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#all my archival assignments have to be about my interests
demonzoro · 4 months
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none of this is proofread but here's my ideal modern au for the goth fam. wall of text incoming, sky is blue, etc.
mihawk: World's Most Reluctant College Professor. history/archaeology. reluctantly employed because his place of residence (half-wrecked castle) is owned by the university and one of the terms for him to live there for free is to teach classes. initially hired as a publicity stunt that petered out. actual respected swordsman in the modern age but the reality is "swordsman" is... not very lucrative. really important to me that he is forcibly employed while having gigantic unemployed energy.
his ass is not showing up to a lecture hall unless under extreme duress (shanks showing up to his place unannounced again🙄). fully aware his papers are only taken as a credit filler (robin lectures the papers that are more practically applicable). almost exclusively "teaches" by emailing out reading lists and assignments. actively trying to get his students to drop his paper so he can do fuck-all for the rest of the year.
zoro: phys ed major. he's so serious about his main courses as well as mihawk's stupidly niche paper. probably the first person the "Dracule Mihawk Teaches Here!" publicity stunt has worked on in years. has trouble with the heavy focus of book-smarts this paper requires but powers through it best he can until mihawk sets some indecipherable tome as part of a reading list and zoro is like. okay. you leave me no choice.
he fully shows up on mihawk's doorstep at 9:44PM on a tuesday night brandishing this tome. mihawk answers the door because he is two bottles into his wine.
zoro, furious that this piece of shit tome has no audiobook alternative: this. YOU. explain. NOW. mihawk: a student. at my doorstep. did shanks blab to you. zoro: your address is publicly listed as a minor tourist attraction. mihawk (<- didn't know that): hm. come in.
zoro is treated to a full drunk history session and the supermarket gift wine mihawk has been avoiding but accidentally opened. he wakes up the next morning and zoro is still there in one of the guest rooms. he's like what are you doing here and zoro is like. i don't have a whole day to waste getting back to my dorm i need to do your assignment.
mihawk, fully aware the dorms should only be a max twenty minute walk away: interesting. get out.
safe to say, zoro thinks visiting mihawk's home is easier than emailing him. which is true in some ways since mihawk takes small joys in putting unread emails straight into trash.
perona: fashion major OBVIOUSLY. really interested finding vintage/archival sewing patterns/designs and modernising them. LOVES using essays as outlets for her rants. blase on everything else in life but takes her course so seriously. HATES zoro ever since he almost made her fail an assignment because he had checked out a book she needed and held it for fucking aaages.
similarly zoro hates perona bc she almost made him fail an assignment by hogging the only lightbox on this side of the campus that makes it possible to read some of the archival material mihawk puts on his impossible reading lists.
zoro gets lost in mihawk's castle and meets perona in-person for the first time outside of a name on a booking sheet and they have a huge stupid argument. zoro storms off and accidentally finds mihawk again this way and he's doubly mad because he can't believe mihawk has been chasing him away all this time while letting another student just live in the east wing.
mihawk (<- didn't know that): there's a what.
turns out perona just said "umm dorm fees? rent? in this economy? there's a wrecked castle 20mins away from campus it's free real estate". and she's right. she also finds out mihawk has staff access to archival materials not readily open to students and she immediately whips out a wishlist.
anyways i imagine perona graduates and becomes a fashion designer. zoro decides booksmarts is not for him and drops out to focus fully on a professional athlete career or make his way as a stuntman. models for perona on occasion. mihawk fully quits his job after those two leave bc they were the only ones in years that made it interesting. retires but robin recommends him as a consultant to the museum society and he does some work there. ALWAYS calls zoro or perona if he's restoring smthng cool he thinks they would love.
jfc are you still here. i kiss you on the lips
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multi-level-shipper · 8 months
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This shit was a fucking acid trip, like most of the game.
Anyway, something that poked my brain was the Infirmary. For all this game's insanity, there were actually some decent roots planted for worldbuilding/ character development.
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It seems like the reason the cast ended up in Queen Bouncelia's domain is because they're treating the player as if they have 6 stars in GTA. Seline is no exception to this rule, and that seems to be her motivation for coming down to the lower floor, as she watched us leave in Chapter 3.
Toadster noted in his "Archives" that she was already hiding when brought in, and crying in her shell. She may have been antagonized by a bigger enemy- likely Kittysaurus or Tama/Chamataki (turtle chameleon thing), and she may have gone past the kingdom's walls for sanctuary. (That's just a loose theory, though.)
In any case, at some point she was frightened enough to shut down completely.
This could be some kind of anxiety attack, though there's no way to "diagnose" Seline at this point. Also interesting that Seline felt too afraid to even continue moving around on the lower floors. I think this is meant to speak to just how dangerous the lower floors are- if the giant ass snail is afraid, you should be, too.
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Next, Jumbo Josh. Toadster categorizes him as a "Green Gorilla", which in hindsight, weirdly makes a lot of sense.
Firstly, an adult silverback gorilla can bench up to 4,000 lbs (or at least, that's what google told me.) Not that we needed an explanation of why he was able to throw Stinger Flynn, but I can only assume that if we adjusted that number for his size...it probably checks out.
Second, the fact that he walks like a chiropractor's worst nightmare. It took me a second, but I FINALLY realized that his posture is meant to IMITATE A GORILLA. Like, look at this:
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DEFINITELY EXPLAINS WHY HE WALKS LIKE A HORSE IN GARRY'S MOD.
And thirdly, Josh's love for vegetables is also a gorilla trait. 85% of a gorilla's diet is leafy greens, with the remaining percentage basically amounting to termites and larvae.
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Not too much to say about the Fucked Up Birds, but still! Nice to see them finally displaying a flamingo behavior (AKA their sleeping posture) because they seemed to lean more heavily on ostrich behaviors in previous chapters.
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Toadster mentions in his archive for "The Teacher" that she keeps repeating the phrase "I can't be late" over and over to herself after being subdued.
He also notes that the bowling pins "calmed her down," which may not entirely be the case. In Chapter 3, in Banbaleena's "Classroom", each object had an assigned role like Cool Kid and Popular Kid. The bowling pins were meant to be the Bullies.
So Banbaleena is likely stuck in a prison of her own self-doubts right about now, which is doubly sad when considering her insistence in Chapter 3 that she was actually trying to be a good teacher. Either someone placed this idea in her head that she needs to strictly adhere to all these rules, or it's a stress she placed upon herself trying to fulfill her identity as a teacher.
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Stinger Flynn gets better as the story progresses. He seems to have an ego to the point where he sees himself as a savior that can't see the faults in his own plans. His initial "safest procedures" plan seemed so obvious to him, but it seems as if he measures success by efficiency rather than the cost of human lives. While he's smart, he's not immune to being wrong, though he has yet to learn this.
He also seems to suffer from some form of depression, or at least intense sadness, and we see this as he talks to Banban in the latest hallucination sequence. Makes sense- his intelligence would make him much more privy to all the horrible things happening around him. It seems as if his high intelligence comes at a high price.
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Last note- This might just be a case of recycling animations/rigs, but I think it's cute that Banban shares nearly the same emo pose as Banbaleena.
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ashlayan · 3 months
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Overworked
I'm late but happy bday Horropedia 🥺🫶🏻
Tw: SFW, written with a fem reader in mind, a smol amount of angst followed by much fluff.
Pairing: Horropedia (Joshua) x reader.
May this year witness the freedom of Palestine 🇵🇸🇵🇸
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Work in the Foundation was usually fine, the fact you were a Supervising Field Agent usually meant you got assigned, well, interesting field work. But sometimes the higher ups would demand evidence to backup your mission report "Claims", be it for a trial, or an open investigation, and you would need to spend all nighters sifting through both your and your subordinates' files, as well as archived news articles, archived books, archived tapes, or really anything that could be of use.
To say all that left you mentally exhausted would be an understatement.
More than anything, it makes you yearn to finish up work quickly and go home for a hot bath and indulge in your guilty pleasure: Romance Stories.
You're pretty sure anyone of your colleagues hearing about that hobby would be more likely to think they're being pranked than actually believe it.
You, who worked hard and rose quickly within the ranks of the foundation, despite your young age.
You, who thanks to your constant networking and relentless hard work, was the youngest to be awarded with the title of Field Supervisor, bar Vertin of course as she's the Timekeeper.
Exactly why, when asked, you would usually give the far more acceptable "Tennis" as an answer. Really at this point only very few people have any clue about your obsession, and only because they were your classmates back in your more innocent and naive school days. People like this fool who came unannounced, sitting uninvited on your office couch, thoroughly distracting you from your urgent task.
"And then, we're thinking the main character would be revealed to have actually been the real villain all along! Like the serial killer will still remain a separate person, but the way Blonney's thinking of doing it is making Jessica turn out to be even more terrifying!! We'll drop hints throughout the film and-"
And so he goes, on and on. He even stands up and starts pacing as he bothers you further.
You want to groan. This annoying, silly, helpless, cute, sweet, adorkable fool.
"Aren't you supposed to be grounded?" You say deadpan, "What are you even doing here?"
Horropedia stops and turns, facing you properly, "So you can talk!" He practically cries out with mock shock, his face a mask of "disbelief". "Here I thought you'd gone mute, turns out you were just ignoring me." He says as he walks over and plops down on a chair facing your desk.
You roll your eyes refusing to play along. "Some of us have work to get done, Joshua. We're not children anymore, it's high time you start acting like an adult and quit those silly, childish stories."
"Oh?" He says smugly, but you can tell you've definitely hit a nerve by calling him Joshua instead of his preferred nickname. He then proceeds to take a long look around your office, craning his neck this way and that.
You're not sure what he's planning but it can't be anything good.
"Bingo." He says just under his breath as he stands back up and heads for the cupboard you use as a make shift file cabinet. You tense slightly but remind yourself to keep a cool and aloof facade.
He places one hand against a compartment's door and asks: "So then, there isn't a hidden stash of silly, childish romance novels right in here?" He asks, tapping a finger against it.
Go big or go home. "Please, I outgrew that nonsensical hobby ages ago, do you honestly think I have the time to-"
Horropedia then grabs the door handle without permission and proceeds to yank it open-
Or he would have if the door wasn't locked shut. It doesn't even budge.
You smile smugly. "Did no one teach you going through people's belongings is bad manners?"
"Coming from the person who used to steal from my candy stash? I don't wanna hear it." He says dismissively, now focused on intently staring down your cupboard's lock.
You blush, because he's bringing back embarrassing childhood memories of your's, definitely not because he looks really hot when he stops being a lovable goof, or because of the way the light hits his side profile just right and he looks so serious in a rare picturesque way-
You snap yourself out of your reverie just as he brings something out of his utility belt, you blanch when you realize what it is.
"Seriously? Lockpicks? Who goes around carrying those?! Wait- is that how you got out of confinement?!"
Horropedia ignores you and gets immediately to work.
You spring up and rush towards him, only to arrive a second too late as he opens the cupboard with a dramatic flourish, revealing far too many books with cutesy artworks for covers, some with even more tantalizing titles. In fact, their were so many that they proceeded to slide down and out of the compartment, forming a sizeable pile on the floor.
Your stash now exposed, you do the next best thing and head straight for the open office door instead to shut it. This however is far from ideal.
You turn around slowly and as expected, the dork is giving you and adora- Infuriating smirk.
"How. How did you know they were in there-"
"Relax Short-Stuff, I just know you too well." He says, almost preening with pride at his "accomplishment".
You frown, "Don't call me that."
"Don't call me Joshua." He fires back.
You don't reply, and instead take a silent step towards him, then another.
Alarm starts bleeding into his expression, as he himself takes a step back while throwing a glance at the closed door behind you, no doubt gauging the distance in case you decide to attack.
Instead you ignore him and bend down to start gathering your precious but embarrassing treasures.
"What was that about knowing me so well?" You say offhandedly.
"Well- you used to tackle people who pissed you off so- I mean- Forget it."
Now with you both feeling defeated, he bends down to help you gather the books and says: "When do you even find time to read all of these? Everytime I see you you're either writing a report, heading to a mission or coming back from one."
"The car rides are usually pretty quiet, I can read them in peace as long as I hide the covers." You say without looking up.
After a moment of Horropedia not saying anything back or moving to help you, you look up.
"What?" You snap. You know that look, he's judging you. "If you have something to say say it."
"No, no, it's not like that I just... Do you ever get any rest? I'm pretty sure you even work weekends, and I heard you do volunteer work too. This isn't healthy is all I'm thinking."
You blink. Well yes, he does have a compassionate and sweet side too, it's usually hidden by his general tomfoolery though so you tend to forget about it. You also didn't expect him to be keeping an ear out for news about you, it's not like the two of you chat all that often either. You're caught sufficiently off guard that you now have your mouth hanging slightly open with no sounds coming out.
"Earth to (Y/N), you there?" He snaps his fingers a couple of times, and when you're still silent he sighs and continues gathering your babies- your books, and springs back up to stuff them in your cupboard, then dusts his hands off.
You're looking up at his standing form and damn, he actually looks really good from this angle, really accentuates his already impressive height-
This time he forgoes trying to talk to you and just grabs your from the waist and lifts you back to your feet, giving you a quick pat on the shoulder for good measure before letting you go.
Then he seems to think something over and places a hand on your forehead.
"You're not running a fever, but your zoning out is really out of character for ya. Good thing it's 6 already, you can clock out now." He says with a gentle smile.
The smile isn't exactly rare for him, but it also isn't something he usually gives you.
Ever since you set your sights on climbing the corporate ladder... You have been pushing everyone away, even those most precious to you. You've been taking on more and more, piling the tasks and duties up to the point where, sometimes, you just want to do something crazy and impulsive, to get the load off your shoulders even for a short while.
He's still gazing at you, but his smile is wavering. He's still waiting for an answer though.
You consider what would happen if you say yes to clocking out now, if you even gather some additional courage and ask him to hang out? As friends of course! For old times sake! But then again, if you're already that far, what if you ask him out for real? Maybe just for today, you can ignore the far too many responsibilities piled high on top of you and just-
You shake your head. "No sorry, I'm actually spending the night here, I have a lot of work to get done. I know you want to leave though, so you go on ahead, don't worry I won't rat you out so no one should come to drag you back to the school." You say with a chuckle, and wait for him to get going.
But he doesn't move. You can't read his expression, and the way the light hits his glasses isn't helping. Finally what he says is: "I guess you haven't changed that much after all."
Saying you're bewildered would be an understatement. "Huh?"
He loudly sighs, throwing his head back for added effect as he massages the bridge of his nose.
When he's looking back at you his glasses are now sitting crookedly on the space and you have to hold back the urge to reach up and fix them.
Two hands are now on your shoulders, as if to stop you from escaping the truth. "Listen." He says very seriously, all traces of his usually cheery voice gone. "I'm going to say this as plainly as possible. You're working yourself to the bone. I get it, you have some bigger picture in mind, some larger goal that I probably can't see and you're throwing everything trying to reach it but consider this. Maybe it's just not worth it. Not if you'll die long before you get to it within whatever crazy time limit you've set for yourself. Come on (Y/N), you're a field agent for God's sake, how lame would it be if you bite the dust from overworking on reports?!"
He's panting slightly, that speech was clearly coming from the heart and you really appreciate it, you really do, but ever since he first came in today you've had a nagging suspicion you've been trying to stamp down, but it was time to address the elephant in the room.
"Joshua. Why do you care so much? Because honestly the way you're talking right now..." You take a deep breath, "The way you sought me out today, the way you say all of this... I don't want to sound arrogant, but am I correct to assume that- that-"
You can't do this, if you're wrong what's left of your already dwindling friendship with him might be the price.
You back away from him. "I'm sorry never mind, forget I said anything, I'll keep your advice in mind so please just-" just go! I don't want you here when I cry!
But he must see something on your face because he's pulling you in for a hug. It feels so familiar so right that you can't help but melt into it. The exhaustion finally seems to catch up to you and you can't imagine having to trek the walk back to the dorms, much less get any more work done tonight.
You almost miss it, but you just barely make out the words "Yes, you are correct."
And that wakes you right back up.
You push back and straighten up, and he's immediately startling with you. "W-what?" He asks, looking absolutely adorable. This time, you do reach over and right his glasses.
"What did you just say? You whispered something just now, did I hear it right?" You stare at him intently, your gaze unwavering and determined.
He looks to the side, "Don't look at me like thaaaat." He quite literally whines.
"Like what?" You ask, finding yourself genuinely curious as to what he sees in your expression.
He looks back, "Like I'm one of your high priority missions. Don't give me hope if you don't mean it (Y/N)."
You're tired from a long, mentally exhausting day. Your brain to mouth filter is gone, but then again it usually is around Horropedia. You are not thinking straight but you kinda never are around this man.
You grab his necktie and snatch it down, dragging him with it. Your lips are on his in a second, he's reciprocating (thank goodness) the kiss in the next.
When the two of you break it off for air he has the widest grin he has ever given you. No not ever, but in a long time. The intense nostalgia is the last addition to the melange of feelings churning inside of you and the tears finally fall freely.
Predictably, Horropedia panics.
"I'M SO SORRY?! I DON'T KNOW WHAT I DID BUT I'M SORRY?!?! WAS IT THE KISS? IT WAS THE KISS WASN'T IT-"
You quickly cover his mouth before he broadcasts any more private information to the whole office floor.
"Shhhh! Calm down! I just... I just needed a good cry I guess..." You end meekly, wiping your tears away.
Horropedia stares at you wide eyed. In another situation this would be the perfect teasing material, (Y/N) actually knows how to cry?! Or something along those lines, but evidently even he has better sense than to do that, so he instead silently hugs you again, and doesn't tighten his hold until you hug him back.
You could stay in his arms forever, which sounds cliche but isn't that amazing? That you could get to think of something so silly and cliche instead of the probability of success of your next mission strategy? You take a small step back without letting go, just to look at the wall clock and debate what to do next. You can tell Horropedia is eagerly waiting for your decision with bated breath. Finally you pull yourself out of the hug.
Only to grab your purse and keys, then quickly come back to his side.
