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chasing-classics · 4 years

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About Time- Steve Rogers x Reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: angst, sadness

Summary: You and Steve were each other’s lifelines, ever since you first met all those years ago during the battle in New York and you were recruited onto the Avengers. You showed him love was still possible after Peggy. However, things drastically change when you are on opposite sides during Civil War. After the fallout you are reunited for the Battle of Wakanda during Infinity War only for the tragedy of Endgame to follow closely after. Inspired by Myra Granberg’s ‘’Bitter Heart.’’

Suddenly you look like a stranger

A face I knew, but I must've forgotten

Emotional flicker, you were my everything

‘’Steve put me down,’’ you squealed, laughing as your boyfriend of nearly three years tossed you over his burly shoulder. It was extremely rare that the two of you could be like this, carefree and teasing. You were currently in your shared apartment, the typical fight for the television remote quickly escalating into a full-blown tickle fight.

‘’Not a chance, doll. You accused me of sitting on the remote, now you’re gonna pay,’’ his deep laugh was something you could never tire of. That laugh was reserved only for the people who were closest to him, and you were at the top of that list. You two met when Natasha recruited you a little over three years ago, given your history as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent and your ‘’gift’’ in telekinesis. You and the super soldier were instantly drawn to each other, like your souls were previously intertwined and in sync with one another. Loving Steve came easily, it was like second nature.

‘’Steve what are you- NO! Nooo,’’ you shrieked as he dumped you in the bathtub that was filled with cold water. Your clothes stuck to your skin as your laugh ricocheted off the walls of the bathroom. Steve just grinned down at you, shaking off his jacket as he got in with you, clothes and all. This was the little moments you both lived for. Saving the world from corrupt gods and villainous robots was rewarding, but it was the simple moments you learned to appreciate most. You smiled up at him softly, grinning when he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.

‘’I love you.’’

You swam so deep into my river

Your footsteps lead everywhere I go

I never was a weeper

But I'm still holding on

‘’Because I’ve been competing with a ghost for the past three years!’’

The flash of hurt across Steve’s face nearly made you back down, but the damage was already done.

‘’Face it, Steve. I’ll never be enough for you. If there a time machine that could take you back to her, you’d jump in it in a heartbeat,’’ the salty tears streamed down your face, washing away the dust and debris from the skirmish just moments ago. ‘’I’ll never be her,’’ your voice was quiet and defeated, cracking at the end. His silence spoke volumes as he just looked down at you, those baby blue eyes you loved to get lost in were shiny with unshed tears.

‘’Steve,’’ Bucky whispered, his gaze alternating between the two of you and the quickly approaching King of Wakanda alongside Nat.

Steve opened his mouth to speak, choking on the things he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words to do so. You shook your head, still clutching the gash on your side that Bucky had unintentionally given you. Your gaze remained firm on Steve as you nodded towards Bucky, ‘’go.’’ For a split second you thought he would stay. That he’d hold you in his big, strong arms and tell you that you were going to get through this, that he’d never leave his best girl behind. That he’d tell you he loved you and you’d figure this out as a team despite your conflicting views. That belief died the second he ran into the jet, taking Bucky with him and leaving you behind. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were even holding. Your breathing became labored, the tears falling uncontrollably as you let out the most devastating, ear-piercing shriek, collapsing to your knees as the ground beneath you collapsed into a crater. You barely felt Nat wrap her arms around your shoulders as you sunk into the emptiness.

From the jet, Steve choked on his own sobs, leaving a decently sized dent in the floor of the aircraft as he struggled to process what just unfolded. He let out a yell of frustration and despair as he tried his best to restrain himself from tearing the jet apart. He lost you. You begged him to stay, to work it out. And he had just left you behind. He left you believing you meant nothing to him, that you’d always be second-best when it came to Peggy. He left without tell you he loved you. He sucked in a shaky breath, feeling Bucky’s hand on his shoulder to offer the slightest bit of comfort as he drifted further and further away from you, leaving a large piece of him behind at that airport.

We know we could've done it better

Fought for the little things that we wanted

I know we were so good together

It's too hard to let go

The years following Steve going MIA were not kind to you, but you managed to adjust to not having him in your life. You didn’t consider this living; this was merely not dying. You left your superhero days behind you as the team broke up, opting for the frequent check-in from Nat and Tony from time-to-time. You moved out of your apartment that you had shared with Steve, relocating to Tony’s summer cabin. It wasn’t until you received an urgent call from Natasha saying that she needed you in Edinburgh asap. She mentioned something about Wanda and Vision needing to be brought back home. Had it been anyone else you would’ve politely declined, but she had always been like a sister to you and the one constant in your life. She had been the one to pull you out of your depression and pushed you to keep moving forward.

‘’I’ll be there by tonight,’’ you sighed, already pulling out your suit from the ‘’glory days.’’

By the time you exited the jet, you had very little time to wrap your head around the situation. One minute you were going over frantic missed calls from Pepper, the next you saw news reports that stated Earth was under attack and Tony was missing. And now you were currently face-to-face with a ghost.

‘’Hi, doll,’’ Steve offered a small, sad smile.

You stood there like a deer in the headlights, anger bubbling inside of you despite the tears coating your lower lashes. ‘’You have some nerve, Rogers,’’ you scoffed, approaching him from the other side of the now vacant train station. You hated how good he looked. You hated that he took your advice on growing out his facial hair after the two of you split up. You hated that he left you and still had the nerve to act as if he didn’t rip your heart out years ago. You absolutely hated that you were still in love with him.

‘’I can’t believe you right now. You have no idea what you put me through. The kind of pain you put me through. And now you’re standing here with those big stupid baby blue eyes thinking I’m-,’’ you were silenced when he encompassed your face with his strong hands, his lips crashing against you in a kiss that sent you into a whirlwind of nostalgia. After a moment of hesitation, you slowly rested your hands on his cheeks and kissed back, the world literally fading away. He slowly pulled away, pressing his forehead against yours.

‘’You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you.’’

Oh, I wish that you hadn't pulled the trigger

Shot me down with my bitter heart

My blood is getting thicker

Oh, you shot me down, you shot me down

‘’S-Steve?’’ the air left your lungs when your e/c met his. You staggered to your knees, your lungs suddenly feeling like they were on fire. You could vaguely see Steve sprint towards you, his hands still coated in the ashes Bucky left behind just seconds ago. He held you in his arms, just like he used to and you curled into his embrace, hands gripping his biceps. Tears rolled down your cheeks, whether they were yours’ or his you could no longer tell.

‘’No, no. Oh God, no,’’ he cried out, holding you to his chest as his sobs racked through his body.

‘’I-I’m s-so sorry,’’ you whimpered.

‘’You’re going to be fine, baby. Please just hold on,’’ he shook, eyes purposefully not looking at the way your legs were fading into ash. You offered one last smile to him, lifting your hand to caress the side of his face one last time.

‘’I love. . .’’

Steve’s arms fell into his lap and the cries that erupted from him were sounds that no human-being thought possible.

Oh baby, look at me just one more time

Tell me that you don't regret it

I really thought we were fine

Then you shot me down

Steve looked down at his broken shield, every inch of his body was screaming in pain, for him to give up. But as he looked into the mad Titan’s eyes he was filled with undying resolve, his only thought being of you. If it hadn’t worked, if this had all been for nothing then at the very least he was going to die with thoughts of you surrounding him.

‘’Cap. On your left.’’

He felt you before he saw you, your presence giving off waves of warmth and comfort that he hadn’t experienced since the snap. Once he turned around, all he saw was you. You beamed at him, both of your resisting the urge to run to each other as you calmly took your place beside him along with Bucky and Sam. You both turned your attention to Thanos and his army, getting ready for the fight of your lives.

‘’If we live through this,’’ he began as he gripped Mjolnir , you raising your eyebrow in question. ‘’Will you marry me?’’

Oh baby, look at me just one more time

Tell me that you don't regret it

You watched with glossy eyes as Pepper held her daughter, slowly making her way to the lake. There was not a single dry eye amongst you mourners. You shakily exhaled as the service continued, memories of Nat and Tony orbiting your mind. You felt Steve wrap his arm around you, filling you with some comfort despite the immense pain. You leaned into his embrace, a sad smile on both of your faces as you mourned the loss of your family. The water on the lake shining as the sun peeked behind the clouds, a profound promise of what was to come.

After the service you stood by Bucky and Sam as Steve was given the instructions on how to place the infinity stones back in their designated locations. You felt uneasy, wondering if Steve would leave you a second time. He had his chance, his one chance to get his happily ever after with his first love. Nonetheless, you offered an encouraging smile, despite the feeling that this was going to be the final time you’d see your Steve. You nodded slowly, your own little way of saying it’s ok. It wasn’t until after he vanished that you released your gasp, your heart heavy in your chest. ‘I knew it,’ you ruefully thought to yourself, turning away and wondering how you’d manage to survive his absence this time without Tony and Nat there to be your anchor.

‘’Y/n,’’ Bucky whispered, his eyes looking past you. Your brows furrowed as you turned around, eyes widening at the sight of Steve on one knee, holding a diamond ring.

‘’Steve what are-,’’

‘’It’s my mom’s ring. I had to get it. I wasn’t going to do this if I couldn’t do it right. You told me a long time ago that if I had the chance to get in a time machine, I’d choose differently. Well, I’m showing you that in a billion lifetimes, in a billion different situations, I’d always find a way to you and I’d always choose you. And I’ll keep choosing you for the rest of our lives. I love you, doll. And after everything we’ve been through, it’s time we get our happy ever after. So, y/n y/l/n, will you marry me?’’

‘’I-It’s about time, Captain,’’ you joked through your tears of absolute happiness, kneeling to the ground and tackling him in your embrace. The two of you laughing, the very same laugh that he had made all those years ago in your apartment before he through you in the tub, the same laugh that was still to the day only reserved for you. The one that would always be meant for you, Mrs. y/n Rogers.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #captain america #chris evans #endgame #avengers fic #steve rogers x you #infinity war

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shutupandshipit · 3 years

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Sharpen Your Blades - Ch.4

Summary: “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The thinning of Aizawa’s patience was evident in the twitching of his brow. “If you stop asking questions, maybe I could finish explaining.

”With a huff and roll of his eyes, Katsuki glanced away from their coach.

“City Hall and the SC want us to give them more variety. We are a team solely made up of single skaters. Every year, we dominate the rankings for single skate while Shinketsu dominates the pairs, so this year both cities are being required to split their skaters evenly between singles and pairs with at least one pair coming from out top five.” There was a collective intake of breath, but no one commented, choosing instead to remain silent. “Unfortunately, for us, it’s a lot easier to switch from pairs to singles. With our male to female ratio, alpha/beta/omega ratio, and those of you actually experienced with pair skating, we’re at a disadvantage. So, I’ve decided to choose your partners for you.”

…..

Or where Katsuki and Izuku are forced to be partners so they can continue to compete, but the blood in the water may be thicker than anyone realized.

Pairing: Bakudeku

Rating: T

Chapter: 4/20

Previously <- Chapter 3: Training

Chapter 5: Nine-Years-Old -> Next

Author’s Notes: I have a total of 20 chapters planned, and just so you are warned, it is going to be slowburn. Sorry, not sorry. I don’t make the rules.

Chapter 4: Fear

Katsuki stood across the rink from Izuku, fingers digging into his hips as their coach chided him for “another reckless jump” when he heard the startled yelp. Spinning around, he caught the moment Izuku’s partner made the decision not to catch him. There were no spotters despite how new the trick was for them, and the alpha boy flailed as he dropped backwards.

Izuku hitting the ice was the only sound in Katsuki’s skull.

The almost silent ‘chink’ of his blade connecting first followed by the sickening wet ‘pop’ of a joint being dislocated. Everything was eclipsed by the ‘crunch’ of bones breaking.

Katsuki moved before he’d even made the conscious decision to, and he was the only one rushing towards the pair. “Deku!”

Izuku’s rising scream drowned him out.

Skidding to his knees beside the omega, Katsuki’s alpha snarled viciously when the other made to crawl close. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he howled, sharp canines on full display, “Don’t fucking touch him you useless excuse for an alpha! Get the fuck away before I rip out your goddamn throat!”

The other alpha recoiled before seemingly remembering that he was older than Katsuki. His canines flashed on instinct, but almost immediately disappeared behind his lips again. “He’s my partner, not yours, Bakugou,” he snapped in return, “You’re the one who went to singles.”

“I’m not the one who didn’t catch him! You don’t deserve to be his partner!” Katsuki was screaming now. He could feel it in his throat, the rasp and click of a voice pushed, but he couldn’t hear himself. Could barely hear the other alpha. His ears were too full of Izuku’s screams as he crouched protectively over the omega, his mouth full of mint and putrid distress.

“Dude, reign in your scent! You’re choking me!”

Katsuki was by no means in control of his scent just as he wasn’t in control of the sound slipping from deep within his chest. His alpha was responding to Izuku’s distress and agony, both attempting to drive away the other alpha and to help ease some of the pain. He couldn’t tell if it was working or not, but he wouldn’t have been able to stop it even if he wanted to. “Back the fuck off instead! Get away from us! You’re not welcome here!”

The alpha didn’t move, and Katsuki stole a glance around the rink. There were too many eyes on them, too many mouths hanging open, no bodies moving.

“What are you all staring at? Call an ambulance! Jesus fuck! He needs help!”

The ice exploded with movement. People took off toward the rink entrance. Others pulled out cells even though they weren’t supposed to have them while they were on the ice. Several darted forward to pull the other alpha away despite his protests. No one dared approach Katsuki and Izuku.

Izuku’s screaming had quitted to low deep sobs, but when Katsuki pulled back his bangs to get a better look at his face, his eyes were vacant holes. Pupils blown wide with only a sliver of green remaining.

Something snapped in his chest, and he lunged for the other alpha.

Arms wrapped around him, pulling him back and away as he screamed every obscenity he knew. Obscenities that would make even his mother raise an eyebrow. There was blood underneath his fingernails. “Don’t come back! Don’t you dare set foot on this ice ever again! You don’t deserve to skate! Don’t go near Deku ever again!

