#because they’ve read books by a bunch of dead white people | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

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(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think?#but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

207 notes · View notes

spacedikut · 4 years

Text

lockdown lovers ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid (criminal minds) x f!reader

summary: lockdown!au. spencer goes from expecting his days to be filled with books, books and more books to books, an asshole cat, and a cute anonymous neighbour. 4857 words

a/n: i was so excited about this and stayed up writing it so i hope you like it too :)

masterlist

It’s three days into lockdown when Spencer notices the cat.

It’s a Maine Coon, he recognises instantly, but there’s this distinctive… dead look in it’s eyes. The body is huge – so fluffy it looks like the cat has a mane, ears invariably up straight and large enough that the eyes look beady in comparison. A mixture of white and grey throughout, the cat spends its days lounging across the windowsill of the apartment in the building next to Spencer’s.

He’s fascinated. How can a cat be so big, so ugly, yet so lovely?

He has to know more.

If he was anyone else, he’d argue the obsession is the fruit of going stir-crazy in his apartment. A lack of seeing his friends combined with having to work cases from home would be the perfect justification for Spencer to move his work station to the window facing the cat.

But this is Spencer. He’s happy being stuck home. He just likes the look of the cat.

He spends a good twenty minutes rifling through his stationary to find a piece of paper and the appropriate pen to jot a note for the cat owner. He thinks the owner must be stuck home, too, so if he sticks the note to his window and waits a day, he could know the cat’s name within twenty four hours.

They’ve had plenty of staring contests. Spencer should know his rival’s name.

So he does. He takes his time writing out the words “I like your cat. Do they have a name?” clearly on the paper, then spends a good five minutes deciding where on the window to stick the message.

He decides on the upper left corner. You won’t miss it.

The cat blinks sleepily at him as they watch Spencer tape the question up.

There’s an answer within three hours.

Spencer is too excited to be embarrassed at how enthused he was when he noticed the response.

Or when he saw the name.

Hi there! His name is Mr Darcy :) He’s a dick x

Spencer can’t help but profile the writing, the syntax, the grammar.

The first thing he notices is there’s a feminine lilt to the way you write – you’re a woman, most likely. The writing is slightly messy, indicating high intelligence, and the use of a smiley face and a kiss makes him think you’re younger in age. If you live alone, which you must because you live in a one bedroom apartment, he can safely guess you’re around his age.

And Mr Darcy… you’re a bookworm. At least for romance and the classics.

Spencer likes Mr Darcy. He has so many questions, suddenly, like how is Mr Darcy a dick and how old is he and why does he never seem to move from his position by the window and what is your name and who are you and do you happen to read a lot of books? Like Ray Bradbury? Please say yes.

He shocks himself. Maybe this quarantine is getting to him more than he realises. He hasn’t felt this excited since Maeve.

He hasn’t been this intrigued since Maeve. And the circumstances are similar, he realises.

No. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Spence.

He worries himself into a spiral when he begins thinking about how to reply. As if she can hear his whining, Penelope calls him.

They’ve made it a habit to call one another a lot. She recently taught him how to use his webcam and has been encouraging him to write more on his computer, rather than by hand.

“Good afternoon, my favourite Doctor.” She sings. He hears some shuffling in the background and can tell she’s baking.

“I need your help with something.” He cuts straight to the chase.

Her interest is piqued, “Oh? I am all ears.”

“Remember the cat I mentioned?”

“The ugly-but-beautiful majestic beast that, if you believed in reincarnation, would’ve been a high class gentleman in his past life? Yes. I think about him every day.”

“His name’s Mr Darcy.”

She lets out a screech, a mixture of a groan and moan that is filled with pure glee. “Of course he’s called Mr Darcy! Tell me everything. How do you know?”

He’s clearly impressed with himself when he says, “I asked.”

“Whoa.” Penelope freezes in her kitchen. “Are you, Doctor Germaphobe, breaking the lockdown rules?”

Spencer feels insulted. “No! Never! I stuck a note to my window, like in that viral tweet you sent me.”

She chuckles, “Well, I already told you I could’ve told you everything about Mr Darcy and the owner if you wanted me to. I am incredible.”

“I appreciate the gesture, Garcia-“

“But it’s morally wrong. Yeah, yeah, heard it all before. What have you said back?”

“That’s what I need your help with.”

Garcia is only a little surprised he’s asking her and not Derek. But, then, as much as she loves Derek, he’s a bit too.. much for someone like Spencer when it comes to love. Spencer approaches people gently, hesitantly, often giving the impression he doesn’t even want to be there.

Derek can have anyone on their knees within minutes.

Different tactics, that’s all.

“Alright, pretty boy. How long have you been talking? Purely through window messages? What else has been said?”

“Well,” He begins, clearing his throat, making eye contact with Mr Darcy, “We’ve only spoken once. When I asked for Mr Darcy’s name. You know, studies have shown that animals can form lifelong friendships with other animals, even if they’re not from the same species.”

“Spencer.”

“Most research has focused on chimpanzees, baboons, horses, hyenas, elephants, bats, and dolphins - but there’s no reason to think that friendship is exclusive to these species.”

“Spencer!”

“What?”

“You’ve spoken to them once?”

“Her. Spoken to her once. And it wasn’t speaking, it was writing.”