"Alright. You win, what's the plan now?" You ask, twisting a scarf high around your neck to hide your excitement.
He frowns slightly, and hesitantly asks. "Do you still suffer from insomnia?"
Of course he remembers. "It's better now but yes." Is your answer.
"Then we go on the most anti-insomnia date to help you sleep!" He announces, opening the door for you.
You chuckle and head out, waiting for him to follow so you can lock your office.
"And where are we going?" You fiddle with your keys, slipping one in the lock.
"To your dorm room?" He asks more then answers.
You freeze. "Moving a little fast there don't you think?" You turn to face him.
He flushes bright red. "Noooo!! I knew you would misunderstand!!! I meant because your bed is there and you could go straight to sleep once you feel like it!!!"
You giggle. "Oh I know, just teasing." You say wiggling your eyebrows.
He gasps "You! I! Why you! Hmph!" He turns and walks on ahead, but there's a spring in his step and he's headed towards your dorm, so you know he's not actually mad. You jog to catch up to him.
"Geez Joshua, not all of us have long legs wait up!"
And he does slow down, but he also throws you a question. "Why do you keep calling me Joshua? At first I thought it was to annoy me, but that can't be right. So what's your reason?"
You consider this carefully. After everything that just happened, admitting this truth hardly feels like such a hard challenge. You talk as you walk.
"More than one reason I guess... For starters it's what I've always known you as... Despite what I said before, you actually have changed in a lot of ways, heck you used to be shorter than me." You laugh a bit, "The name feels like all I have left from back then." You say with a sigh.
He keeps silent, probably guessing there's more, so you continue, "Also... Well, this is a bit embarrassing but everyone calls you Horropedia... I guess I kinda felt special by being the only one calling you Joshua. It's silly I know."
Horropedia stops walking and grabs your hand, halting you too. He's silent for a moment before he croaks out, voice clearly emotional "You can call me whatever you want." Then he goes back to walking while still holding onto your hand, pulling you along. And that's that.
He walks you all the way to your dorm room then stops.
"You're not coming in? You didn't change your mind already did you?" You ask half jokingly but also kinda worried.
"Nope! I'll go bring my tv and some supplies, I'll be back in an hour or so, that way you'll have time to freshen up and maybe relax for a bit?" He says with a small smile, and ruffles your hair lightly.
You blink, then processing the first part of his sentence you ask: "Why are you bringing your TV? I have a TV."
"You do?" He sounds surprised.
"Of course, how else would I be able to play my romance film tapes?"
His mouth forms an "o" shape. "That actually makes sense, I don't know why I didn't think of that. Well there's still other stuff to be brought but this definitely helps save time, alright see you soon." He gives you a quick hug before parting ways.
Now home, you proceed to tidy up the dorm room and hop in the shower, then get dressed in a comfortable but cute outfit and style your hair into something more relaxed and comfy.
You head to your wardrobe and start opening the large bottom drawers you use to store blankets and pillows, and start constructing a pillow fort on the rug, facing the television.
It's not long until you hear a knock at your door, and with less restraint then you would usually allow, you rush towards it and swing it wide open to reveal a-
A pile of shopping bags and a plushie?
"A lil help here? Actually can you let me in?" You hear Horropedia's voice as he tries to right one of the bags sliding down with his knee.
"Ohhhh!" You intone, mesmerized, "A talking pile of bags and a plushie!"
"Haha, very funny." Horropedia's head pops up and despite his words he's definitely amused.
You quickly begin grabbing the bags closest to you and realize they're pretty much all filled with snacks and fizzy drinks... All of which you know for sure are nothing like those issued by the foundation.
"Where did you even get these?" You ask, as the both of you drag the bags inside. From the corner of your eyes you notice him taking extra care not to drop the relatively large plushie.
"Oh you know, I have my ways~" He replies, going for a mysterious tone.
Do his "ways" include Vertin's suitcase? Probably. But you don't say anything, let him have his moment.
When everything is set up nicely around your pillow fort, you turn to ask him what you're watching when you find him on one knee, dramatically presenting you with the stuffed toy.
"Will you do me the great honor, of accepting my humble offering?" He asks solemnly.
You burst out laughing "Wha- what are you doing..?" You wheeze.
You bend down to grab the plushie and admire it, it's a nice medium size, aka the perfect hugging size.
"I thought you might need a little friend to keep you company as we watch-" He takes out a film tape with a flourish "This movie!"
You blanch. "Is this one of your horror films? Are you serious? I thought we were trying to put me to sleep not keep me up all night." You say with an exasperated shake of your head.
"No no listen, you're used to romance movies, they're no good to help you sleep anymore or they would've worked by now right? Maybe what you need is something to wring out all the nervous energy from you so you can relax!"
Somehow that both makes some sense and no sense at once. But then you have a realization.
You pretend to think it over. "I don't know, even if what you say could hypothetically work, and while your gift is cute, I just don't feel like it's huggable enough, you know?"
His face falls slightly. "Oh? You don't like it do you? I knew I should've brought a bigger one-"
"No, what I'm saying is, it's not the same as cuddling with a warm human being."
You wait for the mostly genius yet sometimes dumb dumb young man in front of you to connect the dots. You can tell he did when his face is the shade of a ripe strawberry.
"OH! Ohhhh!! Oh. Yeah, yeah we can definitely uh- cuddle. As much as you want. Of course."
You laugh "Dude we were just hugging and kissing in my office! Why are you getting all shy on me now?" You tug him along by the arm to set up the film.
"I knoooow," he whines, "it's just this is a step further ok? And that was an I'm-really-worried-about-her hug, and the kiss was a very emotional moment my brain just wasn't braining!"
"Whatever you say." You reply as you poke his right cheek. "You're cute though so it's fine." You giggle.
You wait for him to berate you about calling him, the horror genre enthusiast and connoisseur "cute", but all he does is stare at you with a dopey smile, just making you melt.
"Are you sure we can't just watch a romance movie?" You ask softly.
"Nah, we're being our own romance movie right now." He says as he grabs your hand and hoists you up with him, leading you back to the pillow fort. "You'll pick the movie next time."
The screen turns on, displaying the title of the horror movie you settled on. “It’s a classic!” Horropedia says, clearly excited to share the movie with you.
As you both sink into the pillows, the opening title sequence of the film begins playing.
As the horror style music plays, you notice Horropedia lean in his body closer to yours, careful to not make it seem like he was trying to get nearer.
"You can come closer I don't bite," you say jokingly, "and if I was uncomfortable with having you here I wouldn't have mentioned cuddling in the first place."
Horropedia's face turns fully red as he realizes he was not being subtle.
"Yeah... sorry."
His body shifts, and he slides one arm around your shoulders. He then speaks, barely above a whisper, "Can I get a hug now...?"
"I didn't know you were the clingy type Joshua," you start to tease, "and before even the first jumpscare hap-" but you immediately get interrupted by a joke jumpscare, a character that is not the antagonist innocently scaring their friends as a prank, yet embarrassingly managing to startle you "Eeep-" your hands instinctively grab onto the nearest object, which of course has to be his torso.
Oh dear lord. You sigh internally.
You look up at his face, finding he at least has the decency to try and stifle his laughter, though he wasn't succeeding much. But his droopy eyes were crinkling at the sides, and his smile was just too beautiful so you couldn't get mad.
Horropedia chuckles at your expression, probably finding the irony amusing, and the fact it was a fake jumpscare that did you in.
He then quickly pulls you closer to give you that hug you were just teasing him about not a moment ago.
You feel your head lean against his shoulder as he pulls you in, wrapping his arms around you as you both settle further into your cozy pillow fort setup.
"This doesn't count you hear? I wasn't scared or anything, I'm just a bit jumpy." You say, trying to preserve your dignity. The last thing you need is the no.1 horror enthusiast to misunderstand and think you're a scaredy cat, you would never hear the end of the teasing.
You could feel his chest vibrating with laughter underneath you, and he reaches up with the opposite hand and ruffles your hair.
"Uh-huh." Is all he says.
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By the time the movie ends, you're already sound asleep. Horropedia carefully untangles your limbs and carries you off to bed. The day did not go as he'd expected, he'd go as far to say it went more like his fantasies then actual reality.
He tucks you in carefully, being mindful to jostle you as little as possible. He's fairly certain if you go on a second date (you probably will right? This date went great right?!?!) you won't settle for anything other than one of your romance movies.
Not that he minds, really. After today he doesn't think he'll be looking at the characters on the screen with jealousy or disgruntlement. He also thinks he'll enjoy whatever you pick.
He glances at your alarm clock. Oh it was late. He'd better get moving, while he has more freedom under Vertin's supervision now he still shouldn't push his luck. He decides he'll tell you tomorrow about his new, more flexible work arrangement.
He heads for the dorm room entrance, opening and closing the door softly behind him. His last thought before leaving is he'll have to ask what you thought of his movie pick tomorrow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From the river to the sea PALESTINE WILL BE FREE ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸.
If you pray, please pray for Gaza and the Westbank 🙏🏻🙏🏻
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avaantares · 5 months
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Wait, Zhao Yunlan's gun is actually a...?!
(I've never claimed production meta for @guardianbingo before, but after the amount of time and research I put in on this, I feel like I've earned the "Zhao Yunlan's Gun or Whip" square, haha)
SO. GUYS.
Maybe this is something fandom as a whole figured out back in 2018, but I, who didn't hear of Guardian until 2020, did not realize until now and I need to share the knowledge because when I finally noticed, I made an unholy sound.
I've tracked down where Zhao Yunlan's gun came from -- or at least, what it most likely started as. Not the in-universe dark-energy-maybe-uses-bullets-maybe-doesn't-device-that's-best-not-thought-about-too-long, but rather the actual fake-steampunk-revolver-that-is-best-not-looked-at-too-long-because-it's-awful prop.
Y'know, this disaster:
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I was actually working on a different Guardian Bingo fill and needed to look something up for continuity, so I'd flipped through a couple of episodes at super high speed trying to find a scene. As luck would have it, one of my skips forward happened to land on the scene I screencapped above, when ZYL confronts Zhang Shi.
Normally we don't get this clear (or this stationary) a shot of the godawful gun prop. I'd assumed all along they had just taken a plastic gun, glued some extra bits and bobs on it to make it look fancy, and hit it with some dry brushing (fun fact: you can watch the paint flake throughout the series; check out the top of the barrel and the side of the cylinder in the above screenshot!) to make it look #steampunk like the abandoned aesthetic of 25% of the show (as I've said before, I have theories about what happened in preproduction, but that's another post). This sort of thing is exactly what I've done for cheap cosplay weapons or background props for film work that aren't going to be seen at HD detail range.
Anyway, since the detail showed up better here than in other shots, I paused the video to look at the random screws and hex bolts (why??) they'd glued on it, since I recalled that I had the aforementioned gun/whip bingo square to fill.
That's when I noticed a detail that had eluded me before: An inverted V shape at the bottom of the grip.
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Only looking more closely, that's not an inverted V. It's a symbol that I've seen a whole series of variations of over the past 15+ years... every time there's a new installment of the Assassin's Creed video game series:
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So I started hunting. The principal weapons in each game turned up no matches, but eventually I found a gun that looks almost exactly like ZYL's:
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It's not a perfect replica, but the details are certainly all there: The stylized logo; the leaves and swirls on the grip; the feathers up the back; even the Victorian scrollwork beneath the barrel.
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Now, what's really interesting is that this gun isn't actually from the AC game series. It's part of an elaborate fan project by artist David Paget that started as a class assignment back in 2014. Even though it gathered a bit of steam in the AC fandom and generated a couple of forum role-play groups, OCs and the like, nothing about this artwork was ever connected to a real Assassin's Creed title. So why would there be a physical version of a gun that was only someone's fanart?
This is where the smoking gun (*rimshot*) goes missing, because I can't prove any of this, and it's been long enough that digging through the archives of the internet to find answers is going to take way more time than I can afford to spend on a project I'm not getting paid for. But there are two likely possibilities:
Scenario A: Some employee in a toy factory somewhere in China got told, "This Assassin's Creed franchise is really big, so we need to be producing replicas from those games to sell. Work up some designs." So the employee Googles "assassin's creed gun," finds David Paget's very professional-looking art, and whips up a replica to mass-injection-mold without realizing it's not actually from a game. Later, someone on the cash-strapped Guardian production team needs a gun to mod, and finds a cheap toy revolver on clearance after several years of sitting in storage because there was little demand for a replica of a gun that was never in a game. They buy several, glue hex bolts on the cylinder for reasons unknown, and poof! Instant pseudo-steampunk!
Scenario B: Other fans were involved in the design. Someone did build a 3D model of David Paget's design that's still available on Sketchfab (screenshot below), and it's not unreasonable to assume that other fans could have thought it looked cool and built 3D printable models. Later, someone on the cash-strapped Guardian production team needs a gun to mod, and acquires the 3D print file of one of those models from the interwebs. They mod the file a bit, print some, glue hex bolts on the cylinder for reasons unknown, and poof! Instant pseudo-steampunk!
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Personally, I find Scenario A far more likely than Scenario B, for two reasons: First, the hero prop looks more injection molded than 3D printed, especially given the technical state of 3D printing back in 2017-8. And second... Budget-challenged dramas do have a history of picking up bulk video game replicas and using them as cheap props. I made a post back in 2019 about the WoW Horde shields we spotted in a different drama...
Anyway, no firm answers about the source of the hero prop -- the world may never know! -- but we have now confirmed that in some alternate universe (possibly one of the first eighty?), Zhao Yunlan and/or Zhao Xinci is an Assassin.
Wait, wait, wait... *recalls mechanics of how the whole Assassin's Creed frame story is supposed to work* Uh... so... who wants to write a genetic memory explanation for the whole Kunlun -> [lots of lifetimes] -> Zhao Yunlan thing?
.
(I did actually check the catalogue of a friend of mine who makes replicas of props from various media franchises to see if he'd done a commission of the David Paget design, since a surprising number of his custom pieces actually do end up on film and television, but while he has a gorgeous replica of a revolver that actually appears in an AC game, it appears he has not done the Zhao Yunlan gun. I didn't really think it likely, since he's in the U.S., but you never know.)
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visenyaism · 1 year
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i'm desperately interested in your lannister in the walls symbolism essay if that's something you would like to share
you know what i would. like all my summer 2022 notes app archival material it is both deranged and very informal. but i had just read cersei i affc for the very first time and i was convinced i was cooking something up. Here’s the intro the rest of it is under the cut so it’s not a scrolling nightmare:
so my like big tinfoil theory ab this so far is that the walls and tunnels of kings landing represent like the cataclysmic institutional rot that will destroy the city because said rot is also the truth of it. The little birds who convey the truth to varys while also representing how fucked up this place is because they’re child servants with their tongues cut out. Also like how the doom of valyria was in its walls because the enslaved were literally in there and bc that evil was institutional. Also like the rot that consumed tywin lannister whole cause he’s kings landing in microcosm or whatever. the doom of kings landing is quite literally in the walls cause of the wildfire, and because it’s wildfire it is also LITERALLY the doom of valyria. Just like the Doom was a lot of fireworks but it’s real downfall was the true extent of its rot filling every space in the walls and under the empire, the walls and tunnels of KL are also the Lannister Cognitive Dissonance Basement.
Tywin’s Hypocrite Tunnel reveals the truth of who he was the entire time. Tyrion learns the worst truth of his life in the tunnels, and then comes up thru the Hypocrite tunnel to kill his dad and also he decides to be evil while he’s down there because he thinks that’s the truth about himself, that the rot is also his. But that’s like our mini doom of valyria, that everything tywin hated about himself as well as the people he wronged he shoved underneath the city until it came up and explosively killed him.
Cersei starts her flop for crows arc by in tandem refusing to go into the tunnel or think abt its purpose while refusing to acknowledge any of her father’s flaws. The Tyrion in her head that’s taunting her about being in the walls is the same voice that’s confronting her abt the truth she is repressing abt her father. She knows her doom is in the walls and under the city, but she thinks it’s tyrion when actually it’s the threat of every single truth she has ever repressed to form her delusional worldview coming back to destroy her (the truth that the rot is hollow and pursuit of tywin’s kind of power means nothing but self destruction and also that her mirror was the one who might kill her and not the brother she thinks is different from her in every way). I dont think shes going into the walls until it’s time for her to blow the city up tbh. apocalypse!!!!
Side note: the tyrion in her head being cersei especially is so. like for the past three books we have been told that cersei lannister’s main trait is her pride and vanity. and then you get to her first POV and it’s immediately clear that everything she hates about herself, her father, and the world she attributes to tyrion and everything she likes about herself she assigns to something she inherited from her father, something jaime should be, or both. queenhood and womanhood and her own body are just coffins her family has stuffed her in to fit their own needs. For cersei, the body is a construct just like the Red Keep is, and it is a prison!!! it’s the cage they kept the lions in under Casterly!!! The power she’s constantly chasing after is just the ability to be taken seriously in her own right, respected as a person and not a woman (which to her are antonyms). What presents as her pride and vanity from the outside is actually just a constant battle against the reality that cersei lannister doesn’t really exist because she has absolutely no stable sense of identity and is just as empty as the rest of her family!!!!
Back to the walls: Jaime has a running theme where he can only speak or think the truth if he’s underground, like harrenhal bath moment or taunting catelyn abt bran and the incest in the riverrun dungeon or telling tyrion about tysha in the black cells or his dream in the cave with brienne where he’s like it’s dark out so i can tell the truth abt her being a beauty and a knight. It’s the same with the tunnels. He starts HIS flop for crows arc going in first to the Tywin Hypocrite Tunnel, and has to confront the truth that he doesn’t actually know his brother like he thought he did, or his sister, or his father, or himself really. Also that he’s kind of responsible for their father’s murder. ALSO he finds a dragon mosaic that he thinks is rhaegar, telling him “I know you, kingslayer.” He has SO many repressed truths come up in this tunnel, but he just comes out and is like lol who knows what’s down there not me whoever did this could still be down there look out.
