barcelona is also one of the Camorra’s stronghold. And with Russians and Albanian mafias also present on the territory, Spain -where no powerful local crime syndicate operates and laws on prostitution and gambling are “blurred” to say the least- has become one of organize crime’s favorite playgrounds for money laundering, drug smuggling, human trafficking, gambling and prostitution... Nothing really happens here without their “green light”, but that’s another story (5)

Back to our Southern route, once the product reaches Barcelona, it becomes very hard to pin point. Narcotics coming through the Balkan route also ends up in Barcelona but in different “retailers”’ hands: Romanian family-based clans, based mostly in Besos (a run-down project in the heart of Poblenou) and occupying one single narcopisos in Raval (they have moved 3 times over the 4-year period of my “investigation”) but known to have the purest and most processed Caballo sold in town.

El Caballo [Spanish for “the horse”, street name of heroin ]

[WARNING] Most of the photographs of this post are uncensored, quite graphic and… of poor quality…. my bad, I took them. But I had circumstances: hidden cellphone, no flash, illegal activities going on, indoor, with very little to no light… Shots are not the best (no pun intended) but you’ll step right into the infamous narcopisos you’ve heard of or read about. And not once they’ve been searched and trashed by the police like you’ve seen in the press but while they are in full operation. Raw, those images might be quite shocking to some of the readers, but take the emotion out of he equation and you’ll come to realized that, for lack a better choice, narcopisos are a necessary evil. My intention here is not to start a polemic nor come out as a provocateur but to shed light on a real issue, still happening, involving real people, slowly dying, failed by a syste unable -or unwilling- to help them.

Gears - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

El Raval

1989, US superstar Keith Harring is in Barcelona for his exhibition on La Rambla. After speaking with an old friend of him from New York living here for awhile, he decided to paint a mural, his way to to show his love for and connection with the town. The next day, Harring chose the wall in Plaça de Salvador Segui in Raval. He was warned that the area was one of the most dangerous areas in town. Back then, in the 80’s the Spanish government had the genius idea to decriminalize the use, but not the supply, of hard drugs and did not implement any proper treatments to sustain this measure... Spaniards have ignored the issue and it sparked a heroin addiction epidemic that saw HIV rates soar (2a).The artist was attracted to the neighborhood and decided it would offer the perfect canvas for his message about the dangers of drugs and AIDS. At first it was supposed to be a temporary mural but in the end, up to this day, you can still enjoy Harring’s mural behind the MACBA museum. Below is a photograph I took of what became now hot-spot for skateboarder and cool bars

Tricks - Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / Nikon 3200

Beside its bad reputation, Raval has always been a magnet for artists and “cool kids”, misfits and outcasts but more recently the new kid on the block is named gentrification… in other word: Fun is over. Well… not quite yet. In Barcelona, everything moves slowly, gentrification included. The result is a mix of fancy hotels, art galleries, designer boutiques... mixed with prostitutes and their lovely clientele, dealers, junkies, businessmen, families of tourists wandering the streets… a fascinating mix of characters with theatrical scenes playing before your eyes: hustlers trying to rip off tourists, white collars finding themselves buying bad cocaine from a kid in a narrow, sketchy alley… the show is in the street, but not only.

The Narrows - Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / Nikon 3200

What businesses, in Barcelona, are open 24/7, have no vacancy, a steady stream of customers and a product that sells itself? The answer: Narcopisos Inc.

The phenomenon of the Narcopisos emerged in 2016 (a year after I moved to Barcelona) following Spain’s property crash. Foreclosed or unsold apartments, owned by banks and investment funds were left emptied, abandoned, in a country in full housing crisis... It wasn’t long before the vacant spaces started being squatted: some by respectable families, in need of a place to live, some by drug dealers using them as selling point and shooting gallery. A place where you can get a cheap fix in a relatively clean room.

Ritual - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Helped - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Thanks to my various contacts, I had access to different types of narcopisos, but from crack to dope houses, most of them were operating the same way: - a cctv video surveillance in place at the street level or someone looking out for the cops. - a room with junkies to confuse police upon arrival and make it look like they are actually squatting the place - 1 to 3 dealers serving customers one a the time. - An exit back door (if available) in case the police knocks on the front door. - One or two rooms for users. - Hourly cleaning of the premises to make the place look “decent” and “squatted” in case of a bust - Little quantity of drugs at the time, no more than 10 grams of each. - Open 24/7 - Re-up every hour or so - Single use paraphernalia available to the users - In some cases, Narcan at hand (medicine used to reverse the effect of an OD).

Cleaning Session - Career d’en Road 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / iPhone

My connections in the Pakistani community took time to build but strengthen throughout the years to reached a level of trust where we came to split the bread at several occasions… no seriously, we actually got invited in their Halal “canteen” in Raval where only Pakistanis could enjoy their local cuisine, a unique experience… They also gave me access to two of their stash houses: located in legit apartments, in proper buildings, on the outskirt of Raval, close to Sant-Antoni, less prone to police check. No users there, only wholesalers, dispatching heroin to “representatives” of each narcopisos at below retail-price: between 20 and 40 euros the gram depending on the quantity purchased.

Going back to the narcopisos, some were run by junkies (where the product was often cut from the bash they were getting from the stash houses), some by pakistani or afghan immigrants, with decent quality product, some by Catalan families, living there for decades under stabilized rent and with their own connection and product of fluctuant quality. Last but not least, one narcopiso was occupied by the Romanian clan mentioned earlier. Below are some photos of one of their spot at 22 Carrer d’en Roig, later busted and walled by the Mossos d’esquadra (Catalan police)

Romanian at work - Career d’en Road 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / iPhone

Boss - Career d’en Road 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / iPhone

If narcopisos was selling both crack and heroin, two rooms were at the disposal of users, one for smoking their bottles or pipes and the other room to shoot up or smoke heroin on tiny pieces of foil.

Sterile hospital-like garbage disposal were available for discarding the used paraphernalia.

Bloodstream Hunt - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

#NextFixandChill - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Everything is provided to avoid the spread of disease and the use of the drug in plain sight in the street therefore reduce public disorder.

Not that dealers became humanitarian all of a sudden, but kicking customers with their (illegal) purchase out in the street expose them to being ratted on or worst, having an overdose in plain sight attracting the police and paramedics... either way, it’s not good for business so narcopisos’ “managers” rather keep their clientele indoor until they’re done using and good to do.

Now, there is another type of business in Barcelona dealing with drug users and addiction: it’s called Centre de Dispensació de Metadona - Centre d'Atenció Primària Casc Antic (the methadone clinic in short....).

* They’re not open 24/7 but rather in the morning only * It can take up to 2 weeks to see a doctor in order to enroll in a Methadone Maintenance Treatment -MMT (true story...when a single day can be the last one for a heroin addict living in the street) * Last but not least, since the doctors and nurses’ work schedule is way more important tthan their patients’ care, some centers give up 3 to 4 days worth of supply of methadone at once to heroin users so the health workers can have their days and weekends off. The result of this amazing system: the methadone is sold in the street by users so they can buy their heroin and/or in certain case, the methadone is saved up (for rainy days) and the patient keeps using heroin instead. Yes, the patient: let’s not forget that those “filthy junkies” actually are patients (even if they’re hardly seen as such in those centers), suffering from a disease called addiction, or substance abuse disorder if you prefer the american way of calling it, and in need of medical care but what can I say... old habits die hard (both way...).

Patients taking methadone to treat opioid dependance must receive the medication under the supervision of a practitioner. After a period of stability (based on progress and proven, consistent compliance with the medication dosage) and only then, patients may be allowed to take methadone at home between program visits... but not in Barcelona.

Methadone substitution as a treatment of opioid addiction does not function as much to curb addiction as to redirect it and maintain dependency on legal channels. Methadone has been designed that way, as a lifetime treatment whereas alternative palliatives such as Buprenorphine are not even considered by doctors when those therapies would be more efficient in certain cases: with users who do not shoot the drug for example, or with users wishing to quiet and get sober... but let's be honest here, sobriety has never been the objective of those methadone programs. The real goal of this public service is not to cure addiction, but to make sure junkies don’t use, steal, rob and/or commit act of violence in the streets to feed their habits

The patient here is not the users but the society. Those centers aren’t trying to help the user quit his habit, but to make sure the society doesn’t suffer from it. Good or bad, Narcopisos are curbing down the spread of diseases, cleaning up the streets from users as they offering temporary shelter to their customers and operate around the clock.. It seems to me that their function is almost... complementary if not necessary.

So before eradicating narcopisos from the face of Raval, let’s pause and look at the alternative: junkies buying and using drugs in the streets of the city center, in the worst sanitary condition possible with no regard for the residents around.

Mañana

So what’s next? Keeping those illegal activities going on? Certainly not.

But before jumping the gun and closing it all at once, better get ready for the alternative because drug addiction will not disappear with the narcopisos. In my last article, I speak about users stigmatization and how society still struggles to see addiction as a disease and not a will power issue, turning the blind eye to a sheer amount of studies and discoveries explaining how heroin addiction, over time, modify the pathway of your brain frontal lobe and affect your decisional power, making it hard -to not say impossible- to say “no”.

Don’t take me wrong. It would be naïve to think all users roaming the streets are here trying to quit and become their better self. Most of them have no intention to do so. I’m not here to judge nor take side. But in order to find a solution to the narcopiso situation, I would like to introduce Barcelona to his neighbor: Portugal.

Portugal had one of the worst heroin epidemic in Europe back in the 90′s and after the failed many “US war on drug”-type of approaches. They finally shift approach and started treated drug addicts as patients who needed help, not as criminals” says Goulao, the architect of Portugal drug policy. After the decriminalization and treatments, they planned to open “supervised drug consumption facilities” Naina Bajekal says in her 2018 article in the Time “where drug users can consume drugs in safer conditions with the assistance of trained staff. Such facilities have been running in Europe since 1986, when the first was opened in Berne, Switzerland.”(5)

The result? Evidence (6) shows these these type of sites save lives, reduce public disorder, and curb the spread of diseases.

Does that sound familiar? Yes, that's right, the first of the two businesses we spoke about: Narcopisos Inc.

Purgatory - Carrer d’en Roig 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

For No Face No Case: Dope Stories chapter 4, we’re going to Italy. Don’t worry, it won’t be another mafia-related article explaining how the N’Drangheta and Camorra became the most powerful crime syndicates in the world, you can watch that on TV. Called “Il Racconto dei Racconti” (Tales of Tales in english), the article will keep it real, street style: short stories from North to South: Torino, Milano, Genoa, Roma, Napoli... Stay tuned for some dope stories on how drugs are sold, used and abused in the Renaissance country

References (1) https://www.barcelona-metropolitan.com/featuresx/report-barcelona-pakistani-community/ (2) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Raval (3) https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-47861444 (4)https://english.elpais.com/elpais/2018/12/07/inenglish/1544171107_204329.html (5) https://time.com/longform/portugal-drug-use-decriminalization/ (6) https://www.cbc.ca/news2/interactives/portugal-heroin-decriminalization/

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lisatelramor · 4 years

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Be a Better Me

Hi, I’m back with angst fic. >_>

So with COVID19 going on I 1) had more time to write + 2) have had a bit more background anxiety with the world, and stress + time = angstfic for me most of the time. So this got written in about a month. Instead of any of my WIPs =_=;;;;; Hope other people are up for some angst. Either way I'm being sent back to work next week so I'm glad it chose to finish when it did.

This was 100% inspired by @ickaimp's Robo!Kaito fic and has probably low key kicked around my brain for years since I read it back in like 2011.

Chapter 1

His arm aches. Kaito flexes his hand, blood running down from the bullet graze that feels like fire. The robot that impersonated him is wires and synthetic skin smoking in a pile. He feels sick in his stomach, both from almost dying after a few days trapped in a lab and because he’d just seen something that had run around with his face blow its own head off.

It’s just a robot, but it’d thought it was human. It’d thought it was him, had seen his memories, just hadn’t quite been human enough to understand life, death, or morals. What kind of sick fuck made something like that?

Kaito shudders. His hand flexes again. Bandages. He needs bandages, and maybe stitches, or maybe to just. Go lie down.