There’s a long sigh down the phone. “First of all, how do you know the owner’s a girl?”

There’s movement in Mr Darcy’s apartment. Spencer stares. “The way she writes.”

“Uhuh,” Spencer can hear her stirring something through the phone, “And what was the last thing said?”

Spencer’s eyes narrow – is that a person? Is that the owner? Is that her? Oh my god.

“Spencer? You still there?” Garcia looks to her laptop, checking the call is still connected.

“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. The last thing she said was his name is Mr Darcy and he’s a dick.”

“Oh,” Garcia smirks, “It’s sexy hearing you say dick.”

In normal circumstances, Spencer would register her comment and give a very distinct huh, but he’s distracted.

He sees Mr Darcy meow. A hand appears, petite, with fingernails painted yellow that have smiley faces on them. She brushes Mr Darcy’s fur back, pulling so the skin around his eyes tugs up high and he looks stupid. He seems to like it, though.

She must like smileys, he thinks.

Mr Darcy stands and stretches. He’s alarmingly long.

It’s silent on Garcia’s end, where she looks confused at the sudden silence. She checks again that the call is still connected.

“Spence?”

“Still here. Sorry. I thought I saw her.”

“Oooo,” She’s all giddy, “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

“I couldn’t see her properly. I can tell she’s too cool for me already. This was stupid.” He sighs, “Forget I said anything. I’ll take knowing Mr Darcy’s name and move on with my life.”

Spencer moves to hang up, but is interrupted by a loud “No!” being shouted at him by Garcia.

“No, Spencer! No! You write something back to her right now and you form a friendship with someone that isn’t one of your colleagues. I love you with my whole heart, and you know that, but it would be good for you to expand your social circle!” She grins and bites her tongue between her teeth, “Aaaand.. this could be the start of a quarantine romance. God, I miss dating.”

At the mention of romance, Spencer visibly flinches. “I’ll see what I can do. I gotta go, Garcia, thanks for calling.”

“Love you. Please marry her so Mr Darcy can be the ring bearer.”

And she hangs up. He’s left contemplating whether he should respond, and what he should respond, as he watches the empty space where Mr Darcy is absent.

It must be dinner time for him.

+++

I’m curious as to how someone named Mr Darcy can be a dick.

That’s a good response, right?

Right?

It lets you know he gets the reference, he knows who Mr Darcy is named after, and leads you to continue the conversation. It’s perfect.

It’s taken him nearly two hours to come up with it. He feels exhausted.

He sticks it on the window, where Mr Darcy has returned to, and huffs out a breath.

He reminds himself to be calm and cool. This is simply a way to pass the time during quarantine, there’s no need to put too much pressure on himself to think it’s anything more or to put more effort than is necessary (he says, after spending two hours formulating a response).

Calm and cool. Cool and calm. Neither are words Spencer would ever use to describe himself.

Spencer stays up until nearly 1am reading. Just before he sleeps, he walks to the kitchen to get some water, and can’t resist checking to see if you’ve responded.

You have. He ignores the way his heart speeds up.

He used to share the windowsill with my other cat and a bunch of plants. Now he bites anything that attempts to move near him. He also likes to vomit on my pillow. My single pillow.

Spencer chuckles as he reads it. He remembers when the window was full of plants, and how one day they all just… disappeared. He assumed the person moved out, but now it’s funny to think that you had to move them all because Mr Darcy demanded he own that space.

He doesn’t recall ever seeing another cat.

Well, now he has to respond. He needs to know about the other cat!

He imagines Derek coming to him in an apparition, like some sort of angel, and saying, calm and cool, kid. Calm and cool.

Spencer decides he’ll reply in the morning. Cause he’s calm and cool, and totally doesn’t want to know anything and everything about you and the two cats you live with.

+++

The messages continue for days. Spencer learns a lot, despite his “attempts” to not profile you (“attempts” as in there was really no attempt).

He learns you were given Mr Darcy by a friend, he’s two years old, and your other cat is the recently adopted, affectionately named Stupid Sally. She’s a ginger cat, estimated to be at least four years old, and you refuse to believe there’s anything going on in that tiny head of hers.

Spencer catches a glimpse of Sally a couple of days after he learns her name. She jumps up beside Mr Darcy, bonks her head on the window, then is whacked by Mr Darcy and falls from the windowsill. Sally doesn’t make another attempt.

He still hasn’t seen you, though. The longer he talks to you, the more he wants Garcia to send him everything she can find on you.

But he has restraint. And fear.

He wants to know more, wants to learn more about the anonymous girl in the opposite building. He doesn’t even know your name, and he assumes you don’t know his, and he’s not entirely sure what number apartment you live in.

He considers asking to convert your conversation from post-it notes on windows to hand-written letters, but that reminds Spencer too much of Maeve and he can’t handle that.

Do you know how difficult it is for Spencer Reid, with all his knowledge and facts and ramblings, to limit himself and how much he says?

It’s torture.

The sun is blinding when Spencer pulls his curtain back, eyes navigating to see if there’s a new message waiting.

I haven’t asked, do you have any cats? Any pets? Mr Darcy would be a terrible boyfriend but Sally could use a lover :)

Before he can stop himself, his mind is whirring with the possible implications of your message. Does this mean you want to meet? You want to know about him as much as he wants to know about you? You’re interested?