Not that it would’ve been smart to tell Cersei the truth, but it definitely indicates that during Jaime’s feast arc he will not be confronting anything unpleasant because he doesn’t want to. Pushing the truth of yourself away and into the walls and under the city means you can be somewhere (the red keep) without really being there at all, which I think is the connection to Jaime’s dependence on dissociation and going away inside and his relationship to institutions. The details of why he didn’t say anything about the wildfire aren’t super clear but I think him hunting the pyromancers but leaving wildfire in the walls is representative of the fact that on some level deep down he believes in false knighthood, that you really can solve institutional rot if you are Good, if you do enough Heroic Sword Violence to the right people. Lady Stoneheart is in a cave or something I think so that’s his big underground inability to repress anymore-related downfall looming.
So anyway TLDR: Cersei’s right, there’s something those walls and under the city that’s going to destroy them all. It’s not tyrion lurking, but like the irrepressible truth that the rot and evil at the heart of the red keep has eaten it whole, and that the Lannister legacy and conception of power propped up by violence and intimidation is just hollow. That’ll get them because that singular truth is enough to crumple everyone’s self-concept and is too much to overcome even with the Lannister dedication to cognitive dissonance. Which is why I think Cersei blows it up when she gets to the point where she cannot lie to herself abt shit anymore. If twow drops and actually joncon ends up starting the Great King’s Landing BBQ of 301 AC i actually didn’t say any of this😌
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homosexualworkaccount · 2 months
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The sequel fanfiction to A Bloody Concoction of Love and Admiration has officially been named! You’ll be able to read Lover, You Should've Come Over sometime early February or mid February depending on my schedule, don’t have much time to write with important assignments coming up that make up almost half my grades. Loving class rn (kill me) but the Johnshi brainrot persists!!
The fic is currently sitting at around 13,000 words with three full chapters written out (not edited sadly, keeping that towards the end once all chapters have been written) with two half written ones. Each chapter will be around 3000 words worth of a short story. Im aiming for the full fic to have a word count around 20,000 words but who knows what’ll happen :P
Updates about the progress of the fic will be posted every few days so I can update people interested in it :D original fic is linked below for anyone curious!!
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givemea-dam-break · 1 year
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a/n: absolutely baffled that this series is doing so well, but here is the part 6 of Out the Window (lockwood x reader enemies to lovers) that a bunch of you wanted! i love you all so much thank you for your support <3 and thank you @nessa-stark for the inspiration :)
warnings: injury, language gn reader
full series collection: here
35 Portland Row is beginning to feel like a home.
You've fallen into its strange ways easily, finding comfort in hearing Lucy and George bicker over little things, and slipping into an easy morning after having a lie-in. A mug has been assigned to you, courtesy of George, and you even have a space in one of the cupboards for your own snacks, although they seem to be disappearing.
There's enough to keep you occupied: a library full of interesting-looking books, an area to practice with your rapier with two haphazardly made dummies, but you find yourself most often in the back room in the basement, filled with sources in silver boxes.
In one sits a small pen-covered box, completely unassuming, yet so, so heavy with memories. Even after a week since digging it up, you haven't had the nerve to look at the contents. Looking at it from beyond silverglass is enough to fill you with guilt. You don't think you could handle actually opening it.
Though you appreciate Lockwood keeping it in the display stand rather than taking it to the furnaces, there's a heavy weight attached to it. It's hard knowing the memory of someone you loved is in the same home as you, taunting you with the guilt of death you've been assured wasn't your fault.
You're standing in front of it when Lockwood finds you early in the afternoon, exactly a week since that case.
He holds a mug of steaming tea and a chipped plate with a couple of doughnuts in his hands. The sight makes you smile - he's becoming well-versed in learning to bribe you into helping him out.
"New case?" you ask.
His grin has something in your stomach doing gymnastics. "How'd you know?"
"You're bringing me my favourite doughnuts and a cup of tea, so it's pretty clear you're here to bribe me into coming along with you."
"Damn, you've caught me." He places the mug and plate down on a nearby table. "I had a call this morning from a new client - couldn't meet because he's out of the city at the moment, but he was hoping we could get rid of it while he's gone."
You pluck one of the doughnuts off the plate and take a bite out of it. "Any details? Are George and Lucy coming?"
"They've got their own case," he says, leaning against the wall. Something about the fluorescent lighting mixed with the glow of the sources makes his features seem that much sharper. "I was hoping you'd come with me to the Archives, get some background knowledge, and then we could head off. The house is in the area."
"If I didn't know any better," you say, "I'd think you just want to spend time with me, Lockwood."
He's silent for a minute, eyes flickering across your face as if trying to discern the nature of your comment but replies not too long after. "I'll give you time to have your tea, then we'll go."
And then he's gone.
You can't help the little flutter in your chest, despite its unfamiliarity, at the fact that Lockwood didn't outright deny wanting to spend time with you. Over the course of the past couple of months, you've grown closer, and it's been easy to forgive him for what happened a year ago, but you never expected to feel anything more than a platonic friendship between the two of you. But your heart speeds up a little at the sight of him, and the mere skim of fingers when he passes you things, whether it's a cup of tea or a rapier, has your skin tingling.
Until last week, you've been used to bottling up your feelings and keeping them hidden. Getting close to people means losing them and having to deal with the grief that follows, and that isn't a pain you think you could handle again. But, after that case, after being held so tenderly in Lockwood's arms as you sobbed, it's become very hard to manage your emotions.
With a sigh, still staring at the spot he had just been standing in, you finish your tea and snacks before hurrying up the basement steps.
--
"I think I've found something."
Lockwood leans over your shoulder, looking down at the newspaper you have splayed across the table. You can feel his breath on your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine. If this was even a month ago, you would've pushed him away and scoffed, but now it's like you can't move. The memory of a soft kiss on your head has you rooted in place.
"What is it?"
"Newspaper from the nineteen-twenties." You flip back to the front page. "There was a murder, see, and if we go back to this page... Look, that's the address we're going to later, right? It says here that some lady, Maria Broome, was found dead, stabbed eighteen times."
"Eighteen? That's a bit overboard, isn't it?"
You elbow him. "That's not the point! The point is, I think she's our ghost."
"And what about her murderer?"
"Well, I believe her husband was having an affair, and when she confronted him, some shit went down and he killed her. He was the one arrested. God, she was barely twenty."
He leans slightly closer. "Great work. Any idea what her source could be?"
If you turned your head even slightly, your face would be mere millimetres from his. The realisation has your heart pounding in your chest.
"Um, not really. I mean, it could be her wedding ring or something. Maybe it fell through the floorboards. In reality, it could be anything. I'll have to listen out for it."
"Well, I have full confidence that you'll find it."
His hand closes over your shoulder, and you can feel its warmth through your jacket. It feels like sparks are coursing through your bones at the touch. Too soon, he pulls his hand away, but it lingers much longer than it should, though you aren't complaining. His touch had become a welcome thing in the past week.
"Let's go," Lockwood says, standing straight and pulling on his jacket. "We've got a job to do."
--
With iron circles set up in the hallway and the lounge, and still half an hour until any ghosts might start appearing, you and Lockwood share a flask of hot tea in the kitchen, watching the clock tick. The tea is a little bitter, but you don't mind all that much.
The kitchen light is off, but you have a small lantern sitting on the dining table, illuminating the space and casting everything in a golden glow. Shadows, created by tall, fake plants or decorations, loom, looking like monsters from fairytales.
Beside you, Lockwood chews on a biscuit. In the light, his cheekbones look more dramatic, and his eyes seem so much brighter. You can't help but admire the effect it has on him, making him seem otherworldly, in some strange but fascinating way.
"Have I got something on my face?" Lockwood asks, reading a magazine he'd stuffed in his bag.
"Hmm?" you say.
"You're staring."
Shit. "Think you need your eyes checked. I've been watching the door for any sign of danger."
"Mm-hm."
His sarcasm irks you but it feels oddly nice. Though you want to elbow him in the ribs, you also want to fall into the humour it holds.
"So," he says, "judging from the deathglow I spotted when we first scouted the house, I'd say our dear Mrs Broome was murdered in the lounge."
"I could've told you that. Found it in the newspapers earlier."
"Oh, you did?" He laughs softly. "Fair enough. Either way, the source will most likely be in there somewhere."
You take another sip of tea. "There was an heirloom cabinet in the corner of the lounge, filled with all sorts. I can go check it out just now."
"Let me come with you."
"I'll be fine, Lockwood," you say. "It's just the next room over, and the sun hasn't even completely set yet. It gets hard to concentrate when all I can hear is you pacing around."
He grins and nods. Although what you said wasn't necessarily a lie, it wasn't the whole truth either. It gets hard to focus, yes, partly because he's a fidgety guy and can't seem to stand still lest the world keep moving without him, but also because his presence alone is distracting. The sound of his quiet mumbling, or the faint scent of tea and cheap shampoo - it all blurs your thought process a little.
The lounge is cool, ten degrees, but it's no colder than it was when you first checked out the rooms. You can't see deathglows, not like Lockwood, but you know the iron circle is just beside it, right in front of the sofa. A lantern lights up the room, but you turn down the flaps, dimming it as much as possible.
In the far corner of the room, an heirloom cabinet made of dark wood and glass stands in opposition to the muted colours of the lounge. Inside it are a number of things: a photo of two men, a fancy box holding a beautiful bracelet, and an old-looking vase covered in brightly-coloured painted flowers, among other things.
What catches your eye, though, is a ring set upon a small green velvet cushion. It's a simple gold band with a small emerald inlaid. An engagement ring, maybe.
Cautiously, you open the cabinet.
"I'm about to listen," you shout to Lockwood.
"Got it!"
With careful fingers, you pluck the ring off its cushioned display, holding it in the palm of your hand. The metal is cold, but not alarmingly so.
It takes only a moment to open your senses. All sound disappears and, for a moment, there is no sound, but, then, there's a faint voice. Frightened and young, calling for help. A stronger, angry voice follows, shouting incoherently. You can't make out the words, but you can hear the tinkling sound of the ring falling onto the floor as if thrown, followed by even more shouting. There's a scream, piercing and terrified, then a loud thump, more angry shouting, and then silence.
You stare at the ring, breathing heavily. It feels colder in your hand now, and it's too late when you notice the thin layer of frost covering the surrounding area of your palm.
"Help me," a quiet, croaky voice begs. "Help me."
Slowly, you turn, coming face-to-face with the ghost of Maria Broome.
A Wraith, you realise immediately. She was once beautiful, as you know from the photographs produced in the old newspapers, but the wounds that caused her death have mutilated her. Eighteen stab wounds, you remember, and a good portion of them are on her chest and face. The sight makes you feel sick.
"Everything alright in there?" Lockwood shouts, but you can't answer.
Ghost lock, you think. You've been trained in how to pull yourself from it, but seeing her so close, so brutalised, you can't bring yourself to move. How many women have ended up dead at the hands of their husbands? Will you end up like that? Or will you let her save you from that fate sooner...?
"Help me," she repeats, and you can feel the emotion in her voice.
It's a struggle to speak. Your arms feel so heavy. "How?"
"Help me."
"(name)?"
Lockwood appears in the doorway and immediately draws his rapier. The sound alerts the ghost, and she screeches with fury.
"Help me!"
Her voice is deafening and, under the effect of ghost lock, you don't have time to move before her hand, covered in her own dark blood, touches your arm.
You can do nothing but cry out in pain, finally able to stumble backwards, as Lockwood launches himself at the ghost, striking straight through her with his rapier. You fall back into the glass-and-wood cabinet, sending it toppling to the ground. Shards of glass dig into your skin, and blood pours easily from the wounds.
Even now, you can see your elbow swelling and turning blue. It's getting a little harder to breathe, and your heart is beating strangely in your chest.
The sound of salt bombs hurts your ears, still ringing from the sound of the Visitor's wail. Lockwood's feet move swiftly on the ground, holding off any attacks from the ghost, but, even injured and ghost-touched, you can see that he's fighting a losing battle. The silver box you brought is still in the kitchen.
Pain flares in your arms as you stand, pickled with glass, and you've already lost the use of the lower part of your arm. Without an adrenaline injection soon, the effect will spread further, and you'll be dead before the night is even over.
Your lungs are burning but, ring in hand, you sprint out of the lounge and into the kitchen.
"Help me!" Maria Broome screams, her voice malicious.
With your good arm, you scavenge around in your bag, acutely aware of the sound of salt bombs exploding in the other room. It takes a few minutes, but, soon enough, you find the silver box and hurry to shove the ring inside.
All sounds cease.
Once more, Lockwood appears, out of breath and red-faced. "(name)! Are you alright? Did she -"
Weakly, you hold out your arm. The whole of your forearm is now blue and swollen, and everything - your organs, your blood flow - seems to be functioning much slower than it should. It's hard to breathe or see, and your voice feels like nothing but a strong block in your throat. Nothing will come out.
"Shit."
He runs over just in time to catch you as your legs give out. Collapsing to the ground with you, he clutches you tightly, careful to avoid any of the glass shards piercing your skin, or the area affected by ghost touch.
"Shit. Oh, god, you're okay, okay? You're perfectly fine." His voice wavers and his hands are trembling as he brushes hair out of your face. You can only look up at him, vision spotted with black. "Hang on, okay? I'll call an ambulance, just hang on. No, don't close your eyes. Stay awake for me, can you do that?"
It's hard, but you nod, vaguely aware of the cold tile floor on your back and the sound of him scampering away. His voice is distant, and it's hard to hear anything but the slow, fading pounding of your heart.
By the time Lockwood returns, the world has faded to black, and you can hear nothing.
--
Beeping. Incessant beeping that's pissing you off.
"Turn it off," you grumble. Who let you take a nap in the same room as the washing machine again?
A hand closes around yours almost instantly, and, with a struggle, you open your eyes. The room you find yourself in is blindingly white, the only colour being brought by a vase of pretty tulips, the strangely patterned gown you wear beneath a thin white blanket, and the tie and socks of the boy sitting beside your bed.
Lockwood sits in a chair beside the bed, dressed in his usual attire, but he looks much more dishevelled than usual. His hair is mussed, slightly, and his clothes slightly wrinkled.
Still, he smiles. "Hey. How are you feeling?"
You scowl. "Pissed off. What's that beeping?"
"Your heart rate. So, if anyone's to blame for it, it's you."
"Why -" You look around the room again, properly taking note of your surroundings. "Am I in a hospital?"
His hand squeezes yours softly. It's covered in little plasters. "Back at the house, you were ghost touched. The ambulance barely got to you in time. Another minute and you'd have been dead."
It's almost unnoticeable, but his voice breaks on the last word. Only now do you notice the salt flakes in his hair or the fact that his tie is the same one he wore to the case. There are bags under his eyes, made that much more dramatic by the bright white lighting of the room. There's a cannula in your right hand, and your whole right arm is tinted blue and slightly more swollen than your left.
"I -" You struggle with your words. Your throat feels dry, and you're grateful for the glass of water Lockwood hands you. "How long have I been here?"
"You've been in and out of sleep consistently for the past two days," he says. "The ghost touch was bad, and doctors wanted you to wake up fully before you came home. I was worried -" His voice catches, and your heart squeezes in your chest painfully. "I was worried you wouldn't wake up, and the thought of that... I wouldn't be able to handle it if you died, (name)."
He struggles to even say the word died, and it's heartbreaking. Two days he's had to fight those feelings, two days spent solely by your side if his appearance is anything to go by.
"I'm sorry," you say. "I couldn't get out of the ghost lock. If I'd tried harder..."
His eyes meet yours, holding you in place. "No, I'm sorry. I should've gotten there sooner. No, in fact, I should've come in there with you to begin with. If I had, I could've stopped her before she -"
"Hey," you say, softly grazing your thumb over the skin of his hand, "it wasn't your fault, okay? I'm alive. I'm okay, thanks to you."
There's a red tinge to his eyes now, and they've taken on a glassy look. "If I lost you, it would be like losing everything."
"Lockwood -"
"My life is better because you're in it, (name), and without you..." He looks away. "When you hated me, I could cope, because having you hate me was better than not having you in my life at all, but, now, after being able to have a friendship with you, after being able to love you, I wouldn't be able to handle it if you had died."
Your heart has stopped, or, at least, you'd think it has if not for the beeping of the heart monitor. His words have you in a chokehold, and you're unable to do anything but repeat them over and over in your head until it's all you can hear.
Lockwood's face is full of anguish. "I know you don't feel the same, and that's okay, but I couldn't live unless I'd told you."
Your throat feels thick with emotion. "You're wrong."
"What?"
If there's one thing that bugs Anthony Lockwood, it's being wrong, and the look of confusion makes you laugh softly.
"You heard me, you're wrong." With great effort, you move your right arm until you can place your hand atop his. "I do feel the same. It's actually quite rude of you to assume I don't. Quite a dick move, Mr Lockwood."
It takes a moment for your words to register but when they do, the grin that splits his face is dazzling. You've never seen anything so vibrant, so entrancing, as this.
"You do?"
"Mm-hm. You see, the way to my heart is through doughnuts from Arif's, and you've done just that."
Your palms are sweaty, but you don't think he minds as he squeezes your hand again. You can feel his pulse thundering just as fast as yours.
"Can I kiss you?"
"I think a hospital perhaps isn't the ideal place for a first kiss, but I suppose so."
Slowly, as if you'll tell him to stop, Lockwood leans forward, eyes flickering over your face. Your eyes flutter shut just before his lips brush yours, tasting like shitty hospital tea.
The kiss opens up parts of you that have been closed off for so long. Grief had buried them so long ago, but it's as if the kiss is slowly healing your hurt, patching them up with badly cut plasters and an overload of Savlon - the Doctor Lockwood method of first aid. It's gentle, tender, cautious, and it's clear he's worried he'll hurt you.
But he won't, he can't. So long as his hand is in yours, or your lips are together, he can't hurt you.
It feels like forever before you both pull away, but his forehead rests softly on yours. His eyes look so bright and happy.
"Do I get a pay raise for being the boss's partner?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Oh, so we're already in a relationship?"
"Yes, you knob, we are because I say so."
"Well, whatever you say goes."
"Damn right it does."
He laughs, and the sound is enough to be a catalyst for your inner healing.