His skin doesn’t feel quite right but that’s the shock probably. A lot’s happened in a couple days’ time. Like finding out someone with his face killed someone. A creepy scientist who also kidnapped Kaito, but yeah. How anything that had Kaito’s memories and personality could do that… He shudders again.

Kaito isn’t a megalomaniac in disguise right? He has lines and morals and things he’d never do in a million years, even if some of his morals are grayer than others. He doesn’t hurt people. Not physically permanent. And not any other way if he can help it.

Blood drips from his fingertips.

There’s a laboratory burning down with a corpse of a man who tried to make a man from metal out there and Kaito doesn’t want anything more to do with it.

He turns away. He has a gem to return and a budding reputation to save.

o*O*o

He feels weird for a while after that. It’s the trauma probably. Kaito can’t say his life has ever been normal. His father was a stage magician, both his parents turned out to be thieves, and he puts on a white suit to stir up shadows to try and find out why his father was murdered. That’s hardly the sort of thing a teenager usually goes through, but killer robots and kidnapping were new. His balance a bit off for a day? He spent two days strapped to a table. His arm took a bit to work right? He did get grazed by a bullet. Swimming takes a bit more effort than the last time he did it? Not weird since he generally avoids swimming in the ocean if he can. Aoko’s mop swings seem a little slower? He’s kind of hyper aware of attacks lately, so he’s just paying more attention.

Things are different but not that different so it’s just his head being weird about it all. Life goes on, he stops feeling a bit off and he keeps on going as usual. Bait Aoko, play like a good student, perform magic, and pull of the next heist. Simple.

But then there’s suddenly a magic wielding witch and a detective trying to sniff him out, and life just keeps getting weirder. He doesn’t remember it being this strange before he became Kid, but it must have been at least a little weird. It’s just that practicing magic and acrobatics with Aoko and actual magic and jumping off buildings are very different things. It’s a miracle he’s managed not to break anything. What with the roller coaster, or jumping off buildings, or getting shot at, or ghost(?) pirates, or being attacked by a hoard of hairy rats… Yeah. Life is weird.

So if Kaito’s a little weird in it, well, he fits right in, now doesn’t he?

o*O*o

Kaito’s chest is aching and there’s a nasty bruise forming. He supposes that’s what happens when a gem blocks a bullet. It’s yet another miracle the sapphire didn’t shatter let alone that the bullet hit it instead of him at all. Aoko liked her birthday gift but it had taken all Kaito had to set that up for her and he’s dead on his feet now.

He might have a cracked rib too. He winces, easing off the costume. It has a hole—two really where the bullet deflected—that will need patched and the usual bleach treatments to keep it white. White is the worst color for climbing around rooftops and crawlspaces. He’d change it if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s one of Kid’s signature identifiers at this point. Thanks, Oyaji.

The bruise is worse than he first thought when he gets his shirt off. Mottled purple all along the left side of his chest. Like someone took a wooden mallet to him.

Thankfully there’s an x-ray machine down in Kid’s hideaway. It’s old and definitely not something he’s going to ever use much because, well, radiation, but he’d rather know if he’s managed to break a rib or not so he knows how much acrobatics he can get away with.

It takes a bit to set up and a bit longer to figure out how to get everything to work, but fifteen minutes later he’s got x-ray film developing in a little darkroom off to the side because apparently his dad had a little bit of everything thought out down here. He loves and hates it in equal measures sometimes.

He sighs, feeling the deep breathing ache, and looks at the forming image. And frowns.

He’s not a medical expert, far from it, but he has a general run down of the human body and has seen x-rays before. What Kaito’s looking at? Not what he’d expect to see. There’s ribs, yes, but they’re not quite right, and too dark. Then there’s all the metal. It’s like his nervous system is registering as wires, radiating out like something from one of his textbooks, same with the circulatory system that’s a bit too dark on the film. Should he even be seeing that? Heart, maybe, but branching signs of the rest of his veins and arteries? His lungs aren’t the right shape. The vague shadows of organs aren’t right either. And there’s… there’s the shadow of screws and pins and mechanical bits that shouldn’t be there. There’s wires instead of tendons that shouldn’t be showing and he has to stare.

His chest throbs and he looks down at it. Bruising. At the film. Barely resembling something human. He hurts. Aches. Yet there in front of him is mechanical parts.

Feeling like he’s floating, or maybe sinking, Kaito plucks one of his razor cards from its deck. He slides it along his finger. Skin parts, blood wells up, pain registers dimly.

But is it blood?

It drips, just a few drops, already clotting as he stares. It’s red as any blood he’s seen. The pain is real. And yet. He looks at the film.

Kaito hasn’t thought about the robot in months. Why would he? It’s over and done. He’d read a police report about the lab in the paper. About the body found and the equipment sitting in police evidence for ages as the murder case went cold. They didn’t know to look for a robot. And the robot had been left for scrap. Kaito doesn’t know what had happened to its remains.

There hadn’t been a second body found.

He looks back at his hand and finds it shaking.

The robot’s face had peeled off, but when he tugs at his cheek he just feels pain. Same with his hair. He feels. He eats and shits and sleeps and bleeds. His breath is coming too fast and it hurts.

It’s a mistake, right? He could take another scan and it’d be normal. Human. He could scan his hand and it would be bone and tendons and the ghost of muscle, not wire and metal joints that would make a prosthetic expert weep. Not too-dark veins and tendrils of nerves that shouldn’t be visible.

His lungs were the wrong shape, he couldn’t breathe.

“Shit.”

He’s Kaito, right? Just a normal teenager with an abnormal life. Just a normal, human teenager.

The robot thought it was human.

The robot thought it was Kaito.

Kaito doesn’t remember being taken, he just remembers waking up strapped down. But the robot barely passed as human. But Kaito has wires in his chest.

He looks at the film again. “Well. No cracked rib.” He laughs. It’s not funny at all. He can’t breathe. “What do I do?”

The empty basement hideaway his father left him has no answers at all.

Like usual, it’s just Kaito facing crisis alone.

He’s never felt worse.

o*O*o

Eventually, he picks himself off the floor. Eventually he changes into new clothes. Eventually he slides into bed and sleeps, terribly, but sleeps. He sees his face melting in his dreams, a broken metallic skull leaking fluid and smoke and blank mechanical eyes staring at him. His skin peeling away to show metal bones and wires as everyone he loves stares in horror.

Kaito wakes up feeling like he’s going to throw up, in a cold sweat. He can dream and sweat and feel sickening terror, surely he’s wrong. Surely.

But the x-ray is the same damning image this morning as it was last night.

Kaito’s hands start shaking again.

If he goes into class, Hakuba will take one look at him and know something’s up. Hell, Aoko will notice. He laces his fingers together. Poker face. Poker face. Whatever is going on, he’s still been Kaito for months without noticing anything wrong so. So maybe he’s… a cyborg or something. A robot wouldn’t be having a panic attack about being a robot. Who would want to make a robot capable of having a panic attack in the first place?

He doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but he needs answers before he can do anything else.

Kaito calls in sick, leaves Aoko a message so she doesn’t show up demanding he get ready for school. Eats plain toast without tasting it—how can he taste it?—and slides on his shoes. His chest is a mass of dark bruises just like a human body that had a bullet deflected should be. But nothing under his skin is apparently human.

It’s easy to slip into the police record room with a borrowed face, and a matter of minutes to seek out the mad doctor’s case record. His charred remains are photographed in gristly glory front and center, but his cause of death isn’t fire. Kaito knows his hands don’t have the sort of strength to do what that file describes.

He almost throws up looking at it.

There’s lab equipment listed off, melted computers and bits of paper files to survive the destruction kept in evidence files. Kaito might need to come back and see what he can salvage from them. If he’s… not fully human, he might need some of the doctor’s research no matter how much the thought makes his skin crawl. There’s nothing in the file about the robot, but there is notes about unfinished pieces parts sifted from the wreckage. Police notes only speculate what they thought was going on in the labs.

The file doesn’t mention another body.

Kaito does a quick look into active unidentified male bodies found in the last few months, but none of them are young enough to be him. None of them recognizable. It should be a good thing.

It should be.

Instead it has Kaito’s breathing tight again because what if he died and no one ever found the body? What if he rots somewhere and no one will ever know he’s not. That’s Kaito’s not.

He leaves the police station.

There’s a disconnect between his self and emotions and it’s something he’s done before, but rarely outside of a heist. His poker face, most of the time, is an act. This is different. This is shutting bits of himself away because otherwise he couldn’t function. This is putting off a breakdown knowing it’ll be that much worse later. This is shutting a door knowing it’s going to open later and drown him.

He heads for the lab. It’s the only place he can think to go.

o*O*o

The building is condemned. It’s a burnt husk of a thing and a surprise that it hasn’t been torn down yet. Perhaps the doctor had owned it and it’s in the air what to do with it. Either way, Kaito approaches with detached caution.

He can remember leaving here in a rush, the explosion that followed not long after he made it out. He can remember the sickening glimpse of a body on his way out, trying not to look too hard and knowing it’d haunt his nightmares. Kaito steps inside and pinpoints the twisted metal that was once where he was strapped down, the shattered remains of the memory transfer machines still imbedded into the wall behind it.

The police had removed a lot of things, but they couldn’t remove the scorch marks on the walls and floor or the dark bloodstains in the corner. He shivers.

What is he doing here? The scene was gone over by police. It’s not like he’s going to find something they didn’t, and it’s not like he’s going to know what any of the machine bits left can do beyond the memory transfer one.

It’s damp and drafty inside. It smells like wet ashes and chemicals and he wants to turn around and leave, especially when he sees a metal start of a skeleton still bolted to the back wall. How many had this guy made? How many robot failures before the one that Kaito fought? How many thought they were human? How many other people were kidnapped in the process of building these things?

Things. Robots were things. And Kaito was…

The wall had collapsed along one side, and no one had bothered to clear the rubble. If Kaito was a crazy robot building scientist that kidnapped teenagers, what would he do with them? Ok, he’d been strapped down to the memory machine. But if he built a robot and implanted memories in it, he’d want to compare, right? He’d want to prove that he’d done the transfer right, so he wouldn’t just get rid of the teenager. The robot Kaito faced had transferred memories fine, but the emotional and moral processes hadn’t been right. The doctor had been basing it off Kaito and if Kaito was. If he was then that meant the transfer had worked right on Kaito. Probably. And maybe the scientist had been trying to duplicate whatever happened with Kaito or maybe they’d been two different models for different purposes. Who the hell knew at this point? Certainly not Kaito.

Kaito prods at rubble. If there’s one thing he’s learned about people who have secrets to hide, things aren’t as they appear. This is a lab, but it’s missing living space. It’s missing storage and a metal foundry. The pieces that built the robots are too specialized to not be custom made. The cabinets that had existed had to have been full of wires and polymers and the fine details bits that you’d want a nice open workspace to better work with, but there had to be a place the doctor had done the base work and he’s not seeing any sign of it here. Just the start of the skeleton on the wall that’s missing its head and lower half.

He can’t look at it. It’s somewhere in between the scan Kaito took of his chest and the metal chassis from the robot he fought, its skin peeling back and—

There had to be a basement. Still is a basement probably. But the door is either hidden or buried, and Kaito’s not sure what to do first. Test the shattered remains of cabinet bases? Try scrounging through rubble? See if anything still hooked into the wall shifts and shows a hidden room like his painting at home?

The basement wouldn’t have been legally added or the police would have its existence on file for the building blueprints. But most of this place can’t have been legally built. Not with the amount of equipment secreted away. People would have asked questions. So. Hidden door.

Kaito estimates wall thicknesses versus the interior versus how dangerous it is to get close to places where the ceiling and walls are still crumbling bit by bit.

There’s a cabinet with shattered glass cases and medical supplies that have all been taken away as evidence. Kaito vaguely remembers it before the explosion. Despite half a roof caving in around it, it’s still in one piece structurally and that means it’s built stronger than a cabinet should be.

It takes twenty minutes of careful prodding and digging and tugging to get it to budge and when it does it shrieks like rusted hinges. But Kaito keeps pulling and gets a space big enough for him to crawl through, stairs traveling down.

It’s dark and even mustier than above. The floor must have cracked or the foundations, and it’s growing mold, but Kaito’s surprised to find it isn’t completely dark. Somehow there’s still power running here, probably underground. The overhead lights are shattered but in the gloom are a few red blinking lights of appliances.