He needs to call Penelope. He wants to talk to you so badly, learn everything there is to know, but he can’t bring himself to do it. The situation reminds him of Maeve and, although it’s been so long, he’s still mourning. He’s not sure he’s ready.

Turns out he doesn’t need to worry. You’ve got your own plan.

+++

“So,” Your friend sighs, flopping onto the couch, “You got his number? His name? Anything?”

“No,” You pout, “Not even sure he’s a guy.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

You playfully gasp. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I am insulted.”

She chuckles. She knows all about your curious neighbour - she’s the one that encouraged you to reply and keep replying. And now she’s the one trying to convince you to form an actual friendship.

“Just put your number on your window.”

“Do you know how dangerous that is?!” You scold, “Anyone could see it!”

“Yeah, but neighbour guy could see it. And text you. And be really cute.”

You can’t help but glance behind you, into your bedroom window, where the infamous window is. Mr Darcy lounges, completely zonked out with the sunshine keeping him warm.

“What’s the worst that can happen? Some random people text you and you, what, block them? That’s it. Easy.”

Life is so easy for extroverts, you think.

You grab your notebook, rip a piece out and jot down your number before you have a change of heart. You’re essentially double messaging through the medium of your window messaging. But who cares?

What have you got to lose?

+++

Spencer stares at your phone number for way too long. Mr Darcy, as if sensing Spencer’s battle, lazily lifts a paw and rests it against the paper, pushing it into the window.

Spencer dials Penelope’s number straight from memory.

“I was beginning to think you’d died, Spencer-“

“Is it a terrible idea to start texting with Mr Darcy’s owner?”

“What?!” She exclaims, “No! No no no no no! That is an incredible idea! Spencer, please tell me you’re texting her!”

Penelope’s excitement gives him a rush of confidence. She’s always so supportive, so encouraging. Penelope is the best.

“I’m staring at her phone number. I just- we know what happened last time..” He trails off, voice meek. He wants to pretend he isn’t constantly thinking about the worst outcome, but he is. He’s scared.

Penelope’s voice is soft down the phone, “Spence. You have nothing to be afraid of, okay? I’m so proud of you for even considering texting her. But if you truly think you’re not ready, maybe you’re not. But remember, this doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to. You can keep the conversation to cats and cats only.”

Spencer smiles even though she can’t see him. She’s right. It doesn’t have to be anything and, honestly, it’s likely it won’t be anything – after all, Spencer isn’t exactly confident when it comes to women.

She might also have a boyfriend. A husband. A wife. He doesn’t know.

He realises he’s started thinking way too deep about someone he doesn’t even know the name of.

“Does that silence mean you’re gonna text her?” Penelope questions, suspense and hope clear in her voice.

“Yeah,” He replies, glancing at Mr Darcy, “I am.”

+++

[To: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner]: Hello. I’m Spencer.

[From: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner] hello??????? do i know a spencer?

Embarrassment flushes through him. What a weird way to introduce yourself, he chastises himself, Great first impression.

[To: Mr Darcy and Sally’s owner]: Sorry. I’m the one that’s been asking about your cats through the window.

[From: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner]: really? prove it

He wants to feel insulted that you’re so suspicious, but is simultaneously impressed that you’re so cautious. It makes sense to worry after posting your number for anyone to see.

[To: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner]: Of course. I’ll put a note on my window with my number now.

He does just that, shuffling quickly and frantically like he does when his mind is moving a thousand miles a minute during a case. He slaps the note against the window, unable to resist hovering on the off chance he spots you.

His phone buzzes.

[From: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner]: oh hi spencer! im Y/N, owner of Mr Darcy and sally :)

He can’t help but chuckle at the sudden change of tone. You take stranger danger seriously, it seems.

Why does he find that so endearing?

He’s getting ahead of himself, again. Calm and cool.

They pick up the conversation from where the last note left off, where you asked Spencer if he has any pets of his own. He finds it much easier to talk to you like this, rambling and all, which you don’t seem to mind. Your texting style is distinctively different to his, making his phone vibrate multiple times as you send each sentence of your message separately. He prefers writing chunks full of information, all with perfect grammar and punctuation.

You teach him what ‘wtf’ means and when he sends a meme to Penelope with that caption she loses her damn mind.

She decides she loves you there and then.

A friendship blossoms. It’s odd, he doesn’t know what you look like and you admit to catching a glimpse of him when he showed you his number through the window, but other than that you have no idea what the other looks like.

You know so much about eachother’s lives, though, and so much about eachother. You know which apartment you both live in, he’s got a whole list of reasons why Mr Darcy is a dick and he kind of agrees, you even know that he’s an FBI agent.

Then it happens.

He discovers what you look like.

He wants to play it off as an accident, he really does, but that would be a complete and utter lie.

The area under the window opposite yours has become his new sanctuary. He spends way too much time there, reading and whatnot, and he tries to pretend that it’s so he can watch Mr Darcy all day every day, but there’s always been a part of him that wants you to walk by. Maybe stop right in the centre of the window, pause, let him get a good look.

That’s exactly what happens.

He’s doing some “light” reading before he moves to his bed, where he will continue to read, and he sees the main light in your bedroom switch on. You always have a light on – you’re scared of the dark, just like him, but the main light catches his attention because Mr Darcy looks back and meows.

Someone’s in the room.