It's been a while since you've loved anyone, and you know the same goes for Lockwood. The last people you both loved died, and it's been hard recovering from that, but you'll take things slowly and carefully. Over time, you'll both heal, and you'll be there for one another the whole time.
With a smile and some urging from Lockwood, you drift off back to sleep again, comforted by the feeling of his hand in yours and the knowledge that he loves you, too.
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pillowspace · 14 days
Note
Hi, I have a question. What is the Magnus Archives? Sorry if that’s a stupid question, but your account keeps talking about it and it sounds REALLY interesting, but I don’t know what it is.
I'd be delighted to tell you !! :D
The Magnus Archives is a horror fiction podcast with an overarching storyline and lgbtq+ romantic elements. After the Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute (a building in London which collects stories and researches the supernatural) passes away, a researcher by the name of Jonathan Sims is promoted as the new Head Archivist in the Archives. He is assigned three archival assistants: Tim, Sasha, and Martin. Martin, Jon very much so does not like.
As the Head Archivist, its his duty to clean up after the mess his predecessor left the Archives in. So he finds statements, reads them out into his laptop, and sends his assistants to do follow-up. He thinks the stories are all nonsense though, denying them all credibility.
But then some statements won't... record to a laptop. The recordings for some are entirely corrupted, and those ones will only record to a tape recorder. And that is where you'll hear the entire podcast. Everything you hear comes from the tape recorders.
Eventually, with time, Jon starts noticing patterns between the stories he tells. The viewer starts noticing patterns, like familiar names or locations. Until the Archival crew slowly starts to realize that they're in a very bad situation themselves, and the tape recorders start being used more and more often to record their own supernatural happenings with monsters and the like. The monsters often being their own characters with names and motivations.
I have a post here on how to listen to it (as well as a little advice on how to listen to it best)
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pencildragons · 1 year
Text
moving on from this post, i am now assigning Everyone in the archives an instrument
tim: lies and tells everyone he can play harmonica. he cannot play harmonica. was actually a concert percussionist in the london symphony orchestra for four years. he is taking this secret to his grave (he thinks) (everyone else knows. he’s only fooling himself). he once accidentally wound up winning a stras violin in a bet, then donated it to a charity shop because he didn’t know how to play it.
sasha: CAN play the harmonica, chooses not to. played cello from second grade until her first year of university, has not touched it since the Bow Incident Of 2004. tim knows. is once convinced when very drunk to try the cello belonging to a pub band member. promptly rocked everyone’s socks off. was going to start playing cello again in july 2016, but--well. the NotThem has no interest in music.
martin: does not play an instrument, but desperately wanted to learn french horn. is a very good singer, however, and was a treble in his church choir until his mother got too sick. Nobody Has Heard Him Sing Ever
basira: nothing /affectionate. she can, however, dance very groovily, a skill Nobody Else in the archives possesses
daisy: she’s actually a very accomplished pianist, but did also once destroy an entire piano so now the entire archives thinks she hates musicians and all that they stand for. she owns a 17 year old keyboard that has electrocuted her twice
melanie: was classically trained as a singer, however i know in my heart of hearts one of her parents was australian, so she can also play lagerphone, bush bass, and the spoons Very Well. once she (accidentally) played the spoons on ghuk and the audience lost their fucking minds. she and georgie secretly have a two-woman bush band
jon: i mentioned this in the post that sparked this one, but he’s a violist. he also plays at least 5 other instruments and sings very well, but fundamentally thinks that viola is the coolest. he does everything by ear. one of these 5 instruments is squeezebox and another is electric guitar. i leave you, the reader, to decide the other three. people think he only plays viola because he never fucking shuts up about it
honourable mentions:
georgie: drum-kit. she cannot read sheet music. this was, in fact, one of the original attracting forces between her and jon, who can but doesn’t want to
gerry: the obvious answer is bass guitar, However. i think he also won prizes for banjo playing
dishonourable mentions:
peter lukas: treble tin whistle
gertrude: french horn. also piano. also the trumpet. also. uhh. hmm. there is a chance she may be able to play every single instrument ever
elias: nothing. he does, however, have perfect pitch (insult)
stupid idiot motherfucking jurgen leitner: the recorder. badly.
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void-ink-studios · 4 months
Text
Traitorous Cockroach
I wrote that idea I had about Orbo!
It was fun, writing from a bastard's perspective. Orbo is simply the worst, unapologetically so. He's a narcissist, and I will not say sorry for writing him as such.
So enjoy Scarab putting him in his place!
Word Count: 4,100
When Orbo got to roll back out into the light for the first time in... what, 5,000 years, he thought he'd finally be allowed a bit of peace.
He thought he'd have his rad office back, he could find someone to get rid of this fucking snake, and he could spend the rest of eternity not thinking of two certain gods ever again.
He gave the Organizer nothing more than what was strictly necessary in terms of a farewell. He listened to the Judge prattle on about how they hoped Orbo had seen the error of his ways or whatever.
It was all worth it for when he'd get his office back.
Until the Organizer handed a piece of paper with a new room assignment.
"Demoted?!"
The Organizer gave no verbal reaction to the Star Core's indignation.
"Hold on, wait, I served my time! I want my office back!"
"Did you expect to be granted your old position back after what you were in trouble for in the first place? Do I need to go over everything you were found guilty of again? What were you honestly expecting?"
Orbo sputtered for a second, feeling himself shrink a moment at her harsh tone.
"Orbo, you stand before the Judge to answer for several egregious violations of Judgement Hall conduct and ethics. Organizer, please read the charges."
Orbo couldn't believe this was happening. Just a few days ago, he was about to get his buddy the Wishmaster back from whatever spell that bug put on him and now... Now he was standing in the Judgement Hall like some kind of criminal?!
"Yes, Judge. Orbo, you stand accused of abuse of Judgement Hall resources, repeated instances of abuse of power over subordinates, failure to respond to reported threats in a timely or appropriate manner, and inappropriate enactment of punishment outside of your authority and jurisdiction."
"Orbo, how do you explain these charges?"
"I... They're not true! None of that is true!"
"Is it, or is it not true you sent a High Auditor on missions meant to be handled by Interns and Low Auditors? These include cases of misattribution of Judgement Hall supplies and misuse of Judgement Hall time."
"W-Well, yes, I sent Scarab on those missions. But he was out of important missions to do!"
"The appropriate course of action would be to let Scarab rest if that were the case. Sending him out on such missions is a waste of his time, your time, the Judgement Hall's time, and is taking learning opportunities from new recruits, which has lead to an overall decrease in productivity in the lower branches of Auditors. Organizer, is this assessment accurate?"
"Yes Judge."
"That is one charge you have lied about. Do you wish to revise your previous statements? If you revise right now, I will not add perjury onto your charge list. Otherwise, we can continue down the list, and I will add a new charge of perjury for every single instance we find. So I will ask again. Orbo, how do you explain these charges?"
Orbo swallowed at the memory of his... interesting trial. He shook his head, looking back up to the Organizer, who seemed to be preoccupied reading something on the desk.
"But-"
"Not to mention your... substandard performance in the Archives. No, I can't grant you your previous position at this time. Perhaps if you show improvement, we can revisit this. But for now, you are being reassigned."
He couldn't believe this.
He was a god. He was older than most of the starry-eyed dolts in the pantheon, he had earned his position!
"Let's see... Hmm, no, you've been out of practice far too long to be an Auditor again... Let's see here... Ah, here's a place for you."
She handed him a piece of paper.
"...Compiler? As in... as in the guys who sort through those endless stacks of paperwork looking for discrepancies?" She couldn't be serious. She couldn't really be diminishing him to... to a paper pusher!
"Yes, a Compiler. You'd have no subordinates to terrorize, and it's one of the only jobs in my jurisdiction that you can't fail at badly enough to cause a crisis."
"But... But that's... That's almost the bottom of the barrel! I have Seniority over everyone in that office!"
"Yes, I'm sure they'll be impressed that such an old guard is joining them. If you don't like it, you can always continue where you left off in the Archives."
The door to the side of her slid open, the dusty smelling ozone seeping into the room.
"N-No! No, that won't be necessary, mate. Compiler it is then..."
She hummed, gesturing for the paper to be returned. Orbo silently obeyed, wincing as she brought the stamp down, and handed it back to him.
"Glad we have reached an agreement. Now then, you're to report to your new office immediately. You're dismissed."
Orbo's eyes widened as the door to her office opened.
"W-Wait!"
The Orgranizer shifted a few tired eyes at him.
"Is something the matter?"
He squirmed a little under her gaze, but took a deep breath.
"Could you do... something about this?"
He gestured to the snake currently sinking its teeth deep into the side of his head. He was thankful he had no blood to spill.
"I'm sorry but curses and the breaking of them are not part of my jurisdiction. You either need to resolve it with the one who cursed you, or take it through the official channels and file a request for the Judge."
"The Judge?!" The snake snarled, biting a bit harder, making him wince. "The Judge has a waiting list lightyears long!"
"Well then. Better file one as soon as your first break starts. You might want to get going."
And so, Orbo did.
He languished in the Compiler's office. It was as dreadfully boring as he imagined. Paperwork stacks a mile tall, replaced with a new one just as he nearly finished.
He wondered if his punishment ever actually ended.
And don't get him started on his... coworkers. Nothing special, most of them not even truly immortal. Many of them were just long-lived species on the intergalactic stage. Most of them didn't even have magic, not even innately. And none of them had a remotely interesting thought to share.
Several tried to chat, but none were even remotely cool enough to dignify with a response. Eventually, they got the hint and stopped trying.
One of them even had the audacity to try and pet the snake latched onto him. Called it cute.
Until one of them, finally, said something worth his attention.
"Guys! Guys you'll never guess what just happened!"
Orbo rolled his eyes as he continued working through his newest stack. The one currently disrupting the quiet was an odd little thing, an octopus looking creature, piloting some kind of robotic skeleton.
"What happened this time, did you finally catch your lunch thief?"
Nope, because that would be Orbo.
"No, that's still a bust. No, I saw Scarab! He was here, and he even said hi to me!"
Now they had his attention. He turned to look more at the excited alien. Wait... excited? About Scarab?
"No way! And you didn't tell us the Star Auditor was here? Glorm, I will tie your tentacles in a knot, I swear to Glob-"
"I didn't know! I literally just got back from delivering something to one of the managers, and he was just... There! Just leaving the Organizer's office!"
"And you're sure he said hi to you?"
"Yes! He asked where I was coming from and said to keep up the good work!"
No, this couldn't be right. This was the same Scarab, yes? The traitorous little cockroach, there was no way he was being spoken of with... awe, right? He must be mishearing the emotions in their voice.
"Sorry you had to experience that, mate" he decided to butt in.
The office went weirdly quiet. They were looking at him now, but with dumb confusion.
"Sorry? Why are you sorry?"
"If this is the same Scarab I remember, I can't imagine seeing him being pleasant. Not a cool bone in his body." Orbo shivered just thinking about it.
"Wait... You knew Scarab from back in the day? Back when he was the God Auditor?"
"Knew him? I was his boss."
"Is it true? Is it true that he was hand-picked by the Boss for defeating a Comic threat as a mortal?"
Orbo scoffed. "He got lucky. Wouldn't have been able to without that crystal he swiped from the Judgement Hall. Look, just take my word for it, you don't wanna be on his radar. Best to avoid him in my opinion."
With that, he turned back to his desk, satisfied.
"...Where have you been for the past, I don't know, eons?"
And he stopped again.
"Excuse me?"
"I mean... Scarab's awesome! He saved his home world, like, single handedly! As a mortal!"
"Like I said, he got lucky." How did these knuckleheads not get it yet?
"He was the most effective Auditor of all time! He's the Organizer's go-to!"
"Her personal enforcer if I remember correctly!"
"Wait, what?" When did that happen?
"He's captured almost every cosmic criminal sitting in the Neo Citadel!"
"He's an inspiration! He was mortal, and he managed to do all that! Gives me hope maybe I could do something amazing like that."
"Yeah, maybe when you finally remember which stamp goes on which form, we'll talk."
They all laughed with each other like they'd said something actually witty but... Orbo was just... stumped. How is Scarab this... well liked? What happened in the time he was gone? He thought he had everyone being on the same page as him.
There was nothing admirable about a cockroach.
Looks like this place really has gone mad.
He shoved it out of his mind for now, more focused on trying to get his office back than worry about what that skittering little creature was up to.
Until he heard about it again.
"I think Scarab's going to be hosting a seminar soon, right? Yeah, for the new Interns. Maybe they'd let some of us hang out in the back?"
And again.
"You hear Scarab took down the Star Leech? Can't imagine what that battle must've looked like. Wonder what he'll go after next."
And again.
"I saw Scarab out by the gardens a bit ago. I wanted to talk to him, but I think he was meditating or something. Looked peaceful, I might try it."
Okay, what was happening?
Back when he was in charge, Orbo practically had to pull teeth to get Scarab in the Judgement Hall. Now it seemed he was here every other minute. And people didn't seem to have a problem with it. How? How did no one see the issue here?
Something was off. Something had changed. But what?
A particularly hard bite to his back prompted a potential answer.
Prismo.
Prismo had to have done something, there's no other reason Scarab had such free reign.
He was still baffled by the Wishmaster's behavior. How could someone so... so cool fall for such a repulsive little worm? He acted like... like he loved him or something.
He gagged at the thought.
Prismo had to be swaying the pantheon, that was the only explanation.
If Orbo had known that the mercy he granted the bug would blow up this badly, he'd have just chucked him in the furnace and been done with it.
Why hadn't he? He'd finally gotten what he wanted for eons, and he just... Why did Prismo stick out for him? It still made no sense.
At first, he'd been amused. Sure, let the Wishmaster "mentor" Scarab for a bit. Prismo had an annoying habit of trying to see the best in everyone. But, spend a long enough time with Scarab, and that'd be his last ally gone. He waited for the day he got contacted by Prismo telling him he changed his mind, he wanted this gross bug out of the Time Room, and Orbo would be the hero.
Except... the call never came.
A day past.
Then a week.
Then a few months.
Nothing.
A part of Orbo worried Scarab might've finally killed the Wishmaster, but that would've been instant news. No, Prismo was probably okay...
Maybe he was just too nice a guy to say anything? Afterall, he knew first hand how awful Scarab was to deal with at the best of times, much less when stuck with the one entity he hates the most.
He really should apologize to Prismo for that one.
And yet, when he showed up, Prismo didn't take the out! Despite him witnessing Scarab's creepy behavior, he was on the ceiling for Glob's sake, but Prismo seemed none to care! He got angry at him! Him! Scarab must've been saying something. Something to turn their beloved Wishmaster against them.
How else would you explain that terrifying shadow he turned into?
Orbo was getting tired of hearing about Scarab. He even saw him, once, out in the hall. Didn't even acknowledge him.
How dare he.
"GUYS!"
His manager (ugh) barged into the office, clearly excited about something. Everyone jumped as he banged the door open, a piece of paper clutched in his hand.
"What what what?"
"Guess who just got invited to a party at the Time Cube?!"
"No way!"
"What?! Jealous!"
"Aw man, lucky!"
Orbo sat there. Baffled. Prismo's hosting... parties again? And he wasn't invited???
Wait, since when was Prismo's parties invitation based?
"I know, right? I guess I really made an impression on Scarab! He got me invited! I can't believe I get to party with both Wishmasters! Somebody pinch me! I'll put in a good word for you guys, maybe I can get Scarab to come in one day!"
Wait wait wait wait wait.
"Did you just say... BOTH Wishmasters? I thought Prismo was the only one?"
Now they looked at him like he has three heads.
"Wow, you really missed a lot, Orbo. Yeah, Scarab's a Wishmaster, part of the time. After a string of big cases, the Boss gives him some time to be Wishmaster alongside Prismo. Sounds like a lot of work to me, but it seems to work for the both of them."
"Oh, it works alright. They get to smooch all they want."
"Carsinda! We don't gossip like that!"
"Since when? You know it's true, it's not gossip if everybody knows."
Okay, now Orbo's brain was broken.
Prismo and Scarab? Together?
The thought of anyone wanting Scarab like that... to say it made him retch was an understatement.
And here he thought Prismo had decent taste.
Although, from what he's heard about a connection he had to some... mortal, maybe that was an overestimation.
This entire place has gone mad, that's the only explanation. Things have fallen apart without him. People have forgotten exactly what Scarab is. What he always will be.
A dirty little traitorous cockroach.
And dirty little cockroaches don't get to win. They don't get to hang out in the most powerful spot in the multiverse, in the good graces of the most powerful gods in the pantheon. Not when awesome, true gods like him is left to languish in a meaningless office job!
No, they belong in the dirt. Preferably under a boot.
Hmm...
Maybe it was time to pay his old pals a visit. Just to clear the air.
-------------------------------------
It wasn't hard, slipping away from the office. And getting to the Time Room from the Judgement Hall was simple enough.
But... woah. Seems the Time Room's... changed a bit.
He lingered in the doorway, just taking it in, swallowing down winces and yelps from his "buddy's" little interruptions.
There were plants everywhere. Vines, ferns, flowers, even a willow tree. How they were there, he had no idea. He thoughts things couldn't really... live? Not in the Time Room at least. And yet, it looked like a terrarium in here, with strange glowing flowers to boot.
Crystals wrapped in gold filigree cast a soft light, contrasting against the strange clouds swirling at the ceiling. Throw rugs covered a large chunk of the floor, a desk against a wall, and many shelves climbing up and down the previously featureless surfaces of the Time Room. The only wall spared of strange shelves and photos was the TV Wall it would seem.
Well, at least the hot tub was still there, sitting underneath the previously mentioned willow tree. Something familiar.
An elaborate nest of pillows and blankets nearly covered up and comfortable looking seating area, so all encompassing it took up a huge corner of the room.
And it was there that he saw... them.
Prismo, holding Scarab against his chest, sitting on the couch.
Orbo had to blink a few times to process what he was seeing.
Prismo. Was off the wall. He looked strange, not just because he wasn't just a shadow anymore. His legs looked different, he appeared to be made out of gas, he had stars orbiting him, it all looked... wrong. That wasn't his Prismo.
