#archivists continue to disappear

[ginzburgjake]

Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding the events before his alleged disappearance in January of 2016. Statement never given.

Somewhere, in another universe, Jonathan Sims didn’t watch his feet. It’s not that he was always so clumsy, but the current case research was stagnating, driving Jon into sleepless restlessness that, he found, could only be alleviated through hard work.

He’d been working at The Magnus Institute for over a year by that point, which was not a dream job, exactly, but it paid the bills alright. One day, as he was carrying a rather large cup of black tea, looking through the brief notes on his phone, a tall lean guy crossed his path, causing Jon to trip. He regained his balance quickly, sloshing his drink in the process and, to his utter mortification, staining the stranger’s shirt. Jon apologized awkwardly, while the stranger loudly bemoaned the loss of his favorite expensive piece of clothing (personally, Jon thought he’d accidentally done humanity a favor. The shirt was abysmal, with a garnish pattern of pink oranges and blue orchid flowers). Jon, as politely as he could, offered to buy the man a coffee in exchange.

“Nah, probably not a good idea,” the guy said, “I’m on my third espresso already. Let me, hm—” Then he squinted, contemplating, and Jon detected something akin to mischief glinting in the stranger’s eye. “Say, uh — I’ve seen you before in the, er, Research?”

“That is correct,” Jon replied stiffly. Was he going to be sent an official invoice, or something? God, he hoped the shirt didn’t cost more than his weekly rent, otherwise his savings would be in serious trouble. “Jon Sims.”

“Oh! That’s neat, ‘cuz I’m from Research as well! Name’s Tim, Tim Stoker.” The guy —Tim — stretched out his hand eagerly. Jon shook it with no small amount of hesitation. “I was thinking — uh, it’s kinda weird, to be honest — but me and a couple of others were planning to go on a trivia night, yeah? And we need a team of three, actually, but no-one else is available, and, well. You should be real smart, so I thought, why not, y’know?”

Jon decidedly did not know. He hoped his blank expression conveyed this feeling accordingly. “You want me… to go… on a trivia night. With you.”

“That’s right!” Tim grinned, pointing to the brown stain across his chest. “I really liked this shirt, okay? And it hurt. A lot,” he added, almost as an afterthought. The whole pity act wasn’t particularly convincing — although, in all honesty, Jon was often told he simply misunderstood how people conveyed their emotions. Maybe Tim always expressed himself in such an exaggerated, jovial manner. “And if you come to the trivia night, your debt will be forgiven and forgotten.”

Jon made a face. He specifically avoided crowded social gatherings — he had no time for such pointless, nerve-wracking, chaotic engagements. But something told him now that Tim found a way of retribution, Jon wouldn’t be able to escape his grasp easily. And anyway, better get this over with quickly, so that he could continue his existence in peaceful solitude.

“Fine,” he sighed. “But I can’t promise I’ll be of any help.”

“Brilliant! Meet you down by the reception at five. The bar is fifteen minutes away.” Tim clapped his hands excitedly. “And if I don’t see you on time, I will come hunt you down.” He winked, waved his hand and was off, leaving Jon standing there in complete stupor.

Jon bought himself another cup of tea, worked on the case until the appointed hour and, as promised, was packed and ready to head out at five o’clock sharp. Tim and a girl Jon didn’t know were already there, and Tim shot his finger guns at the newest arrival.

“That’s our savior! Jon, welcome aboard. This here is my accomplice, Sasha. Sash, meet Jon.” Both of them nodded at each other, and Sasha smiled. “Now off we go!”

This occurrence was not, in fact, the last time Jon saw this Tim Stoker. Tim, like a pest, started finding him during the lunch breaks and accompanying him to the tube station. It didn’t matter that Jon was curt and blunt with his replies — Tim filled in the gaps for the both of them, ranting about movies, urban legends, pizza flavors, and llamas, for some reason. Sasha was also quick to join the party. She was sharp-minded and curious, and a troublemaker — sometimes even worse than Tim.

Jon had learned fast enough that his stand-offish attitude and general unpleasantness had no effect on those two. He’d gradually grown to tolerate them, contributing to their conversations when he deemed it impossible to stay quiet. Then they started sharing their lunch when Jon, in his obliviousness to his needs, forgot to bring his own. Before he knew it, they were going out for drinks every Friday and spending the weekend evenings at each other’s flats, picking apart scientifically inaccurate television.

And just like that, Jon, surprising everyone, and himself especially, had… friends.

This all, however, happened somewhere else, in a different story, with a different Jon.

In this story, a sleep-deprived Jonathan Sims was carrying a cup of black tea when a tall lean man crossed his path. Jon looked up from his phone just in time to prevent a collision — he nearly avoided ruining the guy’s (frankly, quite ugly) Hawaiian shirt. Jon muttered a sort-of apology and continued on his way to get some bloody work done.

He never met Sasha James or Martin Blackwood.

He never requested assistance with the Archives — he didn’t know anyone well enough for that, and he refused to deal with a bunch of potentially incompetent strangers on top of his usual headache-inducing workload.

He worked alone in the basement for seven months, interacting only with Elias (when he graced the Archives with his presence) and Rosie at the reception.

He had no family or friends to miss him.

He had nowhere else to be.

And then, one day, he was suddenly nowhere to be found at all.

< part 1 part 3 >

#tma #the magnus archives #the magnus pod #tma fic #tma au #ghostchives #sasha is the archivist #archivists continue to disappear #sasha be careful #jonathan sims #jon sims #butterfly effect or smth

[mrsthunderkin]

Whups my hand slipped and I drew him older

Oh dear me~

#bart the bard #bartemus bagiery #older bart got me goood #he becomes a headmaster of an academy of magic #and continues being a MENACE to the students and professors #ESPECIALLY The archivist #as he ages the white in his hair disappears #reverse greying #tablet doodle #tales of alor #fae #sidhe fae #unseelie

[shizucheese]

So full disclosure, I actually listened to episode 7 on Saturday, but this episode had so damn much to it and I got a bit side tracked by a theory that I'm still working on but I really want to get this out before episode 8 comes out.

As usual, if you want to see the continuously updated and reblogged version of my red string board, you can find it here.

Today is Tuesday, 2/27/24. Episode 7 came out 5 days ago on 2/22/24.

“Talkers”

Norris (Voice: Martin?/ Alex)

Episode 1: “Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret [Email]”. The Stranger? The End? The Dark? The Lonely? The Flesh? Arthur (Nolan?).

Episode 3: "Infection (full body" -/- Arboreal [Journal entry]". The Spiral? (Paranoia? Auditory, visual and olfactory hallucinations) The Lonely? The Corruption. The Flesh? (Callbacks to the Flesh Garden from S5)

Common Themes: Hearing the voice of a dead/ missing loved one?

Chester (Voice: John?/ Jonny)

Episode 1: “Transformation (eyes) -/- Tresspass [chat log]”. Magnus Institute, The Eye. (Involves a forum; the Web?).

Episode 5: "Disappearance (undetermined) -/- Invitation [Internet blog]". The Eye (Movies. Movie name: "Voyeur" "Must be seen to be believed"...). The Web? (Another website?). (Very reminiscent of Mag 110: Creature Feature.) The "poor old guy" at the theater is totally an Eye avatar, right? Kinda gives me "Simon Fairchild when he was first introduced" vibes.

Episode 7: "Agglomeration (miscellany) -/- congregation [email]". The Stranger. The Burried. The Desolation. Possibly all of them if my theory about the items the Volunteers brought in is correct...

Unsure if this is Eye related like the other statements were. This is also the first "Chester" statement where the source material wasn't from a website or blog, which don't have the same expectation of privacy that the sources of the other statements do. Email, though, so still internet related, and this seems to be an open letter rather than personal correspondence, so it still might align with the theme.

Agustus: (rare?)

Episode 4: “Collection (blood) -/- musical [letter]” The End. The Lonely? The Slaughter.

Letter writer thinks passing on his violin might allow a part of himself to live on in his nephew. Very Jonah Magnus of him.

Music teacher hears “faraway music”, then goes crazy and throws himself out of the carriage and dies. Reminiscent of Mag7 and the Piper? The merchant’s wares include dice (Mag 29?). Got the violin from him (took his blood?). Effect of the violin reminiscent to Grifter’s Bone (Mag 42).

(Oliver Bardwell lol very funny guys)

Non-Talkers (?)

Episode 2: "Transformation (full) -/- dysmorphic [video call]". The Spiral? The Flesh. The Stranger. Ink 5oul (avatar/ entity?)

Episode 6: "Injury (needles) -/- intimidation [999 call] "Corruption? The Spiral? The Flesh? The End?

"Needles" reminds me of Michael!Distortion.

Notes and Thoughts:

"It's not like we're dealing with Tape Recorders..." I'm side eying you real hard, Celia. And what's with all of the questions? The "looking for patterns" question is 100% fair but those examples are AWEFULLY SPECIFIC. I wasn't entirely sure I bought the idea that Celia was the same Celia from TMA, but no this is totally her for sure. "DO YOU KNOW WHO JOHN" IS EXCUSE ME? WHAT REAL STUFF?

HILLTOP CENTER BRANCH?!!! 0 managerial or other support from HR; very reminiscent of the weird circumstances surrounding the house on Hilltop Road. Bear skin rug very reminiscent of the Gorilla Skin in TMA S3. The Volunteers remind me of the medical students from Mag34. The email is about events from 2015. This was the same year Gertrude died and John became the Head Archivist in TMA. Why am I not seeing anyone else talk about this?

I have a theory that I was originally going to put in this post but detangling that giant ball of red string entirely is taking too long so I'm just going to put the TL'DR here and maybe make a proper list later if I can ever finish pulling the string on that particular red sweater. Between the items the Volunteers bring in, and the events of the incident itself, what if every single Entity is represented? The gunshots that were heard were the Slaughter. The fire was the Desolation. The person who wrote the email being crushed by all of the items was the Buried. There are a number of artifacts that get listed off that could represent at least one if not multiple Entities (which might be their purpose; considering how many times the fact that the categorization was imperfect got brought up in TMA, it's probably more helpful to view them as a spectrum more than anything else), including some that are very reminiscent of things from specific TMA statements (The bear skin rug -> The Gorilla skin, Old medical equipment -> the syringe in mag 45? The telescope -> Maxwell Rayner was originally Edmond Halley, the Astronomer, etc. etc). So...okay, hear me out: what if this was all part of a ritual, and that's what the "good cause" was? A ritual that involved all of the fears being represented? Sound familiar? Except instead of it being a ritual to start an apocalypse or reshape the world in the image of one or more of the fears, what if it was a ritual to summon something that was associated with all of the fears? Or, rather, what if it was a ritual to summon someone who had been touched by all of the fears? And that's also why so many of the items seem to be analogous to things from statements and events from TMA? Like....maybe I'm wrong entirely. Or maybe I'm right about this being about summoning someone, or something, (maybe someone from TMA? Maybe Celia?), but wrong about it being John who was being summoned. But, again, this incident took place in 2015, which was the same year Gertrude died and John became head Archivist, and I feel like this means something.

#the magnus protocol #the magnus protocol spoilers #the magnus protocol speculation #tmp #tmp spoilers #tmp speculation #tmagp #tmagp spoilers #tmagp speculation #tma spoilers #shizu's red string board

[justalittletomato]

Dinner Arrangements (Reader x Maul)

just some fluff and taking the suggestion from @gran-maul-seizure

that Maul would get more feral with his eating the more comfortable that he is with a person

Set when Maul rules Mandalore

tag list: @gran-maul-seizure @hannagoldworthy @patchiefrog @storm89 @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @apocalypticwafflekitten @pixiestookourstardust @eyecandyeoz @id-rather-be-a-druid @dukeoftheblackstar @stardustbee

He counted the attempts, this would be thier 10th. As the chrono struck for the evening hours, the Archivist arrived from the servant's entrance with a tray. 

Upon learning that Maul would pull ration bars out in place of a hot meal, the Archivist stepped in a tray or two ladened with hearty foods. 

Mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, stews, filled with meat that had been set to cook for what he assumed was for some time as tender as it was—other times ( most often)  meat cuts thick and still red. 

“ Your brother mentioned it was better for your health,” a kettle was brought over from the burning hearth of the study. His Archivist measured out water for tea before setting down a plate. “Take what you like” 

He had at first scoffed at the action, The Archivist always did such things, carefully watching and making things in a way to accommodate him better. 

“Coddling” he had said to Savage, the older Zabrak merely raised a brow, “Brother, you can order them to stop.”

Maul gave him a look, “Then they will fuss” as if that was why he did not consider it. “But they do not need to make such an effort on such matters,” Maul added. 

Savage sighed, “Then leave it be” 

In the first few attempts Maul just loaded his plate with some of the meat cuts and when the archivist suggested maybe just a bit of roasted carrot, he just left with the plate in hand. The Archivist left with the rest of the full tray and their own plate. 

Maul left the emptied plate at the door when he was done. 

The day after he took a heapful of the vegetables, again leaving the archivist alone with their own plate. 

With the stew? The mouthwatering scent had the Archivist smiling to see the ladlefuls Maul put into the bowl. A frown formed when he left again to eat alone. 