“Katsuki, dude, calm down! The ambulance is on the way!” someone shouted in his ear.

“Fuck you! You’re fucking nuts! He’s just an omega!”

Katsuki was seeing red, and he howled, “Say that again! I fucking dare you! See what happens!”

“Both of you, calm down!” the person on his other side shouted.

The other alpha looked him straight in the eye. “He’s just an omega!”

“He’s your partner!”

“He was your partner too!”

“I never dropped him!”

They went back and forth like that, screaming at each other at the top of their lungs, for several long moments until someone got the bright idea to finally drag the other alpha away. Katsuki calmed the further across the ice the other alpha was taken, and when he was released from the near choke hold his friends had put him in, he dropped back to the ice beside Izuku. The sobs that had been building slowly back to screaming quieted again to whistling whimpers that were driving Katsuki’s alpha straight up a wall. There was nothing he could do for Izuku, nothing but wait.

He huddled silently overtop of Izuku, releasing enough warning pheromones that the paramedics had to send in their betas with vapor rub beneath their noses. When they finally peeled him away and got Izuku off the ice, he immediately packed away their things, called his parents and Inko, and sat outside to wait on the curb. No one said a thing to him. Not even his friends.

…..

“Bakubro.”

Katsuki’s eyes were glued to the body moving in the mirror in front of him.

Izuku wore a t-shirt that could barely even be called a t-shirt anymore. The sleeves and sides had been cut off leaving only the shoulder seams and a small strip of fabric along the hem at his hips to hold the front and back together. The muscle framing his waist and running up his sides was on full display. Then there were his arms, finely muscled yet strong. Not even to mention his legs encased in tight black spandex that ran along sculpted calves up to an ass made luscious by seventeen years of figure skating. There was nothing ‘typically omega’ about Izuku’s body, and that had always appealed to some weird primal part of Katsuki’s brain.

“Bakugou.”

The only thing ‘typically omega’ about Izuku was his hair, kept long more out of habit from growing up with his omega mother and skating follow for so many years. That day, he’d tied the long green curls back in a high ponytail, hair thick and lush and surprisingly healthy looking. ‘Surprisingly’ because Katsuki had seen the shit Izuku ate as a snack or when practice overlapped a meal, and he was sure the rest of his diet was no better.

“Katsuki!”

As Izuku’s body flexed and bent and contorted, gliding lithely across the floor though a little clumsier than he was on ice, Katsuki felt his mouth begin to water.

He should have looked away, but he couldn’t force himself to. He just barely caught the minute falter when Izuku’s bangs shifted and fell across his forehead before knuckles slammed into his shoulder.

“Katsuki!”

Jolting, he turned a heated glare to the pink-haired woman at his side. “What the fuck? Do you want to die?”

Ashido shrugged, leaning back over her leg to press her nose to her shin. “Take a picture will you. I was trying to ask you a question.”

“Why’d you punch me to ask a goddamn question?” he snarled, forcing himself to follow her lead and fold over his own leg. Still, he could feel his eyes trying to make their way back to the mirror. Nothing said ‘desperate’ like ogling another skater during practice. He was fucking better than that.

At least, he should have been better than that.

Beside them, Kirishima whined, just barely able to wrap his fingers over the top of his toes.

“Because I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes, but you were too busy getting an eyeful of that scrumptious butt to answer me. I had to resort to drastic measures. Switch.”

“Don’t be disgusting.” Katsuki rolled up and folded over his other leg with ease.

He could hear the grin in Ashido’s voice without needing to see it. “Oh honey, that wasn’t even dirty. I can get worse. Just ask.”

“I’m telling you whatever you thought I was doing, you’re wrong. Don’t fucking be gross by imagining I would want anything to do with Deku,” he snarled under his breath, glancing under his arm to find her eyes already on him.

A shit-eating grin was plastered to her face, just like he’d suspected. “Okay, sure, Mr. Big-Bad-I-Don’t-Have-A-Sex-Drive-And-Don’t-Need-No-Omega.”

Katsuki scoffed. “Whatever.” This time, he discreetly let his eyes return just in time for Izuku to launch himself into the air, arm above his head as he rotated three times before landing easily. Again, there was that falter before he shoved his bangs out of his face, and Katsuki narrowed his eyes this time and ignored the watering of his mouth.

“Oh my god, Bakugou, pay attention. We’ve got shit to do today. You are being such a knothead.”

Snapping his head around, Katsuki snapped, “Fucking say that to my face, pink bitch. What’s your damage today?”

“The fact that you’re pining is going to make all of my teeth fall out. It’s so sweet how you look at him, like you’re so enamored. It’s disgusting. I love it. Normally, I’d be all over that shit, but I’m not in the mood today. It’s been years, dude, just talk to him like an adult. Middle.” Ashido was a rather laid back person most days, but just like anyone, her patience would eventually thin. The scowl that had replaced her smile was a very clear indication of the impending snap.

Kirishima reached over, nudging at Katsuki as they moved onto the next stretch. “Yeah, she’s right. The way you look at him is cute and all, but it’s never going to get you anywhere.”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up.” Dropping his face low to the floor, Katsuki ignored the two at his sides.

“No!” Ashido snapped, flicking at his thigh before shoving at his hip with her foot, “We need to talk about what we’re doing. I’m not letting you lift me up or any other shit without knowing what the hell is going on beforehand. Think of this like a scene, Bakubro. You explain. We discuss and negotiate. I say green, we go. I yell ‘goldfish’, and you stop. So explain.”

Growling, Katsuki turned his attention back to his friend. Still, he managed to keep an ear out for Izuku.

…..

Aizawa stood off to the side of the wall covered in floor to ceiling mirrors. “Are you ready? We can go back to choreography instead for now if you don’t feel comfortable enough yet.” His hands were shoved deep into the loose black joggers that he wore on studio days, hair pulled up and into a high bun.

Izuku wished fervently that he had never let Uraraka talk him into cutting his bangs. They were cute most days, and framed his face just the way he liked, but now… He could get the long sweep of his curls into a ponytail, but his bangs were another story. Forgetting his headband was probably the worst thing to happen to him all week, and while he knew in the bigger picture that it wasn’t really that bad, it felt like it was. With his bangs shifting against his forehead every few moments, he couldn’t help but hyperfocus on the feeling.

His already high anxiety was only making it worse.

Everyone in the studio could smell the sourness of his anxiety, there was no doubt in his mind about that. Someone had already cracked the high windows close to the ceiling. He hated it, hated that everyone knew that he was freaking out or maybe they just thought it was normal jitters that came with all big tricks.

It wasn’t.

Izuku smiled despite himself, pushing his bangs from his sweat slicked forehead again. They immediately feel forward, and he swore he could feel every individual strand against his skin. He tried not to fidget and reach for them again. “No, I can do it. I just keep getting distracted by my hair. Sorry.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, something smacked him in the back of the head.

Jumping, Izuku whirled around to stare at the floor where a blue, yellow and white headband lay crumpled.

“Bakuhoe, oh my god! You are such a dick!” Ashido shouted even as laughter filled her voice.

Kirishima was already shaking his head when Izuku glanced up to where Katsuki was zipping his bag closed. “There was a better way to do that, dude.”

Katsuki didn’t respond nor did he look at Izuku as he took his towel and water bottle across the room.

Stooping, Izuku scooped up the headband. It was new, tag still attached, though it smelled vaguely of the alpha. Allspice and cinnamon. Izuku frowned, but after a moment of deliberation, ripped the tag off and slipped it on. The feeling of his forehead free of stimulation was a relief. “Thanks, Kacchan. I’ll wash it and get it back to you tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother,” he grunted without looking over as he directed Kirishima to keep stretching and knelt to show Ashido where to place her foot. He didn’t let her lift up like the hand braced on his shoulder said she was ready to, instead adjusting her foot. “Keep it. I don’t need it.”

“Okay… Uh, thank you.” Turning back, Izuku smiled more genuinely this time. Bangs off his face, his anxiety was quieter, more of a hum in his body than a roar. “I’m ready.”

Nodding, Aizawa pushed off the wall, and came to stand on one side. “Your spotters are myself, Sato and Shouji, so don’t worry if you start to wobble.” He glanced towards the other end of the studio. “Bakugou, get another spotter. Just because she’s not your partner doesn’t mean you get to disregard her safety. She still has her own program to perform.”

Katsuki didn’t respond, continuing his explanation of the trick, but Izuku saw the way his shoulders and jaw clenched.

Izuku nodded to Aizawa. Turning to Todoroki, he swallowed thickly as Todoroki dropped into a high lunge. He positioned his foot high on Todoroki’s thigh, and allowed the hands on the back of his calf to hold him steady as he lifted himself up.

For the briefest moment as he rose, he caught the flash of spinning lights. When he released a trembling breath, there was the absence of warm hands on his waist as he completed his rotations. Using Todoroki’s hands on the back of his calf to support his weight, he leaned back slightly and remembered the sharp pop of his hip dislocating.

Izuku’s breath came faster, and he counted them to ten and a second time to twenty, fighting the image of the ice rushing towards his face. ‘Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.’

‘Alpha. Scared. Comfort. Protect. Scared. Please, alpha-’

‘We don’t have an alpha! Shut up and calm down!’ Izuku wasn’t calming down though, and neither was his omega. Still, even as his scent soured further, Aizawa didn’t call for them to stop.

“Try leaning back into position. You need to be more at a forty-five. Don’t worry. Todoroki’s got a good hold on you, and your spotters are at the ready,” his coach instructed, voice steady as the two omegas reacted to his scent at the same time. Calm brushed up against his senses, one smelling of vanilla black tea and the other of orchids, and while Izuku appreciated the attempt, they wouldn’t be able to calm him.

Swallowing down his fear, Izuku let his eyes drift in an attempt to find something to distract himself. Where his eyes led him were to where Katsuki’s hands were wrapped around Ashido’s leg, one around her calf and the other around the back of her upper thigh as she leaned back into his grip. Her arms were thrown wide, her free leg held high and parallel with her hip. There was the widest smile across her face as her laughter fell silently on his ears. His focus was solely on Katsuki, on strong fingers pressing into soft skin and the narrowing of his red eyes in concentration.

Izuku didn’t even realize when he effortlessly leaned back to mimic Ashido, spreading his arms and lifting his free leg. His foot was steady against Todoroki’s thigh. The only thought on his mind was that of those hands on his own skin, holding him firm and steady. If it was Katsuki, Izuku thought maybe he wouldn’t be so scared.

‘Trustworthy alpha,’ his omega whispered longingly.

He and Katsuki were the only two to notice when Ashido’s inconsistent wiggly foot slipped.

Izuku gasped.

Everything happened in quick succession. Ashido’s foot slipped from Katsuki’s thigh. Katsuki’s hands shot up her body at the same time he shot to his feet, the spotters only just realizing what was going on. Ashido didn’t drop an inch, caught against Katsuki’s chest. After a moment of stillness, he lowered her to the ground.

Immediately, anger clouded over the fear that had twisted Katsuki’s features. “You need to stop moving so much! If you were wearing skates, that could have sliced open my femoral artery! Do you understand that?”

Righting himself, Izuku eased off of Todoroki’s thigh, careful and precise.

Ashido didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation as she simpered, “But your big strong hands just make me so nervous. I get all hot and flustered when they’re one me so intimately.”

“Stop fucking around! I’m being serious!” Katsuki snapped.

Smirking, she said, “So am I.”

Aizawa stepped away from Izuku and Todoroki towards the pair. “Alright, break it up. Someone explain to me what just happened.”

‘That wouldn’t have happened if I were practicing with him,’ a voice in the back of his mind whispered.

He shook his head, turning his attention away from Katsuki with his grit teeth to Todoroki as he tapped him on the shoulder. “Did you notice?”

“Notice what?” Izuku asked.

“You got through the first big stunt without falling. That means you can do the others. We can try the twist next, if you want.”

Surprise filled Izuku. He’d been so focussed on Katsuki by the end, he hadn’t had enough brain capacity to pay attention to what he’d been doing. In the end, that would be worse on the ice, but if he could get through it unconsciously that meant there was a chance he could pull it off with intent. It would just take time. “Let’s do that one again, and then we can move onto the others. I think I’ll at least be able to get through two sets of each today. I’m feeling really good now.”

Smiling, Todoroki nodded.

After the first, the rest were easier to get through even as the difficulty increased. Each time his fear returned, he reminded himself that there were mats beneath him and people to catch him. He reminded himself that he didn’t deserve to skate with Katsuki again if he let fear get the better of him.

Off ice, he was safe. Off ice, he could perfect every movement. Off ice, he couldn’t get hurt. On ice would be a battle for a different day.

#my hero academia #mha #bakudeku #dekubaku #decchan #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #omegaverse #a/b/o dynamics #alpha!katsuki #omega!izuku #figure skater au #no quirks au #my writing #sharpen your blades

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lobster-tales · 3 years

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Falling Back in Love With You

Chapter 3 Summary: Link and Mipha travel to Rito House, intending to pick up their representative from the archery club. Revali, however, proves to be a problem.

This work is available here on AO3. Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Link switched on the radio, not to disrupt the comfortable silence between Mipha and him, but to enhance it. Rhoam always left a blues album in the CD player. The van rolled past empty halls and dormitories, vacant fields and courts. Very few students stayed at the university through the weekend.

When they reached the edge of campus, Mipha asked, “Did you have fun last night?”

Link shrugged, casting her a clueless look.

“You don’t know?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, you don’t remember?”

He shook his head.

Concern entered Mipha’s voice. “I didn’t realize you drank that much… Do you even remember when I was there?”

Link pinched his fingers together, a small gap between.

“How much? Do you remember that game we played? With the cards?”

He nodded.

“Do you remember…” She let out a slight chuckle. “When we got the card where everyone has to drink while holding hands?”

Link smiled to himself, recalling the group’s laughter, someone spilling soda on their shirt.