Scarab looked pretty much as hideous as he remembered. There wasn't even the decency to wear his mask. Just his horrid face, out for all to see.
The cockroach seemed to be asleep, thankfully, tucked in close to Prismo's side as the Wishmaster browsed the TV Wall. Scarab made those odd chittering noises as he slept, mandibles twitching ever so slightly. Prismo seemed to have taken to idly petting Scarab's head. It was... sugary sweet.
Wait a second... Were those....?
Yep. Antenna. Ghostly blue antenna, but antenna none the less. Prismo curled his finger around one and dragged up, earning himself a content sigh from the bug in his arms.
How in Glob's name did he get his antenna back? He made sure they were gone, he watched them get cut from his scalp, he tossed them into the incinerator himself!
Wait, if his antenna were back did that mean...? No... No, he couldn't have those back...
The longer he stared, the more confused he became. What had happened to this pantheon?
Scarab's antenna twitched. They shivered, perking upright, making the cockroach rouse from his slumber. A nervous chitter fell from his mouth.
"Hmm? Something the matter, Lovebug?"
"...I know you're there" Scarab said, voice flat.
Well, now or never.
Orbo rolled on in, smiling.
"Ya got me. Guess who got out of prison!"
Scarab sat up, his eyes narrowed but expression blank. Prismo frowned.
"What are you doing here, Orbo?"
"What, I can't visit my favorite Wishmaster after 5,000 years? Like what you've done with the place."
Neither entity seemed impressed.
"Get to the point" Prismo growled.
Woah, tough crowd. He yelped a bit as the snake sunk its teeth into the top of his head. He missed Prismo's little smirk.
"Just wanted to confirm some... rumors I heard around the office. Scarab's Wishmaster now?"
"I am. Part time, at least."
"Hmm. So. You finally got all you wanted, Scrabs?"
"You don't have permission to call me that."
Orbo's head throbbed. This little...
"Oh you skittering little-"
The snake on his head seemed to get a bit bigger. A bit heavier, now biting over and over. Prismo had stood up at some point, leering angrily over Orbo.
"I thought I made it clear you aren't welcome in the Time Room, Orbo. I thought that maybe the Archive might've given you time to think or something. Maybe realize what a scum bag you were. But I guess not."
Scarab watched from the sidelines, an even expression on his horrid little face.
"Oh shove off you sham of a Wishmaster! You and I both know that he wouldn't have none of this if it weren't for you! He's a leech. And you're just letting him cling to your belly."
"That's it, get out-"
Prismo stopped as a hand tapped his shoulder. Scarab had stood up and walked to stand beside the Wishmaster.
"Lovebug?"
Scarab took a deep breath.
"Let me handle this, Prismo."
The dream's eyes widened, looking between Scarab and Orbo concerned.
"Are you sure...?"
"Completely. It's clear he has something to say to me. I say let him say his piece. And I'll say mine. And then I kick him out."
The two shared a look with each other, a silent conversation bouncing back and forth between them. Prismo nodded, taking a step back to observe.
Scarab turned back to Orbo.
"You've got something you want to say to me, Orbo? Now's the time. Go ahead. Nothing will leave this room. You've never held back before."
Orbo blinked. Scara had never looked this... calm before. He saw the traces of wish magic thrumming across his shell.
"You're nothing. You know that, right Scrabs? You're just a dirty little cockroach. This life ain't meant for the likes of you."
"Oh come now. Is that the best you've got?"
Rage boiled into Orbo's heart.
"You know what I said was right. This? All this? It's all Prismo. You'd be nothing without him. I'd have tossed you in the incinerator without a second thought if not for him. Just like I did with your antenna and your wings."
He saw Scarab stiffen a bit, but his expression remained unchanged. Prismo seemed to be boiling, but the cockroach seemed to be keeping him at bay.
"Yeah, there's that little mystery solved for you, mate. I tossed your antenna the second you left. I kept your wings in a drawer for a few centuries. Then I tossed those too. It's what creatures like you are meant for. You're an ugly little novelty. And if it wasn't for him trying to get some, you'd be nothing. You're built on nothing but luck and riding on someone else's coattails. You and I both know it.
"I'd do it all again. I'd just be better at training you to keep your mouth shut."
Scarab was still. Silent.
Yeah, that's right. You know I'm right, you cockroach.
"Are you done?"
Orbo's scowl deepened. He didn't step down, he never would to the likes of Scarab.
"Seems like it. You know... Everything you said probably would've... I'm not sure. Devastated me? If it were a few thousand years ago, I'd have believed everything you said. I still believe some of it. I truly believe you'd have done everything you did to me, again and again. Even after one million years in the Archive, you would still see me as nothing but a skittering little insect at your feet."
Scarab opened his elytra, letting his false wings carry him up into a relaxed hover, above Orbo.
"But... Well, we're not 5,000 years ago. I lived. I carried on. You languished. I know where you're stationed, Orbo. I know all you have is words. Empty words. You can't help but recall what happened all those eons ago, because you can't do anything except revel in the past."
Scarab took a moment to examine his talons before looking back down at the Star Core.
"I know what you are, Orbo."
He lowered himself, leaning his face in close.
"You're empty. You're sad and empty. There's just... nothing but hollow ego inside you."
Scarab raised himself back up, his expression almost softening.
"That's the difference between us, Orbo. You're nothing but ego, so what are you when you sit at the bottom of the hierarchy? I'm not interested in your politics. I'm not interested in your games. I know you only came here to play. But you're the only one at the table, Orbo. You're playing by yourself."
Scarab let himself drift into a relaxed position, even reaching down to pet the snake's head softly.
"I don't forgive you, for what you did to me. But I will thank you. Unfortunately, you have nothing else I want. Perhaps I'll forgive you, in a millennia or two. Honestly, I hope all the best for you. But... above all else..."
Scarab landed on the ground again, hands folded in front of him.
"Above all else, I pity you Orbo. I. Pity. You. Now then, this has been a good chat. Goodbye."
And with a snap, Orbo was gone. Dumped right back in the compiler's office. With nothing but a hollow anger and confusion.
-----------------------------
Scarab released a shuddering breath. Prismo was by his side in an instant, cooing and kissing the side of his head and neck, nuzzling his cheek.
"You did so good, Lovebug... Glob, I'm so proud of you..."
Scarab nodded. His hands trembled, but he made sure to get a good hold of Prismo's. He turned his head to nuzzle back. He let the Wishmaster drag him back to the couch, wrapping around him in a loving embrace, murmuring sweet nothings.
Scarab thought hard about what just happened. What he said.
That was hard. That was terrifying. But...
He purred into Prismo's sweet touched. He looked all around their little paradise, their home. He was safe here. He was loved here.
Above all, he was free here.
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sasheneskywalker · 5 months
Text
batfamily fic recs where the main character is transgender or non-binary
Laying My Heart Out by rotasha Bruce doesn’t have friends. Until he has Oliver.
T | No Archive Warnings Apply | Oliver Queen & Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne
if you get lost (you can always be found) by corvidspectre Originally, it was easy to believe it was just over-eager adoration for one Dick Grayson. It was too easy to believe in fact; how could he have known there was any alternative? Dick Grayson was amazing, all that he wanted to be. The way he flew through the air, his effortless smiles and energy, what young child wouldn't want to be him? He was just idolising him, and he was a perfectly fine role model for a young girl to have. Maybe it was just a blossoming interest in gymnastics.
It took Tim a while to realise he didn't just want to be like Dick Grayson.
He wanted to be a boy. No, he was a boy. He was sure of it.
T | No Archive Warnings Apply | Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent, Past Tim Drake/Stephanie Brown
by any other name would smell as sweet by misspickman A dare and a couple of offhand comments set off a domino effect, sending Tim down one or two identity crises. Apparently everyone thinks it's time for him to do some self-reflection.
T | No Archive Warnings Apply | Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Batfamily Members & Tim Drake, Bart Allen & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Cassie Sandsmark
A hold on me by Anonymous Damian starts thinking about self-identity. Things both are and aren’t difficult. Growing up is hard, you know.
T | No Archive Warnings Apply | No Relationships
always an angel (never a god) by maruyaaya When Jason Todd is twelve, people begin calling him the ‘Boy Wonder’ and while Jason is, of course, extremely pleased to have taken up such an important mantle, it also feels wrong in a way that he can’t quite put his finger on.
“Look at me! I’m Robin, the Boy Wonder!” Jason cheers the first time he has the Robin suit on, Dick Grayson’s old nickname coming out of his mouth with a sickly sort of feeling to it.
But then Bruce smiles at him like he’s finally done something worth being proud of and Jason feels like he can ignore the way his skin is crawling if it means Bruce will smile at him like that again.
He can change, can’t he? He can be the Boy Wonder that Bruce wants him to be. He can do it. He can be whatever Bruce wants him to be. It doesn’t matter what she wants.
or;
a canon compliant fic following the life of jason todd from birth to death to re-birth and their struggles with discovering who—and what—they are.
M | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Roy Harper/Jason Todd
Spoiler Alert: It Gets Better. by carolinaa Red Hood's been running Robin's Nest, a secret youth shelter in Gotham, since he came out of his murdery craze. He wants it to be a place to stay, no questions asked, with a hot meal provided if you stick around for breakfast. The kids of Gotham deserve that much.
Enter Stephanie, whose new name isn't the only secret she's keeping.
(or: how steph outsmarts her dad, makes gay friends, and gets the guy)
T | Archive Warnings Apply | Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake
These Twists and Turns of Fate by Hinn_Raven To be born is to exist, but to live is something else entirely. Stephanie Brown falls apart, and pulls herself back together. OR Stephanie Brown is assigned a different name and gender at birth. These are the changes that result.
G | Graphic Depictions Of Violence | Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake, Harper Row/Carrie Kelley, Stephanie Brown & Harper Row, Stephanie Brown & Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown & Crystal Brown, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake
loot my body by carolinaa Jason comes back to life, and finds that everyone's mourning someone who never existed.
T | No Archive Warnings Apply | Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd, Roy Harper & Koriand'r & Jason Todd
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megumi-fm · 5 months
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16th - 20th October || 86 to 90 days of 100 150dop
hi besties! it's been a while since i updated on here properly. there was kind of an infestation issue but now it's all flushed out and I'm back! i've decided to upgrade my days of productivity challenge to 150 total days because i have 40 days of uni remaining (as well as additional exam days) and I wanted to note all of them down and wrap it up in this challenge itself. I'm also gonna start adding memes and random non-productivity updates, just so I feel more motivated to actually post stuff, instead of procrastinating and clubbing too many days at once.
🎶: Hayloft II by Mother Mother
🔉: MAG053 The Crusader
💌: today I am grateful for music! i've been in a funk recently, but my playlists has really been helping me through it <3
my main focus for the past few days and especially today (20th Oct) has been to complete an assignment on 3D bioprinting and it's relevance in drug testing. I've done a lot of research and learnt a lot of interesting things, but my interest has also led me to getting too distracted and not actually wrapping up the project. I really hope I finish it by tonight, I like how it's looking so far.
i spent yesterday (19th Oct) with my cousins and my sister, I took them to this gaming arcade and babysat them for the day. they seemed to have a good time, I enjoyed a day out of the house as well. we spent so much time there, I managed to upgrade the game card to a gold tier :P we also had taco bell for lunch <3
the day before that (18th Oct) I spent a couple hours on my week3 neuroscience lectures. the concepts are comparatively challenging to understand, so i sat through them many times, I'm yet to make notes for them
on Tuesday (17th Oct) I had extra classes (booo it was the most boring time ever) and a dentist appointment after, so I couldn't really get much done. the dental clinic was just a kilometer or two away from home, so I just walked back, taking pictures of the greenery on the way
i didn't have uni on Monday (16th Oct) so I ended up waking up late but i did clean my room and chart out a work plan the weeks until this semester ends. I've been trying to follow it best I can but oh well, things keep popping up from time to time
in the midst of this I'm in the midst of massive nationwide cricket fever (the world cup is going on and we're doing really well! we've won every match we played so far!) It's also festival time here so I have holidays this week (we don't celebrate at home but my friends call me home and I get to partake with them so it's really nice). And this is coupled with my insane levels of consumption of The Magnus Archives Podcast 24/7 xD. Additionally, I have quite a chunk of AI-ML work to get done by this week (SGD and XBoost model development) and I don't know the first thing about it or where to even start so I'm kind of avoiding it for the moment. Hoping to start that once I'm done with this 3d bioprinting presentation. Fingers crossed!
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evilwizardcrab · 3 months
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Assinging popular UK rollercoasters TMA fear entities.
Because sometimes your roller coaster autism and magnus archives autism combine into a secret, third thing.
Also, obviously most roller coasters are kind of inherently tied to vast/spiral, but for the sake of variety I'll only be assigning those entities when it happens to be really thematically relevant.
All clear? Good. Then in no particular order, let's begin.
1 .The Smiler (Alton Towers)
Figured I should start this out on what is quite possibly the UKs most iconic rollercoaster. At a whopping 14 inversions this Gerstlauer infinity coaster holds the world recor-
The spiral. It's the spiral. Yes, I know I literally just said I would be reserving spiral judgements for certain rollercoasters but just. Just look at this fucking thing:
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This is quite possibly *the* most spiral aligned rollercoaster you could possibly make. In fact it might literally be the most spiral aligned rollercoaster ever, because with 14 inversions it literally is the most amount of spiraling you can physically do on a rollercoaster.
I mean, watch the goddamn TV Advert for this ride and tell me Fuckhands McMike didn't have a (yaoi) hand in the creation of this thing. Fuck Sanakov land I'm pretty sure the smiler singlehandedly counts as a failed spiral ritual.
It literally sends you insane! That's it, that's the theming! It's logo is a literal fucking spiral! Words themselves cannot get across how quintessentially Spiral this coaster is!!!! Even the FUCKING MUSIC is spirally!
It's even yellow.
So yeah, 10/10 spiral aligned coaster would ride again.
2. The Swarm (Thorpe Park)
From one heavily themed rollercoaster to another, let's take a trip down south to The Swarm, Thorpe Park. I'm going to be biased off the bat and say that the swarm is absolutely one of my faves (just look at that inverted drop!) not to mention the being only wing coaster in the UK.
That being said, despite my fanboying The Swarm was initially a hard one to place. My gut feeling was the Vast (mainly due to how it emulates the feeling of flying) or the corruption (literally called the swarm).
But then I took a step back,actually looked into the theming and lore itself, and it became clear. The Swarm is the Extinction through and through.
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For those of you FREAKS no well aquiantted with Rollercoaster Lore, the story of swarm is as follows - an evil Swarm has destroyed humanity).
Thorpe Park even went as far as to put up fake posters around the park and release ARG Style adverts about it (and this song, because Merlin is nothing if not excessive when it comes to it's parks)
So with that in mind, swarm absolutely embodies the two main aspects of the extinction; both the active destruction of the apocolypse and the fear of something new replacing us (in this case presumeably sentiant rolercoasters)
3. Oblivion (Thorpe Park)
I'll keep this entry to roughly the same length as the ride itself.
You go in a Big Hole In The Ground
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It's The Buried.
4. The Roller Coaster Formerly Known As The Pepsi Max Big One (Blackpool Pleasure Beach)
Finally, a coaster entry that isn't from a Merlin park. And being both the tallest and steepest rollercoaster in the world, let us introduce the pepsi max big one.
(off screeen whispers)
Wait what do you mean it's no longer the tallest rollercoaster in the world
(more whispers)
What do you mean, "or the steepest"
(even more whispers)
Wait, what do you mean it's not even the Pepsi Max Big One anymore? The Big One? really?
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The Big One is an interesting case to me, in that despite technically being the tallest rollercoaster in the UK, there appears to be somewhat of a relative lack of discussion surrounding it. It's just ... there. Hell, while making this list I actually forgot it was the tallest rollercoaster in the UK. Not to mention the whole deal with its changing, corporate name. It just feels so Bizzare. Strange, even ...
That's right motherfuckers we got ourselves a Stranger rollercoaster! It perhaps isn't the most obvious choice, but I'll be damned if I hand over the tallest rollercoaster in the Uk to the Vast, that’s just boring. Plus, I personally find it quite thematically pertinent. Something about the idea of an object getting so subsumed by it’s corporate identity that when that is removed, it’s left with nothing. Something about staking a permanent identity on inherently shifting factors leading to a [redacted] Big One shaped void. 
If you want to, if you can imagine it was initially Vast before Fairchild enterprises took a hit and Nikola Orsinov swooped in to claim it. 
5) Stealth (Thorpe Park)
We've got ourselves our first pure Vast rollercoaster here folks! Coming in at a hot 5th place we have the 1st most fastest rollercoaster in the UK, that launches you 0-80 mph up 62 meters of pure steel baybe!!
And um.
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It doesn't do much else.
But that simplicity is exactly what makes it so vast! The Vast wouldn't fuck around with complex things like "inversions" or "ride experience". It goes up. it goes down. If Simon Fairchild made a rollercoaster it would look like this. Take one look at this thing and tell me it doesn't embody the spirit of Mike "sought out the tallest ride at the carnival" Crew.
If the Spiral gets The Smiler as its quintessential rollercoaster, The Vast gets this.
6) Wickerman (Alton Towers)
Now, the Wickerman is another personal fave of mine, and (in my personal opinion) a key example of how amazing theming can elevate practically any rollercoaster. (To go on a tangent, I'd absolutely recommend riding this during the evening at fright night, if you can. The night serves an already great ride experience into something amazing)
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Not only that, but the central theming of said rollercoaster centers around both a) Cults and B) Copious amounts of fire. So, in a manner clearly befitting its assigned entity, it doesn't exactly take an expert to put two and two together and get Ouch. That’s right, it's desolation. 
RIP Agnes Montague you would have loved this ride.
Scratch that maybe not considering how she seemingly felt about her cult. Let me change track.
RIP Gertrude Robinson you would have FUCKING LOVED this.