Kaito wants to turn back but he’s never been one to shy away from the truth.

Glass crunches under his shoes as his small pocket flashlight illuminates fragments of the dark. A table. A kitchen. A bed, all in the first room, but heavy metal doors beyond. They’re warped though, and the ceiling sags ominously where a support beam crumpled slightly from the explosion above. Kaito has no idea how it didn’t get destroyed with the rest of the place, but it had to have been the placement of explosives.

He creeps further, leaving the eerily normal living area for one of the metal doors. It’s stuck, but he gets it to move enough to squeeze past, his ribs protesting the movement. It’s fine. It’s not important. The room is the metal foundry he’d expected, casts and tools and carefully disguised air vents branching off. It’s heavily reinforced, probably also muffled so the metalwork didn’t make too much noise. He sees finished metal bones, all sorted neatly into labeled bins and racks of molds. There’s a half-finished skull just sitting there on a work bench, empty eye sockets unnerving.

Kaito wrenching his eyes away from it. There’s papers and diagrams, documents on the doctor’s research about how the robotic body comes together, about alloys and density and weights that Kaito should keep if it ever becomes something he needs—He drops the thought into that emotional void growing in his head.

If he needs anything from here, he will take it. And will not think about what it means.

The documents about the muscular, nervous, circulatory and digestive systems aren’t here. Might not even exist anymore. But there had been a personal computer in the living space and it had glass littering it like the floor, but it wasn’t destroyed. It was one of the blinking red lights, so maybe…

Kaito’s taking that when he leaves.

The other metal door is warped worse than the foundry. Kaito has to go and get a metal femur to lever the gap wide enough to pass through and he’s surprised to find the inside almost fully intact.

One light flickers on, the only bulb not destroyed. He’s not sure at first what the room is. There’s a filing cabinet by the door, sure, but also a chest freezer and something that looks like an opaque glass case except there are wires running to it and an electric hum that’s louder than the freezer. Something in his instincts prickle and Kaito can’t explain the heavy terrified feeling bubbling in his gut the longer he stares at the simple room in the dim, flicker light.

Glass crunches and he tugs the freezer lid up. He’s half expecting to find a dismembered corpse in there. There’s not a corpse but there is vial after vial of dark liquids with strings of numbers on them and containers labeled ‘skin’ with numbers after them. The liquid looks a lot like blood. Kaito’s stomach lurches. The other containers are opaque and thankfully impossible to tell the contents of, though they could be organs, real or synthetic. Kaito really hopes the skin is synthetic.

He lets the lid close and tugs the file cabinet drawers. Locked, but he can easily get in them later. That leaves the glass case.

It has a computerized box attached to the front with strings of numbers displayed that mean absolutely nothing to Kaito. There’s controls too, but the only one he cares about is the one that opens the glass case. It unlocks with a pneumatic hiss, like its contents were under pressure and Kaito swings the glass up.

And stares down at his face.

Peaceful. Like it’s asleep. He’s asleep. But his lips are bluish and his skin is pale and, when Kaito reaches out with a shaking hand, he’s cold to the touch.

The police never found a second body.

The room goes a little sideways and dark and Kaito realizes only after his face is mashed against the metal edge of the glass case that he’s hyperventilating.

“Shit,” he hisses through chattering teeth. “Shit.” His hair’s standing on end and his whole body is shaking and he’s having a panic attack next to his own corpse. “Shit.” It shouldn’t be possible to have a panic attack when he isn’t even real.

The room keeps spinning and blinking bright and dark as he tries to control his breathing. Shit, how can he hyperventilate when he doesn’t have real lungs and maybe not even a real brain—unless. He pops back up like a man drowning and scrabbles for the case.

He tilts Kai—the body’s head one way or another, but there’s no sign of it being cut open. The hair’s the same wiry texture he feels when he touches his head and there’s no injury he can feel. The knobs of its spine along the neck are intact. There’s wires, now that he’s looking, glued at the temples, but they’re not going in the body. There’s wires other places too and he has a stupid, fleeting moment of gratitude that at least the sick fuck that did this left Kaito’s underwear on. The body’s. Shit. There’s no marks and no indication of what happened, but the body isn’t breathing and there’s no pulse at its throat and it’s Kaito’s body right there.

It’s him but it’s not because Kaito isn’t.

He has to let go of the body and take three steps away to empty the meager contents of his stomach on the glass-littered floor. Stomach bile burns his throat. Is it even stomach acid? Is it even—how is he digesting if he’s wires and not-quite-organs? What is he?

He’s crying and hiccupping and he can’t quite seem to stop, the sour taste in his mouth and the smell of mold in his nose. What was the point in making a robot so close to human it can’t tell the difference between flesh and machine? What’s the point of a machine that can cry and vomit and panic like a real person? What’s the point of killing a teenager to replace him with a machine?

He crouches for an unknown period of time until the panic sort of flat lines and his tears dry. His hands stop shaking and his throat is raw, each breath a rasp. He bleeds and feels pain and emotions and—

Kaito goes back to the body. His body. Say the memory transfer worked. Say that Kaito in his entirety went from human flesh and bone to this. Intact. Say that the process fried Kaito’s brain and the doctor was left with a comatose teenager and a robot that didn’t know it was a robot. What would the doctor do with his mistake? Was the case to preserve the corpse? To keep the body as reference or had there been another purpose?

Or maybe the process hadn’t fried Kaito’s brain. Maybe the real Kaito had looked at his double. At the other Kaito and tried to break free. Maybe he’d been sedated or something else went wrong. But maybe that Kaito had died in terror and left an imposter in his place.

Kaito will never know.

There is no sign of decomposition. No sign of the body going through rigor mortis or any kind of trauma. Like he’s just sleeping. Like a few tiny stimuli could open the hidden blue eyes and the body would rise up and express how frigging cold it is in the case.

Maybe, for a scientist playing god, that had been the intent. Make a man from scratch achieved, next step bring back the dead. The first person to successfully revive a cryo patient.

Kaito closes his eyes, then closes the glass case. He can’t look at his own body anymore. He can’t. It seals with another hiss, preserving the body for however long the machine keeps running.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

He presses the heels of his hands against his swollen eyes. It’s not right to leave this here. It’s not right for any of this to be left here. It’s not right for Kaito to take the place of the real Kaito either but he doesn’t know what the hell to do. He’s been taking his place for months now; what else is there for him?

Is it better or worse if he is, in fact, a complete imprint of Kaito’s brain? Would he even know the difference if something is missing?

Worst of all, no one noticed. Not Aoko. Not Kaito or Jii. Not Kaito’s own mother. No one.

Kaito died alone. And no one noticed.

He’s crying again, not sure if it’s for himself or for the body at his back. Months. Months.

The overhead light flickers out and all at once Kaito can’t stay here. It’s like he’s the one in the box, trapped and slowly running out of air, and he squeezes out the door and up the stairs before he can even process moving. He doesn’t stop until he’s up a tree and breathing smoke and mold free air and trying to stop trembling. ‘What now?’ his mind asks. ‘What now, what now, what now?’

It’s night when he finally moves. He doesn’t know how long he sat up a tree, can’t remember the sun going down, only knowing that his body aches everywhere from stillness and unforgiving solid tree limbs beneath his ass. He makes a call. “Jii?”

He doesn’t know what his voice sounds like, couldn’t pick up his poker face if he tried right now.

It must be horrible though because Jii’s voice comes through the line sharp and worried. “What’s happened?” he asks.

There’s no way to start, no words to draw on to explain the mess that this is. How does someone say that they’re dead? That they’re dead and not, human and not, all at the same time?

“Kaito-bocchama?” Jii says sharper.

“How good,” Kaito says, voice gone all wobbly and out of control, “is that friend of yours with robotics?”

“…Kaito-bocchama?” Jii says a lot more dubiously.

Kaito licks his lips with a dry tongue. Dry mouth. Probably dehydrated and doesn’t that make no sense for a robot to have that feature. “There’s a problem. And I don’t know what to do,” he admits.

He can’t say it. How can he say to Jii that Kaito’s dead, like Toichi is dead, to Kaito’s mom that he’s dead and there’s just this remnant body of wires and meat-mimicking mess wearing his face left? How can he do that?

“Where are you?” Jii says, the sound of him getting clothing, maybe or a coat in the background.

Kaito hesitates, but gives the address of the burned down lab. “How good is your friend with robotics?” he asks again.

“…It isn’t his specialty,” Jii says after a long moment.

“Ah.” Too much to hope for. Still, maybe this mysterious friend Jii gets the occasional gadget from will know how to read the research notes better than Kaito would. Keys jingle as Jii locks his front door. “Jii?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, in advance,” Kaito says knowing it’s not enough. He hangs up before Jii can say anything in response and doesn’t pick up the return call. Instead he stuffs his phone in a pocket and covers his face with his hands and just breathes. If nothing else makes sense, at least he can do that.

#magic kaito #detective conan #robot kaito #fanfiction #my writing #not really shippy this time guys #but there's a lot of skirting the lines later #and much friendship #you know #between the angst moments

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juliabohemian · 4 years

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backhanded compliments & the art of commenting on other people’s creative content without being a complete twat waffle

WARNING: This is a long post.

I'm a word person. That's probably why, when I do find myself becoming irritated by someone else's unsolicited critique, it is almost always due to their choice of words. Words are important and very powerful. Words have different meaning to different people. Which is why we need to take care when choosing them.

Now, whenever possible, I will click on the profile of the person who left the unsolicited critique and try to get a feel for what type of person they are. Just so I can better understand why they might have left the comment in question. If it is clear they are not a native English speaker, I stop right there. Learning a foreign language is hard. English is one of the most ridiculous languages on the planet. So, mastering its nuances is a challenge for someone who may not have grown up using it. I’m sure I have offended at least one person with my Spanish, at some point. I’m working on it.

BACKHANDED COMPLIMENTS

When I say choice of words, I am implying almost exclusively to something known as a backhanded compliment. A backhanded compliment is a statement that seems, on the surface, to be positive, but is actually an insult. If you are not familiar with the backhanded compliment, I direct you to the mom from American Beauty who says to her teenage daughter "Honey, I'm so proud of you. I watched you very closely, and you didn't screw up once!"

There are a lot of reasons why people make such comments. It would be reductive to suggest they are all suffering from some form of insecurity, although many of them probably are. Some may genuinely believe that they are being helpful. Others may be jealous of the attention another person is receiving and want to either sabotage them or find a way to get in on the action.

However, it is most likely that the type of person to give a backhanded compliment is either very young, very sheltered or very privileged. And thus, they may not realize that their opinion about something may not carry the same weight on the internet as it does in other venues. Or they may not realize that the world is filled with people who are more informed and more experienced than they are. They mistake their opinion for objective analysis and therefore, offer it freely and without hesitation.

Now, I would like to state that if you see something and you REALLY think it is problematic, you should absolutely offer your critique. Note: if you dislike or disagree with something, that does not make it problematic. Anything that promotes the maltreatment or marginalization of any living thing is problematic. Even so, you should stop and ask yourself whether your critique will accomplish anything or if it would be more worthwhile to simply report the post in question and move on.

That being said, here is MY analysis of some of the backhanded compliments I have received over the years (amalgamated for brevity), and a guide to leaving more constructive/supportive comments for the content creators in your life.

ARTWORK (including photography)

“Definitely not my style, but beautiful.” Do we need to know that it's not your style? If you think it's beautiful, just say that.

“This is so great, but it would have been better if you had used yellow instead of red!” Color choice is a creative choice and its value cannot be objectively measured. Just say it’s great and move on.

“Wow, this is way better than your old stuff.” Do I need to explain why this is bad? I hope not.

“Wow, you're really improving.” Slightly better than the previous one, but still bad. This is a really good example of something that might even feel like a compliment, but actually isn't. Saying that someone is improving is basically saying that it needed to improve.

Unless you are speaking to your own student or a child, or a really close friend or family member who has openly shared with you their desire to improve as an artist, this is completely unnecessary.

It's important to remember that not everyone is doing things with the same objectives as you. Not every artist or photographer is aiming for technical mastery. If an artist creates something that is very personal and feels pleased with it, the last thing they want is for someone else to come along and tell them what’s “wrong” with it.