For some reason, he can’t tear his eyes away. It’s not the first time he’s noticed someone flutter around the room, never managing to really show themselves. It could the best friend you told Spencer about, the one that you’ve been stuck living with the past month or so.

But it’s not.

A girl appears, wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts with still-wet hair. She dangles a cat toy before Mr Darcy, which he swipes at twice, then looks away, uninterested.

She rolls her eyes at that, then starts dancing and mouthing along to a song Spencer doesn’t recognise. Now he can’t stop staring – she’s captivating, whoever she is, as she prances around her room, arms flailing around and serenading a very unimpressed Mr Darcy.

This has to be you, he thinks. He doesn’t know why, but this has to be you.

Your passionate singing dies out. It’s the end of the song. Before the next one can begin, you happen to look up and through the window, straight at Spencer.

And you disappear.

You collapse. You definitely scream a little, dramatically falling to the floor and hiding under the window with your back to the wall.

Holy shit. You think. He’s cute and he saw me singing to my asshole cat.

He must think I’m crazy.

Spencer keeps staring at the now empty space of your window, Mr Darcy having been spooked by your exit.

He thinks he might be in love.

+++

Neither of you know what to say to one another after what transpired.

You’re too embarrassed, Spencer feels a little star-struck, and you’re both speechless.

Neither of you expected the other to be so.. attractive.

Your phone is thrown in your lap. “Do it. Do it now.”

In a daze, you blink up at your friend, “I can’t.”

“Don’t make me threaten you.”

You blink.

“I know where he lives. I will obliterate the lockdown rules to go talk to him and drag him here, then you can deal with this face-to-face.”

Your mouth falls open. “Are you insane?”

She unlocks your phone, opens your conversation with Spencer, and places it in your hand.

“Yes.”

+++

[From: Y/N :)]: did you at least enjoy the performance…..

Spencer’s whole body prickles when he sees you’ve texted him.

Maybe Penelope’s manifesting did work.

[To: Y/N :)]: I did. I didn’t expect our face reveals to be so…

I honestly don’t know what to say.

[From: Y/N :)]: s doctor reid speechless? am i that talented?

Spencer lies back on his couch, beaming at his phone like a teenager in a cheesy chick flick.

[To: Y/N :)]: You’re very talented. Mr Darcy clearly disagrees, but don’t listen to him.

And just like that, you’re back in the flow of things.

+++

When July rolls around, you and Spencer have been talking every day since March. Despite the monotonous, repetitive days, Spencer wakes up giddy when he sees you’ve texted him. He usually wakes up earlier than you, you have a habit of playing games or watching television until the early hours of the morning, and he loves to send you a fact to wake up to.

Your favourite are the animal facts. He got Amazon Prime just so he could buy a plethora of animal books and watch animal documentaries. All for you.

At one point, you evolved to phone calls. They don’t happen often and the first one was while you were drunk, but they’re fun for the both of you.

It had been a Saturday, you and your friend were having a movie marathon with wine and of course she brought up Spencer. She choked on her drink when you told her you haven’t heard his voice or seen him since the incident.

“You should call him,” She slurred, “Tonight.”

“He’s working on his jigsaw. I’m not going to interrupt.”

She gave you this incredulous look, asking Really?

“What?! I have respect for him and his jigsaws!”

“Have respect for yourself and how cute he is!”

“That doesn’t make sense!”

She sighed, placing her glass on the coffee table with a clunk, “Picture this: you’re helping him with the jigsaw.”

You couldn’t hide the slight upturn of your lips at the thought. You both love jigsaws, doing one with him would be stupidly romantic to you.

“Yeah.” She nodded ridiculously, “That ain’t gonna happen if you don’t call him!”

In your drunken state, you realised she’s right. You called him that night for a total of ten minutes before you passed out after calling him super handsome.

You both went to sleep feeling warm inside. Spencer called you again the next day, where the call lasted nearly two hours, and it went from there.

But now the lockdown rules are being eased. People are going back to work, meaning establishments like restaurants and hairdressers are opening up with limited capacity, all breathing beings expected to wear a mask.

Neither of you have mentioned actually meeting one another. You’re too nervous. What if he doesn’t like you? What if the image he’s created of you in his head is way better than you are in real life and he’s disappointed? What if he doesn’t want to meet you?

Spencer worries about the exact same things.

So neither of you say anything.

+++

It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes Spencer’s mail gets sent to the wrong address. Perhaps to his neighbour, the person living across the hall, or someone on a completely different floor.

Twice, Spencer’s mail has been delivered to the apartment building next door. The building he now exclusively calls “Y/N’s building”.

Now it’s three times.

Unphased by the mask on his face, Spencer glances around the lobby of your apartment building and wonders what your routine is when you get home. Do you immediately check for packages? Look at the noticeboard? Or do you go straight up to your apartment?

Spencer walks to the reception desk, smiling politely even though the person can’t see it.

“Hi, I’m from the building next door. I think my mail was accidentally sent here?”

He clicks a few buttons, types a few things, then flippantly asks, “Apartment number?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Let me go get it.”

He takes his time leaving his chair and wandering through a door. Spencer glances around. There’s a few people, all wearing masks (Thank God), doing their own thing.

There’s two girls next to him. He eavesdrops, because he’s bored.