8) Nemesis (Alton Towers)
What, you thought I could make a UK coaster list without bringing up Nemesis? Surely not,I wouldn’t dare shaft  everyone's favorite (and currently unavailable!) B&M invert. Wait, what do you mean you don't want to hear about how it "holds up amazingly well over 30 years" and it's "Intensity rivals even that of modern coasters"?
Jokes aside, Nemesis was another hard one to place. Like Swarm, I had a very strong initial preference - this time for the slaughter, mainly due to the whole "trapped alien" deal it has going on.
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But, once again like The Swarm, another look into the deeper RollerCoaster Lore (TM) revealed another core aspect of nemesis - this time, that of the Buried.
Specifically, the Lore of Nemesis centers around a mysterious alien entity (aptly named nemesis) found Buried deep underground, and having to promptly be pinned down with tons of steel (which also coincidentally, happend to be the exact shape of a rollercoaster). Hell, the lore even had a comic book made of it. 
Not only that, but the actual construction of Nemesis actively involved digging up the earth in order to create the space for it. And if that doesn't scream "buried" it's probably because you can’t hear it under all the layers of dirt. 
Honerable Mentions - Kiddy Coaster Edition
9. Flying Fish (Thorpe Park)
It's everones favourite Thorpe Park Kiddy coaster, Flying fish - a coaster with a title that is only 50% inaccurate.
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In all seriousness I only chose this coaster because for some inexplicable reason I associate it with the Lonely. Specifically, Peter Lucas. No, I cannot justify this choice other than the fact that look at it and tell me you can't picture Lucas sitting on this, alone, going around and around. He doesn't move or make a sound. Just sits there. Silently .Having the time of his life.
 I like to imagine he buys out the entirety of the park for a day with the Lucas family fortune just so he can enjoy this one ride without having to see another human being (you wouldn't catch him dead in a theme park otherwise)
And this is probably as good a point as any to finish the list. Obviously there are way more UK rollercoasters you could assign fears to but these felt like some of the more interesting ones to explore. Anyway if you made it this far then damn. Well done, but also thanks for sharing in this incredibly niche magnus brainrot with me :)
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pisupsala · 1 year
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Wish You Were Here [2] | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw
Summary | Some things you’d rather not face alone.
Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)
Warnings | swearing, explicit smut / 18+ only
Words | 9.4k
Note | Can be read as part of One For The History Books (takes place post-epilogue—chronologically the final part) but also works as a standalone. Read part 1 here.
Library
He shouldn’t be here.
For years, Bradley simply accepted that being shipped around the globe was part of the job and never complained. But now, the one time he really didn’t want to be away from home, he received special orders. The Navy required him, him in particular, to lead specialized training on low-altitude maneuvers. And when you get orders like that, directly from an Admiral, you can’t really say no.
Standing at parade rest, staring straight ahead, Bradley can’t help but notice it’s annoyingly hot in vice-admiral Beau Simpson’s Florida office, despite it being late January and not at all that warm in Pensacola. Bradley is itching to get out of there, but the admiral is taking his sweet time leafing through his file. It’s bordering on the absurd. 
“You know I like to get to know the aviators under my command, lieutenant commander. Understand what makes them tick.” He begins, without looking up from Bradley’s file. “It’s important for team building and trust, even if it’s just a temporary assignment.”  
“Yes, sir.” Bradley replies out of obligation rather than interest.
“I see you finally got hitched?” Admiral Simpson finally looks up from the file, smile on his face. Bradley, however, is in no mood to discuss his private life with Simpson. His home life with you is off limits as far as he’s concerned—especially since that’s where he should be, and not here at the behest of Simpson no less, hundreds of miles away. 
He still likes keeping some aspects of his life private. Bradley proudly wears his wedding band everywhere he can, only slipping it on the chain with his dog tags when he’s out on the tarmac or in the air. But that doesn’t mean he wants to talk about everything that is going on the home front with everyone. 
“Yes, sir.” 
“It’s been a while since I saw you at TOPGUN - how long are you married now?” Simpson continues conversationally.
“Just over a year now, sir.” 
The admiral nods, studying the page with Bradley’s personal information.
“Spouse: Mrs. D. Bradshaw - Williams, Ph.D.” He mutters, before looking up again. “That wouldn’t be the Miss Williams that was at TOPGUN then, is it?”
“Yes, sir.” There’s no reason to hide it, although Bradley has to strongly fight the urge to roll his eyes.
“I remember her fondly, she did great work.” Simpson nods, and Bradley just about stops himself from shifting on his feet uncomfortably. “And I’ve read some of her articles from the senate committee—fascinating stuff—but is it true she hasn’t published anything lately?” 
“That’s possible, sir.” You hadn’t mentioned writing new articles in a while, working on smaller projects instead. 
“Miss Wil - that is, Mrs. Bradshaw hasn’t left her position at the DoD, has she?” 
“No, Dr. Bradshaw still works in the Pentagon archives, sir.” That might be too petty.
“Of course.” Simpson just smiles, probably happy he got more than a two-word answer out of Bradley. “I’ve been thinking about putting my thoughts about leadership and strategy to paper for a while now,” He leans back in his chair, pressing his hands together. “For the next generation of officers, you understand, lieutenant commander?”
What the fuck?
“Anyway, I’d like to ask mrs- Dr. Bradshaw if she would look over some of my drafts.”
“You’d have to ask her directly, sir.” If this conversation was absurd before, it’s straight-up insane now. “But she won’t be available for the coming months.”
“Oh, how so, lieutenant commander?”
“She’s on maternity leave.” 
Simpson narrows his eyes, before turning his gaze back at the file. Bradley already knows what’s coming: there is no mention of children, which means Simpson will put two and two together pretty quickly.
“How far along is Dr. Bradshaw?” Simpson’s tone conveys not casual interest, but purely a request for information —personal chat is over.
“38 weeks.”
“Will that pose a problem for your focus during these two weeks?” 
Bradley’s fingers flex behind his back out of frustration, but he keeps his features neutral. He shared with his commanding officer he was not keen on leaving so close to your due date, but was told Simpson requested him personally, and not going was pretty much not an option. 
Still.
He shouldn’t be here.
“No, sir.”
“Good. You have singular experience in low-altitude maneuvers, which is why you were selected.”
Bradley doesn’t say anything, but Phoenix and Bob, Payback and Fanboy—hell even Hangman—all have similar experience. Minus being shot down over enemy territory, he thinks bitterly. However, he is under strict instruction from his CO not to bring that up to Simpson. Part of him is itching to do it anyway and get sent home for it. 
But that would be veritable career suicide.
“I appreciate it, sir.” 
“Anyway, I suppose congratulations are in order, lieutenant commander.” Simpsons grins up at him. “To the next generation of TOPGUN candidates.” 
Bradley has to actively stop himself from cringing. It’s probably meant well by Simpson, but can’t shake the intrusiveness of it all. He’s here to train recruits for two weeks, and that’s it. He’ll be on the first flight home, back to you, as soon as this assignment is over. In the meantime, he has zero interest in discussing this—if only for the guilt weighing on him for having to leave you and Bug now.
You took it well. Of course you did. You smiled up at him and said you would invite your sister to keep you company, so you wouldn’t be alone. But your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. This was the one thing you admitted actually terrified you. But you put on a brave face for him. And Bradley so desperately wished he didn’t have to leave you now.
“Thank you, sir.” 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You are alone. Again.
Your sister left for a day out in D.C. with her family. Bradley is gone. Hell, if you could leave you, you would probably do so too.
Miserable doesn’t even begin to describe it. Irritable. Anxious. Fucking furious.
Your body barely feels like it’s yours anymore; it’s unwieldy and everything hurts. You don’t fit into any of your clothes, and your feet are so swollen you are relegated to wearing slippers most of the time. 
The worst thing is since you’re on maternity leave, you are bored out of your skull. You thought it would be nice to actually relax, and catch up on your nonwork reading, all the shows on your to-watch list, but you had enough of it after one long weekend. Years of having your brain constantly engaged has worn you out—do you even know how to take it easy?
You have every checklist memorized, a birth plan written up, an overnight bag packed, baby clothes, and diapers by the stack. Baby nail clippers, snot suction thingamajig, stroller, car seat, and an assortment of stuff your sister convinced you were essential. Bradley wisely didn’t comment on the parade of delivery people dropping off packages almost every day, tacitly accepting that this is just who you are. You have everything. You think. 
Even if you wanted to do more research, double, triple check anything, every time you sit down at your laptop, Bug quite literally kicks up a fuss.
Your poor ribs and bladder usually bear the brunt of the assault.
You smile despite yourself as you grab a handful of honey-nut Cheerios. Bug. 
That sunny Monday in May, the night after Bradley made you throw up (which he never stopped bringing up), you promise you will call the doctor first thing. But when Bradley brews coffee for you both that morning, and you throw up from it again, he practically threatens he’ll call you in sick and drag you to the clinic if he has to, despite you insisting you are fine.
You insist it’s a stomach bug. You insist it all the way up to the doctor’s office. 
“Do you think…?” Bradley is leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, watching over you as you brush your teeth.
“Nah.” You practically cut him off, knowing exactly where he’s going with that question. You’re absolutely refusing to even start to entertain alternatives because if you let yourself believe for one second that it might be something else, you will be utterly crushed if it isn’t. You rinse out your mouth. “It’s just a stomach bug.”
You’ll probably get some antibiotics or something, a few days of prescribed rest and you’ll be right as rain. But Bradley is looking at you penesivly, like he’s trying to figure the meaning behind your reaction. Except there’s no meaning. It’s just a stomach bug, and it’s really nothing to get bent out of shape about.
But because even brushing your teeth doesn’t help settle the queasy, churning feeling in your stomach, you decide to call in sick. Bradley leaves you on the couch with a mint tea and a kiss. 
“Let me know when you have the appointment.” He pulls the fleece blanket over you as you lie back. You nod. First you just want to close your eyes for a few minutes. Just to rest. You feel like you haven’t slept in days, even though you got up just an hour ago.
No. Call the doctor first.
Bradley doesn’t get annoyed easily with you, but you know you have the tendency to push his limits with your rather blasé attitude to things you don’t like—like doctor appointments—and cruising along on the insistence it’s fine. You’re fine.
As someone who takes health quite seriously, he has admitted it grates on him because he worries about you, and doesn’t quite understand how you can worry about so many things in your life, sometimes to the point of tears, but when it comes to your health you take it all in stride.
Embarrassingly, you don’t really have an answer for him either. 
Pushing yourself back up, you dial the doctor’s office—they can squeeze you in at 3 in the afternoon that day, which gives you plenty of time to rest. You text Bradley that you have the appointment, knowing it matters to him.
That afternoon you walk out of the doctor's office, thunderstruck and with a stack of papers and pamphlets in your hand. Bradley calls you shortly after. He mentioned he would try to check in with you if he had a moment after your appointment. It shouldn’t still give you butterflies when you think about how Bradley prioritizes you even on busy days, and you feel a little bit guilty again as it’s your fault in the first place he’s worried.
“So, what did the doctor say?” You can hear by the cadence in his voice he is walking somewhere, and he sounds hurried.
You open your mouth, thinking of how to explain it, how to somehow bring this life-changing news gently, in a way that reflects the gravity of it, the strangeness of it, the joy. Or should you wait until he gets home?
“Darlin’? Are you okay?” Bradley’s voice is urgent. 
Shit.
“I’m pregnant.” You blurt out sheepishly. So much for subtlety. 
“Come again?” Bradley has stopped dead in his tracks. He must have misheard you. Yes, he did seriously consider it an option, it made sense in his head, but you seemed so adamant that he never really allowed the thought, the dream, to fully take hold.
“I’m pregnant.” You repeat, more self-assured this time. “They’ve timed it around six weeks.”
“Wha- I mean, fuck -” Bradley is stumbling over his words, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “That’s great! Amazing even. Fucking hell, I’m so happy right now.”
You laugh, although you feel like you’ve barely had time to actually grasp that you’re pregnant now. But Bradley accepts it so readily, making it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, that—yeah, of course. It’s what you both wanted, what you talked about, and you agreed on doing. And now it’s happening.
“Me too.” You smile.
“So really not a stomach bug?” Bradley can’t help but tease you.
You laugh again, despite yourself. He’s never going to let you live this down. “No, very much not.”
“Just Bug then.” He says fondly.
“Just Bug.” You agree, not even questioning that it took Bradley less than 5 minutes to come up with a nickname for your unborn child. You feel giddy, strangely light, as a warm feeling spreads through you. Is this what it feels like to be pregnant? 
If only. You shove another handful of honey-nut Cheerios in your mouth. Nothing and no one quite prepared you for the perpetual discomfort of pregnancy—it comes in many forms, but there’s always a new goddamn thing aching, a new way to feel sick, or just the plethora of tears you’ve been shedding because you feel like you’ve been losing your sanity at times, barely having a hold on your emotions. 
Bug is especially restless today, like he’s picking up on your mood. You want Bug to be born already, but you don’t want to go into labor without Bradley by your side. Of the many things you accept, you’ll have probably to face alone in having a naval aviator for a husband, giving birth is just one thing you desperately don’t want to go through alone. It terrifies you beyond belief, almost irrationally so.
Music usually helps calm Bug down. While you try to stop yourself from building up unnecessary expectations in your head of what your child will be like (god knows you know what it’s like to grow up like that), you do allow yourself that Bug might take after Bradley that way. It would bring him a lot of joy, you know that for sure.
Scrolling through your Spotify, you rub your belly. “What would make you happy today, Bug?” You wince as Bug squirms. “Some Rolling Stones?” Quickly selecting She’s a Rainbow and connecting to the sound system Bradley had painstakingly installed, you gently sway to the music and start walking around. You smile to yourself as you think back about how Bradley had explained all the details and exact science behind the music setup he was getting, and how he measured every angle and talked excitedly about every aspect. You love him, but goddamn, you cannot tell the difference. It all sounds great to you, so you happily nod along and agree, enjoying his absolute passion for the subject more than anything coming from the speakers.
Bug is finally chilling out too. Closing your eyes, hands resting on your stomach, you feel the anger and anxiety finally ebb away. This is not so bad. It’s just you and Bug for now, and you’ll be fine. In a week Bradley will be back, your sister will be back in Colorado, and you can welcome Bug together, just as you planned before he was ordered to Florida. 
You love your sister, you really do, but if she drains the blood from you under normal circumstances, she's insufferable now. Or you have become insufferable. It’s honestly a toss-up at this point, but you’ve been at each other’s throats even more than usual. You feel sorry for her husband, who probably thought he was coming over to Fredericksburg for a nice break, but instead has been trying to run interference between you two.
But they’re out for today.
You get to enjoy some peace.
Of course, it could never last long. The music cuts out harshly as your phone starts ringing. 
Well fuck.
When you see the number, and you recognize it as coming from the Pentagon, you strongly consider just not picking up. But. You are also curious. Who is looking for you? What do they want? Did someone fuck up? Your brain is itching. Maybe it’s something you can kill time with. But you really shouldn't—you’re on maternity leave. 
Against what is your better judgment, you pick up.
“Darcy Bradshaw-Williams speaking.” 
“Good morning, Dr. Bradshaw,” A nervous voice starts at the other end. “I’m calling from Birch’s office.”
Why isn’t he calling you himself? Since when does Birch contact you through an assistant?
“Uh, okay.” You reply, not unkindly. “What is this concerning, as I am currently on maternity leave?”
“It’s uumh - well, there are some papers that you need to sign before the senate committee report can get archived.” The poor girl on the other end sounds terrified. You don’t think you’re particularly intimidating, but you don’t recognize her voice, so you surmise she must be new. 
Patience. You were once the new girl doing the shitty jobs no one else wanted. Like calling the pissy pregnant lady on leave.
“Oh, well, email them to me, and I will sign digitally,” You reply easily. “That’s not a big deal.”
“It, uhm, can’t be signed digitally, it needs to be done by hand.”
“Then… what are you suggesting exactly?” You keep your voice light, but quite frankly, you are gobsmacked. Out of all the bureaucratic bullshit…
“So I’ve been asked to- well, ask you,” Her voice wavers. “If you’re willing to come in to sign those papers.”
Really?
“No.” You can’t keep the annoyance out of your voice. “Look here, miss…?” “Brown.” The reply comes in a half-whisper.
“Look here Miss Brown, I know you are only relaying the message, so please put Birch on the phone, I know he’s there.” Keeping your voice level and professional is becoming harder by the second.
“He can’t come to the phone.” Miss Brown supplies hurriedly.
Coward.
“I’m 39 weeks pregnant, are you actually suggesting I come down all the way to the Pentagon?” You ask much louder than is probably necessary.
“We-, I suppose, we could also fax you the papers?” Miss Brown tries.
“Where the fuck do you think I live? 1992?” The words come out of your mouth faster than you can bite your tongue. Oh no, you didn’t mean to have an outburst like that at the poor assistant. It’s all just so fucking absurd because of course, what does the digital era mean in the DoD? Showing up in person. Jesus Christ.
“I’m sorry Miss Brown,” You apologize, cringing at yourself. “That was not meant for you.” 
“It’s okay.” A small voice on the other end replies.
“By when do you need this?” The wheels of the DoD turn slowly, after all. Maybe you can push it back until Bradley is at least back so he can drive you. Worst case scenario until your sister is back. But right now, you are standing in your living room dressed in Bradley’s old Navy shirt covered in Cheerios crumbs and a pair of old sweatpants. You’re really not wanting to go out today.
“Today,” Miss Brown informs you. “As soon as possible, really.”
“Today!?” You yell, knuckles white as you clutch your phone. “You have got to be kidding me!”
You take a deep breath. You have to keep your cool. Be professional about this.
“Put Birch on the phone.” You grind out, fist balled at your side.
“He - he says he can’t come to the phone…” 
“Then I’ll come to see him in person.” You bite out, acid dripping from your words,, hanging up angrily. They want to play like that? Fine. You’ll play along, you fume as you stomp through the house up to the bedroom. You’ll go to the Pentagon, you’ll sign the stupid papers, and you’ll lob the whole packet at Birch’s head while you’re there.
Shit. Do you even have anything nice to wear to the office? Maybe you should just show up like this—although funny, you’re too self-conscious for that. Also, you still want to have a job to return to eventually. 