Really ANY comment that suggests that the piece of artwork in question would be improved if it were altered in some way is a no no. Unless you are an art teacher or someone has specifically asked for you to give them this information, or you are paying someone to make something especially for you.

FANFICTION (or really writing in general)

“Oh man...I was so excited when I saw your story summary, until I saw the pairing.” Do not comment on a story just to tell the author that you don't like their pairing. Ever. If you accidentally click on a story without seeing the pairing and you are disappointed, your feelings are valid. But there’s no need to let the author know.

"This was good but I don't think (character) would say (quoted dialogue)." Then, you should go and write a story with that character, but where they say different things.

"I noticed you used a semi-colon in the third paragraph. Semicolons are actually supposed to...." Critique grammar, punctuation, spelling and writing mechanics ONLY if you are the author's editor, the author's teacher, or if the author requested it. Period.

If you are commenting to point out what you believe to be a factual error, stop and ask yourself...is this really an error? Is the error intentional? Does the error represent the views of the author or the views of a specific character in a fictional work? Does this story have a reliable narrator? If not, might that narrator be misinformed or biased? And the most important question to ask yourself before correcting an author...do I actually know what the fuck I'm talking about?

Once, in a story, I referenced Copernicus and mentioned that he was imprisoned by the Catholic church. Which we know that he was. Someone commented to leave a long, bullet pointed explanation for how this is a common misconception and that the Catholic Church never mistreated Copernicus, along with many links to articles and videos as evidence. Guess who made all the articles and videos? The Catholic Church. SKIP!

When commenting on a fictional work, consider letting the author know how the story is making you feel. Speculate about what you think might happen next. Express excitement and anticipation. Ask a question for clarification about what you just read. And you can never go wrong by simply thanking the author for taking the time to provide you with free entertainment.

MEMES & JOKES

I love to make people laugh. I have been making people laugh since I learned to talk. This was actually bourne out of an inability to interpret facial expressions. I couldn't tell when people were angry or annoyed. But when they were laughing, I knew exactly how they felt.

That being said, people on the internet LOVE to tell me when something isn't funny. The only problem with this is that humor is very subjective and often very esoteric. I have made memes that I knew were esoteric and knew that not everyone would understand them. I have memes just for birdwatchers. Hell, I have made memes just for a dozen people who participated in a specific academic discussion. But it amazes me how people who don't get a joke are often most compelled to comment and let me know that it isn't funny. How can you know if you don't understand it? Is it so hard to imagine that things exist for which you are not the intended audience?

It's perfectly okay to comment and say you don't understand, and ask for an explanation. But if you look at something and think "I don't understand this, therefore it lacks value" you may have some growing up to do.

Before reblogging someone else's joke to add to the joke, stop and ask yourself whether your intention is to correct or improve upon the joke, or if you are attempting to laugh along WITH the OP.

We've all done this, I'm sure. I know I have. But it really inconsiderate to hijack someone's meme, meta or artwork with a completely unrelated discussion. I can't tell you how annoying it is to post something and check my inbox days later, only to find pages of notifications of people reblogging my shit over and over as part of some completely unrelated discussion.

Once again, if you're commenting to point out a factual error, ask yourself whether the error was intentional. I recently made a meme about the Star Trek films in which Data uses contractions. All of his dialogue is ridiculously out of character, in fact. Which is kind of part of the joke. But someone felt the need to reblog AND comment to let me know that Data wouldn't say that because he doesn't use contractions. Which I already know. Because, well, I’ve been a ST:TNG fan since the day it first aired on TV. I don't even know what to do with a comment that, to be honest. I kind of feel sorry for the other person for not grasping the joke.

So, how DO you compliment someone whose work you enjoy? Imagine yourself speaking to them in person. Imagine that they are emotionally invested in whatever they have created. Consider your objective. Are you expressing appreciation? Or is there something else going on.

And avoid qualifiers.

When a compliment includes words like "if" or "but" then it's probably not a compliment. You would be so pretty IF you lost some weight is not a compliment.

Choose words that are unlikely to be misinterpreted.

If someone's art or writing IS improving and you really want them to know, a good way to do that is to use the word evolving. Wow, I really like the way your art is evolving. This works because it implies that the art is changing over time, as the individual grows as a person.

I know what some of you might be thinking...ugh...it's like you can't say ANYTHING anymore! Aww...boo hoo, fam. As a person on the spectrum, I’ve spent my entire life dancing around other people’s feelings, navigating neurotypical subtext and struggling to say things without offending anyone. This is a cake walk compared to that. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if actually thinking about how other people feel BEFORE you share your opinion would require a great deal of effort on your part, it's possible that you're just an asshole.

TL;DR

Creators of original content are actual human beings with feelings. Don’t offer them unsolicited advice or criticism. Think before you comment.

#I know this is long and no one is putting a gun to your head and making you read it #these are just my views #backhanded compliments #unsolicited opinions #unsolicited advice #how to comment without being an asshole #theory of mind #unwanted critique #critiquing #commenting on fanfic #fanfic comments #I have autism if I can be tactful then so can you

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foolgobi65 · 4 years

Note

Lois/Clark + travel au + fake dating + “are you sure this is legal?”

again, its kind of a fake marriage and...also again....this is kind of the set up for the fake marriage scenario? i basically used this as an opportunity to write down a bunch of my lois headcanons for a period after superman reveal but before the get together lmao but i hope you still like it!! thank you so much for sending the prompt, i love lois sm and this was i think the first time i’ve really written from her (or actually written out lois and clark lol) so everyone please send feedback re: lois and clark characterizations!!!!

love u to the moon and back!!!!

---

“Clark, what does legal really mean, other than the things our government arbitrarily decided we’re allowed to do?”

Next to her, Clark rolls his eyes and Lois tries not to show the awe that briefly floods her body when she remembers that Superman is Clark is Superman is Clark, which means that when he responds to her quip, it’s not only as Smallville but as Kal-El, who she once named ‘the Man of Tomorrow.’

“Nice to see Libertarian Lois make an appearance,” Clark-El quips, and Lois nearly melts. It’s been about a month since what she, agnosto-sympathetic as she’s always been, termed in her own mind as the Revelation. Clark is Superman is Clark, she reminds herself as she always has to, to keep herself from running in as many directions as she can, vainly trying to outrun the fastest man alive.

Being, maybe. Because he’s not really a man, is he?

Clark, Lois thinks again. Clark Kent from Smallville, Kansas. Son of Martha. Man, man, man. Lois is no fool to think that he could really be anyone else -- Clark, for all that he’s apparently lied to her, couldn’t possibly have lied about this. Superman had always seemed so aloof, so removed from the daily grind of humanity’s issues: sure, he’s saved plenty of cats up trees, but Lois had always wondered if he understood why those cats were so beloved, or worse if he saw humanity as the perennial cat constantly stuck up in trees of its own making. But she hadn’t known Superman, really, hadn’t thought she would be able to.

Not like she’d known Clark. Clark, of the long-form article following the production of a single plaid shirt he’d been wearing on Monday during the week’s pitch meeting. Clark, who was always falling into step right next to Lois no matter where she was, or who she was up against, his heart the only one that burned like Lois when confronted with the nastiness of the world.

Clark, who Lois has always considered the most human man she ever met. Clark who is somehow biologically, the least human man in the universe.

“Lois?” Clark’s voice is just slightly strained as if he can hear the thoughts scurrying round and round Lois’s mind, but no Lois had asked about that during those first few terrifying days when up had seemed like down and she’d felt like the shittiest investigative reporter since Arnab Goswami. Clark couldn’t read minds, not really, he’d said -- he could at most see the neurons firing (and wasn’t that a horrifying thought?) but he hadn’t tried to figure out a pattern.

“But I don’t watch your neurons,” he’d said with what then-Lois had recognized as a hint of human-Clark, who she later realized was just-Clark’s shit-eating grin. “Your mind makes me dizzy enough when I’m just observing from the outside. Can’t imagine what would happen if I was trying to follow your thought process in real-time.”

Now-Lois shakes her head slightly, unattractive like a wet dog. “Sure it’s illegal to impersonate a pair of massage therapists, but you’re an extraterrestrial traveler, Clark. Do the mighty dictums of the United States really mean that much to you?”

She knows almost as soon as the last half of the sentence leaves her lips that it’s the wrong thing to say. Clark’s from Kansas, just like he always said. He was raised in Kansas, with Kansas values whatever the hell that means. Christ, she thinks, she’s never been so insensitive to an adoptee in her life.

A month ago, Clark’s face might have crumpled. Two weeks ago, he might have thrown Lois’s insensitivity right back in her face. Today, though, his eyes only go wide for a second, right before Lois sees them glint with what she can only label as sheer Clarkness. It’s a near cousin of his shit-eating grin, that’s for sure, and if it makes her heart race with a little anticipation that between her, the universe and, if he’s listening, Sup--

Shit.

But maybe Clark isn’t listening, too focused on what he’s about to say, because he plows on despite her heart rate. “Lois,” he drawls, “I don’t ignore the dictates of the United States because I'm an alien.”

Oh for fuckssake. “Clark now is not the time to crib off of your much cooler mom’s actual anarchist credentials. You can talk as much theory as you want, but you were the one who just asked if we should continue our pursuit of justice based on legality.”

Clark scoffs. “Perry suspended us for two weeks, and on day two you called me up and asked if I wanted to go on a vacation.”

Sometimes, Clark’s whole Clark-shtick makes it so that Lois can’t tell if he’s actually hurt, or if he’s just fucking with her emotions, the ones everyone told him she’d long shot dead and buried behind the house, for his own amusement. She squints, leaning in a little closer to check for his usual tells, and there! Just at the corner of his lip, a slight twitch, so minuscule that no one but Lois could have found it.

“You asshole! You were bored too!” Lois crosses her arms. “C’mon, would you really have been happy with a normal cruise, just floating on the ocean and wearing Hawaiian shirts while eating shrimp, no care in the world?” She raises her eyebrows, grinning like she’s trying to sell Clark a tub of Crisco. “Isn’t taking down the Mob just so much more exciting?”

According to her therapist, Lois was never really in love with Superman. Lois was in love with the idea Superman represented -- a good man, powerful without the corruption she saw infesting those with power every day, a man so far above humanity that he was safe from the trainwreck that was Lois’ interior self. He could never really love her back, so Lois was safe loving him, never had to worry about her job putting him in danger or her tongue slicing him up during an argument until there was nothing left but his torn up suit.

Clark, though, Clark was very real, her therapist said. Says, though Lois hasn’t been responding to her calls since the Revelation. She doesn’t know how quite to say “hey Doc, remember how we’ve been talking on and on about Clark and Superman, and how I have to ‘give up my illusion of safety in order to take a real leap of faith?’ Well, do I have a doozy for you!”

But anyway, the point her therapist was making was that Clark actually knows Lois, inside and out. Probably better than Lois knows herself, at this point, and he loves her for it anyway. Because he does love her, Lois knows. Just like Jimmy knows, and Perry, and Lucy, and hell the guy at her corner bodega too who thinks that “that nice plaid-shirt guy you’re seeing, who comes in to buy you a whole dozen maple donuts before he picks you up, he’s gonna pop the question any day now Miss Lane!”

Clark has loved Lois for a long time but never told her because Lois has spent almost the entirety of their partnership pretending to love Superman, afraid of being judged wanting by the only person in the world who could actually make that judgment in the first place. Clark loves her now, but Lois’ parents loved each other too once, and that relationship ended with her mom being just a little grateful that the cancer was actually going to kill her so that she wouldn’t have to put up with the General anymore. Lois knows that Clark thinks she doesn’t love him, that he thinks her love for Superman died in the fire of knowing that Superman was actually her bumpkin friend Clark, but for once she’s too afraid to report the truth.

The truth, that all those parts Lois’ mother hated in the General -- his stubbornness, his arrogance, his inability to see anything outside of the scope of his gun -- Mad-Dog Lane has too, probably in equal measure. Clark isn’t her mom, but he too is kind, and gentle. Soft sometimes, in ways that Lois can’t believe he manages when faced with the horrors of humanity twice over. He’s her best friend, her partner, but if they added another step to their weird dance wouldn’t it finally be too much? Clark has parents who love him, makes friends easier than Lois can breathe, but Lois has only Clark. Maybe Perry, but even then who knows -- Clark might get Perry in the divorce since he can actually spell.