“And… After everyone else put their hands down, you still held my hand?”

His blood froze. Link kept his eyes forward, tracing the details in his mind. He hoped to find something else, something easier to explain. Now that she mentioned it, though, he did remember. Mipha’s hands were small and cold, and he was warm from the punch.

She sensed the change and bit back her disappointment. Mipha gazed out the window instead, watching the neighborhood pass by. The van turned into Rito Street, and she knew she was running out of private time.

“I know… I’m not sure…” Mipha tried to put her feelings into words. “I just wanted you to know that I… I liked it. I liked holding your hand. Whatever it meant, or even if it meant nothing at all.”

Link tried not to react, but he knew his uncertainty was on full display.

Mipha steeled herself. “I guess… if it’s not too much, I wanted to ask you something?”

His curiosity got the better of him, and Link glanced her way.

“I’ve… wanted to ask you for a while now.”

The navigation app beeped on Link’s phone, alerting that they were at their destination. He pulled alongside a blue house, putting the van in park. The action startled Mipha.

“Oh, we’re here.” She straightened in her seat, reminded of the task at hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up now. I’ll wait until after the budget proposal.” Her thin red lips pulled into a smile. “Come on; let’s go find Revali.”

A broad-shouldered man perched on the front step of the blue house. His intimidating presence was offset by the accordion in his hands, his bright blue mohawk, and the easy look he gave the two of them. “Hey Link, hey Mipha,” he said, the instrument sighing between his fingers.

Before Link could wonder if this was Revali, Mipha said, “Good morning, Kass. How was your show last night?”

“It was great, thanks for asking. Blew the roof off of ole Rito House.” He indicated the blue building behind him.

Link felt memories flicker. He remembered how the building’s facade looked at night. The front door was opened only for performers, while the rest of the crowd gathered in the backyard.

Kass’s heavy eyeliner crinkled as he smiled. “What can I do for you?”.

“We’re looking for Revali,” Mipha said. “It’s a sports club thing.”

“On a Saturday?” Kass lifted his chin towards Link. “Aren’t you hungover?”

Link nodded bashfully, then pointed his index and middle fingers forward. He pivoted them up and down towards Kass.

“And you’re in a rush?” Kass shook his head. “What a day. Well, come on. I doubt he’s awake. Hang out while I check his room.”

Footprints from the night before were still visible on the ancient wooden floor, tacky where drinks had spilled. Link’s gaze traveled over the furniture, decorated by stains and red plastic cups.

“He’s not in his bed,” Kass said, reappearing at a hallway’s entrance.

“What?” Mipha asked, frowning. “Like he’s not here?”

“Well, not in the house,” said Kass, unbothered. He made for the back door, waving them through.

The backyard was similarly dirty. In one corner of the yard, an abandoned workshed sat with rusty tools inside. The other corner held an unused child’s playset, the wood just beginning to rot. The structure had a plastic yellow slide, two low swings, and a ladder that led to the covered platform in the center. Inside the playset, a body slept soundly, obscured from view by a pile of blankets.

“There he is!” Kass was the first to step forward, clearing his throat. “Revali?” He took hold of one of Revali’s legs, sticking out over the edge of the wood.

Like a snail, Revali withdrew the limb, curling into the fetal position as he growled, “Go away.”

Kass shook his head fondly. “Your friends are here to pick you up.”

Mipha asked, “Did you get Zelda’s texts?”

“Her what?” he grumbled, still hidden from view.

“We have to go to the school.”

“But it’s Saturday.”

“Yes, I know,” Mipha said patiently. “But Ganon changed the meeting. We have to go today.”

Revali rolled over to face them, his dramatic eyebrows and angular nose visible beneath the blanket. “And that’s my problem?”

At the sight of Revali’s features, memories flooded back to Link.

Link and Zelda joined the throng of students in the backyard of Rito House. They lingered on the outskirts of the group, apprehensive. Link’s mind was still fuzzy from the punch at the lifeguard apartment, and Zelda felt out of her comfort zone amongst the partygoers. A few people waved and some even approached her to talk. Link discovered that several were in the student council under Zelda’s leadership, and others knew her from classes or from the sports clubs.

“Princess, welcome!”

Zelda winced and turned to face a student wearing a light blue scarf, his navy hair wind blown on top and gathered into short braids at the nape of his neck. “Please don’t call me that, Revali,” she said.

Revali cocked an eyebrow. “My apologies, but you are the student council president, not to mention the daughter of the dean, therefore-”

“Ex-dean,” Zelda corrected sharply, her fists clenching.

Sensing he had gone too far, Revali backed off. “Very well, then I shall stick to ‘my lady’.” His green eyes settled on Link, mouth curling. “And I see you brought your bodyguard.”

“Link is my friend,” Zelda said. “You remember him from the fencing club?”

“Of course,” Revali said, circling them with one hand on his chin. “You know, some would argue that fencers are the natural rivals of archers such as myself.”

“What?” Zelda asked, exasperated. “Who would argue that?”

“Like I said, my lady,” Revali took his place in front of them, peering over his shoulder. He lifted his arms to each side, showing off his muscles beneath his sleeveless turtleneck. “Some.”

Zelda rolled her eyes. “We’re all part of the sports club program, Revali. None of us are rivals.”

“Indeed,” he sighed. “However, it’s no secret that anyone can swing a little sword around. But it takes true skill and precision to fire an arrow, to pierce a target directly in the center.”

Link huffed, insulted by Revali’s coarse description of fencing. Zelda saw his expression change and said, “Fencing takes skill and precision too.”

“Oh please,” Revali scoffed. “Fencing is a brutish and violent sport. All of their members just want an excuse to beat on each other with weapons for hours at a time.” He raised his head high. “But archery is only for those with a refined taste, my lady. In fact, I wouldn’t debase it so much as to call it a sport; it’s more of an art.” He smirked at Zelda. “You know, my lady, we could use an elegant palette such as yours among our ranks.”

Zelda’s annoyance melted away, and she smirked at Revali. “Actually, I’m already a member of a club.”

Revali froze, looking between the two of them. “Oh? Perhaps volleyball, with Lady Urbosa?”

“Nope.” Zelda crossed her arms, triumphant. “Something more brutish and violent.”

Link stifled a laugh, but Revali was unamused. He pursed his lips, bowing his head in surrender. “Well perhaps… not every fencer is…”

A voice interrupted from the back porch, saving Revali from further embarrassment. “Kass is on in five!”

Zelda took Link’s hand and led him towards the back door, calling back to Revali, “See you after the show!”

They entered the crowded living room, one side of which had been cleared out to make space for the stage. Once they had picked a spot along the wall, Zelda collapsed into giggles. “Oh, that was priceless! What a-” She stopped, and found more tactful words. “I mean… Don’t get me wrong, he can be cool, but he’s just so... eccentric.”

Link grinned. He knew her well enough to understand her real meaning, and he agreed. Zelda stifled another laugh and said, “I’m going to find a restroom. Wait here for me?”

He nodded, and she disappeared into the crowd. Link stood alone against the edge of the room, watching Kass tune his accordion through the wall of bodies.

A voice hissed in Link’s ear. “You think you’re so clever, swordsman.”

Link jolted and met Revali’s piercing gaze. The archer narrowed his eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you strut about, acting like you’re better than me. You may have Lady Zelda fooled, but I see right through you.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “So, what do you say we settle this? Once and for all? I have a bottle of rum in the cabinet; I can secure us some shot glasses from the house owners.” Revali stuck out his hand. “How about it, swordsman? Do you accept my challenge?”

Link paused. He had never competed in a drinking contest before, and was unsure of how much alcohol he could handle. The other, and perhaps the most pressing concern, was how Zelda would react once she found out.

Revali sneered at his indecision. “Ah, so you are a coward. I figured as much.”

Then again, Revali had relentlessly insulted his passion, and Link found that he couldn’t turn down an opportunity to put him in his place. Just as Kass began the first song, Link grasped Revali’s hand.

“Yes, Revali, because it affects your club,” Mipha said.

Link blinked back the thoughts, focusing on their exchange.

“Just like it affects the fencing club,” she said, indicating Link. “And the swimming club,” she pointed to herself. “And all of us. If Zelda doesn’t have any sport club members there, then the budget proposal gets rejected. That means no new bows, arrows, gear, anything. The practice gyms-”

“The archery club doesn’t use the practice gyms,” Revali scoffed. “We have to go off campus. Our gear still works, and if anyone wants something new, they can buy it themselves.”

Mipha’s mouth curled into a rare sneer. “Revali, this is important. Just come with us.”

“Nope.” Revali rolled over once more, pulling the blanket tight around his body.

Link, Mipha, and Kass exchanged glances. Kass shrugged helplessly. “Maybe you can ask someone from a different club?”

“On such short notice?” Mipha’s shoulders lowered in defeat, and she pulled out her cellphone. “I could ask my friend from the sailing club… If she left now, then maybe she’d make it on time.”

Time. Link removed his own phone to check. 11:20.

Whoa. How did that happen? He glanced at Mipha, who was still scrolling through her contacts. We don’t have time for this.

Link examined the playset. He nudged Kass, pointing to the slide. A grin spread across Kass’s features and he nodded in approval. He moved into position as Link climbed onto the playset, standing over Revali.

Still wrapped in blankets, Revali glared up at Link. “What do you think you’re- Aahh!”

Link shoved Revali’s body through the opening that led to the slide. Unable to stop his descent, Revali fell into Kass’s arms. Kass hoisted him over his shoulder, shooting Link a thumbs up with his free hand.

Revali protested loudly and without dignity. Kass hauled him through the fence gate, then tossed him into the backseat of the van. Suppressing a chuckle, Kass winked at Link and Mipha. “Just bring him back here when you’re done. My kids are at a sleepover, so I’ll still be around.” He moved back to his position on the front porch step, picking up his accordion once more as he called, “Oh, and good luck!”

#loz #botw #loz fic #link #zelda #mipha #revali #my fic #commission

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bubonickitten · 4 years

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TMA fic: Night Terrors

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

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

Jon isn’t sleeping well lately.

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

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

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

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

Either way, though, the result is the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But we -”

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

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

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

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

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

Sleep troubles are to be expected.

~~~

These nightmares are new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naomi Herne.

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

He can only watch, and so he does.

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

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

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

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

It’s fine. It’s normal. He’s fine.

~~~

The next night, he dreams of Naomi Herne again.

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

It’s cold, and it hurts.

IT%’s/ côLd &&;t <<hurts>>.

I̴t̸'̴s̴ ̵c̸o̸l̶d̵, ̵a̵n̶d̴ ̸i̴t̴ ̸h̶u̸r̵t̸s̶.̸

Ï̵̡̻ͅț̴͘'̴̰̙͒̌͠ͅs̶̻̿̎ ̴̞c̵̮̒̾ơ̴̞͕̕͝ļ̴̱̅d̶̥̣͎̈ ̵̨͕̀̿̊a̵̗̪̽̆n̶͕̩̞͆d̵̦̮̳͐̏͗ ̵̢̻̑ȉ̷̪t̸͓̉͒ ̶̮͉̹̇͠h̵̳̻̞͝u̴̢̬̣̒ř̴̠́t̵͍̟͛ṡ̷̨̤͓͒̾.̸̦̭̓

I̶̢͚͓̤̗̹̱̠̱͚̤̾t̶̛̳̏̑͐͗́̍̈̿̄͒͗́̔̈́̈́̈́̚̕͠'̵̡̧̦̖͚͓͙͙͕̜̻̣̙̲͓̑͂͋̾̊̄͌̀̑͒̚ͅͅṣ̶̛̻͚͓̫̜̀̂͌͌̈̈́̃̽̏̐̔̌ ̵̗̫̓̊̾̇͆c̷̨̑̀̈́̇̊̇̑͊́̂̊̇͘̚͘̚̚̚͝ǫ̵̈́̎̿͑̔̔̑͛̀͋̉̋̓̾l̷̙̯͙͍͇̟̭̳͉̹̳̖͎͇̲͖̝̖͈̺̍d̴̡̫̼̗̮̹̎̌̽̏̂̐̑̈̏̀̃͆͗͂̓̚͝ ̴̧̛͈̭̼̭̰͔̥͓̟̲́̒̊̍̉̌͆̇̆̑͗̑̿̉̅̑͒̽̈̿a̵̳̰̽̌͆͂̏͒̌̓̔̈͐̆̿̕͝n̸̨̢̧̧̲̺͙̗̪̻͎̥͉̥͔͇̠͙̫͒̌̅̃͒́̌̈́͐̀̈͘̚͘̕͝͝ͅḋ̵̢̡̧̜͇̜̤̠̺̜̦̲̳͓̼̩̣̼̭̱͐̿̿̍̿̀͌͊̃̿͊̕͠ ̶̭̩̥̲͈͚̟͇̱̹̼̩̪̙̱͒́͑̌͒͐̕͜ỉ̸̲͇̬͓̫̪̞̜̱̪̻̲̎̿́̃̽̕͘͠͝ţ̸̗͙͍͍̫̞͚̞͓̙̼̝͚͕̮̋͋̏̌͂͗̈ ̵̨̟̗͉̯̘̙̫̱̹̱̲̘̪͖̤̱̟̦̘̹̟̎̐̌͗̾̋̿̄͜͠h̴̢̡̨̢̛̫͓̠̤͉̠̩̮͙̞̪̏̇͊̈͂̿̅͋͌͘̚͠ư̵̰͙̯͖̈́̄̊͌͐̾͐̃̈̈͒̑͠ͅr̷̨̛̗͈̣̰̘̲̩̦̙̅̃̽͛͒̈͜͠ͅṯ̶̮͕̺͖̹̺̺̦͈̰̮͚͇̳̘̺̤̹̭͐͊̏̓̅̊̏͌́̒́̚̕͘͘͜͝͝͠͝s̶̺̻͔̹̙̟̭̜̏̆͗͂̔̄̔͋́͆̀̋̈́͌͂̚͝.̶̘͚͚͓͕̝͖̪͔̼̙̲̞͎͉̩̳͍̙̩̋̆̅͒̇̅͌̆͗̉̋͊͒͐̔̅̏̕͜͝͝ͅ

~~~

When Jon finally bolts upright into wakefulness, he knows.

These are not his nightmares.

They are shared dreamscapes.

No, not shared. Invaded.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

“-n? Jon!”

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

Silence.

“Maybe you should have a lie down? I made up the cot in the storage room, and –”

“I’m fine,” Jon replies through gritted teeth.

“You’re falling asleep at your desk. Actually, um,” – a small, cautious grin crosses Martin’s face – “I don’t know what paperwork you used as a pillow, but you have ink on your face.”

Jon groans and scrubs at his face with both hands.

“You really do need to sleep, though,” Martin ventures again, gentle but firm.

“I… I don’t want to,” Jon says stiffly. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he curses himself for the honesty – Martin is going to want to talk about that now, and –

“Why?”

Jon is silent, steadfastly refusing to look Martin in the eye.

“Fine,” Martin sighs, exasperated. “But you can’t go forever without sleep, I don’t care how stubborn you are.”

He’s right, Jon knows.

Jon did manage a full 70 hours awake before he started nodding off in spite of himself. For the past few days, he’s been allowing himself short naps, setting his phone alarm at hour intervals to wake him long before he can enter REM sleep.

It isn’t sustainable, but the alternative is haunting people’s nightmares, looking into their eyes and Beholding what they see when they look at him: Cold, calculating predator. Unblinking voyeur. Too many hungry, prying eyes, feeding on their terror, stripping them of their dignity, soaking in their trauma with cruel fascination –

“Jon.”

“Fine,” Jon grumbles. “Sixty minutes.”