The bowl was completely cleaned of any stew when the Archivist collected the dish, returning back and noting that the remainder had also disappeared. 

On the 10th day, Maul returned the stew bowl empty and took a loaf of bread from the plentiful tray. The Archivist didn't dare move and watched as Maul took apart the loaf to eat. 

The following days were much the same, Maul returning to eat a loaf of bread or filling his cup with more tea. 

The absolute silence as the Archivist watched this time around as Maul served himself and sat back at the table. Maul not bothering with the knife and staring at the fork with skepticism. Today was roasted nyduck. Maul began to eat, sharp teeth tearing and pulling apart the food he had picked. 

He looked straight at the Archivisit, daring them almost. The Archivist set down the silverware picked up their own piece and ate it without the stifling etiquette drilled in. 

Another dinner later and Maul looked up from his plate, today’s meat was rarer than most days. The red dripping down his chin and most certainly staining his teeth. Yet not once did the Archivist shiver or run off or flat out refuse to continue sharing the table with him. If anything the dinners had allowed for maul to devour and freely gorge himself on what was offered. 

“The cooks must loathe the change” He finally said. 

The Archivist looked confused, “The cooks?” a shake of thier head, “Oh no, I have been the one making your dinners, and I quite enjoy learning what you prefer,” They went back to cutting thier more cooked steak with glee. 

Maul wiped at his mouth, the remaining blood staining the sleeve of his tunic, “You? When?” 

The Archivist continued to eat, “Before we started working, they were a bit off-put by the blood but I set them straight,” 

Not once did they react when he tore and ripped his food, if anything they were pleased to see him eat. Before he could stop himself he felt the corners of his mother raise, a smile if it could be called that. He went back to devouring with gusto. The Archivist was pleased with the sounds of hunger saited. 

#star wars #maul #darth maul #maul x reader #darth maul x reader #clouds blurbs

[tma-reader-inserts]

Elias Bouchard x Hunt Avatar! Reader

Tw: cannibalism

Being one of the file storage and reference section assistants at the Magnus Institute is not a glamorous job. It’s a lot like being a librarian, which is what you got your degree in (along with a minor in folklore), so at least the filing system is familiar to you, and you’re not saddled with unnecessary responsibility like Diana is being the head of the department.

Fortunately, your boss, Mr. Bouchard, is very understanding. You couldn’t control others actions, and as long as something gets returned he’s not too upset over the matter.

He often came to check up on you, to take your inventory report personally and give a stern talking to to those who fail to return their borrowed material. It was nice, to know your boss was looking out for you, to have some backing. People don’t really take you seriously, with your meek nature, at least Mr. Bouchard did.

Jon was concerning you, though. He’s been visiting more and more often, ever since the Prentiss incident. He’s been asking slightly invasive questions since he’s learned you worked closely with his predecessor right before her death. You even think he’s been following you after work; which is highly worrying because of your… odd habits.

You pray he hasn’t noticed your trips to the butcher.

—

You were entering fight or flight when Jon locked the door to the storage room, and were in full on panic mode when he stomped over to you and demanded you answer for your strange eating habits. How you never ate lunch at the Institute but visit a certain unreputable butcher every other day.

He crowded up to you so closely you could count the worm scars the littered his tan skin.

“Do you have any idea how often that shop appears in statements? How- how many people disappear there? You must know, you work here!” He yells, eyes alight with fury.

You curl into yourself, fear stilling your to tongue. You were never good with men yelling at you.

“Gertrude was investigating the place before she died, did you do something to her to keep going there?” He accuses.

The blood drains from your face. You for sure never harmed a hair on Gertrude Robinson’s head. You’re not sure if you even could back when she was alive. But yes she was investigating your butcher. Yes. Even she confronted you about it, and just like when she accused you of your… strange diet, you flinch at Jon’s words.

You felt hot tears well up in your eyes. You were now fully afraid of your coworker. Gone was the hard core skeptic, the ineffable Jonathan Sims and in his place was a maniac.

“It’s not like that-“ you stutter out. “I never laid a hand on Gertrude-“

“She was shot! You wouldn’t need to touch her!” He continues. You felt sick to your stomach as he continues to rave.

You couldn’t tell him that there was no way you killed Gertrude, that as soon as you even smelled blood you lose control of yourself. If you killed Gertrude, she wouldn’t have just bullet wounds.

You were seconds away from sobbing, so terrified of Jon and how close his accusations were, ready to spill your guts and let him call the police or the press or maybe he’d just try and kill you the same way Gertrude did-

The door broke open, and in hastily strolled a very angry looking Elias Bouchard. You shook with relief and a shaky breath rattled through your body. A firm, ring adorned hand was placed on Jon’s shoulder and the Archivist was pulled away from your personal space.

You weren’t even registering what Elias was scolding Jon for, but after some rebuttal from the archivist and back and forth from both men, Jon eventually left in a huff. After he slammed the door closed, the tears in your eyes finally spilled.

Elias was quickly by your side, his voice was sturdy, and his hand rubbed your back in a comforting manner.

“It’s alright, my dear, let it out.” He hums. “Let us retreat to my office, give you some privacy to calm down, hmm?”

—

One cup of tea and a box of tissues later, you’re now sniffling helplessly in Elias’s office. He waits for you patiently to calm down, as you alternate between wiping your cheeks and sipping your earl grey.

When it’s seems you’ve finally settled enough, your employer speaks.

“I am truly sorry for Jonathan’s actions. It seems that he’s not quite himself since the Prentiss incident, although that is no excuse for his behavior.”

One thing you’ve always like about your boss was how he was concise with his words and how put together he was. Nothing seemed to get to him. Always prim and eloquent.

You sigh heavily, the fear and sadness in your system expelling itself through the breath. “It… I’m fine now, I guess. I’ve never seen Jon act so… erratically.”

Elias nods, a warm hand placed itself on your knee. “Erratic is one way of putting it, I suppose.” There was a beat of silence before Elias removed his hand and settled his gaze on you. “Jon does raise a fair question, in regards to your relation to the butcher shop you visit.”

Your heart stops, and you felt very sick.

“The shop in question is central to several statements over the years, not to mention has been investigated by the police many times for related and unrelated reasons.” He says easily. “Is there a particular reason you frequent this specific shop?”

You couldn’t exactly tell your boss that it’s one of the only butchers near your house that can supply your high demand for copious different kinds of meat and blood; that it’s certainly the only place that doesn’t question why you need so much. That it feels safe to you because the owner can smell the strange on you and doesn’t curl away in fear the way most do.

“… I… have a crush on the butcher.” You lie. It’s an awful lie, you sound horrifically unsure of yourself and you could feel the bead of sweat roll down your temple traitorously. Not to mention it felt gross to even say it.

Elias raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “The man is well above you in age.” He points out. How he knows that off handedly is beyond you but you don’t dare question his knowledge right now.

“… I’m into older men.” Not a lie, exactly. You felt some peace with yourself with this truth exposed.

He tilts his head in consideration before sighing. “Be that as it may; you’re still not telling me the whole truth.” He says sharply.

You flinch, and cast your eyes downward.

“It’s-“ you choke on your words. “It’s a lot more complicated than that.” You confess lowly, under your breath. “I can’t tell you, I-I just can’t.” You sigh roughly, pointedly looking away from the man across from you. “You wouldn’t believe me, anyhow.”

Your wording intrigued Elias, as he leaned in closer to you, the perfect expression of sympathy on his face. “We work here, my dear, I’m sure I’ve heard for more unfathomable tales.”

A frown yanks the corners of your mouth downwards as you try not to start crying again. You’ve kept your secret so close to you all these years, so afraid of how people would react. How it would change others perception of you. You’re more afraid of speaking the incident aloud than of the incident itself, and the idea of confession finally chokes you up.

The hand returns to you knee as Elias says you name, so tenderly it makes you ache. “You’re safe here.” He urges. “Think of it like a statement; we’ll lock it away and keep it hidden from public.”

That… does assure you a bit. You’ve had people confess to murders here. It is the Magnus Institute after all.

“I… I don’t want it investigated.” You murmur, one hand of yours coming to your mouth in anxiousness. “There isn’t anything left to investigate, there’s no point.”

The older man nods in understanding all too readily. “I understand.”

You felt like you were going to throw up. You’ve never even toyed with the notion of confessing of what happened to you, now here you were, locked in your boss’s office, tea lukewarm and you ready to let your heart bleed.

“I was… six or seven, I can’t be sure.” You start. “My family has relatives in Canada, on my fathers side. We always visited them around the end of summer, and we’ve been going there so often that even as a child I was familiar with their land. We usually rented a small cabin in the woods not far from my uncle’s house and we’d stay there for a few weeks; me and my parents.

“We didn’t usually sleep in the cabin truthfully, we tented out in the wood by the place. It’d be right before hunting season and the forest would be littered with all kinds of animals that my dad would hunt idly with the assortment of guns his brother owned. We ate off of deer and rabbit and-“ you laugh at the memory, “squirrels if you can believe it. Anything dad could catch. We’d eat the wild berries and vegetables and fish from the creek. It was… nice.” You sigh, thinking of your father’s methodical hands as he skinned rabbits and your mother’s careful explanations of identifying plants that were safe to eat.

You swallowed thickly, preparing to speak of the unfortunate bit. “One night, we heard a noise. Nothing that would indicate… the danger that followed… but somewhere nearby there was something snapping twigs as it walked. It sounded so close.” You shudder.

“My father grabbed one of the guns near him and went to investigate. That was the last I ever saw of him. His last word were ‘wait here.’” Your eyes glass over as you relived your memories, and Elias moves his chair closer to you, nodding for you to continue. “He never even had the chance to shoot the gun. So deep in the shadows I didn’t see him- see him get killed.” You choked up again.

“My mother grabbed me and ran. She apparently saw something I didn’t and lugged me up into her arms and started to sprint to the tree line, to the cabin. But she tripped. I fell from her embrace and she was dragged back into the darkness.” The recollection was making you numb, and perhaps now it was easier to speak of your trauma. “I don’t think she had time to scream. To plead or beg, because I felt warm liquid splash on my face mere moments after I managed to stand up.

“I didn’t want to run, I was too scared too. Evidently that’s was the best choice. The thing that had killed my parents finally emerged from the darkness. I couldn’t see it clearly, but it loomed over me so greatly in height I thought it was a moving tree. Its limbs were long and thin, like bones or branches, and it was almost red with how richly brown it was. I couldn’t see its face, but I saw red droplets fall from somewhere above me.

“I-I’m not sure why exactly it didn’t kill me. Maybe because I wasn’t moving. Maybe it could only see me if I moved and I was so still I was sure my heart had stopped all together. It just… walked away from me; slowly, snapping branches and twigs underfoot as it retreated back into the woods… I wish that was the end of it.” You sigh.

“I spent hours in the woods, days. I was so lost I couldn’t find the tree line at all. I couldn’t even find our camp site.

Whatever direction my mother started to run in was wrong, and I was sure it spelt my doom. I’m not sure how long I wandered in the daylight but I eventually found a cave, a large tree sticking out from the mouth.

“Well, I thought it was a tree at first. Until I saw it move. I heard no noises in the area. No birds, or bugs, or animals. Like they were all afraid of being in the vicinity of this great beast; and my parents and I were just too stupid to sense the danger.

“I was… so mad, seeing it. I was furious. This… thing destroyed my life and it was sleeping! It was resting as if my parent’s bodies weren’t in its stomach. I’m not sure what possessed me; a very child like rage, I’m sure, and the determination to get back at it, somehow. To make us even. It ate my parents.” You clipped coldly. “I was wanted to eat it.”

Elias watched you patiently. And you continued.

“It must’ve been used to not being disturbed while it slept. So used to being left alone that it didn’t notice me at all as I crawled into the cave. When I crawled in as far as I could until its mass was so large it plugged the cave. I had no weapon, I had nothing sharp, not even a stone or a stick, but I was so angry and so hungry…” you hiss.

“I… I didn’t know what to expect of it. It looked leathery, but when I dug my fingers in between what I thought was it’s rib, the flesh gave away easily, with hardly any resistance at all, like pulling slow cooked meat off the bone.” You swallow here. And Elias looks at you with rapt attention.

“How did it taste?” He inquires, voice not above a whisper, and you answer.

“… it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

You confess, eyes closing tightly, trying to conjure the experience to your mind. “It was so rich, and soft and warm. I kept pulling bits and bits off of it until there was a hole in its side, and I could see into its hollow chest cavity. It… ignited something in me. A fierce kind of hunger. It felt like I’ve never eaten since before that moment and I was starved. I just… kept eating. Pulling meat from its arm, its legs, the fingers. I must’ve spent hours slowly feasting away on this creature, piece by piece consuming it. It never woke up, never even stirred. I wondered if it died in its sleep as I licked my fingers between bites. I ate more than I thought possible, more than I should have been able to feasibly consume. I ate everting I could reach until all that remained was a skeleton, a black, brittle skeleton that cracked easily when I knocked into them too hard.