“Hmm?” Lois shakes herself again, finally seeing Clark’s hand wave in front of her face. “Sorry, Clark.”

He laughs. “It’s fine Lois, I was just saying something you’d probably have liked to hear so it’s probably best that you didn’t.”

Lois clicks her tongue, rounding on Clark. “Well if it’s that I was right about you being bored after an entire two days off, then I don’t need to hear it. I already know I’m right and that’s good enough for me.”

Clark rolls his eyes. “One of the precious few times you are, since this idea of yours is all sorts of wrong. Beyond the legal thing, which I will remind you, is a matter of having a massage therapy license that neither of us has and as such, cannot in good faith offer massages as part of our jobs as massage therapists.” Funny that Clark seems to have no comment on the whole “fake marriage” part of Lois’ plan.

Lois brushes off his concern with what she thinks is aplomb. “See that would have been a problem for the Lois-of-a-month-ago, but today-Lois knows something that you apparently haven’t thought about!”

“Oh?”

Lois beckons Clark closer, and because he loves her, he humors her by leaning in close. “See,” she whispers into his ear, “Today-Lois knows that her partner Clark has super-vision, and can see all those pesky muscle groupings neither of us knows about. Just talk to me in a language we know but the client doesn’t, and we’ll be all good!”

Clark chokes. “You want me to...use my powers to aid in our...subterfuge?”

Lois raises an eyebrow. “Are you seriously telling me that you haven’t used them on a story before?” That would be very Clark-like of him, she supposes, but on the other hand, the Clark she knows would never not use a resource to help break a story. And, just like she thought--

“No,” Clark says, flushing beet red -- I made Superman blush! Lois thinks and tamps down -- “No I have, but just not so....”

“Planned?”

“No,” Clark admits, “it was definitely planned.” He laughs softly. “Honestly, I think it’s that no one else has ever planned to use my powers, at least not as Clark.” Superman, of course, helps build millions of homes and launches nuclear waste into space: there’re entire forums where top scientists compete to see which of their ideas Superman can help them fulfill. And here Lois is, asking him to use those same powers so that they can fake being massage therapists to coax out leads from horny couples with connections to the Mob.

She bites her lip, insecure in only the way Superman and Clark have been able to make her feel. Just figures that they were the same person the whole time. “Is..,” Lois swallows, “Is that ok? That I planned it?” Her eyes widen, sudden panic suffusing her body. “Ohmygod Clark, I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you, or anything, I mean I definitely think your powers are cool but I love you for your mind first and fore--”

Everything inside and out of Lois’s brain shuts off. Did she just--

Clark’s jaw drops, wild hope Lois doesn’t even think he realizes creeping into the corners of his eyes. “Did you just--”

“I..” Lois’ brain is now entirely composed of those moments when your CD skips, no words, no feelings, just skips.

And then, like the greatest gift and curse the Universe could possibly bestow at once, the Cruise Director’s door opens. “Hello,” she says, glancing down at the names on her clipboard and doing a double-take. “Bumpo and Geraldine McTungus?”

#lois lane #clark kent #superman #clois #lois and clark #obviously we're gonna drag this shit out #so lois and clark's room is probably bugged and they cant kill the bugs because that would make People Suspicious #so they cant actually talk about her Confession #and clark thinks that she loves him because she knows hes superman #and lois is like ... Clark...Plaid Shirted Love of My LIfe #like she's not an idiot she thinks its sexy that he can fly #but she doesnt need it #a bitch could have just gone skydiving for the Thrill #but anyways there's a showdown after the mob is Caught or w/e and the tension has racketed a bajillion more degrees #and finally all is explained and there's a big sweeping romantic kiss between mrs and mr bump and geraldine mctungus #its great!#maya writes

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youngerdaniel · 4 years

Text

Youngo’s 2019 at the Movies (with Baby Yoda)

IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN, FOLKS...

Wherein this blog crawls out of the woodwork with fresh aspirations for a more consistent content strategy in the year to come. Like a Baby Yoda emerging from his floating iron egg to great the sun. So let’s dust off some cobwebs and talk about the great movies that came out in 2019.

BRIEF UPDATES FROM THE WAFFLER This year marked a turning point. No, not that fucking decade that everybody’s making a big deal about. Not even that I hit 30 but thankfully have most of my (still not totally gray) hair... Nope, I went into business for myself. I leapt off the stable lily pad of 9-5 etc. and went freelance! Life’s been full of stories since then -- both the kind I write, and the kind I get to look under the hood on. I’m happy to report I’ve written more than ever before... Just not blogs, and mostly stuff I’m not at liberty to discuss.

*Clears throat. Pulls up the collar on his trench coat.* And I may have had more hair turn gray. Turns out, running your own ship is quite a bit of work, especially when you’re teaching yourself how the hell you do it. Nevertheless, I loved the shit out of every minute of it, and I still use phrases like nevertheless. It could easily be a blog (or several) for a different time, but the short and easy explanation of the absence is I was busy, it was fun, get over it.

Besides, we don’t actually care about whatever lame excuse I have for why I haven’t been posting. We’re here because it’s 2020 and time for a listicle, dammit! This one is neither definitive nor ranked. But dang if 2019′s fodder didn’t come sauntering into theaters like the big chuckling cherub of Christmas Present, with a cornucopia of awesomeness.

THINGS I LOVED, IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:

UNDER THE SILVER LAKE David Robert Mitchell’s neo noir takes a fittingly existential approach to detective fiction. An enigmatic case, hidden clues and coded pop culture, Andrew Garfield’s charmingly hapless sleuth... There’s a lot to love in this weird soup of a movie. At times nightmarish, often trippy, and an excellent performance from a parrot. Late night fodder.

CLIMAX Gaspar Noe does not make sane movies. With Climax, there’s a hypnotic quality that sucks you in and drags you along on its nightmarish journey as a group of dancers drink from a punchbowl laced with drugs. The result is absolute bedlam, and everything from the lighting to the camerawork pulls its weight to put you into the action. This is the kind of thing you watch and marvel that, “Wow, they went there.” to varying degrees of satisfaction. Like a freight train barreling toward the side of a mountain, it’s hard to look away even though you know you probably should.

JOJO RABBIT And then there’s a different kind of madness. The movie that billed itself as “The movie that shouldn’t work.” Jojo Rabbit is so full of heart. This is Taika Waititi in full force, and hilarity meets real pathos. Love is better than Nazis. It’s a simple message, and I think it doesn’t need to be much more. The relevance of such a narrative in our time is pretty disappointing, but the truth seems to be that we need ones like this to come along and remind the collective. The mashup of humor with genuine drama is balanced in a way that will feel familiar to fans of THE HUNT FOR THE WILDERPEOPLE or BOY. The performances are superb, and it’s a beautiful looking film. If you missed it last year, start the new one off right and amend this problem.

US The thing I dug the most about US was how unique it felt. Original premises in horror are on the rise, and there’s no denying the man leading the wave is Jordan Peele. The social commentary elements of this followup to GET OUT play with a little more subtlety, and in some ways it almost felt like a stronger move... But I refuse to compare the two of them. US stands out in its own right, and carries some of the most memorable performances of the year. A twisting narrative that crackles with tension, and a concept that haunts the imagination. What if your every action had an equal an opposite effect on a mirrored version of yourself? A study on the impact of the class system, and a nightmarish what-if to explain the real life series of underground tunnels that span the United States. Also, that costume design! That Alexa gag! The way this one opens up at the midpoint was such a delight in the theater. I’d apologize for spoilers, but let’s be real... You’ve seen this movie.

AD ASTRA Best summed up as “Daddy Issues in Space,” AD ASTRA feels like the kind of sci-fi mysteries that were made in the late 70s and 80s. A spellbinding journey to the far edges of the galaxy to save the world, and maybe prove that aliens exist. Oh, and to stop your possibly insane father from destroying the human race on the way. Brad Pitt is on fire, and everything about this potent emotional journey remains focused on his character’s dilemma of deciding whether or not his father was a good man, what it means to him and his own isolated existence, and whether he can overcome that shit and live a life instead of taking risks. From its opening scene to its closing one, this one blends gripping life-or-death set-pieces exploring the dangers of space travel and the cyclical nature of humanity’s progress with small moments. The journey, the heart-wrenching climax, and the harrowing trip home is well worth the rental fee. Check it out.

THE GIRL ON THE THIRD FLOOR

Some horror movies exist to make you think, some exist to cover their protagonists in black goo, subject them to grueling physical and psychological lament, and chuck ‘em through a woodchipper for good measure. The Girl on the Third Floor takes your average premise of “Stubborn and troubled guy picks a fixer-upper house to flip, only to discover horrors beyond his imagining” and leans hard into the gross-outs and festering boils of body horror. Reminiscent of Evil Dead, Amityville, and Dead Alive, there’s so much insanity to love, and the movie makes some big turns -- some surprising, some daring, some a little out there. It is by no means perfect, but it’s got a charm about its rough edges. You will never look at a marble the same way again.

I LOST MY BODY

I know. “A life-affirming work” left me a little skeptical too. But from its very first frame, I LOST MY BODY is arresting. Its hypnotic narrative follows the story of a severed hand in search of its owner, and has great fun carrying you along with its troubled protagonist’s journey from a crush to obsession. The sheer amount of visual storytelling and striking imagery is worth the runtime, but for any arthouse lovers feeling a little too chilled to hop down to the nearest indie theatre can open a new tab and have at it. Didn’t expect to be as moved by this one as I was, and for that I must recommend it.

AVENGERS: ENDGAME The fact that a movie like this can even exist is pretty amazing, and I have to say, as the culmination to the Avengers saga as we know it, ENDGAME delivered something with way more heart and character than I expected. Funny, sad, bittersweet, and massively satisfying. This is the Thanksgiving Turkey dinner of movies. It’s got everything. But the best part for me was how little fighting the big superhero finale of the decade had to it. Firmly rooted in character, taking ambitious and surprising turns in their trajectories, and balancing the fanwanks with a genuinely exciting story. I mean, c’mon. Time heist? A Greatest Hits play that also recontextualizes a few of the lesser films of the sweeping franchise? The third act battle felt a little tacked-on, but the conclusion felt like exactly what we needed.

READY OR NOT I love this movie. Love it like an adorable, scrappy friend who always manages to make their social commentary entertaining. Hide and Seek turns deadly for a bride to be when she meets her future in-laws, the proprietors of a board game company that takes their product very seriously. A darkly funny survive-the-gauntlet-till-morning ride. Great characters. Awesome kills. A few really unexpected and delightfully devilish turns. Oh, and it takes a stab at privilege and how far some people are willing to go to preserve theirs. It’s got teeth, a mean bite, and it’s fun to walk around the neighborhood. If you liked YOU’RE NEXT, you will probably love this movie. I still can’t get its final few moments out of my head. And I mean that in the best way.

PARASITE Speaking of social criticism and privilege, there’s no denying the brute fucking force of PARASITE. Following a struggling family who imbed themselves into a rich family by posing as the help, this madcap game of suspense takes so many surprising turns that even describing the full plot spoils the fun. Go into this one having read as little as possible. It will take you for a spin. Part con movie, part social critique, part comedy and part tragedy, it’s a lot to digest, but it’s a damned tasty treat.

KNIVES OUT In a word, it’s fun. Rian Johnson’s locked room murder mystery packs some wonderful barbs in the side of affluence, armchair activism, and the corruptive nature of wealth. A wealthy novelist is found dead, and all of his family members have motive... But don’t let the familiar set-up fool you, KNIVES OUT plays fair with its audience, but it is a fast runner. The story jumps ahead of you almost every time you think you’ve got it figured out. Daniel Craig’s genius sleuth is full of likable energy, protagonist Marta is full of layers, and the family are all such a pleasure to watch. Several times along the trip, I had no idea where the story would turn next, or how much further the envelope could be pushed, but by the end, I came out marveling at its construction. The production design is unreal. The direction and vibe are so unique, and by the closing image, it’s nearly impossible not to enjoy the shift in values. There’s also a speech involving donuts that I will be reciting at parties for the foreseeable future.