~~~

Whenever he slips into the dreamscape, Daisy promises to hunt him down. Finish what she started. Bury him in a shallow grave and leave him to become yet another mystery.

The Archivist wonders if being killed in the dream would wake him up, spare the other dreamers from his scrutiny for just one night.

He wonders how Daisy would react if he was able to tell her that he resents the absence of her knife at his throat just as much as she does.

~~~

Six months.

For six months, he wanders, an uninvited, hated guest in those familiar dreamscapes.

The Archivist wants nothing more than to throw himself into an empty grave, to turn the damp earth into a prison with six-foot-high walls, to break his legs in the fall so that even when his resolve crumbles and he tries to clamber out of the hole, he will be unable to do so. The other dreamers would be safe from him, then. There would be nothing for him to watch but unyielding soil and the chill, impenetrable fog above.

He Knows that the Eye is still there behind the veil of fog; he can feel its unceasing gaze, but at least in the lonely cemetery, he cannot see it.

There is an open grave in front of him, its waiting maw calling him forward, promising to shackle him, to hobble him with blindness and paralysis. He stands at the edge, knees locked and eyes peeled, staring down into a plot that he desperately wishes belonged to him, and him alone. The dream keeps him there for what seems like hours, taunting him, holding relief just out of reach.

Then, the dream turns him around and pulls him inexorably toward his true objective. Once again he is forced to watch as Naomi’s freezing, bloodied fingers scrabble uselessly on the walls of her prison. Her tears have left trails in the mud on her face, and when she looks up at him, she asks the same question she does every single time: Why are you doing this to me?

Eventually – after far too long standing statue-still, eyes locked on Naomi’s pained, desperate face – the Archivist is yanked onward toward the waiting carnage of the dissection lab, the mournful singing of the coffin, the undulating mass of ants.

When Jane Prentiss shambles toward him, he can feel the worms burrow into his skin all over again. He wants to scream, to scratch, to grab a corkscrew and start digging – Dig, comes the intrusive thought, blinking in his mind like a marquee: Dig. Dig. Dig. – but his mouth and his hands are not his own, and his eyes – so many eyes, so reminiscent of the spider – are fixed on Jane. Her otherworldly screams pierce the night as she burns, and the Archivist desperately wishes he could clamp his hands over his ears to block out her death knell.

Being brought before Georgie Barker is almost worse than confronting Jane Prentiss. If she could still feel fear, the Archivist is certain she would wear the same expression as the others. Instead, there is only a mix of pity and resignation. Over and over again, Jonathan Sims has walked into burning buildings for even the slightest chance of having a question answered. She wishes she was more surprised to see what he has become, but she is so intimately familiar with his pattern of self-destruction and stubborn curiosity, and she has long since recognized it for what it is: a fatal flaw, coaxing him toward tragedy like a moth to the flame.

The exterminator makes no distinction between the Archivist and the Flesh Hive, and Georgie Barker likely wouldn’t, either. As always, the Archivist cannot find it in himself to argue.

When at last he finally awakens, he is not surprised that she leaves with such finality, her parting words condemning him as a lost cause. He pushed on past the point of no return, just like she always feared he would, and she has no desire to watch him burn.

~~~

Jon may not have been allowed to toss himself into a lonely grave, but the coffin welcomes him with an eager appetite, and imprisons him in much the same way. He may be unable to move, but at least his body is his own, unlike in his dreams; he may not be able to escape, but at least he can speak.

“After the mission. I was planning to kill you,” Daisy tells him, matter-of-fact. He knows why the moment she starts talking about her dreams. “Realized you weren’t human. Needed to die, as soon as it was safe. Never mind Elias and his… insurance.”

“And now?”

“Don’t know. I – I miss dreaming. You don’t sleep, down here.”

Jon finds the prospect of eternal wakefulness in this place downright horrifying – the endless boredom alone sounds like torture – but... no sleep means no nightmares.

“Daisy, you should know, I – I’m… if I wasn’t human before, I’m, uh – I’m even less now.”

The distant rumbling of the shifting earth picks up in volume until he can feel it in his teeth.

“Yeah.” Daisy doesn’t sound surprised. “Well, at the moment, I don’t care.”

“And if we get out?”

“But we can’t get out.”

“No.”

The noise grows in volume, drowning out his voice.

I really should have known better, he thinks to himself. Of course his rib wasn’t a strong enough anchor. He’s so alienated from his own body at this point, so far from human that he couldn’t even die properly. How many times has he found himself thinking, What’s another scar? In a way, he feels just as detached from his body when he’s awake as he does in his nightmares. The idea that a part of his body would call to him from outside the coffin… it’s just as ridiculous as his rushed, irresponsible deductions about the NotThem’s table.

“I’m s – I’m sorry,” Daisy stammers, snapping Jon out of his reverie. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“So am I,” Jon replies. For everything, he does not say.

The rumbling fades, and silence descends on them in a rush.

“You know,” Jon begins after a minute, choosing his words carefully, “I… I didn’t know, at first. That the nightmares were real.”

Daisy says nothing, and Jon interprets it as permission to go on.

“I – I thought that they were just my nightmares. That the first statements I took hit me harder than I’d expected. I was so dismissive to the first few people who came in to give their statements in person, and I assumed that my – my guilt over how I treated them was manifesting as nightmares, since I refused to process it in real life. That I was just…” He lets out a bitter laugh. “That I was just stressed about the new job.”

“When did you figure it out?” Daisy asks levelly.

“I… I think I suspected after a few months? But I just – I told myself that I was being ridiculous. I went through a bit of a – a paranoid phase, and I thought that I was just… overthinking things. I tend to do that, to just – obsess, and let my imagination run wild –”

Daisy snorts. “Yeah, I gathered that.”

“I – I've had a lot of practice with denial, I suppose,” Jon says, sheepish. “Or feigning denial, at least. Playing the skeptic was… safer. Admitting out loud that I believed in – in monsters felt like it would… draw unwanted attention, I suppose. That it would somehow provoke the thing watching me to strike. I convinced myself that pretending to be ignorant would keep the monsters at bay.”

“That’s…”

“Stupid, I know.”

Daisy gives a dry chuckle.

“I had to give up the act after – after Prentiss attacked the Archives,” Jon continues. “Even after that, though, I still wanted to believe that the nightmares weren’t real. But then one day I woke up and – and I just knew –”

The dirt around them begins to press in again, forcing the air from his lungs. Jon feels Daisy’s fingers brush his wrist and he takes her hand. Not alone. Not alone. Not alone.

Then the pressure lets up all at once and they are both left gasping in its wake.

“Keep talking?” Daisy’s voice has that desperate, pleading edge to it again. It’s so at odds with the Hunter that Jon knows, more like prey than predator. “I – I need – I don’t want to be alone.”

“Not alone,” Jon murmurs, as much for himself as for Daisy. “The dream that made me realize – her name was Tessa Winters. I took her statement, and that night she was in my dreams. The way she looked at me, I just… I knew. She was really there. Her eyes were so – so accusing, like she knew that it was my fault that she was there. And – and it was. The other statement givers came to me on their own, but she likely would have never come to the Institute if it wasn’t for me.”

“Oh?”

“I – I posted on a message board, soliciting supernatural experiences related to technology.”

“You can use a computer, then,” Daisy teases, a smirk in her voice.

Jon smiles too, and for the briefest moment he forgets where they are. “I just turned 30 this year, Daisy,” he says, rolling his eyes, and she snorts.

“Still, I can’t picture you making forum posts.”

“I had an ulterior motive,” he admits, his smile fading as the old guilt bubbles up. “I had found Gertrude’s laptop, and I needed help breaking into it, so I – I figured maybe I could lure in someone who knew computers, take their statement, find a way to casually ask them to have a look at the laptop for me. It worked, but then she appeared in my nightmares, and – if I hadn’t drawn her to me, she wouldn’t be there.”

Daisy makes a noncommittal sound. Jon shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep, faltering breath.

“And then – after the Unknowing, I – I should have died. I was dead, technically. My brain was still firing – dreaming,” he says with distaste, “but I had no pulse, no respiration, no… no other signs of life.” He feels the pressure of tears in his eyes and he fights to keep his voice steady. “You should have seen the way the doctors and nurses looked at me as they were explaining it. A – a medical mystery – a marvel, really – the sort of thing that most professionals would kill for a chance to study – but they couldn’t wait to get away from me, to hurry me out the door.” He pauses to take a deep breath, but between the crushing earth and his own grief, he can’t fill his lungs. His exhale comes out shallow and shaky. “And – and Georgie, and Basira, and Melanie, and –”

Daisy tightens her grip on his hand. It’s so surreal that Jon almost laughs. This is Daisy. Daisy, who seized him by the throat, who tried to kill him, who enjoyed seeing him terrified and begging for his life, who took such pride in the scar she left him with – and now she’s comforting him. He isn’t sure how to process that turnaround, so instead gives her hand a squeeze in return, clears his throat, and continues.

“So – so for six months, I was in a coma. If you can call it that. But the whole time, I was dreaming. For six months, I walked through the same nightmares, over and over and over again. There was no waking up to escape it, and – and it meant that the other dreamers couldn’t escape me, either. Up until then, if I was awake while they were asleep, they could get away from me, but – but I was in the dream every hour of every day, so I was there every night they slept. And the way they look at me – like I’m a monster – it just… they’re not wrong, but I just wish – I wish I could tell them that I’m sorry, that I don’t want this either, that I don’t want to watch. The Eye doesn’t let me speak, though – or move, or – or blink. I am an observer, and an observer does not interfere.” He laughs then, a little hysterically. “It – honestly, it felt like longer than six months. I lived through the same scenes so many times that I started to feel so numb to it all.”

“What about my part of the dream?” Daisy asks quietly.

“I – ever since the Unknowing, whenever I get to your segment, there's nothing but the coffin. I always enter it, but it never brings me to you. Until now, I suppose,” he says with a humorless chuckle. “Oddly enough, though, I always found myself wishing you were there.”

“Really.”

“Yes, I – it’s hard to explain.” He hesitates for a moment before settling on honesty. “You always looked at me like I was prey, instead of predator. Or – or maybe like I was a predator, but a – a weaker predator, something that could be killed. A monster that could be vanquished. I… I wanted you to catch me. I suppose I thought that maybe – maybe if I died in the dream, it would end the cycle, and release the other dreamers from the Eye.”

“Might have killed you in real life, though,” Daisy points out. “If the dreaming was the only part of you that was alive.”

“It may have,” Jon agrees.

Daisy lets that linger for a minute, heavy and revealing.

“I… I don’t think I want to die,” Jon eventually continues, “but I can't stop thinking that maybe it would be… better, if I did? All that would happen is that the world would lose another monster, and – and that would be fine. It would be right. But I still…” He chokes on his words, something between a laugh and a sob. “God, when did not wanting to die start to feel selfish of me?”

The dirt around them shifts, sibilant and imposing. They hold their breath, as if speaking might provoke it. Daisy waits for the rustling to settle again before she speaks.

“Why did you come here, Jon?”

“To – to find you, to get you out –”

“Yeah, but why? I nearly killed you. Would have tried again. Would have liked it.” She huffs. “I know you didn’t come here out of any loyalty to me. So, why?”

“I…”

“To get yourself killed?”

“No, I – I really did want to get you out of here.”

“Why did you come for me, then? Out of guilt? To justify not dying?”

“I…” Jon sighs heavily. “Yes, I – I suppose. And - and Tim was dead. Sasha is dead, and Martin is... gone, and when we found out you were still alive, I just - I didn't want to lose anyone else. I couldn't just leave you here, not if there was a chance I could bring you back.”

Daisy is silent. Jon knows that she wants him to say more, and he takes a deep breath.

“The others don’t trust me – not that I blame them, I don’t trust me, either. Martin is… he has his own plans. Georgie wants nothing to do with me. Melanie hates me for not having the decency to die, blames me for everything that’s happened. Doesn’t even think I’m me anymore, just – just some monster wearing a familiar skin, and – well,” he laughs uncomfortably, “I have a hard time arguing with her assessment.” He takes a deep breath. “And – and Basira, she… she doesn’t put much stock in my humanity, either. Sometimes she sees me as an asset to be used, but…”

He trails off, feeling faintly guilty for his mixed feelings on Basira. She encourages him to use his powers when it will help further their goals. She doesn’t go so far as to claim that the ends justify the means, but she does frequently remind him that they need to be pragmatic, like Gertrude. The rest of the time, though… she looks at Jon like he’s a dangerous animal, unpredictable and poised to strike. He knows that she’s fully prepared to put him down if it starts looking like he’s too dangerous to be allowed to live, and although that hurts, he’s also glad that there’s someone who he can trust to put an end to him if he loses himself.