“When there was nothing left to eat, I was still so, so hungry. It was like I didn’t even pick away at the monster for hours on end. I crawled out of the cave on my hands and knees. There was still no sound of life in the woods.

“… I don’t remember being found. They say I was missing for weeks. They say a mountain lion killed my parents because their corpses were found mangled in the trees.” You scoff, bitterly, eyes welling with tears. “It never actually ate them. It killed them. For fun. And now I’m… this.” You gesture ruefully to yourself.

“What are you now?” Elias asks gently, hand never once leaving your knee.

You sniffle. “I don’t know. When I managed to come back to England, to be placed in the care of my grandparents, it was obvious I wasn’t… normal, anymore. I couldn’t manage to eat anything for the first few weeks, I kept throwing it all up. And whatever I managed to keep down, it never satisfied me. I always felt so hungry, so… hollow. I was almost dying of malnutrition, when in a fit of starvation I tore into a package of raw ground beef. For the first time since being in Canada, I could feel my stomach being to fill and take to the food, even if it was bloody, raw meat.”

You laugh ruefully next, the sound not even startling your boss. “When my grandmother found out, she told me I was better to starve to death than be that… some kind of freak, monster.” You look away to let the tears fall freely. “My grandfather thought a monster of a grandchild was better than no grandchild at all, so he moved me and himself to the country side, where he could feed me in peace. Live cattle and lots of butcher shops. A place where no one really noticed when a pig or sheep go missing.” You wiped at your face as you calmed down. “I grew up relatively normal besides that. Got good grades in school. Had friends. My grandfather was willing to experiment with my diet to see what I could eat and how to disguise my meals.”

Elias nods along. “What else can you eat?”

Shrugging, you answer. “Raw foods. Non processed vegetables, fruit, and grains, although they only curb the hunger pangs, I could eat pounds of them and never be full. Eating… live animals is what fills me up best.” You confess carefully, trying to gauge Elias’s reaction without fully looking at him. “Raw meat is more convenient, easier to buy and to consume in peace.”

There was a moment of silence as Elias considers your words before speaking. “What do you mean by, ‘best’?”

You look to him, confused.

“You said live animals is what satisfies you best, but does it satisfy you enough? Does it actually fill you up?”

A tremor of fear wiggles down your spine. In for a penny you assume

“No.” You answer honestly. “I’ve… never actually been ‘full’ since before the accident. Meat helps greatly but…” you trail off, afraid to finish your thought.

Elias speaks for you. “Is it because it’s animal meat? Do you think of you ate other meat, it would fill you?”

‘Other meat.’ What a funny way of saying humans.

Your face twitches in to a scowl before you answer. “I know it would.” You sigh again, fresh tears forming along your wet line. “I know if I ate human meat I would finally be full, but…”

Elias nods. “But you’re not sure if you’d be able to stop yourself.” He concludes. And you shake your head negatively.

“Not that.” You whisper, dread filling your voice. You finally look into Elias’s eye and almost burst into tears when you confess your greatest sin. “I know I can stop because I have before.”

This stills Elias, but you barrel through, afraid if you stop you’d never be able to say it again.

“A man followed me home after my grandfathers funeral. All the way from the burial to town. I thought he had left but, when I went into an alley for a shortcut to the house, he-he attacked me.” Your breath hastened as you recall the details. “He said awful, awful things to me. Called me all sorts of names and said what he was going to do to me. I haven’t been that scared since my parents died, and-“ you gasp, “and I just- I chased him.”

Elias’s eye brows scrunched together in confusion. “You didn’t run away?”

You shook your head. “I bolted at him. I was so scared but also so furious, I couldn’t believe someone was trying to accost me on the worst day of my life, and I just,” you shrugged, “I took after him. He wasn’t expecting that and ran away, but the more he ran, the more it felt like I needed to chase him. It was like it was the only thing I could do, the only logical decision. I’m my head was just a mantra of ‘catch, catch, catch,’ so I kept running in the town’s back alleys. He didn’t hit a dead end, didn’t trip; I pounced at him and-“

You swallow again, mouth thick with saliva. “I caught him by the throat. I tore it out like it was nothing. He didn’t even have time to scream.” You whisper, horrified. “As I chewed on his flesh, felt it slid down my throat into my stomach, I could feel it. That this is what I needed to finally be full. This is what the creature tasted like all those years ago.” you shudder. Ashamed, you turned from Elias, hiding your tearful face into your hands, but you couldn’t stop taking now. “I-I didn’t know what to do. It re-sparked a hunger in me and I was digging into his stomach when I finally gathered my wits and ran away. No one could see the blood on my black dress and gloves and my face was covered by a veil.

“When I got home I scrubbed every inch of my body to rid it of blood and burned my clothes, I ended up eating a sow I was so famished. It felt so… good. To chase, to hunt. It felt like I should’ve been doing it my whole life. Like I was born to take down prey. Like I was a spoiled house cat, finally in the woods hunting mice.” The analogy makes you pause. You weren’t a cat, and other people weren’t rodents, but it was the closest and less gory way of verbalising your emotions.

When you were done, you eyes Elias carefully. This was it. He could have you put into prison, the looney bin. You confessed to monstrosities and crimes that have been weighing you down for years, and now Elias Bouchard was going to judge you.

The man nods, and considers his words.

“And the butcher?” He questions.

“He knew my grandfather.” You say, “He’s been helping to feed me since I was a child. He knows all about me and my… condition. Goes out of his way to get, uh, exotic meats to keep me fed.”

Elias nods again. Snatching a tissue from the box, the man dabs away your tears and looks at you in what seems to be acceptance and sympathy.

“Well, no wonder why you were so anxious about Jon confronting you.” He mumbled to himself, pushing your mused hair out of your face.

“Will you tell anyone?” You whisper, terrified of the answer.

He shakes his head. “Not a soul, my dear. This isn’t the worse confession this Institute has seen. But it does explain some things…”

You don’t ask what they explain. You’re too scared. Elias managed to fix your face, and calmly refills your tea. You sip at it half heartedly as your boss easily promises that your secret was safe within his office walls.

It… doesn’t exactly feel like a weights been taken off your shoulders. You haven’t been that vulnerable in a long time, and you hoped that Elias would never betray you.

—

Weeks later

—

You felt cold, staring down at the body. Incredibly hot blooded and cold simultaneously. Bile threatens to rise from your actions but you swallow it down. Gore sticks under your finger nails and teeth, and it tastes divine; like manna from heaven. You wanted to cry from how hungry you were, how there was sustenance right in front of you and you cannot bring yourself to eat.

The other woman ran ages ago, darting down the alley as soon as you threw her attacker against the wall and punched a hole into his stomach. She certainly didn’t stay long enough to see you pull out his intestine and bring it to your mouth.

You fucked up. Badly. There was no possible way to get out of this situation by yourself. Your mind was drawing a blank and you were beginning to panic. You just killed someone, again. And this time you don’t have the giant lake to hide the body in.

You needed help; you needed guidance. Someone who always had a clear head and means to help you.

You knew exactly who to go to.

—

When Elias opened his office door, he certainly was not expecting to see you standing there, covered in blood, eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Mr. Bouchard?” You said lowly, almost in a trance. “I did something bad…”

Elias could see the body in your minds eye. The corpse with his insides spilled out and chewed on. Some brute of a man with a bruised sternum and his skull shattered from the back, brain matter smearing the wall behind him.

He nods, slowly, taking into account your clothing, your guilty face, and your extremely vulnerable mind.

“Come, in my dear…” he couldn’t fight the smile which inched across his face. “Tell me what happened…”

—

Disposing of the body was easy enough. A few calls and the whole problem was swept under the rug. You didn’t exactly know the details, but whatever they were Elias just smoothed your hair and told you not to worry.

I’m a matter of an hour, the man never existed, and you were still in Elias’s office, gripping your now cold tea cup. He just stared as you, bemused.

After several long minutes of silence, he moves, straightening up and weaving his fingers together, gazing upon you steadily.

“Would you like to have dinner with me on Friday?”

You stared at him, shocked and confused.

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t think you’ve been taking care of yourself properly.” He states. “I’d like to make sure you’ve eaten well, for once.”

He looks like he might eat you instead.

Your breath hitched. “Wh-why?”

He winks at you. “Don’t worry about that, darling.”

#elias bouchard #tma #the magnus archives #elias bouchard x reader

[wottimpie]

I love ur Breakdown design what are ur head-canons for him??

omg wow thank you!! I have lots of different breakdown’s for different continuities but some ideas remain consistent, for this post i’ll focus on the version of breakdown from my swipedown post: (TW for drug abuse/implied abuse)

- He and the Stunticons are all brothers, with the order of their ages going Moma, Dead End, Breakdown, Drag Strip, and Wylee

- Out of all his siblings he’s the closest to Motormaster, and Motormaster tends to go a little easier on him (though it isn’t saying much)

- He has epilepsy

- He’s the second shortest of the stuntis (after Wildrider)

- He’s Menasor’s voice of reason to an extent, but the rest of the gestalt take it as anxious ramblings

- His military strategy is to play it safe, and while it doesn’t always work in his favor, the stunticons would benefit from a little hesitant before booking it towards the autobots

- He has a tooth gap bc of a fight he got in as a kid, his teeth shifted but they never fully closed, resulting in it

- Megatron is his father (whether by blood or a sense of duty depends)

- He is frequently ignored by both his father and his brothers. His quietness and anxiety tend to make him disappear, or annoy the others to a point of being pushed away. It’s only when he lets his anger out by causing a scene or smashing some bots does he get praised or disciplined

- He is relentlessly bullied by Drag Strip, whether for his looks, his anxiety, his constant worming up moma’s aft, anything really

- As much as he loves Sideswipe, Sunstreaker is more of a match for him in terms of a relationship. Sideswipe is a little too hectic and rowdy for his anxiety, whereas Sunstreaker’s bluntness and cruelty is more grounding for him, as it gives him a sense of comfort (though sunny does have a real soft spot for him, maybe even more so than sun’s own soft spot for his brother)

- Megatron had him on some anti anxiety pills for a while, and while it increased his efficiency on the battlefield, his paranoia and fear became ten times worse during downtime (this was the start of the turn of events that led him to join the autobots leave the decepticons

- he’s NOT an autobot (he thinks?)

- despite this, he still works as an autobot archivist/librarian, though his specialty is decepticon history

this is just the tip of the iceberg really! if this gets some traction i might go into more headcanons for Breaks and his other continuities, or even the stuntis and other characters (i would love to share the stuntis tbh) - thank you for reading!

#tw abuse #tw drugs #maccadam #maccadams #transformers #transformers g1 #headcanon #g1 breakdown #stunticons #megatron #g1 megatron #g1 motormaster #motormaster #sunstreaker #sideswipe #g1 sideswipe #mtmte #idw mtmte #transformers idw #transformers hcs #tf headcanons

[difeisheng]

各位蓮絡人們，新年快樂! it's been a slower winter holiday for me, but to start off the continued MLC brainrot in 2024, have a draft snippet with di feisheng's thoughts from a fic i'm chipping away at (inspired by @redemption-revenge's ideas on difang and archivist!fang duobing).

the first thing one might note if they were to enter the imperial archives of the great xi, housed in an unassuming wing of the palace grounds, is that they are far too dark. the windows, grand and admirable as they are in an effort to capture the sun, are not enough to illuminate the rows upon rows of shelves taller than any man. fit to be a forest they are, books, scrolls, coiled slips of bamboo lay stacked upon each. some neatly, others in haphazard formations to the side of an aisle or path, no resting place designated for them yet. the records all fall in as one, draped in shadow save for those in reach of the carefully set lanterns and candles.

these lights— poor but determined substitutes for that of the day— flicker disturbed by one's passing in otherwise still air, and perhaps that is the second thing to notice: that any breeze serves only to push around dust and the scent of old paper. other open, towering libraries and halls of learning are far more renowned, where one may enter and seek out like minds, or some to hear new theories from. archives such as this, important though they are for the dynasty's repository of knowledge, are to too many considered tedious. they house no great collections of classics or poetry, in lieu of concerning themselves with careful records and documentation. the average scholar would consider this building unworthy of visit, unless someone required a history on some person, or village, or particular official collation of such and such event. it is evidenced in the isolated sound of creaking shelves, the steps of only a few individuals in the entirety of the complex. this deserted quiet would be the third thing.

all that di feisheng's attention rests on, however, is the form of fang duobing.

he darts between cramped bookcases with ease, strides down aisles guided by instinct over senses. there is none of the carefree, ceaseless monologue to his presence, only his footfalls on stone, and so di feisheng is left with nothing but to trace his steps through this labyrinth in matched silence. for all that he'd met di feisheng for the first time in years with words chosen by purpose, not impulse, fang duobing had never struck him as one to keep his thoughts tucked away inside his head.

what happened to the young master with a voice of unwary privilege, making himself known to anyone who could listen? it took him too long to recognize fang duobing by the river's edge the day before, silent and solitary, the two of them studying one another for a frozen moment like any two strangers on the roads of the jianghu.

somewhere in the time gone by, cut by two paths of grief diverging, di feisheng missed the time that wore away fang duobing's rougher edges. not only with the learned hold to his tongue; the man before him stands taller, more confidence sketched in the fall of his walk and the grip of erya in one hand. if i gave you ten years, di feisheng told him once, you would be able to parallel me. in some ways, measured in more than their weapons, perhaps fang duobing has already risen to his level.

the same constant of a ponytail springs with each step, though. something still boyish hangs about him, as fang duobing's silhouette disappears around corners of this endless hall.

something once-familiar on a different figure, and so all too abruptly, between one instant and the next does the image of fang duobing blur into another.

this reunion between two of them should have a third, yet like the portrait that still hangs in baichuanyuan, an image unchanging, all they have is the recollection of how he walked away. seven years, and still unfound. seven years gone, left for somewhere no one could follow, and di feisheng tried to anyway but all he achieved is that now even fang duobing walks ahead (too far; when did di feisheng's footsteps falter?) and once is a joke, twice is shame, third is—

"老笛，你還在嗎?" fang duobing's boots scuff to a stop, and di feisheng blinks, illusion shattered. "we're almost there."

no, he isn't li xiangyi. it would be unjust of di feisheng to think otherwise.

back then, he never believed fang duobing could stand where li xiangyi once did, either. how time wears down the blade of a remark once-sharp, turned to something that could be almost merciful in how fang duobing looks back at him. equal parts concern, and curiosity.