DANIEL ISN’T REAL

I closed off the year with this wildly inventive take on the possession trope. This. Movie. Is. Nuts. Which, considering it was produced by the same folks who did MANDY, shouldn’t come as a surprise. A mind-bending tale that riffs on Jekyll and Hyde, with a great modernization tackling the concept from a mental health perspective... It’s not the first time it’s been done, but the execution is just excellent. We follow a disturbed young man whose imaginary friend hatched from a childhood trauma makes a devilish return to play hell with his adult life. It’s a psychological horror that’s FIGHT CLUB meets THE DOUBLE. Great look. Excellent creature design and visuals for a cosmic horror that makes great use of low budget devices. If you’re looking for the answer to the age old question of “Should my third act involve my protagonist battling his inner demons literally with a rooftop sword fight?” You’ve found your contender.

I’ll tell you this, reader friend. The hardest part about 2019′s slate at the box office was deciding what to see. There were so many interesting movies that came out, brimming with big ideas and social commentary. Sad as the state of the world is, there’s no denying times of unrest have a knack for yielding great art. The Trump era has made its stamp on Hollywood for better or for worse. But the rising tide of voices pushing back give me a bit of hope, and a lot of salve for the whole existential dread thing. I think that, however small it is, is good.

For what it’s worth, none of these films are reinventing the wheel or burning flags... But they are asking questions. Okay, CLIMAX, really isn’t asking anything, but it is fun as hell. There’s just as much merit in the salve as there is in the flame that caused the burn. So may your 2020 be full of entertainment. I’ll try to get some useful content up here at least every couple of months in smaller digestible forms. Now go forth and brunch, you hungover, resolution-breaking slob.

#journal #yearinmovies #2019 #year in review #baby yoda #movies #writing

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xxx-cat-xxx · 5 years

Text

New Beginning

While recovering from the injuries sustained during Civil War, Tony becomes addicted to morphine. In typical Stark fashion, he decides to quit cold turkey and deal with the withdrawal symptoms on his own. Fortunately, Bruce won’t let that happen.

As requested, here is the tumblr version! This is an AU in which Bruce returns to earth after Civil War. Pepper and Tony still haven’t made up, but everything else is roughly the same.

TW for mentions of drug abuse. Angst and Whump and lots and lots of Hurt/Comfort in the second half. Thanks to @whumphoarder and @sallyidss for beta reading.

——————————————–

The front doors of the compound open with a bit of a squeak. It leaves Bruce to wonder whether no one has realised, or whether the two remaining permanent inhabitants simply don’t care enough to fix it.

“Welcome, Dr. Banner,” FRIDAY greets him.

Bruce startles a bit at the sudden voice. He’s visited the compound quite a few times during the three months since his return to earth, but it’s easy enough to forget the existence of AIs when his own shabby apartment still doesn’t have a working WiFi connection.

“Hello, FRIDAY,” he replies. “Uhm, who all is home?”

Initiating a conversation with the AI makes him nearly as uncomfortable as initiating one with an actual human being, but it would take the better part of an hour to check all the rooms of the compound, and he’s not keen on experiencing the despondent feeling he would get upon seeing most of them empty.

“Only Boss. Colonel Rhodes left for Florida for his long-term treatment and is not expected to return before next week. Boss arrived home from his weekly meeting with Peter Parker at noon and has been in the upstairs bar ever since.”

“Could you let him know that I’m here? He should have gotten my message, we, uhm, had plans.”

“Of course, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce is looking forward to “doing crazy science” (Tony’s words) with his friend. Most of his time nowadays is spent alternating between attending yoga classes, seeing a therapist, and trying to establish a routine for himself. Returning to a planet where a year has passed for everyone else, just to find that his only friends had not only split up, but done so in a violent way, wasn’t exactly helpful for getting resettled on earth.

Bruce sets down his backpack in his own room. He has never gotten a chance to use it, but he is touched by its existence, by the fact that Tony, while planning the compound, seems to have been so sure he’d return one day. He changes into a comfortable sweater and grabs a lab coat. Now it’s onto science.

“FRIDAY, is Tony already in the lab?” he questions.

“I am afraid Boss is busy and won’t be able to join you for the experiment,” she reports.

“What?” Bruce looks up in confusion.

“I said that Boss is busy and-”

“No, I got you, FRIDAY, just…”

This is weird. Tony has been looking forward to this nearly as much as Bruce, as he was the one who first suggested measuring the half-life of the alien element that Bruce accidently brought with him from Sakaar.

“Uhm, he’s still in the bar?” Bruce asks tentatively.

“Yes, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce waits for an elaboration, but none is forthcoming. He really misses JARVIS. The old AI would always find a way to let him know what was going on, even if Tony had instructed him otherwise.

Bruce makes his way to the upstairs bar, getting lost only once along the way in the huge building. He finds Tony sitting slumped over at the counter, head resting on his folded arms. There is no drink next to him, no tablet in his hand, no rock music playing.

“Tony?”

The engineer turns his head a little when Bruce sits down on the stool next to him, but the hood of his sweatshirt is keeping his face in the shadows.

“I, uhm, hi,” Bruce begins. When no reply comes, he continues. “We were going to check our theories about the Sakaarium’s rate of decay, you remember?”

“I’m busy,” Tony mumbles into his sleeve.

“You don’t look busy...”

Tony doesn’t respond.

“You were with the kid this morning, right?” Bruce tries to change the topic.

“Yeah,” Tony answers in a brisk voice. “What do you want, Bruce?”

“I - I thought we were going to take the measurements?”

“I told you, I’m busy. Told FRIDAY, actually. There was no need for you to come up here.”

“Okay, what’s going on?” Bruce asks, slightly exasperated.

“You can just send me the data later. Easier that way.” Tony’s tone is almost hostile now.

Bruce tries very hard not to let his self-confidence slip away, but it’s futile. Maybe he overestimated the importance of their work to Tony. Their friendship has been a bit tense lately, with Bruce rationally knowing that the other man doesn’t blame him for going away, but still not being able to not feel guilty for his absence during Tony’s fallout with Steve.

“Okay, then I’ll just - go and do the experiment on my own.” He tries to keep his tone neutral while getting down from the stool.

“Bruce.” Tony’s voice is quiet, unlike him. He lifts his head and finally Bruce can get a look at his face. Exhaustion is written all over his features. He looks sad, sort of lonely, but also distinctly ill. His eyes are red, his nose is running, and his normally tanned skin tone is now an unhealthy grey.

Bruce frowns. “Are you sick?”

Tony scoffs like he’s about to give a snarky comment, but then he seems to think better of it. “Morphine withdrawal, to be precise,” he admits with a sigh.

Bruce blinks at him. “You - what?”

“Yeah, funny isn’t it? And people always thought the alcohol would be the drug that kills me…” He lets out a bitter laugh.

“Tony, this…How did this happen?” Bruce immediately feels guilt bubble up inside him. How did he not notice? The Hulk stirs in the back of his mind and Bruce takes a deep breath to calm himself down.

“I’ve gotten in a little too deep since… since I came back,” Tony replies hesitantly. “Had, ehm, couple of bad injuries. My sternum was cracked, and I needed shoulder surgery, among other things. And then… guess it was just convenient. Drowning out the pain.”

He doesn’t say what kind of pain he is talking about, but Bruce has an idea that it’s more than just the aftereffects of the injuries.

“You...You didn’t tell anyone.” It’s a statement, not an accusation. Bruce has been carrying secrets around with him for so long that he would never judge anyone else for doing the same.

Tony shrugs. “I told you now, didn’t I? Can’t see you walking around with this sad puppy face of yours. Plus, I hate lying.” He squints and starts massaging the bridge of his nose. “Sorry about the experiment. You can go ahead without me. Give me a few days and I’ll look at the data afterwards.”

“Tony, you could easily afford the best detox in the world. There are people who specialise in this - they could work out a treatment plan, maybe give you methadone…you don’t have to do this cold turkey.”

“Not all problems can be solved with money.”

“But this might just be one where money can help.”

“I don’t want anyone else involved.”

Tony’s voice is a bit louder now, almost angry, but there is something else in it - shame, a feeling Bruce has always thought alien to Tony. But then, this is not partying, not sex, not drunk-crashing a new suit into the Hudson. There’s nothing glamorous about addiction.

“What about Rhodey?” he asks softly.

Tony just shakes his head, guilt creeping up in his eyes.

“Okay.” Bruce takes a deep breath. “Then I’ll stay with you.”

“Go do your experiment, Bruce”, Tony dismisses. “You’re not the type for this. Leave me alone.”

Translation: I don’t want you to see me like this. I don’t want to be a burden.

“No, I mean it. I can…” Bruce tries to think of a way that won’t have Tony refuse immediately. “I would feel better if I could at least take care of the medical side of things.” He hesitates a beat. “I won’t hover, I promise. I just don’t want you to do this alone.”

Another shrug. “You really don’t have to. Not gonna be pretty.” Brown eyes glance up at Bruce. They’re full of distrust, a slew of broken promises - and a flicker of hope.

“It’s okay,” Bruce assures.“I...I want to.”

Tony’s eyes hold his for a minute. Then, slowly, he nods.

Bruce doesn’t have to ask Tony why he agrees. He knows it’s not that Tony trusts him more than others; he doesn’t trust anyone, really. It’s not that Bruce is closer to Tony than Rhodey is. No, he agrees because he knows that Bruce isn’t a threat to him. It’s the same reason he once opened up about his PTSD. Because Bruce doesn’t judge, and Bruce would never use his knowledge against him.

“Okay, then.” Bruce takes a deep breath, mentally preparing a list of what he is going to need. He is not stupid, withdrawal isn’t a pony ride, and this isn’t going to be easy for either of them.

“Let’s go.” Tony gets up from the barstool, stumbling only a little.

Bruce frowns. “Where?”

“The experiment? We’ve waited for weeks to get these readings. Now that you’ve figured out what’s going on, might as well get some work done.”

“Tony, are you sure?”

“I figure I’ve got half a day until the worst of it starts, so let’s get to work.” He flashes a familiar grin at Bruce, who follows with a sigh.

“Care for a nap?” Bruce asks hopefully.

It’s four in the morning and they have been working non-stop for hours. Tony is trying hard not to let his discomfort show, but he’s sniffling constantly, a slightly haunted look in his eyes, and even his right hand is trembling now. Bruce has been trying his best to act normal too, making sure that Tony stays hydrated and eats something in between, and he’s attempted more than once to get his friend to sleep.

But the engineer just shakes his head, not even looking up from the tablet in which he is modelling the element’s other isotopes. “Go ahead, Brucie. I, uhm” - He rubs his dripping nose with the back of his hand - “distraction is good.”

The cravings must be worse than he’s letting on.

When Bruce keeps staring at him worriedly, Tony swivels his chair around and gives him a stern look. “Bruce, you promised not to hover. I hate hovering. Go to sleep.”

Bruce obeys, but he doesn’t want to leave Tony completely alone, so he stretches out on the couch. It’s the same one they used to have in the tower, judging by the very familiar scorch burn on the upholstery. The low hum of the laboratory equipment in the background and the sound of Tony tapping on this tablet are surprisingly soothing. Despite the lingering sense of worry and guilt, Bruce falls asleep quickly.

When he wakes up late next morning, Tony is still working.

“Hey, groundhog.” Tony wheels his chair around and rolls towards Bruce with a smirk.

Bruce sits up, groaning at the pain in his back that definitely didn’t approve of the idea of sleeping on the couch. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and squints at Tony. “You didn’t...”

“Nah. I’m clean.” He looks worse, though. His brown eyes are slightly glassy, huge dark rings below them and a light flush to his cheeks.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce ventures.

Tony shrugs. “Been better, been worse.”

Bruce raises a hand to gauge his temperature, but Tony flinches away reflexively. That’s new - another souvenir from Siberia.

“Sorry.” Bruce drops his arm. “Are you running a temperature?”

“A little above a hundred,” Tony dismisses. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that could stem either from the fever or excitement. “Made a lot of progress on the Sakaarium while you were getting your beauty sleep. I’ll brew some coffee if you have a look at it.” He presses a tablet into Bruce’s hands.