Nonetheless, it’s frustrating to be hated and feared for what he can do – to hate and fear himself so thoroughly – while still being expected to embrace those powers whenever it’s deemed useful. He’s more of an instrument than a person now, a tool to be used and then locked safely away once he’s fulfilled his purpose. At the same time, though, it at least offers him some semblance of control. He may be a vehicle for the Eye’s machinations, but perhaps he can balance it by giving their side an advantage in whatever way he can, principles be damned.

And he did give Basira explicit permission to use him.

Sometimes he wishes he had Gertrude’s certainty, or Basira’s resolve, or any sort of confidence in his own convictions. Most of the time, though, he fears what he could become if he was more decisive. He doesn’t trust himself to live without doubt.

He doesn’t know how to explain all of that to Daisy, though.

“I don’t – I don’t expect them to trust me,” he says instead. “Or like me. It seems dangerous to be near me at all, and I’m not exactly” – he huffs out a short, bitter laugh – “I’m not good enough company to risk it. It hurts, and it’s lonely, but I – I do understand. But I can at least make myself useful –”

Without warning, the Buried constricts itself around them in a rush, strangling his words and stealing the air from his lungs. This time, it feels like hours pass before it finally relaxes its chokehold. The only conversation that passes between them for a long time is synchronized, frenzied gasping for what little chill, stagnant air the Buried deigns to permit them.

“We’re the same, you know,” Daisy says eventually, forcing the words out even as she struggles to catch her breath. “I'm afraid of what I am, or - or was, or could be again. I needed the Hunt. Liked it, even – I enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the kill. But now I – I look back and I’m disgusted. I hurt people who didn’t deserve it. Even the actual monsters were… I wasn’t killing them because I cared about justice, or protecting others, not really. I was feeding on the fear of the prey. It made me feel alive –”

An abrupt coughing fit interrupts her then, and several minutes pass before she’s able to continue speaking through the grit coating her tongue.

“All I’ve felt since I came down here is fear and pain and guilt. I accept that – I should feel guilty, and I – I probably deserve more punishment than this. But still, I… I want to see the sun again, to breathe fresh air, to –” Her breath hitches. “I – I want to see Basira again.”

Jon can just barely hear her sniffling, but knows better than to draw attention to it.

“But – but if I leave here, I – I know I’ll hear the blood again. I don’t know who I am without the Hunt, but I – I still don’t want to go back to it. I deserve to be here – but I also want to leave – and that feels selfish. But I suppose it really doesn’t matter, does it?” When she laughs, it almost sounds like a bark, hollow and brittle. “There’s no way out.”

“No way out,” Jon repeats. “But maybe… maybe the world is safer without me in it – without… without either of us, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Daisy chokes out, her voice hovering between a laugh and a sob. “That’s – that’s pretty messed up, isn’t it?”

Jon lets out his own tearful chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He pauses. “You said that – that you don’t sleep down here, that you don’t dream?”

“Yeah.”

“That's probably for the best,” he sighs. “At least this way, the Eye can’t reach the dreamers anymore.”

“And at least we’re – we’re not alone?”

“No. Not alone.”

“I’m glad that you’re here, Jon,” Daisy blurts out in a rush. “I know that’s horrible of me, but – but it’s the truth.” She takes a shaky breath. “I don’t want to be alone. I’m… I’m glad I’m not alone.”

“I’m… I think I’m glad, too,” Jon admits.

He wasted so much time pushing people away, refusing to trust, rebuffing any offer of help. Georgie told him that he needed human connection to help him stay human, and she was right, but when he finally admitted that – by the time he finally resolved to trust the others, regardless of his doubts – it was too late. When he woke up in the hospital, there was no one left to offer their hand when he reached out for help. Even worse, he can’t exactly deny that it’s his own fault.

But now, trapped here in the cold and the damp and the cramped, suffocating dark, Daisy holds his hand. The firm pressure of her grip is comforting, despite the clamminess of their skin. He can’t remember the last time he was touched with anything less than malice.

“I’ve been alone since I woke up,” he continues, “and – and afraid of what I’m becoming. It’s nice to have someone who – who understands what it’s like. I think this is the most companionship I’ve had in… in a long while. It’s nice to be the one seen for once – by something other than a monster.”

Daisy tightens her grip further, and Jon marvels at how such a simple gesture is so much louder than words.

A silence falls on them then – a bizarrely companionable one, so incongruous with their current predicament. They clutch each other in the dark, focusing on one another’s breathing to coax them through the irregular ebb and flow of the earth pressing down on them, peppering the gloom with quiet conversation whenever the Buried gives them an inch to breathe.

Daisy talks about her childhood dog, and The Archers, and how people are always surprised to learn that she has a sweet tooth. She tells Jon about the first time she and Basira went camping: They had stretched out beneath the night sky and Basira taught Daisy the constellations, the origins of their names and the legends they represented. Affection welled up in her as she listened to Basira muse about how even though the constellations vary across time and culture, humans have always shared this collective impulse to look up at the sky and make meaning out of randomness.

For the first time in a long time, Daisy had been truly present in the moment; for once, she wasn’t gnashing her teeth, impatiently anticipating the next hunt. Basira’s voice anchored her in the present, and the call of the blood was drowned out by a flood of warmth and devotion.

Jon talks about the Admiral, and his brief foray into AmDram at uni, and how he's always hated poetry, but then he read some of Martin's, and, well... some of them were quite good, actually. Jon confesses that he too has an unexpected sweet tooth. Martin somehow guessed; whenever Jon was having a particularly rough day, Martin would make his tea sweeter than usual. Martin never drew attention to it, and Jon never commented on it, but it was... touching, if he's honest with himself. He wishes that he had told Martin then that he noticed, that he appreciated the gesture - that it made him feel seen in a good way for once.

Jon misses Martin desperately, worries for him fiercely. Worse, he knows with a certainty that Martin will never know just how much he is missed. He spent far too long underestimating Martin, taking him for granted. Sure, Martin had stumbled a lot in the early days, but when Jon learned that Martin had lied on his CV, he was actually impressed. It's remarkable how competent Martin managed to be with no prior experience or qualifications to speak of. Daisy listens as Jon rambles on about how Martin is so much braver and cleverer than Jon or anyone else ever gave him credit for, and how much he wishes he could tell him that now.

They go back and forth like that, confiding in each other about their regrets, and the apologies they will never get to make, and all the things they miss. They talk about fears, and monsters, and what it means to be human. They talk about choices.

Jon does not dream. Daisy does not hear the blood. Together, they listen to the quiet.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #just gonna tag those two since they're the main ones i focused on #anyway i didn't mean for this to get so long but i have a lot of feelings about jon and daisy's friendship sooooo #have 3400+ words of them comforting each other in the buried i GUESS #tma spoilers #up to MAG 132

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ficklefics · 5 years

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Walk Her Home - Victor Zsasz x Reader

Working at the Iceberg Lounge, it’s inevitable that you’ll come into contact with a wide range of criminals. But only one manages to catch your eye - famed assassin, Victor Zsasz.

MASTERLIST

(requested by @yyyyikees (won’t let me tag you, sorry))

Warnings: Violence, threat to life, alcohol, implied stalking

Working as a bartender at the Iceberg Lounge was definitely not the easiest job in the world. On any given night the place would be filled with criminals, from lowly thieves and informants to high-class drug dealers and assassins. And most of them were not the most respectful people. By now you’re used to the cat-calling and the thinly-veiled stares at your chest. But when you first started your job, you left every shift in tears, swearing you would quit. But the pressures of rent and college bills kept you going back. And over the months since then you’ve developed the thickest skin possible; any and all lewd comments, attempts to make you uncomfortable, now bounce off of you as you work.

It’s almost three in the morning – the bar will be closing soon – so you start wiping down the counter and putting away glasses, mixers and shot measures, ready for the next day of work. You’re on your knees, making sure the shelves are neat and orderly, and when you stand up (still struggling with your heels) you jump at the sight of Penguin standing in front of you. “Mr Cobblepot, sir. Would you like a drink?” It’s the only reason you can think of that he would be here rather than in his office. “Yes, please.” He’s looking around warily, on edge, but you can’t see anything out of the ordinary. “What can I get you?” You pull out a cocktail shaker, ready for his order. “A gin martini,” He’s still not looking at you as you start to make the drink. It’s almost as though he’s looking for someone. “Is something wrong sir?” You know you shouldn’t pry, but you’re starting to worry a bit. He finally looks back at you, an insincere smile on his face. “Nothing, at all, dear.” You don’t believe him. He picks up the drink as soon as you set it down in front of him. “Would you be able to stay behind after your shift?” He sounds nervous. “I guess, yeah. Why?” “I’m hosting some important guests once the bar has closed. I need someone to serve drinks. You’ll be paid double your usual rate” “Okay. If you want me to, then yes. Of course.” You could stand an extra hour or two for the extra pay – and the walk home might actually be better at five in the morning. Thinking about it, you realise that out of the three servers still here you are the most experienced. It’s a sobering thought. He nods before leaving, weaving his way through the crowd, drink in hand. You wipe your hands on the dishcloth hanging from the bar, a nervous gesture. What does he mean by important guests?

The bar is closed, the last stragglers urged out by the bouncers, and you sit waiting on top of the counter. Not very professional, but your feet are aching. You hear voices coming from the corridor leading to Penguin’s office and hop down, wincing slightly. Penguin limps in, cane in hand and a look of haughty disinterest on his face. Beside him walks a man that you recognise, but have never spoken to. Victor Zsasz. Everything you know about him is from gossip and newspapers; he’s Gotham’s most infamous assassin, never failing a job, faultless aim, and a team of some of the most competent killers the world has ever seen. Logically you should be scared of him – and part of you is. But another part of you is fascinated by the man, by his unusual yet striking appearance, by his cold demeanour, by the scarred tally marks that litter his body. You’ve never seen someone so interesting. Of course, it doesn’t matter what you think of them. The only way the two of you would ever speak was if someone ordered a hit on you, and no one would be willing to spend that much on someone as insignificant as you. The two of them are speaking, so you actively try not to listen in. To emphasise your point you begin to take inventory of the bottles that line the bar behind you, even though you know you took an inventory when the lounge closed. More people begin to filter in, a few of Penguin’s security personnel, some of his associates. A few people begin to ask you for drinks and you make them as quickly as you can without dropping anything. You want to impress your boss and his men. It may not be your dream job, but you do enjoy it. It’s interesting and challenging, and you’ve made some good friends in the other girls who work here. And besides, the pay is good and life is expensive. You can’t afford to get fired. “Can I get a water?” You turn towards the voice and have to stop yourself from jumping when you see Victor Zsasz standing across the bar from you, one arm rested on the counter. He isn’t looking at you, instead surveying the room. You nod, then kick yourself mentally for doing so when he’s not paying attention to you. You duck down to the fridge and pull out a bottle of water, holding it out. “Here you go, Mr Zsasz,” You do your best to be polite, knowing that any slip up could be reported straight back to Penguin. He finally looks at you, hard blue eyes looking you up and down as he takes the bottle, opening it and taking a drink. “Tell me, do you notice anything or anyone suspicious in this room?” You tilt your head at the question, slightly confused as to why he would ask you that, but looking around anyway. It’s not particularly busy. Penguin is talking to a man wearing a dark suit. People are mostly grouped off, some circulating the room. One man stands alone at the edge of the room, nursing a drink. A virgin purple rain, if I remember correctly. “Not really,” You tell him, “But I wouldn’t say something doesn’t feel off.” He nods, taking another drink and leaving the bottle on the counter. “You have good instincts. When the shooting starts, duck.” “Wait, what-?” You barely have time to process what he’s said before he’s striding off, leaving you alone and confused. He thinks there’s going to be a fight? You can feel your hands start to shake. You tighten them into fists, forcing yourself to stay together. There’s been the occasional incident since you started working there, but right now you feel very exposed. The only place to hide is behind the bar, everywhere else blocked off by the countertop, and you doubt it’s particularly bullet-proof. Zsasz is whispering in Penguin’s ear, the latter listening carefully and nodding. You notice his hand reaching inside his suit jacket, presumably reaching for his gun when another voice draws your attention. “Excuse me, miss.” It’s the man who was on his own. He’s placed his empty glass on the counter, and you go to start making another one. However, as you lean forward, his hand twists into your hair and pulls you over the counter, smashing the glass and making you scream. You can feel broken glass in your shoulder. You hear shouting from the others in the room, and a few shots being fired. Once you’re on the other side his empty arm wraps around your neck, locking tight, while the one in your hair loosens and he pulls out a gun, which is immediately pointed at the side of your head. You grab at the arm almost choking you in a futile attempt at escape, but when he tightens it again you stop, instead holding onto it to stop yourself from falling. The rest of the room is staring at you, most of them having pulled out their guns. Penguin stands at the front, his eyes fixed on the assailant. Victor is nowhere to be seen. His hand is raised to stop the others from shooting. “What do you want?” He calls out and the man points his gun away from you and towards Penguin. “The blackmail you have on Nails’ gang. All of it.” Penguin takes a step forward and the gun returns to your head, making you gasp. Penguin stops, his eyes flickering over to you. “Don’t be stupid,” He warns, “You’re outnumbered and outgunned. Even if you got the information, do you really think you would leave here alive?” “I’ve got leverage,” He shifts his arm, lifting you slightly off the ground and making you cling tighter to him. This is not how you had expected the night to go. Your heart is racing at a mile a minute, your mind spinning. One false move from anyone in the room and you would be dead. A body on the floor, your brains blown out. Penguin raises his gun again and you hear the safety click off. Your eyes squeeze shut, preparing for death. But when you hear the gunshot, it’s not the one pointed at your head. The body holding you goes limp and you both fall to the floor, knees colliding harshly with the cold wood. You look back to see Victor standing at the entryway to the club, gun still raised. Your chest is heaving, adrenaline rushing through your veins. The man lies next to you, eyes open and vacant, blood trickling out of the back of your head. Your rest a hand on your still sore throat, feeling the place where you’re sure bruises will form. “Everybody out!” Penguin screams, the room almost immediately emptying of everyone besides you, Penguin, and Victor. The assassin makes his way over to you, helping you onto your feet and guiding you over to where Penguin stands fuming. “I want Nails and his gang dead. All of them.” He spits at Victor, who nods. You just stand there, not sure whether to stay or leave until Penguin turns to face you. “I am so sorry, Miss (Y/L/N). If I had thought the night would go like this, I would never have asked you to be here.” “It wasn’t your fault, sir.” Even now you’re still respectful, aware that no matter how sympathetic he is now, one wrong move could mean the end of you. “And I knew what I was signing up to when I started working here.” There’s a pretty high turnover in staff. Of course, you don’t say that to him, but you’re both thinking it. “Regardless, I’ll ensure you’re compensated. And make sure you get that cleaned up,” He gestures to your shoulder, which you glance at to find glass embedded in and blood oozing from. You hiss slightly, more at the image than the pain. Penguin turns away, undoubtedly off to start scheming methods of revenge against Nails, but he stops. “Victor,” The assassin looks up from his gun, which he was examining in the same way you had been examining the shelves at the bar, “I want you to escort Miss (Y/L/N) home. Make sure she doesn’t get into any more trouble.” You resent the wording, the suggestion that you got yourself into trouble, but you appreciate the gesture. “Sure thing, boss.” He holsters his gun, smiling at you – you can’t tell if it’s sincere or mocking. No matter which, you smile back self-consciously. “I just need to grab my stuff,” You point awkwardly to the corridor that leads to the staff room and walk past him, feeling his and Penguin’s eyes watching you as you leave.