"我在," di feisheng says, returned to the present, and fang duobing carries on.

#it's not much yet and i'm probably going to continue tweaking this bit but #oh i miss difang #happy new year mlc fandom #also #yeah the dialogue is in chinese for now it's not gonna stay that way. uhhhh probably. maybe. listen it's 2am #but their exchange is ''lao-di，are you still here?'' and ''i am'' #mysterious lotus casebook #difang #di feisheng #fang duobing #ashton writes fic

[jonathan-sins]

A premise for a tma fic that just popped into my head last night. I have no idea how to continue this story and probably never will, so I figured id post it here and let anyone who wants continue it.

During Prentiss’ worm attack, while they were running trough the tunnels, Jon gets separated and accidentally runs trough Michaels door without looking.

Michaels first thought is to kill him, but it decides to see what long term exposure to the tunnels will do to an Archivist first.

Turns out, it’s not good. In the beginning he acts just like any other poor soul trapped in the Hallways, but after some time (hard to say how long) he starts getting feverish, and stops speaking.

As Jon deteriorates in the Hallways, the Archival Assistants think that Jane wormed him in the tunnels. They hold a funeral for him. (A very small one, just them and Georgie)

Meanwhile, Jon has stopped working entirely, and is completely limp, too hungry to move. Time moving faster in the Hallways doesn’t help.

When it becomes clear that the Spiral isn’t giving Jon back, Elias decides to promote Tim.

After finding out that Jon’s predecessor was murdered, and with Sasha being more qualified, Tim is not happy about it.

One day, Michael decides to pop by the Institute to check out the new Archivist.

Tim unknowingly compels it into telling him that Jon is alive.

Tim kinda freaks out at this, and Knows Michael until it screams that it’ll let Jon go if he stops.

Tim calms down a bit and demands it fetch Jon immediately or else he’ll Know it even deeper. (Despite just finding out he apparently has superpowers and not knowing how to use them)

It dumps Jon on the floor right outside the door and disappears. The commotion draws Sasha and Martin into the office and they’re very happy to see Jon alive after all.

The celebration is short lived, however, and they notice that Jon isn’t waking up. He’s almost catatonic; completely limp, staring into thin air with glazed over eyes, expression blank, his mouth slack, even drooling a little.

His body has completely shut down from lack of Statements, but they don’t know that, so they don’t know how to help.

Thats all I got. Maybe he feeds off their fear of not knowing how to help or what happened, maybe his Statement hunger fades and he becomes a Spiral avatar after being so deeply Marked, maybe he fucking starves to death anyway and this is a hurt no comfort fic. Who knows? Not me

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fan content #tma fanfic #jonathan sims #micheal distortion #the spiral #tma the eye #the archivist #the archives crew #★彡

[pumpkinhrat]

Martin nearly drops his glass of wine in his lap when the notification pops up. A bit does splash over the lip of the glass and nearly ruins his freshly folded laundry, but he can’t bring himself to care. The message blinks at him from his phone screen: Tinder (now) – Somebody Super Liked you! Find out who.

Martin stares blankly at it until the screen starts to go dark. A Super Like. A Super Like? It’s been a week since Martin opened the account and he’s barely had 5 matches in the time since. He’s not even really sure what a Super Like is besides the fact that Tinder keeps trying to make him buy them. Did someone pay to match with him? Martin’s pulse quickens and before he can talk himself out of it, he’s typing in his passcode and pulling up the app. Immediately, a profile pops up with a bright blue star under the scowling face of–

Jonathan Sims.

Martin freezes, the skin of his neck prickling suddenly. What… He takes a furtive look around his flat, suddenly and bizarrely self conscious, as if someone’s gonna pop up beside him to judge his every reaction – ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. He takes a large swallow of wine.

Martin’s first instinct upon discovering that his boss Super Liked him on Tinder of all places is, of course, to deny, deny, deny that it’s really happening. Because, really, imagining dour, dry Jon sitting down to set up an online dating profile after scoffing at Tim’s own profile so hard that he’d set himself into a coughing fit is unbelievable. It doesn’t help Martin’s denial, however, that the third picture on Jon’s account is one of Tim and Sasha crowding beside him at a bar. It also doesn’t help that Martin remembers that night very clearly and knows for certain that after Sasha had taken that selfie of the three of them, Tim had insisted on a photo with Martin as well. (“Gotta have documentation that I actually managed to drag all three of you out at once!” he remembers Tim shouting in his ear.)

Martin clicks through the rest of the profile with a deliberate sort of detachment, though his cheeks warm against his will. It’s not his fault that every previously unseen photo of his stuffy, starched shirt boss in jeans and a flannel ignites a new wash of fire down his back. The blue Super Like star continuing to glow merrily under each photo doesn’t help, either.

Martin mindlessly scrolls down a bit further and encounters the description he’d missed while scouring Jon’s photo album. The bio reads: ‘Stressed, depressed, well dressed. Put the bi in bibliophile. Looking for someone to raise a cat with.’ Martin’s attention catches on the second line, specifically the word ‘bi’. He knows that Jon had dated at least one woman before but he never wanted to assume anything about his preferences. It’s nice to know, he supposes, as his traitorous body sends another wash of elated heat down his back.

This is bad. Very, very bad. Jon had been alluring enough when he’d been Marin’s mean, unfairly hot boss who’d occasionally dress him down in a way that made his hands tingle. Cold, strict, and gloriously, mercifully unattainable. It’s been a few years since those rocky beginnings, though. Now, Jon has settled into his gig as Head Archivist and the spiky walls of his glaringly obvious inferiority complex have disappeared entirely. He still snaps and snipes, of course, but that’s to be expected no matter how close you are to Jonathan Sims.

This, unfortunately, means that Martin’s… interest (he refuses to say ‘infatuation’ as Tim had) in Jon has taken a bit more of a realistic turn. In the past year or so, Jon has turned into something of a friend, which is incredible on its own but also has disastrous implications for Martin’s ability to maintain his self control. And this? This is bad.

The wine (a thank you gift from Jon for hosting his birthday party at his flat the year prior) sits warm and soft in Martin’s belly as his thumb hovers over the swipe right and left options. Nothing about this makes a lick of sense, but Martin’s imagination never really needs much to go on in order to find the most ridiculous course of action and convince him to act on it.

He downs the rest of his glass in one go and swipes his thumb to the right. Who needs self control?

––

“And what, exactly, do you mean by concerned?”

Sasha cringes slightly at Jon’s sharp tone but Tim just slings an arm around his neck, snatching his phone and the offending Tinder account away from him. “Oh come on Boss Man, you know we worry! We’re just looking out for you! Consider it a favor.”

“A favor.” His tone is so dry that even Tim grimaces but he quickly recovers.

“Yeah! You were just whingeing about how terrible company Sash and I make on a night out, always running off for a bit of fun and leaving you by your lonesome. We thought we’d solicit you some company!”

“Must you phrase it that way? It sounds as if you’re hiring me an escort.” Jon gripes without much bite, crossing his arms where he leans against Sasha’s desk. Tim grins at him so widely he rolls his eyes and looks away. “So, what, you want to find someone for me to interact with while the two of you go off to- to do whatever it is you do? I’m just supposed to stay behind and rendezvous with some stranger?”

“Well,” Sasha says slowly. Jon turns his imperious look on her. “We tried to encourage you to, um, rendezvous with someone at the bar when the two of us break off but you didn’t seem to like that idea either.”

Jon puffs out an exasperated little sigh that is honestly endearing as fuck and levels a flat look at Sasha. “You know perfectly well that that is not something I’m–”

“That’s not what I meant,” she cuts in quickly. “It’s perfectly possible to make friends at bars even if you’re not looking for anything else.”

“Maybe for some people,” he mutters, looking away, and Sasha’s heart squeezes much in the way that had made her start this entire endeavor. She opens her mouth to explain just this but Tim beats her to the punch.

“That’s kinda the point, Boss Man. We know you aren’t particularly comfortable having full blown conversations with strangers, so we thought this would be is a great solution! Match with a few people, see who fits the best, then you can meet the ones who you think you’d actually survive socializing with.” Jon takes a breath and Tim quickly barrels on. “Aaaand if you don’t find anyone who meets that bar, then no harm done! Just delete the app and you’ll never have to think about it again.” He gently pushes the phone across Sasha’s desk toward Jon, the app open to the ‘matches’ page.

Jon stares down at it with clear disdain before eyeing them both doubtfully. “I appreciate the effort,” he starts carefully and Sasha has to bite her tongue to resist interrupting. “But isn’t this an entirely unnecessary endeavor? It’s not as if we go out all that often, anyway. Everyone’s far too busy to agree on nights to go out, and Martin hasn’t been able to attend in months.”

“Well, y’know, that’s also kind of the point, Boss Man,” Tim says. He yanks out a chair and sits on it backward beside Sasha so they’re both looking up at Jon. He taps his phone pointedly. “We want you to get out there, mingle with other people now that Martin’s lost his weekends to his mom and Sash and I are dipping into territory you’re not as comfortable with–”

“You two do know I am capable of hearing the word sex without bursting into flame, yes?”

“–and, hey, we get it, you’re not the most social guy. But everyone needs a little bit of time with a friend or partner. We don’t want you to miss out on that because our little quartet has encountered a few scheduling conflicts.”

Jon stares at them, a look Sasha does not like filling his eyes, and his lips thin slightly. “You think I’m lonely.” He says the word with such a tone of accusation that Sasha cringes again.

“We don’t think you’re lonely,” she corrects quickly. “We just think you’d benefit from new social connections now that we’re less available.”

“And we still wanna go out,” Tim adds. “As often as we can. We just want–”

“Me to have more options than just you three, yes, I understand the premise.” He turns his attention back to Tim’s phone and gingerly pokes through the app, huffing and making more Jon Noises. Precious. After an excruciating amount of time, he heaves a gigantic sigh. “I suppose it won’t hurt to- to test it out. See if your theory holds any weight.” He sounds reluctant but Tim and Sasha share an excited glance, Sasha giving an endeared little nose scrunch at the wording. What an utterly Jon thing to say. “It has– It’s been a while since Georgie, so I believe now is as good a time as any to ‘get back out there’. I hadn’t thought there’d be anyone particularly interesting on apps like these but…” He trails off as he clicks through one of his matches’ profiles and Sasha just barely catches a glimpse of a foggy silhouette on a mountain.

“We handpicked a few people that we thought you might gel with,” she cuts in quickly, before Jon can expand on his ‘but’ and shut the whole thing down. “The one you’re looking at right now is Tim’s favorite, though I think he’s a bit boring.” Tim makes an affronted noise but Jon just hums, scrolling slowly through the profile’s long winded description.

“Yes, quite,” he says, clearly not paying any attention to what she’s saying. Tim grins at her.

‘Told ya so!’ He mouths and Sasha gives him the finger under her desk.

“Well, whaddya say, Boss?” Tim asks after another few minutes, which Jon spends entirely on Martin’s profile. “Shall I get you all logged in on your phone so you can start chatting him up? Or am I gonna lose my phone entirely to you and this ‘Martin’?” Jon looks up at Tim, surprised, then back down at the phone.

“Oh, right, yes, this is–“ He fumbles to return the phone to Tim, as if looking through it hadn’t been the entire point of the account, and pulls out his own phone. “I’ll just take over from you now, shall I? It is, ah, apparently my account, after all.”

He says the last bit with no small amount of pointed wryness but Sasha ignores their squabbling, leaning back in her chair triumphantly. Another successful mission in order to expand Jon’s little world, this one possibly the most satisfying. She glows a little with the feeling of a job well done.

After all, what could possibly go wrong?