“I’m too used to living with you now,” The girl facing him pouts, “I don’t want to go.”

The girl with her back to him laughs, light and sweet, “You live a block away.”

“You know Sally is gonna miss me.”

Sally? As in…

“She’s gonna miss you only because you feed her too much and now she’s fat.”

Wait.

“C’mon, Y/N-“

Spencer blocks out the rest cause holy hell. You’re right there. You’re standing right next to Spencer, in all your glory, and you have no idea that he’s right there, too.

Should he say something? Should he introduce himself? Should he..

“Here, sir. My apologies for the mix-up.” The receptionist re-appears, handing Spencer his mail.

“Thank you.”

And Spencer leaves.

Except he doesn’t.

He stops outside the reception entrance, takes out his phone, and texts you.

[To: Y/N :)] This is weird but I’m right outside your building. I think you’re in the foyer and I’m too scared to approach you.

Two minutes pass before the building doors fly open.

Your head swivels back and forth. When you find Spencer, adorable and awkward Spencer, he can tell you’re grinning from the way your eyes bunch up under your mask. God, he knows you have the most beautiful smile. Everything about you is beautiful.

“Hi,” You breathe.

Spencer mouths a silent hi. You’ve taken his breath away.

“I-um. It’s good to see you in person.” Your voice is soft. It’s soft, and smooth, and so much prettier in real life. It’s already pretty through the phone, but the real version shoots straight to his heart.

He gulps, “Yeah, it’s.. Unexpected, but nice.” The corners of his mouth quirk up and he can’t tear his eyes away from you, “You’re even more gorgeous in real life.”

The compliment rolls off his tongue naturally because it’s true and from the second he spotted you he’s lost all logical thinking.

“I am?” You ask, gentle and hesitant, almost asking are you sure you mean me?

Spencer blushes, somewhat embarrassed by his confession. But he meant it, Spencer’s not the type to say things he doesn’t mean, and you don’t give him time to regret it-

“Would you like to get some coffee? If you’re free now?”

Would it be too much if he screams Yes?

“Yes. I’m free,” He ignores the mail in his hands, stuffing it in his satchel, “But let’s avoid Café Nero, I assume you still haven’t recovered from the nightmare latte you had there.”

You grin, which makes Spencer feel fuzzy, flattered that he remembers anecdotes from your texts.

Of course he remembers. You remember he has an eidetic memory.

You shyly brush your hair behind your ears, both sides, and Spencer spots the bright red of them. You’re flushed, just like him, and it fills him with confidence to know you’re the same mixture of excited and anxious about meeting him in person.

“W-what about your friend?” Spencer gestures vaguely to where he assumes she’d be, “Would she mind?”

“She’s the reason I ran out here, so… I think she’d be mad if we didn’t leave her behind.”

You smile at one another, a few feet apart. Spencer’s bumped into by the opening door of your apartment complex and stumbles, apologising profusely to the unimpressed woman that just stares at him.

Through the entire ordeal you watch Spencer, only him, and can’t stop the radiant, love-filled look on your face.

Maybe Mr Darcy isn’t such a dick when he’s the reason Spencer came into your life.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #mine #oh to be spencer reid's neighbour that he falls completely in love with during the lockdown

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tristintea · 3 years

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Endersleep

AU that’s basically a bunch of headcanons about endermen ft. Edward the Enderman and Lethe (Ranboo) :D

Endermen do not give birth, like piglins, humans, and other mammals do. Endermen do not lay eggs, like sirens, avians, reptiles, birds, dragons, and fish do. In fact, their method of reproduction is more akin to that of spores. Everywhere an enderman goes, particles are left behind, little bits of ender that fade but never quite dissolve. Those little particles are replaceable, insignificant, until they find enough of themselves that they can remember what it feels like to be ender.

It is nigh impossible to find infant or adolescent enderman anywhere, even in the End, where they are the only creatures other than the nearly extinct enderdragons (see: The Enderdragon, A Summary) and face no natural predators. At first, it was assumed that endermen were at risk of extinction, but studies showed no significant changes in population. One dedicated researcher by the name of Rhianna James, however, spent her life with these cryptic creatures, eventually learning the answer to this perplexing question.

As James discovered, most endermen spawn fully grown. It is only very rarely that there are enough particles to spawn an enderman but not enough to make an adult mind. That is why, when an enderman finds an enderling, it will adopt it into its haunting, and all members of the haunting take on the role of a caretaker. You will never find a more protected child than that of an enderman.

Edward’s haunting is gone. Edward has been wandering for many years now, and as the grief that accompanied the loss turned to nostalgia, they’ve regained their old vigor for life. Now they see sights worth seeing, places worth being, people worth meeting; now they search for others to spend their nights with.

It has been far too long since they’ve sung the Old Songs properly.

Travel is dangerous, Edward has come to know very well. Others, non-endermen, often meet Edward with a sword in hand, either in defense or in greed. Edward themself has learned that connecting gazes is not a threat to non-endermen, but they have yet to be able to control their instinct to retaliate in anger.

The weather is also dangerous. Being caught in the rain is painful, and the only escape is to teleport to one of the other dimensions. Snow is beautiful, but when it melts it hurts just as bad.

It has just stopped raining when Edward hears a call that is painfully familiar but distinctly off. It’s the cry of a wounded enderman, but the sounds are higher-pitched and slurred. They don’t register that, though; they are far too preoccupied with searching for its origin, ears flared outward as they listen intently for the next call.