Jacket on, heels switched for trainers, and your bag slung over your shoulder, you turn off the light and close the door to the staff room. You return to the bar to find Victor leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, whistling. When he sees you he straightens up and offers you a glass that had been sitting beside him. You look at it, confused. “Vodka. Figured you could use some after tonight.” You shrug, taking the glass and downing it in one. You weren’t a massive drinker, but the vodka here was good quality and you would never turn down free booze. And he was right; after the night you’d had you could do with some numbing. “Ready to go?” “You don’t have to walk me, you know,” You tell him as you head towards the elevator, Victor on your heels. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s following orders.” He quips as the two of you step inside. It feels strange to be in such close quarters with such a dangerous man, but you’re strangely at ease. “Really?” You laugh quietly. “I would have thought killing would be the one thing you’re good at.” You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, finding him watching you with a sly grin. “You have a point,” He concedes. “Besides, like the boss said: can’t have you getting into any more trouble.” The elevator doors open and he leads the way out of the building, turning in the direction of your apartment. You struggle to keep up with him, needing to speedwalk to match his long, purposeful strides. The streets are empty save for the occasional car. You were right, it is better than walking home at three; that’s when all the clubs close, and drunk people flood the city looking for somewhere to go. Not fun. “I feel like I can’t be blamed for that,” You muse, “Considering it was your boss’s fault that I got into any trouble in the first place.” “He’s your boss too,” Victor comments, making you roll your eyes. “I think we work in slightly different areas. I make drinks, you…” You don’t want to say it; you don’t want to be so blunt, considering his line of work. “Kill people?” He fills in, and you nod. “Does that scare you?” He sounds genuinely curious, and it makes you think. “No,” is the conclusion you eventually come to, “I can’t see any reason you would have to kill me, so I’m not scared of you.” Another thought comes to mind, and you struggle to hold back the grin that tries to fight its way onto your face. “Also, you did save my life, so…” “Well, that was more protecting Penguin than anything,” he counters, but a quick glance at his face tells you that he’s teasing you. You walk in silence for a few minutes, until he breaks it unexpectedly. “You know, I never caught your name,” He frames it as a statement, but you know it’s really a question. “(Y/N).” You tell him. “And I know who you are.” “Of course you do. Everyone does.” “Arrogant much?” You chuckle. “Not so much arrogant as self-aware.” “Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Victor stops walking and you copy him, only now realising you’re in front of your building. You fish out your keys from your bag and unlock the front door, turning back to face him. “Well, thank you, Victor.” He gives you a strange look when you say his name, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Before you lose the courage the alcohol has given you, you lean up on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek, slipping into the building and letting the door slam behind you; if he says anything, you don’t hear it. You can feel the blush spreading across your cheeks as you climb the stairs quickly. You hope that, after tonight, Victor might speak to you at the lounge more often.

Victor stands outside, watching as the lights of your apartment flick on, then off a few minutes later. A small smirk graces his face, there from the moment you kissed his cheek. He’s glad you didn’t notice how he knew the way to your apartment. It would have brought up too many questions. But now he’s got an excuse to talk to you, and maybe even more.

MASTERLIST

#victor zsasz #victor zsasz x reader #reader #gotham x reader #Gotham #gotham fanfic #gotham fanfiction #Oswald Cobblepot #penguin

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tkmedia · 3 years

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Gray Matter: Joshua-Usyk and the lessons learned

Photo by Mark Robinson/ Matchroom Boxing. 26 Sep by Tom Gray LONDON – So, it’s the morning after the night before. First of all, the atmosphere inside the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium last night will always stay with me. By the time the venue had filled to capacity, which coincided with Lawrence Okolie’s third-round knockout of Dilan Prasovic in a WBO cruiserweight title defense, you could scarcely hear yourself think. There was 67,000 fans, soccer-style chanting, dancing, beer flying through the air and spine-tingling renditions of “Hey Jude” and – obviously – “Sweet Caroline.” It was a magnificent event! When the Joshua-Usyk fight was first announced, I found it very difficult to pick a winner. I ultimately settled on Joshua winning a decision because I felt that trainer Robert McCracken could formulate a game plan that would nullify Usyk’s speed and movement. The saying goes that a jab counters speed and Joshua’s lead hand is a superb weapon that would be aided by a four-inch reach advantage. But regardless of my official pick, I was never confident. I continually asked myself: What does Joshua have that Usyk hasn’t seen before? After all, the challenger had taken part in 350 amateur fights, claiming gold at both the 2011 World Championships and the 2012 London Olympics. He then competed in the World Series of Boxing and won all six fights, two of them by stoppage. And if that’s not enough, he was the former undisputed cruiserweight champion of the world. Would size, power and a great jab be enough to rattle this guy? Well, we got our answer.

Photo by Mark Robinson/ Matchroom Boxing There were three moments in the fight that were standout for me. Firstly, Usyk came out to stamp his authority in Round 1, scoring hard and fast with the left hand down the pipe. Three perfectly delivered power shots struck Joshua in the face and you could literally see the champion’s eyes widen from ringside. Usyk was determined to get respect from the bigger and more powerful man and this early assault was by design. The tactic actually reminded of Muhammad Ali launching a string of risky right leads at George Foreman in the first round of The Rumble in the Jungle. “Oh, I can’t hit? Have some of this!” In the sixth round Joshua nailed Usyk with a flush straight right that had an immediate effect. From a 240-pound man, wearing 12oz gloves, that punch must have felt like being bashed in the face with a telegraph pole. Usyk lost that round on my card, and his head would have have been buzzing when he returned to his corner. It was a fight or flight moment for the challenger. What would he do? Well, instead of going on the defensive, the Ukrainian maestro crossed himself at start of the seventh, looked skyward in prayer and won the round easily on clean, effective punching. It was yet another message to the bigger man: “I took your best and I’m going nowhere!” Usyk was dominating the physical fight and he was dominating the psychological fight. And that was never more evident than in the 12th and final round. By this point anyone scoring the contest without an agenda knew that the defending champ needed a knockout to win. Usyk knew it, too, and could have used his feet to stay clear of danger. That’s just not the way he’s built. Aware that Joshua was softened up after sustaining 11 rounds of punishment, the challenger could now take the risk of punching with him. He answered every exchange and came close to producing a dramatic stoppage in the closing seconds. Joshua required two minutes on his stool following the final bell, whereas Usyk, despite sporting some facial injuries, looked like he could have completed the 15-round distance with ease.

Respect after battle. Photo by Mark Robinson/ Matchroom Boxing At 6-foot-3 and 220 pounds, what we have now is a heavyweight who is almost identical – dimension-wise and weight-wise – to prime versions of Muhammad Ali, Larry Holmes and Evander Holyfield. What those smaller champions lacked in comparison to modern day behemoths like Wladimir Klitschko and Joshua, they more than made up for with speed, mobility, pace, technical craft and punch variety. And their gas tanks were beyond reproach. Usyk has all of those attributes plus he’s a lefty. Joshua should be commended for accepting the challenge because he didn’t have to take this fight. Would he have been any less the superstar if he’d vacated the WBO title and let Usyk contest the vacant strap against Joe Joyce? No! Had Joshua gone in a different direction, a select group of fight fans may have crucified him on social media, but any scandal would have blown over in a week or so. Matchroom promoter Eddie Hearn suggested at the post-fight press conference that, in hindsight, avoiding Usyk would have been smart, but he was quick to point out that Joshua is not cut that way. Full credit to the former champion for always testing himself. Can Joshua turn it around? Holyfield was clearly outpointed by Riddick Bowe in November 1992 and gained revenge the following year by adopting a smarter and more layered game plan. “The Real Deal” claimed a majority decision over Bowe and became the fourth fighter in history to regain the heavyweight championship (alongside Floyd Patterson, Ali and Tim Witherspoon). Holyfield, a well-rounded and complete pro, accomplished that feat as an underdog, which is the position Joshua will find himself in when the rematch is made. You can never count him out – he’s overcome adversity before – but this return fight will be next-level dangerous for Joshua. If you weren’t sold on Usyk’s heavyweight potential prior to last night, then you’re certainly sold now. Tom Gray is Managing Editor for Ring Magazine. Follow him on Twitter: @Tom_Gray_Boxing GET THE LATEST ISSUE AT THE RING SHOP (CLICK HERE) or Subscribe

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lolainblue · 6 years

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Presque Vu -- Chapter 30

A/N Well here we go again. Thank you for every one that is still on board. I don’t know if the tag list is up to date or not, so if you want to be tagged but aren’t, or if you’re tagged but don’t want to be, please let me know.

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

When Raina got into work on Wednesday morning the studio was strangely silent and empty. She brought up the main lights as she passed toward her workstation, swallowing dryly as she scanned the eerily vacant space around her. Before she could get settled in, Val appeared at her side, his brow furrowed.

“Come back to my office and have a seat, Raina. I'm afraid I have some news,” he requested. He didn't wait to see if she complied, simply turning around and retreating to his office. Raina dried her palms on her skirt before following him.

Once she had had a seat across from his desk Val slowly puffed his cheeks and let the air gradually pass through his parsed lips. “You know, the media industry has been going through a lot of changes,” he began. “Traditional media, print publications, have been the hardest hit. We have been trying to reimagine ourselves here and keep up with the times but I'm afraid it just hasn't been enough.”

Raina shifted in her seat, again wiping her sweating palms against the cool fabric of her skirt. This can't be happening the voice in her head thundered but she was certain she knew where all this was going. She tried to keep her breathing slow and even, determined not to let the panic bubbling in her stomach overtake her. The rest of Val's speech roared past her ears like the wash from a jet engine. The publishing company that owned their magazine along with several others was restructuring departments for better efficiency. The art department the studio fell under was being merged with the others and 75 percent of the overall staff from the three were being let go. There was no more job for her here. Her internship for the final portion of her MFA was gone. Her job, her education, pulled out from under her in one swift blow.

“Dammit, Raina, I am so sorry,” Val reached out and placed his hand over hers. He was easily the most distant person Raina had ever worked with and the gesture startled her. “I want you to know I fought hard to keep you. You're the best damn assistant I've had in 20 years in this business.”

“What?” Raina looked at Val in puzzlement. He had always been so gruff with her. She had felt as if she were constantly struggling to please him and consistently disappointing him. It had never occurred to her that her efforts were even noticed, let alone appreciated. “I thought that...”

Val shook his head. “I know. I'm not the easiest boss to have. But you never let it bother you and you were always unfailingly professional and competent, no matter what I threw at you. You always seemed to understand exactly what I wanted. I hate like hell that it is ending this way.” He took his hand back and started shuffling through the folders on his desk “There's a small severance package but...' he cleared his throat as he continued to rifle through the stack, finding one and handing it to her. “There's also a list of some available job opportunities in there that you might be interested in. I'm sorry I don't know if they will meet your internship requirements for your school program, you'll have to check with them on that. There's also a list of some contacts of mine, people in the industry who might be able to assist you if you find yourself struggling. Just tell them I referred you and they'll help you out if they can. I also included the most glowing letter of recommendation I could come up with. I hope it helps. My personal information is in there too, you can call me if you need me to give someone an extra nudge.”

“Wow Val, that's very generous.” Raina was completely blown away by his gesture, and as she clutched the little brown binder in her lap she could feel tears welling up behind her eyes that weren't due to the sudden job loss.

“It's the least I could do after they pulled the rug out from under you like this. Oh and there's something else.” Val reached around to the other side of his desk and pulled out a large deep blue leather portfolio which he handed to Raina. “I want you to have this. I started it when you first started with us. It's all your work, well the best of it anyway. I had intended to fill it until you graduated, to give it to you as a memento of your time here and to show how much you had progressed. I am sorry I won't be able to finish it for you but it does give you something to present to prospective employers.”

Raina smoothed her hand over the expensive leather before opening it up, flipping through the oversized pages to see shots she had set up and taken over the course of the year she had worked there. She could really see how much she had grown under Val's tutelage. It was true he had been a difficult boss but he had been an amazing teacher, and she was bereaved to be losing him, more than the job itself. “This is amazing and so thoughtful. Thank you.”