ANON YOURE BACK, THANK YOU FOR WRITING MORE I absolutely love it 😭

[Here is the previous part] --- [next part]

UPDATE: You can read the whole story by JJanuaryRain on AO3! Go give them lots of love -> "all's fair in love & tinder"

#anon's tma!da au fic #tma!da au #asks #jonmartin #jmart #tma fic #AAAAAAA #im so happy im crying #this is so cute

[docpiplup]

Period dramas- El Mestre Que Va Prometre El Mar (The teacher who promised the sea) (2023)

7,7/10 ⭐ on IMDB

The film focuses on the life of Antoni Benaiges , a teacher from Mont-roig del Camp, in the Baix Camp, in Tarragona, Catalunya, who in 1935 was sent to the public school in Bañuelos de Bureba, a small town in the province of Burgos, Castilla la Vieja (Castilla y León). Little by little, and thanks to a pioneering and revolutionary teaching methodology for the time, he will begin to transform the lives of his students, but also that of the town, which is not always to everyone's taste.

It's based on the book of the same name by Francesc Escribano and has been adapted for the big screen by Albert Val, and its director is Patrícia Font.

To tell the story of Antoni Benaiges (Enric Auquer), the film interweaves past and present and the master's story will be known through the eyes of Ariadna (Laia Costa), a woman looking for her great-grandfather who disappeared during the Civil War.

The producers of the film wanted to emphasize the essence of this exciting story: " 'El mestre que va prometre el mar'  is a great story that has been unfairly forgotten for many years. With this film we are repairing an oblivion and at the same time valuing the work of the republican teachers and recognizing the struggle of so many people who still continue to search for their relatives buried anonymously in mass graves. An exciting and fully valid story.

Part of the technical team is made up of David Valldepérez, director of photography; Josep Rosell, art director; Dani Arregui, editor, and Natasha Arizu, composer, among other professionals.  

The film is shot for six weeks in various locations in the demarcation of Barcelona, in Mura, and in Briviesca (Burgos). It is a production of Minoria Absoluta, Lastor Media, Filmax and Mestres Films AIE. 

RTVE and TV3 participate and it has the support of the ICAA and the ICEC . Filmax is in charge of distribution to cinemas.

Length: 1 h 45 min

Premiere: November 10th 2023

Cast

Enric Auquer: Antoni Benaiges

Laia Costa: Ariadna

Luisa Gavasa: Charo

Ramón Agirre: Adult Ramón

Gael Aparicio: Carlos

Alba Hermoso: Josefina

Nicolás Calvo: Emilio

Antonio Mora: Mayor

Milo Taboada: Priest Primitivo

Jorge Da Rocha: Camilo

Eduardo Ferrés: Rodríguez

Alba Guilera: Laura

Laura Conejero: Rosa

Xavi Francés: Education inspector

David Climent: Falangist Chief

Felipe García Vélez: Adult Carlos

Elisa Crehuet: Adult Josefina

Padi Padilla: Encarna

Alicia Reyero: Ángeles

Gema Sala: Jacinta

Alía Torres: Ariadna's daughter

Carlos Troya: Bernardo Ramírez

Arnau Casanovas: Portraitist

Laura Gaja: Elvira

María Escoda: Juana

Chus Gutiérrez: Archivist

Joan Scufesis: Sergio

Cristina Murillo: Residency nurse

Sara Madrid: Hiker

Pep Linares: Falangist waiter

Albert Malla: Radio announcer

Izan Barragán: Leandro (School boy)

Didac Cano: Casimiro (School boy)

Hernán Gracia: Eulogio (School boy)

Noa Guillén: Asunción (School girl)

Ona Macía: Saturnina (School girl)

Elena Moreno: Dionisia (School girl)

Gal-La Petit: Hilaria (School girl)

Genís Lama: Falangist

#el mestre que va prometre el mar #the teacher who promised the sea #films #period dramas #Youtube #enric auquer #laia costa #luisa gavasa #ramón agirre #gael aparicio #alba hermoso #nicolás calvo #antonio mora #milo taboada #jorge da rocha #eduardo ferrés #alba guilera #laura conejero #xavi francés #david climent #felipe garcía vélez #antoni benaiges #elisa crehuet #padi padilla #alicia reyero #gema sala #alía torres #carlos troya #arnau casanovas #laura gaja

[withering-ashfall]

(day 17) OC TIME!!!! This is Frigid Sacrosanct (they/it - with feminine terms) AKA Wraith!

(VERY LONG READ AHEAD SORRY- IM VERY USED TO WRITING EXTREMELY LONG LORE)

They're an iterator who'se structure was built halfway into a mountain. Their structure also takes place near the biggest communications tower. Frigid's purpose was, rather than looking for a solution to the big problem, to archive and sort information. They also would do this for iterator's communications and logs and such as well, which is why they also go by Wraith.

Their real identity as Frigid Sacrosanct is largely undocumented as they pose as a completely ordinary, run of the mill iterator. Their existence as Wraith however is largely hated, since they were forced to act as a representation of the ancients, and sort and document in a way the ancients would've liked instead of Frigid themself.

Because of this Frigid feels that beyond its duty as an archivist and overseer, they have no real identity. After they realised all of the ancients were gone- and it took a while longer than most other iterators since there was no city on their own can- they felt a huge sense of freedom wash over them. They immediately abandoned their Wraith identity, and as such Wraith was thought to have either died or crossed itself off somehow.

Frigid has found that they're, in fact, a massive nerd. They would think all day of their archive, their life's work and masterpiece. They still continued to sort and archive after the ancients disappearance, but they also started to research topics themselves as their new purpose and documented new wildlife, how the climate continued to change, geography, etc.

While the ancients and most iterators were busy pondering endlessly about a way to leave the world, Frigid wanted to know everything they could before they even thought of ascension.

Now come when their structure could no longer withstand the passage of time. By this point, a quarter of their structure was collapsed on the mountain, the rest remaining inside and still exuding warmth as they remained mostly functional. Their can had always been plagued by snowstorms, even as the ancients built their can. They were a long ways above the line where it'd actually snowstorm, but the air was still cold to the point where no ancient would dare live there as they did on other iterators. It was a harsh climate that almost no other creature could withstand for long.

As with the rule that the void sea always eats away at the ground as new dust builds up, over time, they were subjected to being under the cycle of blizzards. This is ultimately what did their can in, big avalanches descending on top of them and tearing at their exposed leg below. Though since they were still mostly functioning, they still gave off enough warmth to withstand the extreme blizzards, and many creatures would move near them- especially a big colony of slugcats, who were the only ones that could traverse inside their can freely.

This colony was very big, and usually the slugcats would be nice to Frigid, other than when they tried to eat their neurons- to which they responded to by trying to seal off parts of their structure. For better or worse.

There also would be regular fights with scavengers and other such species, which would never end without blood. Frigid didn't like when this happened of course, so sometimes they would try to gain back control of the parts of their can that were seized over by slugcats. But then would always ultimately decide not to, knowing that they could try hurting Frigid more instead. They had seen some of their sense of vengeance first-hand by their own overseers... That little red one with the scar on it's eye, if they recall correctly.

So now Frigid Sacrosanct, once being a sort of librarian spy, now reduced to being the mother of a slugcat colony. Yeah that's all the lore i have for now. Don't know how to end this, it's actually about 4 in the morning and i feel really sleepy so... hope you enjoyed my word vomit. i bid you a nice day/night :^)

Also forgot to mention but they have seperate structures build just for extra memory and processing power and such. and the spikes on their head are extra antennae and allow them to multitask much more than other iterators. they literally function as if they were to be multiple people with 8 arms each.

#rain world #rain world art #dailyrw #rain world iterator #rain world oc #iterator oc #frigid sacrosanct #rain world downpour #oc

[tired-fandom-ndn]

The wave of attacks on digital collections is something we should be very scared of.

Game companies cracking down on people sharing digital copies of games that haven't been produced in decades, publishing companies trying to sue the Internet Archive for sharing pdfs of purchased and scanned books, and now shows almost completely disappearing from the internet and only being available on torrenting sites on the whims of streaming services.

This issue isn't going to get better. Media is just going to continue disappearing, fading into obscurity or locked up in vaults or pushed behind subscription paywalls. The only way to stop it is to start making physical copies again, bring back more reliable torrenting sites, support the efforts of archivists and creators who are fighting to keep access to media available, and fight against laws giving more power to corporations to pull this shit (including opposing copyright and intellectual property laws that allow this shit to happen).

[fernacular]

So you know how it’s canon that warden Amell has four siblings who are also mages? But they’re never really brought up? I decided to flesh them out for Rizo! Meet his older siblings Faust, Leona, Margie, and Marza. Little bios for each of them under the cut if you’re interested :y

Faustus (Faust) Amell II -  The oldest of Revka Amell’s children, born 9:04 Dragon, Faust was at first raised with the expectation of inheriting his father and grandfather’s lands, titles, and legacies. An intelligent and good natured child, he was adored by his parents, in particular his mother. It broke her heart when a six year old Faust sent objects flying across the room while having a tantrum. 

Faust spent the rest of his adolescence and early adulthood in the circle tower of Markham, studying creation magic and joining the Aequitarian fraternity upon reaching the rank of enchanter. A natural leader, it was all but certain within the circle that he would one day become the First enchanter. 

When the Mage Templar war broke out and the Markham circle fell to conflict, Faust joined a coalition of Free Marches enchanters working on finding safe refuge for non-combatant mage refugees; in particular apprentices, the elderly, and the newly harrowed. He helped insulate hundreds of vulnerable mages from combat, and upon the inquisition’s resolution of the war, was given the rank of senior enchanter at the newly formed College of enchanters. He remains a voice of reason within the college, and always endeavors to remind his fellow enchanters of the most vulnerable members of their community when they speak of more radical action without consideration for their protection.  

Leona Amell -  Second eldest, Leona was born during a thunderstorm in 9:05 Dragon. It was said that the spirit of the storm itself possessed her that night, as she grew to show a fierce willfulness and even fiercer temper. Her magic manifested at nine years old, four years after her elder brother, when she badly burned a stable boy who she believed was beating her pony Adelaide. She and Adelaide made it almost twenty miles before the templars caught up.  Initially taken to the Ansburg circle in the free marches, in just three years she was deemed too volatile to ever be allowed to undergo the harrowing, and was made Tranquil right before her thirteenth birthday. She was then transferred to the Cumberland circle of Nevarra to work as an archivist’s assistant. Cumberland was somewhat insulated from the fighting when the Mage Templar war was declared, and the tranquil were allowed to continue their research and upkeep more or less undesterbed. Upon the resolution of the war, Leona was sought out by her younger sister Margareta to undertake the cure for tranquility recently discovered by Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.  Leona is now slowly recovering from her almost two decades of tranquility with her sister in the reclaimed Ostwick circle. After the first time she yelled at Margie in anger for knocking over her inkwell, they held each other through tears of relief. 

Margareta Amell -  Margie was born on a quiet night in 9:08 Dragon, a full hour before her twin sister Marza. The twins were two when their older brother Faust was taken away, four when their mother disappeared, five when their father moved the remaining family to a secluded estate outside Wildervale, six when stubborn Leona was captured, and finally seven when they were caught in the garden playing with the small glowing green lights they conjured into the air. The twins would never see each other again after that day. 

A meek and intelligent child, Margie did well at her new home in the Ostwick circle. Naturally inclined to introversion, she mostly avoided the Templar's watchful gaze and excelled at her studies in the arcane arts, in particular the schools of Spirit and Creation. She quietly passed her harrowing, quietly worked her way to the rank of enchanter, and once the Mage Templar conflict began, she quietly voted for their circle to remain neutral and hoped the trouble would quickly pass them by. 

It was to a deafening howling wind that Margie awoke the night she felt her sister die, the aching pain in her chest suffusing down her limbs and a cold certainty settling in her mind. 

She left the next day, it could hardly be called an escape as the circle was already coming apart at the seams. She became an invaluable healer in the Mage rebellion of the Free Marches, and eventually became an agent of the Inquisition itself, working tirelessly to help save all of Thedas from Corypheus’ threat. After the Inquisition’s victory she began her quest to reunite all of her lost siblings once again.

Marza Amell - Marza was born on a quiet night in 9:08 Dragon, an hour after her twin sister Margie. Despite the fragile and despairing home to which she was born, Marza was a cheerful and friendly girl, often leading her shy twin into new adventures and singing and dancing to raise her sad father’s spirits. She idolized her willful sister Leona and adored her little baby brother Rizo. Her heart overflowed with love.

As she grew though, a seed of anger grew too, watered with every new heartbreak. First, her mother’s abandonment. Next, When Leona disappeared and no one would tell her where or why. Taking Margie away from her and dragging her to the cold and echoing White Spire of Orlais was a significant blow. The Templars who were always watching her, crowding her into corners and leering. The mages and enchanters who scolded her whenever she spoke her mind, and whispered among themselves when she developed a talent for entropy magic. Every Maker damned fool in a mask who toured the tower and tittered and gawked at them like they were animals in a zoo. The anger grew and grew, violent red leaves streaked with decay. 

She was practically part of the rebellion already, before the first stone of the Kirkwall chantry even hit the ground.

She was a scourge on the battlefield, weakening and draining anyone who stood in her way, filling their enemies minds with nightmares, forcing them to feel the same anger and fear and pain she held in her own heart. A pain that lasted until a Templar’s sword finally ran it through. 