They find a small, precious thing, under the dripping leaves of the forest. They have to ignore the sharp sound of the sizzling of their own skin with every drop that hits them, and it is worth it, because of all the endermen to be blessed with an enderling, Edward never thought that they would be one of them.

Their enderling is a little strange. They are split down the middle, one half of them the proper coloring, with the bright green eyes that they have been told all enderlings have for many years, while the other half is white and its eye red. But Edward does not care. They are theirs, and they will protect them with their life.

As we know, endermen, when stressed, become aggravated; however, what James discovered is that they go into a catatonic state once the perceived threat is gone. This state is called endersleep, a term coined by James herself, and it can last from anywhere between a few minutes to decades. In fact, an enderman might never wake up from endersleep, and yet it can still live out its entire expected lifespan. Its haunting will feed it, nourish it, and carry it with them either until its death or its awakening.

James wrote that she had only twice seen an enderman in endersleep. “It was sudden[....] One moment [the enderman] was screaming, and the next, [it] had collapsed. I thought [it] had passed out,” she wrote in one of her earlier entries. In a later entry, she said, “The haunting showed me their fourth member, that they had been carrying with them for some time now. I had wondered about this, with no hypothesis in my thoughts and only bafflement[....] [To] my surprise, I found that [it] was not actually dead, but breathing very slowly as though in a deep slumber.” Then, much later, “[The enderman] woke from endersleep today. I had assumed that [it] would never wake up again[...] now I realize that this is a common occurrence.”

While their enderling rests, Edward carries them away from the forest and the remnants of rain. They are badly injured, splotches of burning skin still sizzling even now, and the humming of their pearl is weak and broken. Edward hurries, a line of particles left to fade in their wake. They cannot let their enderling die yet.

They trill comforts to their enderling, who has grown too weak to do anything but chirp when the pain grows too much. Even with a dying star pressed to their chest, Edward cannot feel upset. The fact that they held one at all will be enough for them, if Lady Death takes them into her own arms.

They move past trees and stones and hills, ignoring the hiss of a creeper and the whistle of an arrow, because such things do not touch them. They keep moving even as the sky begins to lighten and the hills grow taller and the air grows clearer. Their pearl aches, but Edward does not falter. Their enderling has stopped chirping, has stopped moving entirely; so they must move for them, must sing part of a song they don’t know if they’ll ever truly hear again.

They are cold.

Endersleep could be compared to hibernation, if it weren’t for the fact that for endermen, cold is nothing to be worried about. When an enderman is too warm, it grows drowsy and confused, but when an enderman is cold, its pearl is free, and the colder it gets the more energy it has, until of course it is too cold to move. This is one reason why endermen are nocturnal: to avoid the heat of the sun.

Edward does not slow when they see high stone walls towering over them. They teleport to the other side of them, into the quiet of a city, and they do not quiet their song to match.

They are looking for one of the non-endermen, someone who has a potion of healing.

Of course, another reason why endermen are nocturnal is the End, their original habitat. The End is a dimension filled with clusters of endstone islands, floating in the ever-black void. There is not much natural light there.

The city is filled with lights, flames flickering in iron cages hung over every door and at every street corner. It starts to meld together in Edward’s eyes, blurs of orange and yellow smudged with shades of grey and blue.

There. They come to a halt, shaking the fuzziness out of their vision, and only take one look at the potion bottles in the overworld building before they enter in a silent explosion of purple.

They can still hear the humming of their enderling’s pearl, soft and weak next to their own loud humming, and it makes them slowly walk around the shop. They regret that they do not know how to read Overscript very well. It takes precious time to make out the characters, and longer to stitch them together to form something understandable.

Harm. Stre. Fir. They don’t look past the first few letters, knowing enough to remember that Healing starts with none of them. Rej. Po.

Heal.

Edward knocks the bottle from the shelf with one sweep of their tail, and it shatters on the floor with a sound that seems to cut into their skull. They do not flinch. They find a scrap of cloth, and they drape it over the puddle of potion and glass, so that the liquid seeps in and the glass stays behind.

They leave, rubbing the dripping cloth on their enderling’s shoulders, and behind them a livid alchemist bursts into the room with curses on his tongue and a gleaming sword in his hand.

It’s hard to say whether James’ research is reliable, though. She dealt with delusions for many years before the end of her life, and there are journals filled cover to cover in nothing but nonsensical scribbling and occasional letters, evidence of one of her more questionable projects. She thought that endermen had their own language, going so far as to claim that they had books and even enchantments, and for the rest of her life she tried to convince everyone she met that endermen were players, not mobs.

#it's not mentioned but ranboo's name is Lethe in this AU #enderman #ranboo #c!ranboo #edward the enderman #headcanon #short fic #my writing #dsmp #dsmp writing #dsmp fanfic #ranboo fanfic

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slytherinsnekxvii · 3 years

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hi, remember that murder snily au i'm always talking abt but never have anything to show for? yeah, i've scrapped it like six times now and i finally have a version of it i'm marginally satisfied with. so, here you go, this is the first part of maybe three or four, i think? have fun:

anger

/ˈaŋɡə/

noun

noun: anger; plural noun: angers

1. Normal anger does not split open one's ribcage and wind itself around their heart. Normal anger does not coat itself in venom and sit behind one's teeth and hide under their tongue and lie patiently in wait. Normal anger is not cold and slow and remorseless. Lily thinks that what she calls anger is normal. Lily does not realise that she is extraordinary.