Val nodded and stood up, their exchange clearly over. “Do you need any help in gathering your things and getting them to your car? I know you keep a few things here in the office. I have some boxes for you....”

“No, thank you. I can manage to pack it all up myself,” Raina responded, walking back to her desk. She was still in a bit of a daze as she looked around, trying to think of what to pack.

Val appeared momentarily with a few boxes which he sat down with a mysterious smile. Raina took the lid off the first one to begin loading her things into it and found it was full of equipment, lenses and filters and one of the older cameras they didn't use very often. “Uhm, Val? There's a camera and things in this one.”

“No there isn't,” Val called back from across the room.

“Yeah, it's one of the old Nikons.”

“No. There's nothing in there,” Val said again more firmly while smiling at her. The lightbulb went on in Raina's head and she couldn't hold back the grin that erupted on her face. The camera was far nicer than any she owned, and the lenses themselves were worth a small fortune. She wasn't sure how he was going to explain their disappearance, probably would write them off in the confusion of combining the various departments, but she was deeply grateful for the gift. As horrible as this morning was, Val's behavior was certainly softening the blow.

Once she was sure she had gathered everything Val walked her out to her car, carrying a third box of god only knew what and tucking it into the back seat with the others once she had loaded them up. She handed him her ID badge before climbing into the driver's seat. “Thank you for the opportunity. Thank you for being such a good teacher,” she said as he leaned in her window.

“Don't let this derail you. It's one small setback and it's nothing to do with you or your talent or abilities. It's just bad luck. I know you're going to go on to great things if you want to.” He gave the car door a couple of raps and then turned to go back inside.

Raina watched him disappear back into the building before her gaze fell back to the steering wheel in front of her. It was just after 10 a.m. on a weekday. She had no idea what to do with herself. The thought of starting her job search immediately sounded way to overwhelming. She scanned the parking lot, wondering why she hadn't registered when she came in how empty it was today. With a sudden clutch of panic, she looked around for Cassie's car, but the powder blue Fiat was nowhere to be seen. She quickly fished her phone out of her bag.

“Raina?” Cassie picked up on the first ring. “Oh my god I've been hanging by the phone waiting for you to call. They wouldn't tell me who was staying and who was being let go....”

“Me.” Raina thought her voice sounded strangely flat and she figured she was still in a bit of a shock. “I was let go.”

“Fuck, Raina, I'm so sorry. They're keeping me...”

“Of course they're going to keep the pregnant lady. They look like real bastards if they don't.”

“But honestly I didn't even care. I probably could have used the time off. I was so worried about you. What is this going to do to your MFA program? Can you find somewhere else?”

“I don't know. It's kind of late. I suppose if worse comes to worse I can work for a year and pick it back up later.”

“No, that's terrible! There has to be something!”

“I don't....” It all rushed in on her then, the enormity to which she was screwed. She didn't make much at the magazine and her savings were meager. She hadn't checked the folder but she was sure her severance package was not particularly generous and there was no way she was going to be able to pay L.A. rent on an unemployment stipend, no matter how modest that little apartment of hers was. She was going to have to find something quickly. She could feel the panic building again, her throat starting to close as her fingers went numb and heart raced, and she had to close her eyes and breathe through to the next moment.

“Raina? Raina!” She could hear Cassie calling to her through the phone, her voice distant. Raina focused on the sound of it until she began to feel in control again.

“I'm here. I'm trying not to freak out but I'm here,” Raina confirmed, her hands shaking.

“Well stop being there and come over here right now. It's beer and pizza night anyway. We can start with the beer early. Well, you can start with the beer. I think I'm having apple juice.”

“I don't know, Cass. It's only ten in the morning and I think maybe I should save my money since I don't know how long this is going to last...”

“Oh don't be ridiculous. You're going to find a new job like that. You're amazing. Besides, no one said you had to spend any money. My treat. Pizza and ice cream and sympathy, free of charge. And all the booze you want too if you choose to go that route. Just get your skinny ass over here.”

Part of Raina wanted to go home and hide under her quilt and watch Netflix. Here was a giant crisis just lying in her way, spilled across the road like an upended gravel truck. It was the perfect excuse to tuck tail and run. But she could hear Val telling her she was bound for great things. She could hear Shannon's voice in her head, telling her to stop quitting. And here was Cassie, a real and true friend, who wasn't looking to take advantage of the situation. A friend who, instead of thinking of herself had immediately worried about Raina's situation, who was standing by with open arms. She was stronger than her fear, she told herself. She wasn't going to fall apart again. The people in her life now weren't the ones that she had chosen then. It was time to find out if she had made better choices this time around.

“I'll be there in an hour. I need to stop by my place and drop some things off first and change.”

“Okay, but you had better mean it. Don't you disappear on me,” Cassie admonished.

“I won't. I promise.”

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

Raina was cross-legged on Cassie's living room floor, halfway through her bottle of wine and laughing hysterically while Cassie described her latest attempt at accommodating her growing belly and function normally when her phone rang. A quick glance at the screen told her it was Shannon.

“Hey handsome,” she giggled into the receiver as she picked it up.

“Well someone is in a good mood,” he responded.

“Oh no. I'm just fighting back panic and hysteria,” Raina told him as her voice steadied.

“Uhm... I'm not sure how to respond to that. What's happening?” Shannon asked.

“Oh, the magazine just laid off three-quarters of its staff. Including me. And that was my internship for my last two semesters for my degree so I'm not just broke, I'm completely screwed. But hey, I've got a bottle of wine and Cassie can't tie her shoes without falling over so it's handled.”

“Uhm... again I'm not sure how to respond to that. I'm really sorry about your job though. I was just calling to see if you still wanted to get together this evening for the pizza thing. We've been working but Jared didn't want you to be alone for the first time you've ever invited us into your life, so he's kicking me out of here to come see you.”

“Aww, my boyfriends are so sweet!” I giggled into the phone. “I'll text you the address.”

“Your friends, they know that...”

“This is all between us. They're cool. Just get your gorgeous ass over here,” I told him. Cassie started laughing again and topped off my wine glass.

“All right, Rainy girl. I'll be over in an hour or so. Are you drinking? Don't get sloppy drunk before I even get to see you, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Raina responded. “Oh no wait, that's Jared.”

“It's me if that'll get you to listen any better. I'll see you soon.”

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

When Shannon finally arrived it was closer to two hours later, but when Raina greeted him at the door he had a pastry box in one hand and a huge mixed bouquet in the other.

“What on earth?” Raina exclaimed as he handed her the flowers.

“Those are from Jared. We're sorry you lost your job.” He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as she pulled the card out of the bouquet.

So sorry. Call if you need me. XOXO ~J

Raina clutched the card to her chest and led Shannon through the house to where Cassie was waiting. “You remember Cassidy, right?”

Shannon smiled. “How could I forget? How have you been?”

“Fat,” Cassie said with a smirk. “But not for too much longer. Great flowers Raina. What's that?” She asked as she pointed at the box Shannon was holding.

“Oh. The flowers are from Jared but this is from me. It's one of those pies we got on our second date, the one you loved so much.”

Raina gasped in delight. “The whiskey pecan one from that Chophouse?” Shannon nodded. Raina squealed and took the box from him. “Cassie, get a couple of forks, You're going to love this.”

Cassie laughed and took the flowers from her. “I'll put these in some water first so they don't die before you can take them home.”

Once Cassie had disappeared into the kitchen Shannon slipped his arms around Raina, pulling her close against him before pressing his lips to her forehead. She could feel herself relaxing, a deep sigh winding it's way out from her chest as his scent surrounded her.

“How are you holding up?” he asked gently. Raina shrugged. “It's going to be okay. Don't quit on me.”

Raina couldn't help but roll her eyes. “You know I had a bit of a panic when it started to set in what was actually happening and I could hear you in my head saying that same exact thing.”

“Good. That means I”m getting through that thick skull of yours.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “I'm not going to pretend like I'm not scared as hell right now. It feels a little bit like I'm back to where I was before I came out here. Like I haven't made any progress at all. But I am kind of realizing I have.”

Shannon kissed her forehead again. “You can do this. I know you can. But I wish you'd open up and tell me what your story is. I feel like I could be so much more supportive if I knew where you were coming from.”

Maybe it was the bottle of wine she had finished off earlier but this time when Shannon asked about her past, she didn't feel the trepidation she usually did. There was no flutter of her heart, or flip of her stomach, or strangely sweaty palms. Maybe she was finally ready. “Okay.”

Shannon blinked at her. “Okay? Really? Just like that?”

She gave his chest a gentle shove. “Don't make me rethink this. Sit down with me over that pie and I'll tell you the whole thing.”

He kissed her again on the cheek and Raina turned her head, catching his mouth and opening it softly,, feeling her mind settle at the familiarity of him. She felt safe here, in his arms, in Cassie's living room. Safer than she had in years. And for once she wasn't thinking about how it could all be taken from her. She was finally in the moment.

@msroxyblog @nikkitasevoli@maliciousalishious@meghan12151977 @fyeahproudglambert @pheenixpeterson

#shannon leto fanfiction #jared leto fanfiction #shannon leto fic #jared leto fic #30 seconds to mars fanfiction #30stm #Presque Vu

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rposervices · 5 years

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How to Hire with Limited Resources

An efficient hiring process can be difficult to perfect. It’s even more of a challenge when you’ve got limited resources to deal with. From budget limitations, to lack of time, to a small hiring team; these obstacles can all be damaging to your hiring process. Especially in an increasingly candidate-driven market. The U.S. job market is particularly volatile right now, with the China trade conflict continuing to threaten a full-blown global downturn. With broader economic growth beginning to slow, it’s important for businesses to secure the right candidate for their roles and avoid repeating the hiring process unnecessarily. Smaller businesses that are battling with tighter budgets and lack of resources are likely to feel the effects more keenly. However, a vacant position that goes unfilled for many months is likely to cause big problems for a company of any size. And in the current economic climate, can you really afford to make mistakes in your hiring process? Smoothing out the problems in your strategy will result in an increase in business productivity, improved employee morale and a better brand reputation. Getting the right person on board really will make a difference to your company. In light of this, this guide will help you learn how to hire with limited resources and level the playing field. Can’t afford to invest a ton of money into your hiring process? No problem! It’s easier than you think, and you’ll still be able to reel in fantastic candidates. Develop a Strong Employee Referral Scheme Every company, no matter what size, should have an employee referral system in place. After all, your existing employees are the best resource you already have for finding new candidates. They’re able to refer people who they know will mesh well with your company culture, while also providing an honest testimonial to the candidate. This means the potential recruit is less likely to leave further down the line due to unmet expectations. Moreover, employee referrals are a cost-effective way to hire with limited resources. Sure, you may have to offer a cash incentive to your staff, but you don’t have to bust the bank. In many cases, you can save money this way and most employees will be happy to assist their friends and family in landing a job. Not to mention that your employees’ contacts will widen your talent pool exponentially. If one employee shares a job vacancy on their LinkedIn network, you’ll automatically be reaching a multitude of potential new candidates. So, can you afford not to have a strong employee referral scheme in place? Consider Advertising Internally The dream hires that you’re looking for could be right under your nose, so why not advertise internally first? It could be that a member of your team has been after a new position for ages. It’s worth giving them the chance to apply before offending them by searching externally. Furthermore, it’ll increase employee loyalty if you’re able to offer them new opportunities internally. Increasing staff retention rates is a more cost-effective and sustainable solution than continually bringing in new team members. If you decide that you need to post jobs externally, then use job boards to find the best matches for your vacancies. Many of these sites have cost-effective options which take your needs into consideration. Promote Your Company Culture A renowned company culture is highly desirable and will go a long way to solidifying your employer brand. When competing against companies with seemingly unlimited resources, promoting your company culture is a great place to start. Salary alone may attract candidates; but isn’t always enough to retain them. Unfortunately, it’s difficult for candidates to see if they’ll like your company culture before they get settled in. However, it’s not impossible. Candidates will often scour employee review sites before accepting a job, as they want to hear from employees themselves. You can make this easier for them by uploading their testimonials to your careers page. If you know that your company really hits it out of the park when it comes to rewards and socials, don’t be afraid to ask employees to comment on this! It only needs to be a line or two to add credibility to your claims and encourage more candidates to respond to your job adverts. Offer Competitive Benefits Packages Hiring with limited resources doesn’t mean you can’t offer a killer benefits package. In fact, remote working is one of the most important factors in improving employees’ work-life balance right now. 82% of U.S. workers say the ability to work from anywhere, at any time, allows them to maintain a healthy work-life balance. When you implement remote and flexible working options, you’ll be able to attract more applicants without breaking the bank. Other budget-friendly ideas include dress-down Fridays, birthdays off work, free food and drinks in the office and other retail discounts. Most importantly, however, is to offer employees training and development opportunities. Ensure that your employees can see a future with your company by helping them gain new skills and increase their market value. You’re bound to improve your retention rates and reduce your need to hire. Maximize Candidate Experience As mentioned previously, a salary isn’t everything when it comes to securing candidates. Of course, it’s still a primary factor, but candidates may also measure their future with a company based on their happiness and wellbeing. If you can offer a great candidate experience, you’ll show why they should choose you over another company. Therefore, the interactions you have with the candidate throughout the hiring process count for more than you might think. The key to creating a positive candidate experience is honesty. Be upfront about crucial aspects like salary, location and the job role from the onset. Keep the lines of communication open throughout; from inviting the candidate to interview, to telling them the outcome of the process. Even if it’s bad news; it shows that you value their time. Don’t Let Limited Resources Hold You Back Learning how to hire with limited resources can be a slow process, but it shows that there’s no need for you to miss out on top talent. Candidates want so much more than just a bumper salary nowadays, so it’s crucial that you can offer the whole package. Make the most out of your most valuable assets; your current employees and develop a well-rounded benefits package, alongside create a fantastic candidate experience. When you’ve perfected the process for your business, you’ll have no trouble in hiring with limited resources. Read the full article

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the-firebird69 · 3 years

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Your motorcycle idea is the best thing we've ever had and we provide them for all of our teams that are safe and behind the wall and there are tons of them by the way they have huge armies of people that's how they get around for the most part it's really easy and you have to go short distance and get on to get off and get on to get off it's very easy and something like four wheelers but it's okay we have tons of those lots of them like the new VW Lunatic and we have just a huge boatload of those and they don't require a fuel so it saves us fuel for weaponry and ships and so brilliant way to get things done and if you have to charge up which we told them how and we trained you can it's an amazing system it's not recommended though but they had to.