Her last thoughts were of Margie, sleeping peacefully in the eye of a storm.

Rizo Amell - The youngest child, born 9:11 Dragon just a few months after his older brother Faust was taken to the circle. Rizo’s arcane ability was discovered when he was seven years old, after freezing a glass of water that wasn’t cold enough on a hot day. It was hardly a surprise to his father at that point. He was the last of his siblings to manifest, almost an inevitability. It was the first and last time Rizo saw his father cry. It was also the last time Rizo saw his father at all. He barely remembered his mother. 

Rizo was sent to the Ferelden circle on Lake Calenhad, where he excelled at primal magic and was a favorite pupil of the Grand Enchanter. He was known as a capable, friendly, and accommodating young mage, bookish and maybe even a bit of a pushover, but well liked among his peers. Until, that is, his assistance in his friend Jowan’s failed escape and subsequent conscription to the Grey Wardens. He rose to prominence during the fifth blight, defeating the Archdemon by his own hand and becoming the Hero of Fereldan, as well as Arl of Amaranthine, a close friend and advisor to Queen Anora, and Warden Commander of the Ferelden grey wardens. 

What followed was a few years of peace, rebuilding and recruiting, and relaxing with his comrade and lover Alistair whenever they could both grab a spare moment. Rizo had even started idly researching the ancient grey warden griffins, on the off-chance there was a clue to if any had survived, though he was always too busy to consider it a priority. He found little hope for baby griffons, but he did find strange allusions to an escape from the taint... That peace ended abruptly and violently with the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry. The mage templar war was a violent few years for everyone, but especially for Rizo, juggling as he was not only his status as warden commander but also senior enchanter of the Fereldan circle and advisor to the queen. It took peace being brokered by an upstart organization calling itself the inquisition for him to finally slow down and take a moment to breathe... at which time he finally noticed the whispers starting in the back of his mind. He may have survived slaying the arch demon but he hadn’t escaped all consequences, his calling was coming, sooner than it had any right to. He left that very night to seek out a cure, Rizo was not ready to lay down and die.

#Dragon age #Dragon age origins #hero of fereldan #warden amell #Rizo amell #my art #blood cw

[pisupsala]

One for The History Books [Chapter 10] [Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw]

[Summary] You are an archivist at the Pentagon, sent on assignment to TOPGUN to catalog and report on a top secret mission. In the days under the Californian sun, a certain naval aviator puts your once orderly life in a tailspin that you might never recover from.

[Pairing] Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc

[Warnings] Mature content: swearing, (explicit) smut. 18+ only.

[Words]4.6k

[Index] All Chapters | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Epilogue

[Library]

One for The History Books - Chapter 10: Cresting

You can hear the surprised whispers around you. You can practically see heads turning. But then again, you are being led through the halls of the Pentagon by a tall and handsome officer, who is refusing to let go of your hand. His manner is confident, but you can barely keep up with his long strides. The furious blush on your face from your boss' comments has not died down, and it won't, as you don't do well with people staring at you. And there's a lot of people at the Pentagon. As you are coming up to the exit, you catch up to Bradley to walk next to him. For about every step he takes, you have to take two. You quickly unclip the visitor's badge from his shirt, and hand it to the surprised looking guard. “Miss Williams, wh-?” He starts with a smile, but you just wave and bid him a nice evening, really not wanting to stop now. Oh Christ, the gossip mill is going to have a field day about this. Finally, you're out the door. “Where did you park?” You ask, a little out of breath. “The visitors' lot?” Bradley finally slows down. “Yeah, where's your car?” “Uhm - it's busted. I took the bus this morning.” You reply, a little embarrassed. Bradley raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I'll give you a ride.” He says matter-of-factly. “Thanks.” You smile up at him. After a beat, you carefully add: “Where are you headed?” Your voice careful. Now it's Bradley's turn to be embarrassed. His rubs his neck awkwardly with his free hand. “I... actually didn't think this far ahead.” He says sheepishly. You giggle. That's...actually kind of cute. “I'll drop you off, and then I'll probably head back to Virginia Beach.” He continues, somewhat pensive. “Or you could stay over at mine.” The words are out of your mouth before your brain can catch up. You don't want him to leave. Bradley's head whips around to look at you as he comes to an abrupt stop. A light blush is dusted on his cheeks. Oh Jesus, oh fuck. You just invited him over for sex, didn't you? This is the second time in about 10 minutes you wish you could just disappear off the earth in embarrassment. Your face is about to explode. “I - I mean - we -” You stumble through the beginning of a sentence. Taking a deep breath, you stop yourself. You know what? You're just going to own this one. He's the one who showed up at your office after three months and then some. Both of you should be really past any pretenses at this point. “If you want.” You smile. Bradley is just gaping at you. “I - uh - yeah-” He's flustered, looking for words. It's adorable, and you're secretly a little bit happy you're not always the one bumbling. You smile widely at Bradley, and pull his hand as you start walking again. “Cool! Then that's settled.” You say with an ease and confidence you really wish you felt. Bradly just laughs and pulls you to him, letting go of your hand and wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You lean into him. It's all so easy with Bradley. And somewhere, that's actually kind of scary.

“You are something else, darlin'.” He says, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head. “Another Ford Bronco, really?” You tease, as you arrive to his car. “Don't change a winning team.” Bradly shrugs. “Also, the other one was a rental, this one is actually mine.” He adds proudly. Guys and cars... “I'll drive.” You hold out your hand for the keys. Bradley's hand clutches around his keys, eyebrows raised. He's going to say no. “It'll be faster, trust me, traffic around here is a nightmare.” You push, hand still outstretched. “Don't you trust me?” You add, teasing. Bradley barks out a laugh. “I don't even know why your car is busted, sweetheart.” The car keys are still firmly in his fist. “Battery died.” You counter easily, wiggling your fingers. “And you know how to drive clutch?” He teases back, leaning against the driver door. His confident smile tells you he thinks he's got you now. “Yep.” He's still not budging. “Fine. Let me drive out of the lot, and if you judge me not being up to par, Lieutenant, we'll switch.” You step closer to Bradley. He's looking you down with a half-smile. “You're not going to let this go, are you?” “It's just more practical.” You counter. “Fine.” He tosses you the keys, which you thankfully catch. “But I'm going to be watching closely, I don't usually let other's drive my car.” “First time for everything, no?” Bradley just shakes his head as he makes his way to the passenger's side. You dig your sunglasses out of your bag, put them on, and climb into the driver's seat. Dropping your bag into the backseat, you start adjusting your seat and the mirrors. Bradley gets in next to you, sunglasses on. You can feel his eyes on you. “If you're driving, I'm in charge of the music.” He's resolute. You just smile. It's been a while since you've felt... like yourself. You spend so much time biting your tongue and being polite at work, and you've shut yourself off from so many things lately, you almost forgot what it's like to have fun. Tease. Flirt. Take a risk. Confidently, you start the car and smoothly steer it out of the parking space. The Bronco is a fair bit bigger than your car, so you need to stay sharp, but god you've missed driving a four-wheel drive. As a classic rock station starts playing from the radio, Bradley is looking at you over the top of his sunglasses, judging your every move. You flash him a big smile and start driving towards the exit gate. You wave at the guards as you drive past, who seem to do an almost double take when they see you. Well, this is a far cry from your usual compact car. Also, usually you don't have an officer in the passenger's seat. Smile and wave. As you accelerate onto the main street, Bradley's hand wraps around yours as you change gears. “That better be a romantic gesture and not a criticism of my car-handeling skills.” You joke. He flashes you a half smile.

“I've done a lot off-road driving, doing field research of historical battlefields and stuff.” You offer up to put Bradley more at ease, slightly nostalgic. “It's probably my favorite part of research.”

“You could have led with that.” He chuckles, but you can see him relax from the corner of your eye. It's almost rush hour. The drive to your apartment in Arlington is usually short, no more than 10 minutes, but you've been in traffic jams of up to an hour.

And, let's face it, you don't think you'd be able to stand it. Bradley is sitting next to you, in his service khaki's, his large hand covering yours. Until about an hour ago, you thought you'd probably never see him again. You maneuver through the thickening traffic, taking an early turn off the freeway onto a shortcut through town.

It's just minutes later, when you climb out of the Bronco in front of your apartment building, you are not actually sure this is actually really happening. Can you pinch yourself? Bradley's hand is resting on your hip as you unlock the door. Fuck. If this is a dream, you're going to make most of it. You push the door into the building open, and pull Bradley inside with you in one fluid move.

You crash into each other in the at the bottom of the stairs. His hands are cupping your face, lips pressing against yours. House keys jingling in your hand, you cannot help but wrap your arms around him. Clumsily, you walk backwards, leading him up the stairs without breaking the kiss.

Between kisses and touches, you make it up the stairs to your front door. And as the door opens, you stumble in together, keys falling to the ground. Bradley kicks the front door closed, as you pull him through the small hall of your apartment. His fingers are making short work of the buttons of your blouse, revealing the camisole underneath.

He breaks the kiss as he pushes the blouse down your arms, fingers running down your arms as he does. He looks at you intently with dark eyes. It sends shivers down your spine. Your blouse lands on the floor softly.

You bring your hands up to his shirt and try to return the favor by undoing the buttons. It's only now you become truly conscious how hard your hands are shaking. You can barely get a grip with your trembling fingers—all confidence of just a few minutes earlier melted like snow in the sun. You let out a shaky breath, determined not to give up.

Not now.

You can't fall apart now.

Why now?

Large, warm hands wrap over yours, stilling them. Bradley presses a gentle kiss against your wrist. His voice is soft and warm.

“You don't have to-...” He starts. Hanging your head, you could cry from embarrassment. You started this whole thing by inviting him in the first place.

“No, it's - I -” You can barely get the words out. Sighing, your shoulders sag, tears stinging in your eyes. Bradley is still holding your hands. God, how can he be so sympathetic when you are essentially ruining the entire mood?

“I thought you rejected me.” You admit softly. “And every memory of you hurt so much, and I felt so powerless...”

You pause for a moment, still not daring to look at him. And then it's like the dam inside you breaks and everything just comes tumbling out.

“And I hated how much you got to me, so easily, how I could not forget about you. It was so unfair. And then you were gone. And the only reason I knew you weren't actually dead is because I read your reports, which actually hurt even worse because I couldn't escape you anywhere—at work, in my head, my dreams-” You take a deep breath. Bradley is quiet, waiting for you to continue.

“What I'm trying to say...” The tears that had been stinging in your eyes are rolling down your cheeks now. God, why can't you just get over yourself? He's here. He came for you. Why is it still hurting? Why are you crying now? You force yourself to look up at him. Bradley has a pained expression on his face.

“I'm so happy you're here, but I'm... so overwhelmed.” You swallow. Bradley's expression softens. “I've dreamed about you coming back, but I guess I'm just not as brave as I hoped, and now I don't know what to do.”

There. It was like an emotional bloodletting. You've ruined everything now, but at least you got to vocalize everything that was still heavy on your heart. That's at least worth something. You both stay silent for a bit.

“I - ehm - I'm sorry, I kind of ruined it, didn't I?”

You try to pull your hands from Bradley's, but instead he pulls you into him, wrapping you into a hug. He buries one hand in your hair, as he rests his forehead on your shoulder.

“God, sweetheart, I'm so sorry.” You can feel his breath against you.

“Being stuck on that ship not knowing if you were mad, didn't care or just forgot kept me awake at night. I couldn't get you out of my fucking mind—and I didn't understand how that happened so quickly.” He sounds vulnerable. You put your arms around him tightly. “I never meant for you to hurt like this. I thought the hurt was my own and I deserved it. But not you. Never you.”

He sighs deeply and continues: “It was torture counting down the days till landfall, so I could just free myself from this uncertainty. No matter if you rejected me or gave me another chance—I needed you to know I didn't forget.”

“So you couldn't ruin anything,” He brushes his lips against your bare shoulder. “Because this already went better than I dared to hope.” 

You chuckle, despite yourself. It comes out as a half sob. In a strange way, it feels validating to hear that Bradley was affected by this whole situation too. Like you weren't alone in your complicated and confusing feelings. Now at least you could start navigating it with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you said you needed a shower before anything else, you didn't expect Bradley to casually invite himself along. His reasoning being that he just spent three months at sea, and Navy showers are a pain after a while. It's hard to argue with that, but it's even harder to argue with Bradley as he's stripping out of his service khaki's. You can scarcely take your eyes off him as he hangs his uniform shirt over the back of a chair, and slips off the white skivvy shirt.

Fuuuuuuuck.

Brain, engage.