Bruce sighs. “Tea, please.”

After studying the data (Tony wasn’t lying about making progress - Bruce doesn’t think anyone would be able to get this much done in a week even in full health), Bruce goes to take a shower and gather supplies that he has a feeling he is going to need later. By the time he’s done, it’s almost noon, so he cooks pasta for them - something easily digestible. Tony, now visibly less energetic than before, picks at the food with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Do you want to lie down?” Bruce asks after he’s made Tony finish a small plate.

Tony shakes his head, trembling a little. He gets up gingerly, as if his whole body is hurting. “Let’s just...let’s get rid of it all.”

“The drugs, you mean?”

“No, Clint’s secret stash of Skittles. Of course the drugs.” It’s the first time he’s mentioned Clint since Bruce came back. It must have been an accident, because Bruce can see emotions swirling in Tony’s eyes just before he turns abruptly and walks out.

Bruce sighs. Tony has always been a notoriously hard person to talk to about personal topics, but since whatever happened in Siberia, it’s almost impossible to get anything out of him besides the constant stream of (increasingly cynical) sarcastic comments, the occasional remark about Peter Parker, and a never-ending flow of tech ideas. Bruce tried to carefully ask about the rest of the team a few times, but only got rapid topic shifts in reply. He still hasn’t worked up the courage to mention Pepper.

“Bruce?” Tony calls from the hallway.

“Coming…”

It takes longer than Bruce would have thought to get rid of all the pill bottles.

He knew that the compound was large, but he never thought about the sheer number of bathroom cabinets and kitchen shelves it contains. He doesn’t ask how Tony managed to get his hands on so many rations of morphine. He doesn’t ask why Tony felt the need to spread out his supply throughout all of the rooms. He tries not to think about Tony alone in the compound, wandering empty halls and sleeping off his highs in his former friends’ beds.

By evening, Tony is visibly shaking and ghostly pale except for the fever-flush of his cheeks. Bruce doubts they’ll be able to finish their task before his condition deteriorates.

“Just how many are there?” Bruce frowns, finding another pill bottle in a drawer in Sam’s old bedroom and throwing it into the garbage bag.

“Honestly? I don't know,” Tony replies from the medbay next door where he is bending over the medicine cabinet. “I reorder them every week, so they just kinda keep piling up. Funny, isn't it?” His tone is light, slightly ironic, but when Bruce catches a look at his face through the glass door, all he can read is pure self-loathing.

“Let’s take a break,” Bruce decides. He gets up stiffly and starts walking towards the common kitchen. “Tony?” he calls when the other man doesn’t follow.

“Just...coming.” Tony's voice sounds strained. The next moment, there is an audible thump and the sound of breaking glass. “Ow.”

Concerned, Bruce hurries into the room and finds Tony on his butt, a growing puddle of disinfection liquid soaking his pants. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to, uh, sit down for a moment.” Tony’s face is sweaty and his eyes a little unfocused.

“Let me clean this up.” Bruce goes to grab a rag from the kitchen and returns to try to control the damage.

“Have you -” Tony cuts himself off, swallowing thickly. A hint of green has crept up his cheeks. He’s starting to tremble harder under his oversized sweatshirt.

“I think we should move to the bathroom,” Bruce states as calmly as he can.

“Yeah,” Tony says, swallowing again. “Agreed.”

It takes half an hour of shallow breathing and spitting into the toilet accompanied by less and less convincing jokes until Tony actually brings something up, but then he doesn't stop for a long time. Being a doctor, Bruce has ample experience seeing people vomit. Still, he can’t help but feel a little queasy himself when he watches Tony bring up everything he’s eaten over the past day before descending into dry retches.

“You ever had a hangover that makes you feel like your stomach is literally trying to evacuate your body?” Tony pants, slumping onto the toilet seat after another round of dry heaves. “Because that’s what this feels like.”

He discarded his t-shirt long ago and his whole upper body is shiny with sweat. Bruce can still see some of the fading bruises from the fight. Tony’s chest is a whole maze of scars, some still fresh from the operations he must have undergone after returning from Siberia.

“You know I don’t drink.” Bruce cringes when another heave wracks through Tony’s body.

“Yes, Brucie, atta boy - how could I forget?” he says upon surfacing.

Even through the worst of the nausea, Tony is keeping up something resembling small talk, but it’s getting harder and harder for him to hide the pain and fatigue on his face.

Bruce puts a wet cloth on the ground next to him and Tony takes it gratefully, wiping the sweat off his forehead and pressing his face into the coolness.

“Here.” Bruce offers a cup of water.

“Noooo,” Tony whines. “What’s the point?”

“You're dehydrating fast. And I was told it hurts less if there's something in your stomach.”

“Blatant lies.” Tony drinks, his face contorting into a grimace. “God.” He bends over the toilet bowl, waiting for the inevitable.

Bruce carefully lays a hand on his back, rubbing up and down and checking the fever. Tony is definitely running warmer now.

His breath hitches. Then the few sips of water he managed to swallow splash back into the bowl.

When Tony is done puking for the time being, Bruce suggests they shift to the bedroom, but Tony insists on moving back to the lab. He settles on the same couch Bruce slept on the previous night, listlessly moving holograms to and fro in the air above him. Bruce isn’t exactly sure what he’s working on, but he suspects that not much progress is being made. Still, as long as distraction seems to help, he chooses not to say anything.

After a while, Tony gets up again and shuffles towards the bathroom.

“You’re gonna be sick again?” Bruce asks.

Tony just shakes his head with a scrunched expression, then locks the door behind him. Bruce sighs, guessing what’s going on, and decides not to disturb. Instead, he gets up to brew a special mint and ginger tea with a lot of sugar that he puts into the fridge for later use.

Tony returns after a while, his mouth a tight line, and refuses the saltines and water Bruce pushes towards him. He’s looking worse than just hours ago, as if he’s been ill with the flu for weeks. He drops onto the couch, picks up the tablet, and holds it up in front of his face. Bruce suspects that he closed his eyes, since he isn’t even scrolling.

After a while, a holo screen next to Tony lights up. “You have a voice message from Peter Parker, Boss,” FRIDAY informs him. Bruce blinks in surprise. It’s late evening already. But then, teenagers are not exactly known for their regular sleep schedules.

The warm feeling he got upon realising that FRIDAY is programmed to directly pass on Peter’s messages vanishes when Tony tells the A.I. to ignore it.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks before he can stop himself.

“I’ve got stuff to do.”

“But Tony, what if something happened?”

“His A.I. would have alerted me. This is nothing important.”

“Don’t you think -”

“Geez, Bruce, give it a rest. You’re not my PA, okay?”

“I’m sorry, I just -”

“I knew this was a bad idea. You shouldn’t be here.” Tony runs his shaking hands through his hair, looking more pathetic than actually angry. “I, I need a break. I need a shower.”

He pushes himself to his feet with visible difficulty and stomps off towards the bathroom.

Bruce shakes his head in confusion. Peter seems to be one of the few good things that have happened during the time Bruce was gone. The doctor mostly keeps to himself these days, but he has met Peter once or twice during their lab afternoons and was touched by how awkwardly paternal Tony acts around him. Ignoring his messages doesn’t fit into that schema at all.

The message on the screen is still blinking. Bruce’s curiosity, fueled by a little bit of defiance, gets the upper hand. “FRIDAY, can you play the message to me?”

“Yes, Dr. Banner. You have full security clearance for it.”

“Hey, uhm, Mr. Stark, it’s Peter,” the teenager’s high-pitched voice issues from the speakers. “I’m, uh...I just wanted to apologise again for yesterday in case, uh, in case I said anything wrong? I know that you’re busy and it was probably really dumb of me to ask you, I am so sorry, I should have thought about that before. It’s really just a stupid school thing, and, uhm, I really get it you don’t have time for that. I was just thinking because May said it’s a good idea… and because you seemed a bit...down lately, so I thought I’d invite you. Anyway, I just, I’m sorry if I upset you. Just, uh, I hope that we can meet next week in the lab? I got an idea for the suit upgrade that you suggested, so… Okay, that’s it, I guess. Good night, and, uh, sorry again.”

“Tony, what did you do?” Bruce exhales, sitting down heavily on the chair. He’s starting to get a pretty good idea of what’s going on. Another point added to the long list of things Tony Stark won’t talk about.

His thoughts are interrupted when he hears retching from the bathroom.

“Tony?” Bruce knocks hesitantly. He knows that the whole Internet has seen Tony Stark nude, and Tony probably doesn’t care, but Bruce is uncomfortable with the thought of walking in on him after showering.

The only reply is a non-committal noise. Bruce carefully opens the door, his chest going tight with worry when he sees Tony curled up on the bathroom floor next to the toilet, dressed only in a silk bathrobe, his forehead pressed against the base of the cold bowl. His hair is still damp from washing. All residual anger in Bruce is replaced with worry.

“Hey, Tony,” he says softly.

“Hey yourself,” Tony croaks.

“Let’s move you to the bed, okay?”

“Hurts,” Tony mumbles, not responding to the question. “‘s like my skin’s coming off.”

Bruce winces in sympathy. “You’re gonna be alright. Can you sit up?”

“‘m pathetic. You don’t - you really don’t have to - “

“It’s okay. I’m here, Tony, alright?” He crouches down and slowly puts his arms under Tony’s elbows to prop him up, feeling the heat coming off him in waves. He has a suspicion that part of the withdrawal is actually alcohol-related, which would explain the intensity of his symptoms. Tony flinches at the touch and starts to shiver violently.

“I-I’m gonna -” He gulps. Bruce guides him over the toilet bowl and holds him upright when he heaves, bringing up acidic smelling bile.

“You’ll be okay,” Bruce murmurs.

Tony huffs and pushes himself upright with visible effort. He rinses his mouth while steadying himself on the washbasin, then shuffles to the elevator that leads to the bedroom. Bruce follows with a trash can, the tea, and a sinking feeling in his gut.

Throughout the night, Tony gets steadily worse.

He doesn’t fall asleep, unable to get comfortable enough to rest. Instead, he tosses and turns on the bed, kicking the sheets off his sweaty body just to pull them up again minutes later when the chills wrack through him. The little bit of ginger tea Bruce manages to make him drink comes back up every time in painful bouts of vomiting. At some point, Bruce turns on the TV in the hope to provide some distraction, but Tony doesn’t seem able to focus.

When the night bleeds into morning, Tony is an anxious mess, going from incoherent rambling to sudden silence. His fever is still rising. He’s been calling for Pepper intermittently, regarding Bruce with large, confused eyes each time before remembering where he is.

Finally, in the late morning, he falls into a fitful sleep, more out of sheer exhaustion than anything else. Bruce leaves him alone for a few minutes for a hasty breakfast of cold, leftover pasta and a much-needed change of clothes. By the time he returns, Tony is mumbling in his sleep, his face lined with agony, small tremors running through him as his hands seem to clutch the bedsheets for dear life.

Bruce settles in the armchair next to the bed and reaches for Tony’s fingers, holding them tight, trying to provide what little comfort he can.

Bruce must have dozed off against his will, because what wakes him up in the late afternoon is the sound of Tony screaming. It’s neither an angry shout nor a quiet whimper. It’s low and guttural, reminding him more of a wounded animal than anything human. He’s witnessed many of Tony’s nightmares over the years they’ve shared a lab, with Tony falling asleep on the workbench after hours of trying to power through the exhaustion, just to wake up with a gasp and wetness in his eyes. But Bruce has never heard anything like this.

“Hey,” he soothes, his voice still hoarse from sleep. He squats next to the bed and lightly pats his friend’s elbow. “Tony, wake up.”

Tony's eyes open, his gaze panicked. His arms fly up to his head in a defensive posture, as if shielding himself from an attack.

“Tony? It’s okay, you’re okay. We're here, at the compound. You’re safe.”

Tony takes in the room, slowly seeming to recognise Bruce, and lets his hands drop down. He’s breathing heavily and far too fast. He clutches his chest, fingers digging into the scar tissue where the arc reactor used to be.

“You’re okay. You’re sick, but you’re safe.” It’s all Bruce can think of to provide reassurance.

“Gimme - minute,” Tony rasps, looking on the verge of a panic attack.