Lily's brand of anger is decidedly... different. What, exactly, makes it so different isn't exactly obvious to her, but she knows that it's not like anyone else's. At least, not as far as she's aware. Hers is a cold sort of anger, an all-encompassing thing that bites and burns and hurts. It's patient, too, winding in and around her ribcage and clawing its way upwards to settle behind her teeth, waiting for a reason to show itself. It's protective, aiming to eliminate a threat before it has a chance to do further damage.

She's... aware of her anger. Not very much so, but it's seen the light of day often enough to be familiar to her. She doesn't know it, though, hasn't made herself properly acquainted with the more... unfortunate spectrum of her emotions, and that is what makes it truly dangerous.

When she feels something scratching at her insides and festering beneath a vindictive sort of justice at seeing Black and Potter and Lupin and Pettigrew suffer the displeasure of the Slytherins, she thinks it's anger. She finds herself in a dusty, unused classroom in the dungeons, helping to refine a brutal spell designed to rend the flesh of anyone unlucky enough to be on the wrong end of it and she thinks it's anger that curls around her and whispers into her ear, "Make sure it hurts."

It isn't. She calls it anger, claims it a necessity, insists that she's protecting her best friend, but she doesn't realise she's mistaken.

The story of the "Prank" gets out—doctored, of course, to keep Black out of Azkaban, and Lupin away from execution—and Lily titters into the back of her hand when she hears it told in bits and pieces throughout the corridors.

"Did you hear?"

"Who would've thought—"

"—bloody idiots went into the Forest! At night! What kind of—"

"—ll five of them, yeah. Can't figure out for the life of me how they managed to get Snape to go—"

"—must've dragged 'im kicking an' screamin', I'm telling y—"

"—Gryffindors, my left tit! Damn cowards just ran off and left Lupin and Snape to deal with—"

"—no clue what happened, but have you seen the scars?"

"—out of the Hospital Wing, already? How—"

"—down fifty points! All because that lot wanted to play jokes aga—"

She smiles, a tiny, smug thing that she doesn't notice, and moves on. The Slytherins are properly riled up now, Rosier and Mulciber and Wilkes and Avery hovering around her and Severus with expressions she can't describe as anything but sadistic. At some point, she realises that their presence makes her feel much less uncomfortable than it did a week ago. She doesn't dwell on it, ignoring the small part of her that worries and shivers in favour of leaning over Severus's shoulder to read about the sort of magic that appears in nightmares.

She grips her wand, idly twirling the twelve-and-a-half inches of willow and dragon heartstring as she skims over detailings of ancient, arcane magic. It's always about blood, she thinks, staring a diagram of a pricked finger dripping red into a cauldron. Potion for Transferring Magic from One Wizard to Another, the heading proclaims. She shakes her head, accidentally knocking into Severus's in the process. "Ow."

He winces a little, and then tells her, "I'm turning the page."

She hums, eyes glued to a book she wouldn't dare look at not even a week ago, and says, "Okay."

It's fascinating, Lily has to admit. Gruesome in some cases and horrific in others, yes, but there's something... mesmerising about it, something hideously captivating in the way that the diagrams seem to eagerly demonstrate their attached spells. On the page, a young wizard is neatly flayed alive, the entire process precise. Her stomach rolls, but Lily can't seem to tear her gaze away for even a second. She doesn't think about it.

She doesn't think about a lot of things, actually, staunchly refusing to acknowledge the way she finds herself drawn away from her Housemates and friends, instead choosing to orbit around her best friend and the seemingly endless rotation of Dark Arts tomes he's somehow gotten his hands on.

Mary's sick of her excuses, she knows, responding to every one with a nod and an, "Oh, alright, then," in that tone that lands somewhere in the middle of disappointment, exasperation and concern.

Marlene has given up entirely, the whole of their interactions reduced to simple greetings in the hall and nods when they pass each other between classes.

Dorcas is nice about it, still catching her arm on the way to breakfast, still offering to study with her when they're all together in the Common and she doesn't want anyone to feel left out. It's undeniable, though, that her smile isn't near as warm as it used to be and it's tinged with worry at the corners.

No one makes it a secret of what they think about her recent activities. And as for the company she's keeping? Well, they'd always been particularly vocal about that.

Things must come to a head eventually, and they do, not even ten minutes after Professor Sprout has dismissed them from the classroom on Wednesday afternoon. She hears the whispers first, half of them from students she doesn't even know, has never said a word to.

"—conspiring with snakes—"

"—think it's the first time I've heard of a Gryff going Dark—"

"—ck was right about her, she's got no—"

Something ugly twists in her chest, and she forces her feet to turn and move, one step after the other. She can make it to the Common Room reasonably quickly, she thinks, and then she catches the self-proclaimed Marauders outside the Great Hall. Or rather, they catch her.

"You can do better than a bunch of slimy snakes, Evans," Potter crows, and she stops dead in her tracks. "Why bother with them when you've got a fine piece of Gryffindor right here?"

"Get lost," she says, the words ground flat between grit teeth.