Kicking off your shoes and socks, and walk into your small bathroom to bring the shower up to temperature. Your cheeks feel hot. “Hop in when you're ready, I'm just going to grab some towels.” You say over your shoulder as you disappear into your bedroom. You slip out of your slacks, leaving you in your underwear and camisole. Grabbing two clean towels, you try to ignore how messy your apartment actually is. Half-read books, loose sheets of notes and clean laundry are strewn around your bedroom—your laptop precariously balancing on the bedside table. Worries for another day. Walking back into the bathroom, you see the outline of Bradley's body through the fogged up glass door of the shower. You feel your heart rate quicken. Stripping out the rest of your clothes, you push through your awkwardness and step into the shower. Goddamn, he has no right to look that good. Through the steam from the hot shower, you can see the rivulets of water running down his tan and muscular back. There is no embarrassment in his movements as he turns to you—you envy how completely at ease he is with himself. He's incredibly close to you—your nose is almost brushing against his chest. Was your shower always this cramped? You put out your hands, resting them against his upper arms, to steady yourself. Bradley's muscles ripple and move under your touch. His fingertips are skimming up your sides, sending shivers down your spine. You flinch as Bradley's fingers pass a particularly ticklish spot. The cocky smile on his face tells you he's happy about his discovery. You frown at him playfully, while reaching behind him for your bottle of body wash. Bradley plucks the bottle from your hand before you can do anything else, however. “Let me.” His voice is soft. You nod mutely. He pops the bottle and gently starts spreading the gel over your shoulders, creating suds. Squeezing some body wash in your palm, you return the favor, lathering it over his chest. “I hope you don't mind smelling like orange blossom.” You joke lightly as you run your hands over Bradley's chest. Lord above, he is in such impeccable shape, not a single memory did justice to having him this close to you feeling the heat from his skin, his heartbeat under your fingers and every ripple of his muscles. It feels incredibly intimate to stand together under the rushing water. You are both baring it all today: your pain, your hopes, and your bodies. Bradley pulls you closer to him, closing the final few inches that we between you. You are flush against him now, skin on skin. His breath is tickling the shell of your ear.

“I don't mind smelling like you.” Fuck, he will be the end of you. Grabbing Bradley's face, you crash your lips against his. You've missed him, and you want him so badly. He easily flips your position, pushing you up against the tile wall, not breaking the kiss. You press your body against his, wanting to feel him with every fiber of your being. “I think I'm ready to get out of the shower.” You mumble against his lips. Bradley squeezes your hip in reply. Turning off the water, you step out of the cabin into the steam filled bathroom. You hand Bradley a towel, but instead he uses it to dry you off and wrap you up. The simple, gallant gesture gives you butterflies—it hits you with a severity you haven't felt since you were a teenager. Meanwhile, he wraps the second towel around his waist, and despite you were just naked in the shower together, the sight of him in just that towel is enough to knock the breath out of you. Before your brain can form another thought, Bradley scoops you up in his arms and carries you out the bathroom. You wrap your legs around his waist and clutch your arms around his neck for stability. His mouth is latched to the column of your neck, his mustache brushing over your sensitive skin. Your apartment is small, with the bedroom just a few steps away from the bathroom. Bradley gently lays you on your unmade bed, gazing down at you with his dark eyes. You lick your lips in anticipation. His eyes flash down to your mouth to follow the movement. He bends over you, hands on either side of your head, one knee resting next to your hip. His voice is so thick with need, it sounds almost hoarse. “When I said I would take my time with you—I meant it.” You can feel his breath against you, your hands claw up his shoulders and your back arches—you want to feel him against you, but he is unrelenting. “I need you to say it.” You look up at him, almost dazed. Bradley's pupils are blown with desire, but his face looks serious. Your brain can barely comprehend what he wants from you. “I need you to say you want this...” Bradley pauses for a moment. “That you want me.” He sounds vulnerable—unsure almost, and while his face betrays nothing, you can see his eyes are suddenly guarded. You nod mutely before your brain convert your desires into words. You half sit up, leaning on your elbow, closing the space between you. Gently, you touch Bradley's face, fingertips tracing over the thin scars on his cheek. “I want you.” The moment the words leave your mouth, Bradley's lips are on yours, pushing you back onto your back. He's nimbly undoing the towel that wrapped around you, fingers skimming over the exposed skin. You barely have a second to comprehend what is going on when he nips your now exposed nipple. You gasp at the sensation. Your reactions are now purely instinctual, brain wiped of every logical thought. Bradley's hand is on your hip, pressing it down into the mattress, as he's using it other hand and mouth to tease your nipples.

He works his way down your body in a trail of kisses and gentle nips, hooking your knee over his shoulder in one smooth motion. You gasp as he kisses the inside of your thigh. Your fingers tangle into his hair, fisting it tight. He lets out a grunt.

“Fuck, Bradley-” You swear in anticipation. You feel him chuckle more than you hear it. As he gently shushes you, you feel his breath brushing against your core. He's torturing you by taking his sweet ass time, building the anticipation. One hand is splayed on your stomach, holding you down, while his other hand is holding your thigh firmly over his shoulder, squeezing it.

Just as you scrap together enough mental capacity to tell Bradley to hurry the fuck up already out of pure frustration—you've waited for months, and now he has the audacity to -

You gasp in surprise and elation as Bradley's tongue runs up your already soaking pussy. This how you learn that he might take his time, but once he starts something, Bradley damn sure finishes it.

He is relentless. His tongue finds your clit and teases—your hips buck at the sensation—you want more, you need more—but Bradley is keeping you firmly in place. Which is turning you on even more.

You arch your back, tightening the muscles of your core, intensifying the sensation from Bradley's tongue. A string of half formed swear words tumble out of your mouth. You can already feel the coil in your stomach tightening. Fuck, how does Bradley get you there so fast?

You grab the hand that he has on your thigh, his fingers digging into your flesh almost painfully. Trying to pry his fingers loose, he swats your hand away, making an admonishing sound.

“No - I need - please-” You plead, panting. You are incoherent under his ministrations, trying to guide his hand where you need him. Bradley catches your drift quickly. He plunges two fingers into your pussy, hooking up at the end, moving in tandem with his mouth.

You need to remind yourself to breathe, completely overtaken by your building orgasm.

“Bradley- please, please - don't stop.” He's hitting all your buttons right now. You feel you are getting close, the orgasm building in you with every move he makes in his relentless assault on you. Your moans seem to spur him on further, doubling his efforts. Fuck, you are almost there...

The moment he takes you over the edge takes you completely by surprise—it's sudden, it's intense, and it feels like you cannot catch your breath.

You scream out Bradley's name as you cum, your body convulsing under his vice-like grip on your hips. His mouth stays firmly on your pussy as you ride your high, fingers hooked against the most sensitive spot in you. You are trying to catch your breath so hard, it's making you lightheaded.

It seems like time is standing still until Bradley slowly gets up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grin on his face. You don't care how much it's stroking his ego to see you undone like that, but you desperately crave his closeness and his warmth. Pushing yourself up, still dazed, reaching out to Bradley and pulling him onto you.

You shamelessly kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips, while wrapping your legs around his waist Your hands travel down his chiseled chest to undo the towel around his waist. Bradley likes to tease, you are much more to the point—but you both like to be in control.

You try to flip him over, but Bradley won't budge.

“Let me take care of you, darlin'.” He whispers in your ear, nibbling on your earlobe. You open your mouth to protest, but Bradley simply slips his thumb in your mouth while holding your chin.

Holy fucking shit, that's hot.

You relent, leaving Bradley in control. You mouth closes around his finger, gently sucking it. Him telling you he wants to take care of you stirs your emotions—you can feel the butterflies returning again. He turns your head to face him.

“There's a good girl.”

Bradley easily maneuvers your legs around his waist—your arms automatically move around him. He turns your heads to face him, directing you to look at him as his cock enters you, slowly. It feels deeply intimate—the way Bradley looks you in the eye like you are at the center of the universe. Like you are his singular focus right now. You moan as your pussy stretches around him. Your hips buck, but Bradley keeps steady.

You arch into him, pressing your chest against his. He plops his fingers out of your mouth, grabbing a fistful of your hair instead and pressing you into him. You moan, pressing kisses against the column of his neck, lightly biting down right under his ear. Bradley swears and tightens his grip on you.

You feel like you are in sensory overload—his touch, his presence—it's like nothing is enough right now. He moves at a torturous pace, driving deeply into you, savoring every moment of it.

In this moment, you are not above begging, but no words make it out of your mouth. Your hands roam of his body, like you are tying to assure yourself he's actually here, feeling every contour, every ridge and plane.

Gently, Bradley lays you back, untangling his fingers from your hair. He kisses you on the mouth, hard. Before you can react, he sits back kneeling, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your lower body up. He set a relentless pace, driving into you at a new, delicious angle. You meet every motion with your own out of instinct, your nails digging into Bradley's legs.

“Talk to me, darlin'” He commands you.

“Bradley - fuck- I -” There are so many emotions swirling through you, you can't pinpoint one to vocalize. “I can't think, babe” You moan out, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good.” His tone is still firm, but he has a smirk on his face.

“I've missed you so much.” It comes out barely above a whisper, and you're not even sure what compelled you to say that. You're not even sure Bradley heard you, until he pulls you up by your arms, into his lap. The change in position has you seeing stars for a moment—his cock is filling you to the brim, and every little shift from your hips is leaving him groaning in pleasure.

“Show me how much you missed me, sweetheart.” He grinds out. You really don't need to be told twice. Moving your hips, your clit is brushing against him with every motion. You wrap an arm around his head, your breasts pushing into his face. The sting of his love bites on your chest is spurring you on, quickening your movements.

“Fuck - fuck you feel so good -” You pant out, rolling your hips. Bradley swears loudly.

“Do that again, darlin',” Bradley's fingers are digging into the flesh of your ass, guiding your movements—he sounds out of breath, a faint sheen of sweat gathering on his brow. “Don't stop, fuck- please don't stop.”

Eager to please, you keep rolling your hips, kissing Bradley hard. Every movement builds the pressure in you further, tightening the muscles of your core. Just a little bit more...

Bradley suddenly bucks up, tearing a moan from you.

“I can't- I'm so close, darlin', I need to - fucking hell - I need to-” Bradley eyes are screwed shut, and you cut him off with a kiss. Driving your hips lower, making your movements more powerful, your goal is singular.

“Cum for me, lieutenant.” Your voice is surprisingly level.

“Not without you.” With that, his fingers a suddenly on your clit, adding just the pressure you need. Your movements are frantic now, rhythm speeding up to match the urgency you both feel. The wave is building up in you, almost painfully—you push your legs out further to the side to get better leverage.

You cup Bradley's face, holding him close to you, looking him in the eye.

“You're going to be the end of me.”

The wave in you crests, and you scream in ecstasy. Your muscles in a vice-like grip around his cock, pulling him with you in your release. For a moment the world stops around you, and your mind with wiped from every worry and thought as you just feel.

And goddamn, does it feel good with Bradley.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[note] Hope this chapter was worth the wait! I finally bought the movie, so I can stream it, because I only saw it once as before I started writing. Omg have I misremembered stuff, hahaha! I might rework that later, but now I'm really looking to finish this story first. This leg of the story is actually the closest to the original idea I had for this fic, so I'm actually looking forward to really fleshing that out.

[taglist] @ponyboys-sunsets | @thatchickwiththecamera | @littlewhiterose | @katieshook02 | @straightforwardly | @zazzysseoul | @rororo06 | @datingbtr | @notalxx | @fresh-new-yoik-watah | @gretagerwigsmuse  | @swthxrry | @joshkiskasbunion | @caelipartem | @blackbrownie | @yanak324 | @unluckymonaghan | @letusbewildflowers | @ticklish-leafy-plant | @alana4610 | @eg-dr3amer3 | @turningtoclown | @mell-bell | @mak-32

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick #rooster fanfic #rooster top gun #rooster x oc

[anysin]

Fic: He Rose Victorious

For @ninetimesthepain, a Jon/Michael with an interpretation of the "leaving notes around a house" theme. An AU where Michael kills Jon after Jon walks through his door in Another Twist, but it's not the end of Jon. Creepy, warning for violence.

He Rose Victorious

Michael slays the Archivist within itself, painting its own insides with his pretty red blood. It takes special pleasure in eating his eyes, and once there is nothing left of him, it makes the mistake of believing that's the end.

*

The recorders on their own are already a bad sign, implying the presence of something inside Michael that isn't itself. But when the cassettes themselves start to pop up, when they start to play, that's when Michael becomes livid with rage.

"You think you can survive within me?" it screams ín the corridors, tearing the tape out of one cassette after another. "You are in my place of power, inside me!" You will lose!"

"I'm not for you," the Archivist's voice responds, echoing around Michael. "I'm marked," the Archivist continues, and Michael could swear he sounds smug.

Michael races within itself, destroying every tape and recorder it finds. It has the nastiest, most enraging feeling that the tapes are just the beginning.

*

Tapes, the statements, are on the nose from the start; they are about Michael's essence in the beginning, then about Michael itself, then about Michael Shelley. Both recorders and cassettes sprout faster than Michael can destroy them, meaning there is usually a whole choir of the Archivist's voices speaking within Michael, sometimes precisely at the same time, sometimes at odds with each other, leading to a cacophony. Michael itself is supposed to be madness; it shouldn't be suffering from it.

"You can't hide forever," it snarls down at a recorder. "Your little game is surely very fun for you, but it will have a bitter end. I will see to that."

"He was born," the Archivist replies from the tape, throwing Michael's own words back at it. Somewhere, everywhere, dozens of other tapes play the same words, the Archivist's voice similarly satisfied on all of them. "He was pointless."