Bug is mercifully calm, unlike you, as you dig out a knee-lenght skirt with an elastic waist. Shimmying it on, you’re glad to find out it still sort of fits, the waistband rest comfortably under your stomach. You end up slipping on a pair of nylons with it, not quite convinced you be able to pull up a pair of tights and afraid they might be too tight anyway.  
Now for a top. You won’t try one of your regular button-up shirts, even as a joke. Even the loose-fitting ones won’t close over your stomach anymore.
That leaves Bradley’s closet. 
You rifle through the shirts he neatly hung up on clothes hangers, taking care not to pick one that belongs to one of his uniforms. Settling on a soft dark blue one, you feel a pang of sadness when you slip it on. It smells of him. He’s only been gone for a week and will be back so soon again, but that doesn’t take away that you are alone right now. 
“Daddy will be back soon, Bug,” You whisper softly as you button the shirt up, feeling the baby move. “We just have both hold out a little longer.” 
Fixing your hair and doing minimal makeup, you quickly text your sister you have to run an errand and you’ll be back later, just in case she beats you home. You doubt she will reply to you any time soon though, she’s probably busy taking pictures or videos. For as much as you don’t understand how much your sister shares online, you are happy she’s doing something she enjoys and she’s good at it. Sometimes she even takes a nice picture of you.
You don’t text Bradley. For one, he’s probably busy, and two—you have a nagging feeling in the back of your head—you shouldn’t be doing this. Bradley would be rightly unhappy if you were driving yourself an hour up north, by yourself. But you don’t want to argue right now—you’ll argue with anyone, but you desperately don’t want to lose your temper with Bradley. 
You said you were fine when he told you he had to leave. He was so unhappy, the pain in his eyes was burning a hole in your heart. So of course you said you would be fine. But you aren’t. And right now you are terrified that if you argue with him, that your stupid mouth will say something horrible, something you can’t take back, something like “well, you left again” because he did, and he’ll look at you again with that crushing guilt overshadowing him—and it’ll be because of you because and because you don’t actually deserve him. You hiccup as tears fill your eyes. 
Shit. 
Get it together.
The quicker you leave, the quicker you’ll be home and there won’t be anything to argue about.
Now. Is it a horrible idea to wear ballerinas in the middle of D.C. winter? Yes. But no other shoe will fit you, and your fluffy slippers are arguably an even worse choice. God, you can’t even button up your nice coat anymore either. Better wrap up thick with a good scarf. 
You heave yourself into Bradley’s Bronco—you promised you would only use his car if you really needed to go somewhere—but it’s so goddamn high. 
“I can’t wait until you can climb in yourself, Bug.” You joke. Adjusting the rearview mirror, you catch sight of the baby carrier affixed in the back seat, and your heart jumps. You pestered Bradley so much to put it in already.
“I fly million-dollar fighter jets for a living, darlin’,” He told you smugly. “Don’t you think I’ll be able to figure out a car seat?”
“Do it then.” You smiled back, handing him the manual, knowing he won’t back down from you goading him. 
It took him a good twenty minutes and a lot of colorful swears to figure out how to affix the base properly, so it wouldn’t move. You didn’t say anything, just smiled sweetly and kissed his cheek as he shot you a venomous look when he was finally done. 
Pulling out of the driveway, you turn on a calming playlist, hoping Bug will not decide to tap dance on your bladder while you’re driving.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“This is all then, boss?” You groan as you sign the last of the papers. They could have really mentioned on the phone you had to initial about 50 pages too. Your hand is cramped, and the chair is uncomfortable and making your lower back hurt—you don’t even have the energy to give Birch a piece of your mind. You just really want to go back home now. 
“Yes, Dr. Bradshaw.” Your boss nods curtly. “And thanks again for coming in on such short notice in your… condition.” He adds carefully, avoiding looking at you.
You wonder if your hardened former marine boss is scared you’re going to go into labor on his watch, because you have never seen him so awkward.
“Yeah, of course.” You reply, trying your best to conjure up a polite smile, but wincing slightly as you get up. “I’ll be taking my leave now.” You joke poorly, waving your hand trying to get the cramp out.
You bid goodbye to your boss and a few of your colleagues, but your prime motivation is to get out of the Pentagon right now and get home. You’re starting to feel weird, not in your stomach, but in your gut. 
You shouldn’t be here.
As fast as you can, which is not very fast all things considered, you try to make your way back to the car. The pain in your back is getting worse, shooting down your sides. You need to sit down comfortably, you tell yourself, and then it will get better. 
Why is the parking lot so far away? You waddle miserably. Your feet are hurting too now, your soles burning at every step in your too-tight shoes. Finally, you reach the car, panting by now. With a grunt, you clamber into the driver’s seat. 
Finally you can relax. Bug is not having a good time anymore, squirming, probably as uncomfortable as you are currently. It’s making your stomach hurt.
“We’re going home.” You mumble, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Just let me catch my breath, Bug.”
After a few minutes of sitting in the comfortable seat, the pain finally starts to subside. Starting the car, you hum to yourself to keep calm. Just get home.
You barely make it out of the city before you realize you need to pee urgently. There’s a mall just off the main street, as you remember, so you’ll just take an early exit there. You are nearly shaking in your seat as you park and snatch your purse out of the car.
You really think you’re about to burst, and it doesn’t help your feeling increasingly anxious.
You shouldn’t be here. 
You need to get home.
Coming out of the bathroom, your back hurts worse than before, and it’s starting to spread to your stomach. Fuck. fuckfuckfuck. You try not to swear out loud and grimace too much as you wash your hands next to an elderly lady.
“Are you alright, sweetie?” The lady asks, her pearl necklace glimmering in the stark artificial light of the bathroom. Her light gray hair has a faint purple sheen that you are not sure you are imagining. From the corner of your eye, you can see your reflection—you look pallid.
“Ye- yeah, all good.” You force a smile on your face. At that moment, pain suddenly shoots through your abdomen with such severity, you nearly double over. It’s not even the worst of your problems, you realize quickly, as you feel a trickle run down your leg.
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
This is not happening.
Breathing rapidly, you grind your teeth helplessly.
“Oh dear,” The lady immediately grabs you by the elbow, helping you upright again. “I think the baby is about ready, sweetie.”
“No.” You utter softly as tears spring in your eyes. “Not yet.”
“Come, let's find you a place to sit and clean up.” She probably didn’t hear you as she starts leading you outside to a bench by the bathroom entrance. “Where’s your husband, sweetie? He should come get you now.”
At the mentions of husbands, you just start pathetically sobbing. “H-he’s not here.” 
“Oh dear.” The kindly lady hands you a tissue to dry your eyes. 
“He’s in the navy, and he’s in fuck-fucking Florida until next week.” Your words are coming out punctuated by sobs. “S- so the baby can’t come yet.” You add, urgently, trying to dry your eyes.
“Who can I call for you?” She asks gently, as she rubs your back. You wince as another wave of pain shoots through you. 
“My sister.” You say weakly, reaching into your pocket to dig out your phone. No matter how much you want to call Bradley right this minute, you also know that there is very little he can do all the way from Pensacola. Beth needs to come to get you. So she better pick up.
Every time the phone rings and Beth is not picking up, your anxiety ramps up further. The bench you’re sitting on is uncomfortable, the wooden slats digging into your sore back and you’re having trouble catching your breath as your shaking fingers nervously pluck at your unbuttoned coat.
“Why isn’t she picking up?” You breathe, bending your head forward. Black spots are appearing in your vision.
“You need to calm down.” A kind voice is telling you. You know. But you can’t control it. There is one thought permeating over everything else. 
Not yet.
The lady’s voice sounds far away, as you clutch your head, trying to desperately not have your vision go completely black on you. But you don’t know how to reason yourself back from the edge at this point, not seeing a solution to your predicament or grounding yourself in logic and pragmatism to deal with the problem at hand.
You need Bradley.
“Sweetie, I’m calling you an ambulance.” The voice sounds like it’s on the other end of a bad connection. But you manage to nod. 
You only sort of remember flashes of everything after that. Another person talking to you, laying down on a stretcher, clutching your bag, more voices, and then a silent room.
Bug is okay. That’s all you really remember, and it’s all you really care to remember right now. 
If you just lay here, and wait, Bradley will come for you. You hope he won’t be mad at you for going to work so close to your due date, and then having a panic attack when your water broke. You’re already mad enough at yourself.
You asked to nurses to try and call him, but they keep telling you no one is picking up. They reached your sister at least. Oh, joy.
Beth of course comes in all guns blazing. You see her husband scurry away with little Emma in his arms after he says hi to you. Smart man. You wish you could hide under the bed.
“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” Beth seethes. Jesus, why is she so angry? You sit up, sending her a withering look.
“What?” You reply curtly. The nurse implored you to stay calm so your blood pressure wouldn’t rise too much. 
“What? What?” Beth stalks up to the foot end of your bed, pointing her finger at you accusingly. “Darcy, have you gone completely insane? Can you not be left unsupervised for one afternoon? Seriously, who are you, and what have you done to my sensible sister? Does Bradley get custody of your brain cells when he is deployed or something? Jesus Christ.” 
You’re not going to get in a word edgewise right now, so you don’t even try.
“You nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack. What the hell am I supposed to think when the hospital is trying to urgently reach me? But what a fucking surprise! It’s a hospital in D.C.! A place my dear darling sister has no business being.” 
Still not saying anything, you avert your eyes. 
“What were you doing in D.C.? And I swear to fuck, Darce, if you say it has anything to do with work, I will not hesitate and burn your book collection.” 
At that, you choke back a sob. You feel so guilty, it’s starting to consume you. If you had stayed home and relaxed like you were supposed to, you probably wouldn’t have gone into labor yet. Beth is right to be angry with you. Bradley will probably be. You promised you’d be careful, you promised you’d take it easy, you promised yourself you would hold out until he would be back. 
“No, but seriously, have you lost all common sense? Do you need a -” Beth finally stops her tirade short as she sees you cry silently, not even bothering to defend yourself. She’s seen you cry plenty of times before, hell, she’s made you cry a lot of those times. But never like this. Never like you’ve given up. You always fight back, you are always doing something. Usually, it’s Beth who tries to stop you from completely overdoing things. But now you’re just sitting there crying.
“Darcy- Darce, what the hell?” She walks around the bed and sits down next to you. “You are freaking me out now.” She tells you seriously, as she grabs your hand. You just shake your head as tears stream down your face. “Have you reached Bradley yet?” She asks, her voice a lot softer.
You shake your head. “He’s still not picking up”
“And?”
“And what?” You sob softly.
“Since when have you ever given up at the first hurdle?” Beth pushes. “Really, you got married, knocked up and now you’re going to sit pretty? I’m disappointed, honestly.”
Something dangerous flashes in your eyes as you turn to look at her, drawing a shuddering breath. Gotcha. She’s going for the jugular now.
“No, really, I mean—you’re just going to wait around for your husband like this? I’m sure he’s appreciating all your efforts to get in touch with him as soon as possible.” Beth sneers at you.
“What the fuck, Beth?!” You suddenly screech, ripping your hand from hers. Fuck staying calm. You need to urgently throttle your younger sister. “You’re supposed to be on my side here! Can you for once in your life not antagonize the ever-loving shit out of me? I’m in pain, I already feel like shit, and I’m alone here! I know—I fucking know—it’s my screw-up.” Your voice is raw from crying. “Why are you so fucking hell-bent on kicking me when I’m down? Can’t you just be here for me, for once—just this fucking once?” 
“Because you are being ridiculous, and no one but me will tell you that!” Beth matches your volume easily. “You don’t sit here just because Bradley’s not picking up his phone. Do what you always do. Do what do best, you dumb bitch. Organize a fucking solution.”
With that, she snatches your phone from the table next to the bed and pushes it into your chest. “I’m going to get a coffee. Let me know if you need help.” Beth cuts at you with an eerie calmness as she gets up and walks out the door without as much as a look back at you.
You sigh heavily, rubbing your stomach. “Let’s figure out a way to let daddy know you’re early, Bug.”
There are many things you didn’t anticipate about going into labor. How long it would take, how painful it would be, to name a few. But mostly, you didn’t anticipate having to argue and beg your way up your husband’s chain of command before you reach someone that could actually reliably relay the message to him, urgently.
For the last ten minutes, you’ve been arguing with Simpson’s assistant, who seems deeply unwilling to either put you through or to confirm he will forward the message to the admiral.
“He’s supervising training maneuvers now.” He tells you in a bored tone. “So it will have to wait.”
You push yourself off the bed, and start pacing. “Lister here -” you stop yourself before you call him a little shit. “Lieutenant.” You add after a suspiciously long pause. “I know he’s supervising the maneuvers. My husband is the one flying them.” 
“Well, I can’t patch you through to the jet, not from a civilian phone.” He replies in the same bored tone.
“I’m not asking for that, am I?” You grind out as a contraction stops you dead in your tracks. Your face twists in pain and anger. “Tell admiral Simpson Dr. Bradshaw needs to speak to him urgently. He knows who I am.” 
You are banking on Simpson actually taking the call based on what Bradley told you. If he actually gives Bradley the message, you will willingly edit any brain fart Simpson puts to paper for publication. You swear under your breath.
Finally you hear the hold tone. You let out a deep breath as much to steel yourself for hopefully the last leg of this telephone journey, as well as to help abate some of the shooting pain. 
“Dr. Bradshaw!” Simpson is entirely too jovial for the current situation. Calm. You need to stay calm.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Rooster, Rooster—this is tower, come in.”
“Come in, tower.” 
It’s been an absolutely grueling day of flying. Bradley is tired and in pain and glad to be on the way back. He wants a shower, bed, and you on the phone.
Cyclone better not have him on paperwork or other stupid errands today.
“Rooster, this is Cyclone from tower.”
Fuck. Cyclone only calls in to complain or heap on additional bullshit to his day.
“Copy, Cyclone.” Bradley tries to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
“Your wife called, Rooster. She’s in labor.” Cyclone’s message is wholly unemotional like he’s simply updating Bradley on changing weather conditions.
“Copy that.” It’s almost comical that that’s the only thing Bradley can come up with to say, more because it’s second nature, rather than him acutally parsing what was just said to him. But how do you react in a moment like this? 
He needs to call you.
He needs to talk to you. 
If he can’t be there physically, which pains him more than he cares to admit right now as his hands tighten around the steering, he wants to at least to be able to talk to you.
Shit.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He is supposed to be there with you. Bradley knows how scared you are and how much you tried to hide it. 
He is not supposed to be here.
“Rooster, return to base urgently.” Cyclone orders him. Bradley replies affirmative, breaking formation and speeding up. He has no idea what is going on right now. A million things are running through his head, but most of all he wants to turn his jet around and blast north toward Virginia. Rationally, he knows that it’s out of the range a fully fueled F18 can fly, and his tanks are running near empty. 
That feeling of powerlessness is creeping up on him again. You are almost a 1000 miles away, and he has no manner of reaching you, despite sitting in a fighter jet. The clock is running, you are alone, and he can’t do anything.
When Bradley touches down, he’s a good ten minutes ahead of the rest of the squadron, who were ordered to stay on speed and formation. As he taxis into the bay, he notices, to his utter confusion, Cyclone jogging across the tarmac followed by his sour-faced assistant.
Bradley has a sinking feeling in his stomach. This can only mean Cyclone is pissed about something that happened in the training, and Bradley is about to be dragged into a painfully long debrief. It’s just his luck today.
He shouldn’t be here.
“Rooster!” Cyclone is hollering at him and waving his arm frantically the moment the canopy lifts.
Bradley starts climbing out of the cockpit, bracing himself for the inevitable dressing down. The moment his feet reach the ground, he hasn’t even unclipped his helmet yet, Cyclone is yelling at him to hurry up as he is making a beeline towards him. Hurry up? For what?
Is there something wrong with you? Is that why he was ordered to land? Is that why Cyclone is running across the tarmac yelling? Is it something he absolutely could not be told in while in the air?
Bradley stands rooted to the ground as he watches Cyclone approach, who is now gesturing wildly at him to also start running.
“Rooster, move your ass already!” Cyclone yells so loudly, that several engineers look up in surprise.
Almost automatically, Bradley starts running in the same direction as Cyclone and his assistant, his muscles protesting heavily against the sudden motion.
“What the fuck is going on?” He blurts out, adrenaline rushing through his body, every sense in overdrive.
“There’s a transporter leaving for D.C. in -” Cyclone quickly looks at his watch as he tries to catch his breath. “Two minutes.”
The assistant trusts a paper in Bradley’s hands. “Emergency 48-hour leave.” He deadpans.
“Wha- what is going on?!” Bradley exclaims angrily, clutching the paper forcibly as he slows down his run. Emergency leave? A plane to D.C.? However, instead of answering, Cyclone grabs him by the elbow and practically starts dragging him along to the second taxiway. 
“Your wife is in labor. You’re getting emergency leave.” Cyclone grinds out. “And a “thank you sir” would be nice.” 
“Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” Bradley asks hurriedly instead, completely ignoring Cyclone’s comment about showing respect, because his need to know that you are both okay is really the only thing he really cares about right now.
“She sounded fine.” The assistant butts in. 
Cyclone is now practically pushing him up the ramp of the transporter plane. The loader is waving at Bradley with hurried motions to get in. 
Over the sound of the roaring engines, he hears Cyclone yell: “She’s at The Virginia Hospital Centerl!”
Bradley puts up his thumb. “Thank you, sir!” He yells back.
“And kindly remind Dr. Bradshaw she owes me one!” Cyclone adds, grinning, as the ramp is closing.
Owe him one? What? Bradley is even more confused than he was less than a minute ago. Why are you not at the hospital you had picked together in the first place? Isn’t VHC in D.C.? It doesn’t really matter right now. At least he knows you and Bug are okay, and he’s on his way to you.
However.
He doesn’t have his phone, he doesn’t even have his wallet. All he has on him right now is his military ID. How the fuck is he supposed to get to the hospital from the air base?