“Okay. I’ll get you some water.” He stands up to give Tony some privacy.

When he comes back, Tony’s eyes are half-closed and his breathing has calmed down, but that’s about all there is for good news. The fever, if anything, seems worse than before, and the shaking hasn’t let up.

Bruce reaches for his wrist and checks his pulse. It’s slightly irregular and a little too quick. Heart palpitations are normal for people going through withdrawal, but with Tony’s history of cardiac issues, Bruce can’t help but worry. He pinches Tony’s skin and frowns when the white doesn’t fade as quickly as it should. He hopes they won’t need an IV, but dehydration is starting to become problematic.

Bruce has to raise the cup to Tony's mouth in order to make him drink while the man follows him sluggishly with eyes that seem almost delirious. His face is slick with sweat. Bruce wets another washcloth and lays it over Tony’s forehead.

“Cold...”Tony flinches away, seemingly from something else than just the physical pain. His hand wanders to his chest again, and Bruce thinks he can make out some newer scars across the old ones. Tony slurs something and Bruce catches Steve’s name.

“Steve’s not here, alright? It’s just us, Tony. Please, have a bit more water...”

Tony shakes his head, his expression conveying fear, sadness, and guilt.

What happened in Siberia, Tony? Bruce thinks. What did Steve do to you? What did you do to each other?

“...Bruce?”

The doctor hears the voice while he’s busy cleaning out the trash can in the bathroom from the last vomiting episode, but if he hadn't known it was Tony, he wouldn’t have recognised it. It’s weak and scared and nothing about it seems to belong to Iron Man. Bruce quickly rinses the can and steps back into the room.

“Hey, I'm here,” he reassures, trying to keep the tiredness from his tone. Tony is much, much worse off, but two days with hardly any sleep are starting to take their toll on Bruce as well.

Tony is sitting on the edge of the bed, his whole body swaying, his eyes large and wet. “B-Big guy?”

“Yeah, it's me.”

“For a minute, I thought…” Tony stares at him, blinks, shakes his head and sways dangerously. “Never mind.”

Bruce is there in two large strides, sitting down next to the other man and offering his shoulder for support. “It's me. It's really me, I'm real, I promise. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Tony slumps into him, burying his face in his shoulder. First Bruce thinks that it's sweat that's soaking his shirt, or that Tony had thrown up on him. But then he hears the sobs, quiet and terrified.

“Oh, Tony.” Ordinarily Bruce is not a fan of physical contact, but he’s never had such a strong urge to hug someone as he does now. He pulls the other man to his chest, holding him, shielding him. “It's okay, you're gonna be okay.”

“'s not about me,” Tony whispers. “Every life I touch just falls apart.”

“That's not...that's not true, Tony. You did so much for me.”

I hadn't had a home in decades when you took me in. I hadn’t had anyone who knows what I am look at me without fear before I met you. He thinks of ways to vocalise the feeling, but Tony goes on, speaking so quietly that Bruce can hardly hear him. “I let the kid down.”

“What happened?” Bruce asks softly.

“He... He had a thing, a competition, from his college. Wan’ed me to come to Washin’ton this weekend. But I...he can’t know. So I, I snapped at him. Was...yesterday, maybe… I dunno. I felt like my father. I spent my whole life tryin’ to be someone else, just to find that ‘m no different. No different at all. And I don’t wanna…” he sobs, chokes. “And then… I had to stop, Bruce.”

And suddenly, Bruce understands. “You’re not your father. You are better, Tony. You’re doing your best.”

Tony weeps silently, Bruce holding him, until night bleeds into day.

“It hurts.” Tony is slumped over the trashcan after the latest fruitless attempt at keeping Bruce’s iced tea down. His eyes are bloodshot, his face haggard and his whole frame trembling. A trickle of bile falls into the receptacle. Bruce rubs his back, wishing he could find a way to ease the nausea, to take the pain away.

“I need-” Tony abruptly sits up straight, swaying as he does so.

“Tony, it’s alright. Everything’s okay. Just, lie down, okay?”

“No, you, you don’t understand, it hurts...I need my meds.”

“You don’t need anything. It will get better, you hear me? It will get better, I promise.”

And suddenly Tony is shouting. “You’re lying! Fucking get out! I don’t need you! I need - I need Pepper - I need a fucking painkiller!” His voice is hoarse from all the vomiting, and the shout is more of a croak than anything else, but it still hits Bruce unexpectedly.

Tony tries to get his feet under him. Bruce pushes him back down without thinking, realising his mistake a split-second too late.

There is no recognition in his eyes when Tony lashes out, barely missing the doctor. He is much too weak to do any real damage, but the Hulk is immediately alert, always ready to protect Bruce.

Bruce grits his teeth as he tries to force him back into his mind with sheer determination. This can’t happen, not now, not with Tony sick as a dog and unable to protect himself. Bruce sinks onto the bed, his knees feeling weak. All he can think is that Tony was right, that it was wrong to call Bruce, wrong to trust Bruce, because he is a monster after all.

He can feel the Hulk roaring in the back of his head, and then he’s hit with memories from a long time ago. His father, the row of bottles on the ground next to the armchair he would occupy on the days he didn’t go to work. Bruce in the hallway, and then the angry eyes turning on him, then the belt, the hands, the fear. His logical brain knows that it’s nonsense, that Tony is not drunk, that his father’s been dead for years, but the flashback is so strong that it takes his breath away for a few moments.

He slowly counts to ten in an effort to calm himself, keeping his eyes closed and listening to his own breaths pounding in his ears.

When he feels safe to open his eyes, Tony is sitting on the ground below him, looking on the verge of passing out.

“Okay.” Bruce forces himself into a calm tone despite the emotions churning in his stomach. “Can you stand up if I help you?”

“I need...it really hurts, Bruce. I need a pill.”

“You can’t have any drugs. That’s why we’re doing this, Tony, remember? Remember Peter?”

There's pain in his eyes, then his body flattens, the energy bleeding out. Tony sways on the spot until Bruce kneels down next to him, wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into his chest.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” Tony mumbles.

“It's okay,” Bruce whispers, sadly. “It’s okay.”

He isn’t quite sure how he finds the strength, feeling dizzy himself from exhaustion and barely contained panic, but he manages to move Tony back to the bed. The other man isn’t unconscious, but he doesn’t seem very aware of his surroundings either. Bruce mechanically checks his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse, and finds all of them worrying.

He decides on an IV then, setting it up with calm hands despite his racing thoughts. It takes a while to find a good vein. Tony flinches a little when the needle pierces his skin, but otherwise doesn’t react.

Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed first, but then he shifts to the headrest and pulls his feet up on the mattress. He looks down at Tony, who has fallen into an unsettled sleep, looking ill, exhausted, and frighteningly old. There are traces of tears on his cheek. Bruce strokes them away, then moves his fingers up to Tony’s sweaty curls, smoothing them lightly, wishing he could give the man more comfort than that.

This time, Bruce wakes up from his own nightmare involving his father and the Hulk. He takes a moment to orient himself. He’s in Tony’s bed - must have fallen asleep in a sitting position and slowly slid down, judging from the pain in his neck.

Tony is asleep on the other side of the bed, curled into a fetal position. One of his hands is clutching Bruce’s shirt. He’s still pale as a ghost, the circles under his eyes so dark that they almost look like paint, but when Bruce reaches over to touch his forehead, he finds the fever has finally broken. He carefully uncurls Tony’s fingers and checks his pulse - a little weak, but thankfully regular.

After removing the IV, Bruce goes into the kitchen and starts to make tea for himself and a milkshake for Tony. He puts both drinks on a tray and returns to the bedroom, finding Tony awake and leaning heavily against the headrest, looking exhausted and thoughtful.

“Room service,” Bruce says in a sudden attempt to take over Tony’s role and lighten the mood.

“God, Bruce, you look terrible,” Tony observes, visibly guilty.

“You should see yourself,” Bruce comments. He sets the shake down on the bedside table.

“You didn't have to - we could have ordered -”

“It's okay. I wanted you to have something made with care on your first day.”

Tony takes the beverage with a frown. “What is it?”

“Vanilla milkshake. Easy to digest, and you need the energy.”

Tony takes a few sips, then, apparently realising how starved he is, finishes the glass. Bruce smiles and pours him another.

“That doesn’t work with my diet plan. Hope that FRIDAY approves of it.” He grins.

“Oh, I doubt she has any objections. You could use a few pounds, honestly.”

After four days of barely eating or drinking, Tony's cheek bones are more pronounced than ever, and his shirt traces the outline of his hollow stomach. But, looking back now, Bruce is sure that his clothes were hanging loosely even before the withdrawal.

“How’s the shake settling?” he asks, not keen on having to use the trash can again.

“Okay, I guess. I’m - Maybe I’m hungry? I’m not so sure anymore.”

“That’s good,” Bruce says with a measure of relief. “Maybe give it half an hour and then you can try some solid food? You can shower in the meantime, if you feel up to it.” He pauses before adding, “No offence, but you need it.”

Tony looks down at himself as if only now realising that he has a body. “Oh. Yeah.”

He unsteadily goes to take a shower while Bruce prepares a proper breakfast for both of them. Tony looks a little bit better by the time he steps into the kitchen, wearing athletic shorts and an old sweatshirt, his dark hair still wet. He all but inhales two cups of coffee and a slice of toast before leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks, putting more toast on a plate and setting it down in front of his friend.

“Sore. Shaky. But also almost human again,” Tony replies, opening one eye. “And like I might actually be able to sleep, and when I wake up, maybe I wouldn’t be weak as a kitten.”

“See, that’s a start.”

Tony squints at him, insecurity bleeding through his attitude. “I guess I owe you a thank you.”

“You don’t owe anything to anyone, Tony,” Bruce asserts.

The engineer snorts out a bitter laugh. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Bruce sighs, wishing for the day when Tony will stop feeling like he is indebted to the whole world. He doesn’t know what it will take, and he’s afraid to think about it because something tells him that Tony won’t ever stop before he breaks.

“And I…” Tony looks down for a moment. “I want to say thank you. You didn’t have to do it, and...I don’t really remember much of the last three days, but I know it can’t have been easy for you either.”

Bruce softens. “It’s okay, Tony. I’m glad I was there with you.”

“I don’t know how to make good on that.”

“If you want to do something, then call Peter Parker.” Tony’s jaw goes rigid and Bruce adds, “Not right now. Eat. Sleep. Try to establish something like a routine. But do call him eventually. Don’t let this chance slip away.” He pauses. “I’m- I'm proud of you, Tony. And Peter will be, too.”

“He can’t know. Ever. I’m serious, Bruce.”

There’s no sense in trying to tell Tony that there is no shame in addiction. He already knows that, in theory at least, but the standards he holds himself to have always been superhumanly high.

“Fine,” Bruce sighs. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. And you promise me that you’ll call the kid.”

There is something almost like insecurity in Tony’s eyes, something vulnerable, but he nods anyway. “Okay.”

Bruce weighs his thoughts and then decides to go a bit further.

“You...Your fever got pretty high, and you said some things. You mentioned Steve, and Siberia.” Tony sets up to speak, his expression defensive, and Bruce raises his hands. “Hear me out. I won’t force you to tell me anything about it. Ever. Just, you don’t have to keep it all inside. If you want to talk, I promise I won’t fall asleep this time. Consider it an offer.”

Tony looks at him, tired and a hundred years older than a few days ago, but there’s something like the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I...Not now. But someday, maybe.”

And that’s all Bruce needs to hear for now.

Tony almost nods off at the table while checking his email, so Bruce firmly takes the device out of his hand and ushers him back to bed. His heart goes warm when he notices that Tony has created a reminder on his tablet to call Peter later that afternoon.

After making sure that Tony is sound asleep, Bruce heads off to his own bedroom, swaying slightly himself from tiredness. Sunlight is flooding the compound. It’s still empty, but a different empty than it was the day when he arrived. It doesn’t feel like an ending anymore, but rather like it could be the beginning of something new.

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Taglist: @toomuchtoread33

#tony stark #bruce banner #peter parker #science bros #withdrawal #tw drug abues #tw morphine #tw addiction #sick tony stark #sick tony #sickfic #whump #tony!whump #bruce banner is a good bro #tony stark has a heart #and cares a lot about peter

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