We are introducing it now and a lot of places entertainment areas of satanists like their roller coasters and amusement parks theme parks carnivals and circuses and where giving away them free as a contest and we're circulating marketing material as a result of the entries and we're doing it at practically every mall on Earth we have the whole family there and then we have some big honking cruisers and hot rods or really he calls them choppers and we have the light cycles and we put them in a bunch of malls too and put them there high tech areas and tons of people buy them and we're infiltrating using them so we need people to sign on for these duties

Hera Zues

I'm providing a way in for hours in here we're putting in shops and lots of little ones and they're selling our products in each product has a shop and we're going to put in your mega vape store it's huge you just gigantic and has every brand and make that they that they make and we're taking them over too and we're putting in these Mega stores everywhere and taking over all the vape stores as we do it and here in town we're taking over a whole bunch of little shops they're just sitting there and nobody's really there actually some of them people aren't even going to them anymore or they're not even around so we're taking over the ones that they're not around at and we're finally papers and we're owning them and we're pulling their card on it too and if you're not there and you're not running it and it's vacant it's abandoned and we've been doing it for months and their security tons of them today and we're moving in condo complexes and housing complexes and tons of trailer parks or hours with trailers that actually would make it through a storm and their stormworthy and we're moving them out and tons and tons of that stuff's going in also moving on Walmart and we're going to start doing it here cuz we can't stand you people at all it's so arrogant you're losing and take over your towers on the Earth and use some scrap for shoring for mining so we need them.

Nearby we have a hard knock facility going in that leads to the trail that goes to the trail station trail center out there it's been there for years here and put to go to and we're putting in that parking lot half of it's going in today the other half will be a huge storage facility a giant Warehouse about 2 million or 3 million square feet and we're going to try and go down one story at least one story and we might go two or three and put in huge diapers and bladders and pumps because we want to fill it up everyday and there's tons of people who are at it saying no it's going to be an eyesore so we're planning to put up pines in those tall pines we'll cover the whole building they do it all over Southern Florida by the way you can't tell what's around here and they say no and we say yes and it's in planning and we're going to have to go in there and ask them if the town needs anything or townspeople like a few cases of whiskey and had a party that they want actually put on a party tonight out there and we're going to have all sorts of hard knock bikes and memorabilia and contests and giveaways in the parking lot and we're going to cure it I'm going to start now so why don't you pave that things we can have a party and pay off all these people so he goes okay I will get to put it down all of a sudden he said okay so we're going to go ahead and do that he said you should probably bring some of your fantastic trucks and have all the same stuff on them so he's doing that it's like a little kid and he's going crazy with it telling people to get everything out of the way he's a scooter his bike is killing him it's a pain in the balls

Hera Zues

I have a location for a store Ken says it's for your version not Sebastian cuz you won't give me a job at all not even cleaning up it's such a pill he's kind of a b**** and he doesn't really hire anyone he doesn't have anyone it's kind of a lunatic I was thinking more of a hard knocks door but that's fine since we need someone for the lunatics store and you have costumes today I can't figure out it's you anyways we go right up to you no it's funny so don't take over my conversation too it's funny cuz we let him that you're just aware now we want to see what you're saying now Thor is.

I was thinking I could run that hard knock accessory store in the mall and open several a lot of people do that with accessories for their bikes and stuff and it would be interesting and something to do and I'm wondering about it and start thinking it's 5150 stuff my life would be an instant hell so I think I might ask about that Segway store and you have all these Segway type things skateboards segways gear and helmets and shirts and it's like that skateboard place maybe competing and their place sucks it just sells one version of skateboard and a bunch of shirts it's nothing to it it's competition probably knocked him out for someone else they say I'm hired and they're going to send paperwork and in the Fitty the new one to test it out and show people you driving around on it and to see what they say cuz they probably closing on you and stuff and threaten for a Segway and Sim Segway okay just to buy one and that's enough for me

Ken says. We send the paperwork and we're going to get down to you and it's me still and couldn't remember who's doing it cuz he started doing stuff and it's going to be awful because he's always like this and people think he's just out at the lunch but it's really the part of being a leader but here it's terrible that's the weirdos do it sometimes stuff sometimes it's not to have to keep checking so we're going to ap prove it and kennel trying to get the tech and we're going to monitor and he's going to be selling our stuff and it'll sell pretty good and come to think of it there's something about Sears it's attractive to us because it's a department store I can put a store in there and not call it Sim. It's kind of a department store but it's more like Sears where we have machines and lawn mowers and zero turn radius lawn mowers that can beat yours in a race and we've been having these zero turn radius lawn mower races and yours get beat by us every time so they're asking for it to put it in there they might put in the lawn mowers today and see how it goes and the manager saying yes I'm putting in a very large variety of them it says yes to that and Big Time she might put something outside or even help out with the landscaping we have a licensed company and we can use all Sim products and put them inside and say we're doing work outside and do it for free and leave the trees you want so bringing new ones those things are kind of tall he says nothing radical but yes so we're going to do that for a section of Mall and we're going to bring in all our small equipment and show what it can do I'm going to set it up and we're going to renovate part of Sears if we can I'm just trying to get approved and use tools and equipment that we sell and show it on display in front of it and around it it says around it like you coordinate off and you put plastic up if it's dirty but really Accord it all off and you show them using it and you just play it and you have someone explain it with a microphone while they're doing it that's kind of the coolest thing I've ever seen and you can do the whole Sears if we can take it over and he says yes so do it piece mail while we're selling stuff he makes us look like we're not humongous

Hera Zues

We have approval and we're going to send the guy a house a nice one and he's going to have to pick where though that's kind of the problem and he says okay that's fine and it was not by his prodding it's something that Zeus said to do and I agree with it instead of life Thor Fred says we do agree it's a fantastic marketing system and we can have some robots sent over the vacuuming and cleaning and things like that our cooking system is not a full-blown robot so that's fine and you put in one of his pools it was redesigned and he likes it and it says we could actually do a pool company and he says yeah I can have robots do it no no we want to do it ourselves so we're going to put in his brand of pool and say it's his company and people try and find him with the money also to get the idea you're going to try and get it cleared and going to go to Olympus with a full package and then I'm going to be on the crew probably torturing him no I have just a couple ladies mom and daughter

Hera Zues

Manager of town cntr mall

I'd like to be involved in this because it sounds like a lot of fun and I think we should and we have the town management and we have the AVP I need to be getting supplies there most likely and supposedly the sun ripped it off so people will be trying to pull tons of stuff on them and we think it would be a lot of fun this is a huge number of pool people that would be opposed to it supposed to be the idiots ordering the pools

Mac daddy

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makingscipub · 7 years

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Making science popular: Science communication in 19th-century France

Some weeks ago I saw a tweet in my timeline which contained an engraving of an iguanodon skeleton. The skeleton had been exhibited in Brussels and its picture appeared in the 1883* issue of the French popular science magazine La Science Illustrée.

This made me think of an old blog post of mine entitled “Making Science Picturesque”, where I had talked about popular science magazines in France. In that post I had not mentioned La Science Illustrée, as I had focused on titles like Le Magasin Pittoresque. Intrigued by the iguanodon, I looked La Science Illustrée up on Gallica, the digital arm of the Bibliothèque Nationale, where you can now access many of the old journals that popularised science in France in the 19th and early 20th century. I read the introduction to the first issue which said that this journal was the successor to La Science Populaire which I had also not mentioned in my blog post.

This stimulated yet again my interest in the history of science communication. Numerous popular science magazines and journals were published in France during the 19th century. And yet none of them were mentioned in a recent special issue by the Journal of Science Communication which focused on the history of science communication.

Popularising science in 19th-century France

After rummaging around a bit, I discovered that there are some books and articles dealing with such popular science magazines in the UK and Germany, for example, and that there are quite a few dealing with the popularisation or ‘vulgarisation’ of science in France. One article/book in particular seems to be important in this context, but I couldn’t access it online: Catherine Benedic (1990). “Le Monde des vulgarisateurs”, in: La science pour tous, sur la vulgarisation scientifique en France de 1850 à 1914, edited by Bruno Béguet, Paris, Bibliothèque du conservatoire national des arts et métiers.

I found one review of this work from 1993 (but again I could only access a bit of it) which points out with some surprise that “in that most commonplace communicating task of all – the communication of science – the French have been so successful, so often, for so long. With its splendidly equipped science museums, its network of science centers, and strong and constant government support, France is today leading the world in promoting scientific literacy and the public understanding of science” – as it seems to have done for quite a while.

Although there must be much more out there than I could find through a quick search, I just want to mention two more names. One is the philosopher and historian of science Bernadette Bensaude-Vincent who has carried out some interesting research on popular science writers, such as Camille Flammarion, for example. Flammarion tried to frame popular science as something ‘cool’, as opposed to academic science, which was framed as rather ‘cold’ (a topic that would deserve some more digging). The other is Annie Lagarde-Fouquet, a historian of popular science writing, who has written extensively about Édouard Charton, editor of the seminal Magasin Pittoresque, and his fight against ignorance and for social equality – a really fascinating story.

In this blog post I can, naturally, not provide an in-depth study of French popular science magazines for English readers. Instead I just want to translate the introductions to the first issues of La Science Populaire (1880) and La Science Illustrée (1888), so as to give readers a taste for what’s out there.

La Science Populaire

La Science Populaire was published weekly between 1880 and 1884. It ran to 188 editions and its editor in chief was Adolphe Bitard, a French journalist and scientific publisher. He founded this journal and, some years later, just before his death, La Science Illustrée. His foreword to the first edition of La Science Populaire reads as follows:

“We are founding today a journal of a new genre, responding, we believe, to new public needs, especially to this thirst for learning which has spread amongst the masses, and which seems to be a distinctive sign of our times. Following an official program, learning to recite all the parts of a parrot, in view of whatever diploma, just to forget the facts once the diploma has been obtained: this is not what this is about. But neither is our aim for readers to become scientists (‘savants’): such an ambition would require that one sacrifices one’s entire life to it, and not everybody has the means to do that. However, people want to have access to true notions about everything, to be instructed about phenomena that happen in nature and their cause and they want to be informed about the constant march of progress in matters of human knowledge, as well as of discoveries made by our hardy explores travelling across known and unknown worlds. […] [After saying that the journal will take ‘science’ in its broadest sense, including natural history, industry, the study of people and nations, medicine, agriculture etc., etc., the foreword goes on to say]: We would also like to add that we wish to give a large place to curiosity, so fruitful in all sciences: this is to say, that over and above science properly speaking and its serious applications, one will find here its more amusing and recreational applications too, as well as its peculiarities, without forgetting those of the amusing sciences, even the occult sciences.”

La Science Illustrée

La Science Illustrée was established in October 1875. It ran until 1877. It was then resurrected in 1888 and was published until 1905. I didn’t have access to the 1875 volume, only to the 1888 volume which relaunched the magazine. The editor in chief was again Adolphe Bitard and, after his death, Louis Figuier. Here are some extracts from the 1888 letter to the readers:

“La Science Illustrée is a new tool of popularisation (‘vulgarisation’) which takes a place that has been left vacant for too long [referring probably to La Science Populaire…]. […] Its ambition is not to compete with grand scientific journals, such as La Nature, La Revue rose [La Revue Scientifique], L’Astronomie, or L’Électricien and other specialist publications that have already caught the public’s favour, but which necessarily have rather specialist clienteles. Instead, our publication will be popular through and through and will speak the language of ordinary people (‘la langue de tout le monde’); its price will make it accessible to people with even the most modest means […]. Yes, la Science Illustrée is written in ordinary language (‘la langue usuelle’), so as to convey matters of science more clearly, but on/in its own terms […]. What can we add, apart from saying that while reporting on the scientific news, we will always be on the frontline in the struggle for progress. […] We will provide exact notions of everything; useful and pleasant suggestions, for meditation and recreation; and finally, in order to speak to the eyes as well as to the mind, we will use […] illustrations, more than any other analogues publication has ever done before.”

Science for all

These two magazines stand very much in a tradition of French science magazines which tried to bring science to the people and which are currently celebrated in Paris through an exhibition entitled ‘Sciences pour tous’ (science for all). These magazines tried to combine education and entertainment, information and pleasure. They attempted to make science accessible, not by turning people into full-blown scientists nor by reducing science to the parroting of facts, indeed to enumerating ‘the parts of a parrot’! They endeavoured to satisfy people’s curiosity and thirst for knowledge, especially for useful and amusing, even occult knowledge, which was very much in vogue in science and society at the time. They wrote about science in ordinary language but without dumming down. They also wanted to speak to the mind and the eye at the same time by using amazing illustrations. And finally, they believed that by disseminating science and knowledge and decreasing ignorance they might help reduce social inequalities and contribute to social progress. Can modern science communicators still learn from these early ambitions and attempts at making science public/popular?

If you are or have been in Paris for your summer holidays and are interested in the history of science communication, you may want to see or have seen an exhibition entitled Sciences pour tous, 1850-1900 which is open until the end of August! Send photos!

*I have checked, and it seems the article entitled “L’Iguanodon” by A. Bitard seems to have appeared on 1 December 1887.

Images: Featured image: Girl reading under and oak tree by Winslow Homer, 1879; the front page of the first volume of La Science Populaire was cropped from Gallica; the front page of the first volume of La Science Illustrée was copied from Wikipedia.

The post Making science popular: Science communication in 19th-century France appeared first on Making Science Public.

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