As he straps in, Bradley can’t help but wonder: did he just get washed up by the Cyclone?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You shuffle around your hospital room miserably, while your sister chills in one of the chairs playing with her phone. The nurses have been checking up on you regularly, but your blood pressure is pretty steady now and everything seems to be progressing normally. A particularly strict-looking nurse reprimanded both you and your sister quite harshly for making such a scene in the maternity ward. Honestly, she was right to do so.
The contractions are coming more often and more severely. Your lower back is killing you, but you’ve been told it’s still too early to give you any medication. 
After you managed to get through Simpson, he was quick to promise to inform Bradley about your condition, but then promptly went on to ignore you were in labor and talked your ear of about something he wanted to publish. 
Exasperated and in pain, you promised you would look over his writings at the earliest convenience, spelled out your email address between gritted teeth as a contraction thundered through your lower body. At this point, you would have probably promised your firstborn—well, no, not that, but anything else—so you could at least talk to Bradley.
So now you are desperately waiting for Bradley to call you. It’s been almost two hours since you’ve spoken to Simpson, surely he’s not still flying? When you try to call him, his phone just rings and rings before switching over to voice mail, like it’s been doing all day. Where is Bradley? 
Unhappily, you push yourself to accept he won’t be here with you, but that you won’t even be able to talk to him? That’s cruel.
Waddling back to your bed, you slide in, pulling the cover over yourself. The nurse mentioned she would get you a hospital gown soon, since you had absolutely nothing with you. There are so many things you have to think about, but your brain is not cooperating anymore. All you can think about is how miserable you are—in pain and lonely. Beth keeps telling you to suck it up, but you don’t want to. You get to be sad if you want to.
Of course you are happy that Bug is coming. That’s not the point. But there are so many things running through your head, it’s hard to focus on the positive side of it all. You should ask your brother-in-law to drive down to your house and get your overnight bag. You need to figure out how to get back to the Bronco too, as that’s the only car with a baby seat. Personally, you think your brother-in-law is kind of a shit driver, so you’d rather not resort to him picking the Bronco up. Then there’s paperwork. Forms, informed consent, insurance—if you have to sign one more fucking thing today you will scream.
It’s too much.
Pulling the blanket over your head, you curl up, trying to stave off the pain in your lower body. Bradley’s shirt still smells like him. Sadly you consider if this is the closest he is going to be here today.
“Beth?” You mumble from under the blanket, voice thick with tears. 
“Yeah?” Beth finally looks up from her phone. It’s concerning her how much you seem to be suffering from Bradley not being here—you were always independent, on top of everything, and you sure as hell didn’t mope around this much. You told her you were scared of going into labor alone, and Beth understands that. And she feels sorry for you, but never has she seen you behave like this, and it’s actually kind of freaking her out.
“Can you please ask Erik to get my overnight bag from home?” Your voice is quivering. “Everything is in there, it’s right by the door.”
“Yeah, of course.” Beth gets up and walks up to the bed. She gently lifts the cover to look at you. Your bloodshot eyes look back at her. “Do you need anything else, Darce?” She asks as she squats down, so she’s at eye level with you. You shake your head. 
“We’re in this together, okay? I know I’m not the person you want here.” Beth tells you gently, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “But you can do this, I know you do. And I’m here for you.”
“Thank you.” You whisper. “And you are a close second, don’t worry.” You try to joke through your tears. Beth laughs softly.
“It’s okay, I’d pick your hot husband over you too.” She winks at you. You groan in disgust.
“I’m telling Erik you said that.” 
“Too late, I already texted him to go get your bag.” Beth waves her hand dismissively. “He’s taking Emma with him, hopefully she falls asleep in the car for a while.”
It’s getting dark outside already. You sigh. This morning at home feels like a distant memory already.
Still wrapped in your blanket cocoon, Beth continues stroking your forehead and talking you through breathing exercises. It’s helping you relax finally. You close your eyes and just focus on Beth’s gentle voice. It feels like you're falling in and out microsleep, Beth’s voice becoming so distant at moments you cannot make out the words before a contraction pulls you back to the present. As the pain ebbs away, so does your consciousness. 
It must be the third or fourth cycle of micro sleep you fall into, Beth softly humming now, when you swear you can hear Bradley’s voice. You cannot make out what he is saying, because it sounds like he’s in a different room, but it’s unmistakably him. 
A warmth fills you. You missed his voice, and he sounds so close, like he can come in at any moment. Soon, another contraction will pull you away from his voice. You try to direct your sleepy brain to focus on Bradley to bring him closer. It’s working. His voice is becoming louder—he’s talking to someone. He sounds annoyed. There’s no reason to be annoyed, babe, you think. It’s all good. You’re here. Come here. I need you.
The door clicks open. It’s like the floodgates open. You can hear Bradley’s voice clear as day now—and he’s really annoyed. Seriously, the best your brain can come up with when you miss your husband is him being annoyed? Sad.
“What the shit?” Beth utters in disbelief, as she suddenly gets up, waking you up fully. You finally open your eyes, only to see Beth staring at the door behind you.
You can still hear Bradley talk, although you are now sure you are awake.
Shooting up, arms flailing, the covers slide onto the floor. Beth grabs your arm to steady you.
You’ve lost your mind.
Your brain is 100% broken now.
Did they give you morphine anyway? Are you fucking hallucinating?
Because in the doorway is Bradley, still in full flight gear—g-suit still zipped over his flight suit and helmet in his hand. His hair is messy and flattened at weird angles, like he only just pulled the helmet off. He’s towering over the strict nurse and arguing with her. She’s not giving him an inch.
“She needs rest! You can’t just barge in like that.” She’s admonishing him, pointing her finger in your general direction. “And only one visitor in the room!”
“I know she needs rest—that’s why I’m here.” Bradley bites back. “And I’m not a visitor, I’m her husband, and that’s my child.”
“What the fuck.” You don’t realize you say it so loudly, every falls silent and looks at you.
“I’ll wait in the hall.” Beth says hurriedly as she scurries away to the door, followed by the strict nurse, that throws one final venomous look at Bradley who is completely ignoring her now.
So others clearly can see him too, right?
You start clambering out of the bed as fast as you can, padding over to him barefoot, needing some sort of confirmation Bradley is really, actually here, and you’ve not finally and definitively cracked. 
Your arms snake around his neck as you pull him close to you. He feels so real, he smells like jet fuel and winter air, but his skin is just as warm as you remember. Bradley doesn’t say anything, just wrapping you in his arms and pressing kisses along your jaw. 
“What are you doing here?”
Bradley stops dead in his tracks. Not the question he was expecting. He pulls back, so he can see your face, but you cling to him, your fingers digging into his arms like you’re scared he’s going to turn to smoke in your arms.
“Didn’t Cyclone tell you he gave me 48-hour emergency leave and practically threw me onto a transporter headed to D.C.?” Bradley asks with a slight chuckle. “I had to pull rank on some poor private to drive me here from Anacostia-Bolling airbase—I don’t have my phone, wallet, nothing.”
You’re looking at him completely slack-jawed, blinking rapidly. Finally, the neurons in your brain start firing again.
Fucking Simpson. Figures.
“You know what?” You sigh, before smiling up at him. “Tell me another time. I’m just glad you’re really here. I need you.” 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bug is born just after midnight. A healthy baby boy with all ten fingers and ten toes.
Bradley doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to hear a baby cry. And he’s never been so goddamn proud in his life: of you, of the little life you both created, and again of you because you did all the hard work. He’s half-sitting next to you on the bed when you collapse back on the pillows behind you, and he whispers to you how much he loves you, how proud he is, and how well you did.
You open your tired eyes for a moment. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” You breathe.
“Yes, you could have, darlin’.” He counters with a smile as he wipes the fresh sweat off your forehead. 
“And here’s baby boy Bradshaw!” The nurse announces happily, as she gently pulls the top of your gown down and puts the baby against your skin before covering you with the baby blanket you and Bradley bought months ago. 
You feel your heart soar. So small, so warm, and finally here. You tear your eyes away from your little Bug just for a second to see Bradley’s reaction. He looks completely awestruck, tears forming in his eyes. Tears spring in your eyes too as you watch his index finger run over your son’s cheek in a feather-light touch.
“Hey Bug.” He whispers. You never felt like your life was incomplete. But in a certain way, it feels like it’s naturally more complete now than it was before, like more puzzle pieces are sliding into place around you. “I’m so glad to see you.” You add softly.
It’s hours later when you are sitting up in bed, across from your sister, sharing a pile of snacks from the vending machine. Only the bedside lamp is on. You are not only starving, but also wide awake, hyper-aware of every sound and move Bug is making. Bradley is getting some much-needed shut-eye in the recliner with Bug sleeping on his bare chest. 
You honestly didn’t think you could fall in love any more with that man, but the way he is gently cradling your son in his large arms, the way he looks at him like he’s the most special little thing in the whole wide world and how he keeps repeating how you made him and how proud he is of you is honestly messing with your head in the best kind of way. You feel like you’ve fallen in love with him for the first time, over and over again today.
“So, do you think all these nurses coming to check up on you all night are here because of your fancy insurance,” Beth asks, grinning as she pops an M&M in her mouth. “Or they’re just coming to gawk at him?” She jerks her head to the side where Bradley just fell asleep.
Bug is under his blanket, sleeping on Bradley’s bare chest, his fight suit tied around his waist. The blanket that had been draped over them has fallen off one of Bradley’s shoulders, revealing his muscular chest and the subtle movement of his abdomen as he breathes. 
You snort. 
“Well, he’s a good-looking daddy.” You shrug as you take a sip from your Fanta.
“Jesus Christ, Darce - TMI.” Beth guffaws. You shush her, unable to keep yourself from laughing too. There is something strange about having a girl’s night with your sister in a hospital bed when you’ve given birth just hours ago. But here you are, giggling like teenagers.
Bug starts squirming and softly crying, and while you both quiet down, Bradley wakes up right away. He starts shushing and rocking Bug, who’s not having it. 
“He’s probably hungry, babe.” You say, wiping your hands on a tissue before reaching out to him. Carefully Bradley places Bug in your arms.
“How are you two not tired?” He asks, rubbing his eyes. You shrug, you are too full of wonder, too full of love—and actually just way too wired—to go to sleep.
“I have a toddler.” Beth laughs as she gets up from the bed to give you some privacy. “Do you really think I’ve had a full night’s sleep in the last three years?” 
“Now’s not the time to regale us with your horror stories with Emma.” You warn Beth, still laughing lightly as you try Bug to latch onto your breast. Bradley sits down close to you on the bed.
“You want anything else from the vending machine?” Beth asks from the doorway.
“Nah, we’re good.” You reply absentmindedly, still focussed on Bug.
“We’re good, right?” You ask fondly, meeting Bradley’s eyes. You’re not even really asking about the snacks anymore.
“I think we’re great.” He agrees, pressing a kiss against your forehead.
note | oh damn, it's actually really done now :( I have no more stories to tell for these two. I hope you enjoyed this adventure, and that the ending didn't disappoint! (I tell myself it had to age a bit like a wine). If you'd like to read more of my stories, I'm currently working on a WWII AU called Of All The Stars In The Sky.
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lovestuckyhatemarvel · 6 months
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I’ve already joked before about how the show decides what kinds of nerd Spencer is based on what joke they want him to make.
That being said, the characterization actually pisses me off sometimes. The man grew up in a public school in Las Vegas. He has 100% heard the kissing in a tree song before so him not knowing what “Penelope and Kevin sitting in a tree” meant was stupid.
I know he doesn’t read Twilight but he goes to lots of types of movie theaters and takes public transportation. He’s at least seen an ad for it so he knows the name Twilight. That shit was inescapable for years.
And just now in an episode he told a member of a victim’s family that he doesn’t have email! Except we know he has a work email because he literally checked his after Derek asks him if he missed anything when Hotch is blowing up his phone before Derek takes over as unit chief. Also he would just be assigned a work email. There’s not a way around it for him. They wouldn’t ever get rid of that because higher ups would do things like notify of meetings and things like that. The only way the email would be closed is if Spencer stopped working for them.
And later suddenly he won’t use technology despite so much of his job used to literally be on a computer at his desk. It also makes no sense for a man as invested in knowledge as Spencer is to refuse to use technology. There are archives of old manuscripts that he wouldn’t otherwise readily have access to with his work schedule (and his total disinterest in traveling unless it’s for a case). There are obscure foreign movies he can watch online. There are so many academic papers online. There are discussion boards and chats for Star Trek fans to argue about details with each other until they die.
Like not to be a lover of technology on main but having him hate it is just kind of showing a lack of imagination on part of the writers, imo. I’m not saying he needs to be a #gamer but he would be willing to use a tablet for case files.
The germaphobe thing comes out of nowhere, but like whatever. Sure. It doesn’t make sense for someone who takes the subway but ok.
I just really think the writers don’t actually think things through when they’re writing him. And to be clear, I don’t remember how much is also Matthew Gray Gubler making weird suggestions. After all, the love interest dying was his idea.
And I know asking for any realism in the copaganda ‘profiling is a real job that works’ show is hilarious on my part but I don’t think I’m asking for much when I ask for the main cast to make sense.
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fastlikealambo · 8 months
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C+|| Professor!Eddie Munson x Black!Fem Reader
Summary: After receiving a less than stellar grade on assignment, you receive a request to attend Professor Munson’s office hours. Stuck in a cozy office with your extremely hot professor, your anxiety takes hold and office hours take an unexpected turn.
Triggers: Panic attacks,  Mental Health
Minors, please dni.
Let’s chat during my office hours this week!
You thought about throwing that little post-it stuck to your failure of an essay on the romantic poets right into the garbage and pretending you never got it. Class was hard enough, the material was engaging, you were learning so much yet at the same time, you weren’t paying any fucking attention at all. 
Those salt and pepper curls, the way he chewed on his glasses, that weird little dance he did when someone made an interesting point or gave a correct answer.
That smile....
No, absolutely not.
You had a master’s degree.
You had a perfect GPA.
You qualified to be a Rhodes Scholar.
In kindergarten, your teacher said you were a pleasure to have in class.
You were pristine.
And now you were pristinely sweating in front of your professor’s office, desperately trying to ignore that prickling feeling in the back of your neck. You knocked firmly yet politely, about a few seconds from turning and running away when music from the other side of the door turned off and it was now or never.
The door swung open and there he was, tweed blazer gone, crisp white shirt a little more open than usual, sleeve rolled up to the elbow displaying tattoos you didn’t expect a professor of poetry to have. 
“Come in, I’m so glad you had time to come today!” He said brightly, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses to the top of his head, flattening himself against the door so you could pass.  
A faint whiff of cigarettes and some sort of earthy cologne had you melt but you straightened up immediately, pulling out your paper and notebook. He takes the chair opposite you, legs crossed, reaching for his own notes.
“So, how do you feel about this paper? Let’s start there.” He said brightly. 
The prickling on the back of your neck starts to become a buzzing and it feels like your whole head is vibrating but you ignore it.
“I felt pretty solid about it.I gave thoroughly checked research, provided more than necessary sources to support every claim about Keats’ work I presented, there were no grammar errors, and I ran it through six different plagiarism checkers. The word length is exactly as you required so I’m not sure I understand what I did wrong.” You said, honestly. 
He gently took the paper from your hands to inspect his own writing, your hands starting to shake as he went through each red marked page.
What else could those fingers do, you wondered.
“Your research was impeccable, your grammar and analysis were great, and there are exactly 5,000 words. However, as this was an opinion and analysis assignment, your opinion on the poem itself seems to be missing. You did an amazing analysis but that was only half the assignment and that’s why you received a low grade.”
“I don’t understand.” You said quietly, your hands started to shake and your chest felt really tight all of the sudden. His voice faded into static in your ears and you were really struggling to stay focused.
“I want to know how Keats' work made you feel as well as how the work has been regarded over time. You’re a person, not a research archive. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He asked, leaning in to meet your gaze.
“I read the instructions fifteen times, I analyzed the poem, I gave opinions, strong opinions.” You choked out.
“Other people’s opinions, dead old guy opinions, I wanted yours.” He said, leaning back in his chair.
Failure.
All that work, all that money, two degrees down and you were still just a failure.
“I did a full assignment, I didn’t do half the assignment, I would never do half the work required.” You muttered, trying to take a breath that wasn’t coming. 
 Eddie leaned forward, confused, studying your face before his own face softened with concern as he said your name, once, then again with no response from you.
“Can you hear me, sweetheart? Are you alright?”
You couldn’t breathe.
Okay, five things you could see.
Dirty carpet, empty coffee cup, worn books, your professor’s big brown eyes, oh fuck this was happening in front of an audience.
Another failure.
“Look at me, you’re okay, everything is okay. Fuck the paper, I’ll give you an A if you just take a breath, please breathe!” Professor Munson said, somehow looking worse than you felt. 
You tried to take a big breath but nothing but a rasping noise came out and the office was starting to get very blurry very quickly.  Eddie crouched down in front of you, hesitant.
“Can I touch you, is that okay?” He asked, voice soft and quiet as to not to scare you even more than you already were.
Please do.
How the fuck were you anxious and horny? One of those should cancel the other out.
You managed to nod and Eddie covered your hands with his own, squeezing gently. 
“ You’re okay, nothing in this room or in your head can hurt you, I’m right here. Breathe with me, okay? A nice deep breath, we’ve got all the time in the world.” He said slowly, taking a big breath and you mimicked him,allowing yourself to inhale deeply.
“Good job, sweetheart. Let’s try again, shall we?” He asked, thumb rubbing against your knuckles as you breathe together an additional time. It takes a few minutes before your breathing goes back to normal but he doesn’t let you go.
“There she is, welcome back, sweet girl.” He said with a soft smile, his hand reaching up to stroke your cheek and you put your hand over his time, closing your eyes. You both relaxed into each other’s embrace in the quiet of his office, breathing and being as one.
“I should let you go now.” He said, leaning back first with an awkward cough, looking anywhere but your face, running a hand through his hair.
“But-” You started.
Eddie looked back at you, eyes dark.
“But what?”
You brought your face close to his, not breaking eye contact.
“But what if I don’t want you to?”
Hope you liked this!
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