"You are pointless!" Fingers sharpening, Michael crushes the recorder in its hands.

But the tapes and recorders keep coming, merciless in their sheer quantities. Michael starts to slow down, without meaning to, and the game changes.

*

The first time Michael spots the Archivist in one of the mirrors inside itself, it loses control.

It rushes the mirror, smashes it to pieces and chasing the Archivist's image on every shard, shattering them into smaller and smaller pieces until it can't see his face anymore. After it's done, its form is bloody and torn, and it doesn't feel any better. It knows he will be back.

"I will find you," it calls out into itself, hating that its voice now lacks confidence.

The tapes keep appearing, gathering up now that Michael isn't trying to destroy them so hard anymore, even though it means it's filling itself up with the Archivist's voice, his words, his cruel pleasure. It destroys the next mirror that shows the Archivist's face, and the one after that, but with the fourth one, it stops to stand before it, staring into the Archivist's dark, empty eyes.

"What do you want?" Michael asks. It feels tired, for the first time in a while.

It's insulted when the Archivist turns his back on it in the mirror, disappearing.

*

The day it goes silent inside Michael is the day of fate.

It runs inside itself, searching every nook and corner and smashing every recorder on its path, until it finally finds Jonathan Sims in the heart of itself. The Archivist looks worn too, just as weak and pathetic as he has always looked, but his eyes are alive when they face each other.

"Michael," the Archivist says.

Michael screams and lunges.

The Archivist doesn't try to fight back when Michael wrestles him to the ground, when Michael turns its hands into blades and raises them high for a strike. He doesn't fight when Michael stabs him full of holes, only stares at him as his blood spurts out of his wounds, his eyes full of strange affection. He's smiling.

"Stop that!" Michael demands. "You're dead, do you hear me? You're dead!"

The Archivist smiles on, even as Michael drives its blades straight into his eyes.

*

Afterwards, Michael flees.

It steps outside the door and it has all intentions to hunt, gorge itself until it can't remember the Archivist's eyes anymore. But instead it ends up wandering around London, driven by agitation and dread, until it can't stand it anymore. It returns to the door and goes through it, to face what it knows will be there waiting.

The Archivist is indeed there, standing among his tapes and recorders, running his fingertips over them. He smiles at Michael as Michael enters, and now it's Michael's turn not to resist when the Archivist approaches it. Even as it longs to kill him again.

"What do you want?" it asks him once he's close enough, when he raises his arm around Michael's neck.

The Archivist utters a little laugh.

"I don't know. This is pretty new to me too, I've got to think about it. But now that I'm here-" He tightens his hold on Michael, pulling it downward so he can kiss its mouth. "I might as well try to know you."

#my fic #the magnus archives #jon x michael

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Martyrs and Kings - Chapter 3

Best Bad Decision Ever

Rating: T (rating varies by chapter; mature content will be tagged)

Pairing: Kix x archivist/historian OFC

Wordcount: 2.1k

Warnings: pure, unadulterated fluff; alcohol use; Maree makes a baffling choice

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“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Kix said.

This is possibly the worst idea I’ve had in years, Maree thought. She was under no delusions that the office gossip chain would be any kinder than Denau, though it would likely be couched in passive aggressive little barbs. She doubted anyone would have raised an eyebrow if Kix had only been a client, but his appearance at the gala would certainly fuel speculation that she was pursuing him out of mercenary considerations. 

It was unavoidable now. Kix’s confrontation with Denau had undoubtedly already ignited a maelstrom of swirling rumors. Disappearing with him for hours immediately afterward would only make the pair more conspicuous. The problem was, she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. She’d been drawn to him from the moment he walked into her office, and every shred of caution flew out of her head the instant he took the blow that was meant for her. It was not so much the fact that he had protected her specifically as the unwavering sense that he would have stepped in to protect anyone who was being targeted by someone bigger and stronger. It was wildly attractive.

Besides, she rationalized, he was only staying in the Hosnian system for a few days, which meant that there was no possibility that he’d be interested in anything long-term. It was perfect. Any scandalized whispers among the staff would die down once he was gone. And Maree would be free to continue her life without interruption, just the way she always did.

They wandered a circuitous path through the garden, passing the bottle back and forth and chatting amiably about nothing in particular. By the time they reached the large central fountain, the wine was gone, and they transitioned seamlessly to the bottle Kix had carried, which turned out to be Pamarthen Port in a Storm.

He took a long drink and then passed her the bottle. She took a generous sip and immediately sputtered.

“That is some high-octane hooch,” she coughed.

“You didn’t know what it was when you grabbed it?” he asked, amused.

“Nope, that’s half the fun,” she said. “One time I made it all the way back here and found out I’d snagged a bottle of Renan Irongut. You cannot imagine the hangover.”

She shuddered delicately, and Kix chuckled.

“My feet are killing me,” she said. “Let’s sit here for a while.”

“On the ground? Your dress is going to get dirty,” Kix objected.

“So’s your suit. We’ll match!” she said.

“We already match,” he pointed out.

She looked down at their complementary outfits and laughed. “So we do. But who wore it better?”

“You,” he said immediately.

“I beg to differ.” She plopped to the ground and let out a relieved sigh. “That’s better. Whoever made those shoes should be arrested for sentient rights violations. ‘Cruel and unusual’ doesn’t begin to describe them.”

Kix sat next to her, lowering himself to the ground with considerably more grace than she had.

“Shall I give you a foot massage?” he offered.

“Uh, probably better not,” she said. “I was walking in only my stockings through the entire library. Force alone knows what’s on those floors.”

“Whatever it was, I guarantee I’ve seen worse,” he said.

“Maybe some other time,” she said.

He leaned his back against the wall of the fountain as she took another sip and grimaced. The liquor burned going down, and she was starting to feel an agreeable numbness in her fingertips.

“You ever bring other people back here?” he asked.

“Apparently it’s frowned upon to hide and drink alone, so yes,” she said. “Usually Valsi. Also Tane, a couple of times. They hate these functions as much as I do.”

“Valsi? Is that Dr. Corruss?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said. 

“I thought you said academics were boring.”

Her head was beginning to spin. Apparently, Port in a Storm worked quickly.

“Valsi and I are the exceptions that prove the rule. We’ve been best friends since university, and she’s been right by my side, cheering me on through every bad decision I’ve ever made.”

“Is that what this is?” Kix asked, passing the bottle back to her. “A bad decision?”

“That remains to be seen,” she said with a crooked little smile, and took another drink.

“What about Tane?” he asked casually.

Maree shrugged. “I don’t know him that well. He only joined the Archive a year ago. I had no idea he had such a bloodthirsty streak. We usually just argue about something pointless, like whether the DC-15A carbine or the DC-17 was the superior blaster.” 

Kix smiled. “And which side do you take?”

“Whichever side Tane doesn’t. The point isn’t really to win the debate; it’s just to get him worked up until he starts ranting,” Maree said. She shifted to face him. “Is your shoulder as comfortable as it looks?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her abrupt change of subject. “I’ve never tested it. Why don’t you find out and let me know?”

She hummed happily and snuggled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and dragged his thumb in lazy circles on her hip, pulling the silky fabric of her gown between his fingers in a hypnotic motion.

“It’s an excellent shoulder pillow,” she said. “Ten out of ten, would cuddle again. I can write you a letter of recommendation, if you’d like, for your future prospective cuddle partners. I write excellent letters of recommendation. All the interns ask me for them. Half of my job is writing letters of recommendation.”

A lock of hair worked itself loose from her updo, and Kix brushed it softly away from her face.

“You’re fun when you drink,” he said.

“Are you saying I’m boring when I’m sober?” she demanded with mock offense.

“Not at all, but I have to admit I wasn’t expecting you to be a clandestine garden snuggler when I met you. You seemed so serious about your work.”

“That’s because I am serious about my work,” she said. “My work takes up all of my seriousness, so I don’t have any left over for the rest of my life. Besides, I don’t snuggle just anyone in my secret garden. Only the ones who throw themselves into danger to defend me.”

Kix snorted. “I was hardly in danger. That idiot couldn’t even land a punch.”

“Maybe not on you,” she said sincerely, “but I don’t know the first thing about fighting, and he could have seriously hurt me if you hadn’t stepped in. Thank you.”

He squeezed his arm tighter around her and leaned his cheek onto her hair.

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he said.

Maree’s heart fluttered. He said it with such confidence, as if it were the most natural and obvious thing in the galaxy. She didn’t doubt him for a moment. It was a heady feeling, and she stifled it before she could get carried away. She was definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol and the lingering pulse of adrenaline. 

“You should come back here in the daylight,” she said, steering the topic in a less fraught direction. “There are some really incredible plant specimens.”

“I’ve seen some wild plants in the Outer Rim,” he said. “Plants big enough to swallow a man whole, and they do it, too.”

“Is that where you’re from? The Outer Rim?”

“Sometimes,” he said vaguely. “I travel a lot for work.”

“What do you do for work?” she asked.

“Asset retrieval.”

“‘Asset retrieval’? As in, bounty hunting?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said. “At least, not yet.”

“I can introduce you to the head librarian if you’re interested in expanding into the overdue library book retrieval market,” she offered.

He laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind if I ever need a career change. So tell me about these plant specimens.”

“I don’t think they keep any man-eaters here. I could be wrong, but if they do, they’d be in a secure containment tank like the other deadly plants.”

“Amazing how something so beautiful can kill you so easily,” he observed.

“And in such creative ways,” she agreed. “There’s a rumor—I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I heard that a couple years ago, two of the botanists got exposed to a toxic pollen with some—uh—let’s say unique properties.”

He shifted to look down at her.

“What kind of properties?” he asked, intrigued.

She shot him an impish look from under her lashes, then stretched up to whisper in his ear.

“No way!” he exclaimed.

“I swear to the gods,” she laughed. “I mean, it might just be a rumor, but every time they ran into each other for months after that, they both looked like they wanted one of those man-eating plants to swallow them.”

“What happened to them?” he asked.

“That’s the best part,” she giggled. “They got married.”

Kix guffawed. “Do you think the pollen caused them to act on their existing feelings, or do you think they developed feelings for each other after the incident?”

Maree shrugged. “We’ll never know. Supposedly, the Archive director had the plants destroyed so there wouldn’t be any other incidents. If the story is actually true, that could have been a huge liability for the library.”

“All’s well that ends well, I suppose,” he said.

They talked and laughed and snuggled late into the night, and the level of liquid in the bottle dropped lower and lower until at last it was empty.

“I should get you home,” he sighed into her hair.

“Mmm, big day tomorrow,” she agreed. “It won’t be as fun as this.”

“Do you think the gala is still going strong?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m not risking it,” she said. “I’ll take you out the staff entrance. It’s closer than the main entrance, anyway. We can get a taxi from there.”

She put her shoes back on and Kix helped her to her feet.

“Ugh, I should have just left them on in the first place,” she said. “I think they hurt worse now than they did before.”

“Come here,” Kix said.

“Hmm?” she asked.

“Put your hands around my shoulders.”

“Mr. Kix, are you trying to seduce me?” she giggled as she obeyed.

“When I do, you won’t need to ask,” he said.

He picked her up by the waist and swung her up onto the wide stone ledge surrounding the fountain.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked.

He turned to stand in front of her so she was facing his back.

“Hop on,” he said. “I don’t know where I’m going, so you’ll have to navigate.”

“Or I could walk,” she pointed out.

“Could you, though? Really?”

“Yes,” she grumbled. “It just wouldn’t be very fun.”

“Well, I happen to think this is very fun, so climb on my back and tell me where to go from here.”

“Fine,” she said, hiking up her skirts so she could wrap her legs around his midsection. 

He hoisted her onto his back, and she whooped with laughter as she clung unsteadily to his shoulders. He gave her a little boost to settle her more securely.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Onward, noble steed!” she exclaimed.

He carried her effortlessly through the darkened library, following her directions to the letter. She marveled at his strength. He didn’t even break a sweat, and she was not exactly light as a feather. Before many minutes had passed, they exited the building and she slid off his back as they hailed a taxi. 

“Where to?” asked the droid driver.

Maree gave it her address as they settled into the back seat. The night air was frigid, and she had neglected to retrieve her cloak from the coat check before they embarked on their garden excursion. She leaned closer to Kix for warmth, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her securely against his body. They didn’t speak during the ride, and Maree drifted pleasantly. When the taxi pulled to a stop in front of her building, Kix told the droid to wait while he walked her to her door.

“This is me,” Maree said.

She was sorely tempted to invite him in, but her lingering tatters of professionalism won out in the end. 

“Thank you for getting me home safely,” she said instead. “You’ve been watching out for me all night.”

“It was my sincere pleasure,” Kix said. “Until tomorrow, Maree.”

“Good night, Kix,” she said.

---

Chapter 4

Tagging: @blueink-bluesoul @secondaryrealm @spicy-clones @wings-and-beskar

#dystopicjumpsuit writes #martyrs and kings #clone medic kix #sw tcw fanfic #tcw kix #sw fanfic #star wars tcw #tcw fanfic