Potter does not get lost. "Come on, Evans," he continues. "You're not acting like a proper Gryffindor. Where's your House loyalty? I can guarantee that chivalry and bravery are much better than whatever they're offering." It sounds... like a taunt, and this is when Lily realises that what she's been feeling isn't anger.

"Chivalry? Bravery? What would you know about any of that? It's not very chivalrous to corner students four-to-one, now, is it?" She hisses her words, each one more scathing than the last, and as she spits them out, every last one dripping venom, she realises that she wants it to hurt. "And it certainly doesn't seem brave to leave behind someone who needs help because you got cold feet! I'm not a proper Gryffindor? No, I think you've got it wrong, James. If you want to see an improper Gryffindor, the whole lot of you can go right ahead and look in a bloody mirror! I will not be talked down to by the likes of spiteful little cowards like you! I'm more Gryffindor than all four of you put together, but if you're what our House is supposed to look like, then I want nothing to do with it!"

Her ears are ringing when she's done, the whole world narrowed down to one singular focal point, the group of boys headed by the one who'd been desperate to get her attention and regrets it now that he has it. She looks at each of them in turn, summoning a contempt she didn't know she possessed until now. "Save your breath," she snaps, when Black's jaw unlocks, and she turns around and walks away.

Something slots into the place at the back of her mind, and she thinks, oh, her fingers itching to wrap themselves around her wand and whisper the words that will turn them inside out, call the blood from their pores and make it sing. Something clicks, when she thinks about she felt just then, and she can tell the difference quite clearly, very easily, between pure, white-hot, blinding rage and what she's been calling anger. She doesn't know what it really is, and she doesn't want to. She doesn't think about it, either, simply pushes the entire realisation to the back of her head and thinks, oh.

It changes... very little. Something inside of her has changed, and she finds herself growing steadily more unbothered by the voice in her that tells her about old, forbidden magicks of the body and the mind and the blood. It's always about blood.

She doesn't bother reading over Severus's shoulder anymore, the two of them scribbling notes as the pages flip on their own once they've both finished reading.

What does change things is when Rosier corners her after Defence one day, a sealed envelope held in his hand.

"What's this?" Lily asks, eyeing the pristine letter suspiciously. She might get along with the Slytherins much better now—especially after the incident with the Marauders that Rosier had found particularly amusing—but she can't say she truly trusts them.

"An invitation," he says, and before she can speak, he continues. "Every rule has its exceptions. We'd thought there was only room for one Mudblood prodigy, but it looks like there's space for two."

"Don't call me that," she bites, and he waves the envelope at her.

"Think about it. As it stands now, men like Potter and Dumbledore are holding too many of the cards. Men who would let people die and then cover it up to save their own hides. Don't you want to see them get what's coming to them?"

"There's no difference between you and them," she says.

"Isn't there? We've never claimed to be good."

She stares at him, silent.

"It's a new age, Evans. Don't you want to change the world?" he asks.

She takes the envelope.

anyways, i hope you enjoyed that! thanks for reading :)

#fic #murder snily au #severus snape #lily evans #harry potter fanfiction #darkfic #i mean not yet but it will be #anyways #that took wayyy too long #it took me so long to get to this point it's not even funny anymore #but i'm glad i did #getting my shit together seems likw a pretty solid birthday present to myself i think #snily #anyways bye for now #also i have the same birthday as draco malfoy and i found that put via tiktok #gotta love it

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shyrose57 · 3 years

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the xlife and dsmp crossover au you have with the mentor stuff for the minors is so fun!! i love it a bunch and was wondering if you have any idea about it?

i love the idea of niki being h’s student, also the idea of him being really protective of her and just constantly wanting to teach her is amazing. i’m imagining him being a cat and liking warm spots, but then sometimes those warm spots are just open fire or lava and it’s the old dragon instincts popping up except he does not know why

Glad you enjoy it! I do have a few ideas for it, but not much, seeing as I mostly just watch Lizzie’s videos. Feel free to offer up some more ideas!

Purpled’s always been a money-making person. He had chests upon chests of treasure, ranging from stacks of gold to priceless artifacts. Lauren moved all of it to his burial site after his death.

Everyone’s still got some traits from their past hybrid sides, even if they are different hybrids now. Hbomb has the most, since his reincarnation went a bit funky(via him keeping his name and main appearance), but the others have little things too. Tommy’s always liked mossy, overgrown caves, despite his avian status, and nests in them more often than not. It always bewildered Phil. Tubbo always smells faintly of dandelions. Nobody can pinpoint where it comes from, but the scent seems to cling to his skin, making him a beloved visitor of the bees. George feels most at home in the forest, Ranboo can be found lounging in warm spots, on his rare lazy days, and Purpled is weirdly accurate when it comes to Enderpearls.

As a child, Tommy absolutely despised sunlight. He’d cry and scream if he was dragged outside, and wore tinted glasses for a large majority of his childhood. On the other hand, he could stare at anything with color for hours.

Tommy and Tubbo have always known when something was up with the other. Even when they’d just met, they instantly seemed to be able to read each other. Not only that, but they’ve always been intimately aware of the world around them, of the storms and earthquakes, and how well the harvest would go. It’s a connection that has traversed lives, and will continue to do so.

Ranboo’s white half looks almost exactly like his old self, minus the red eye. If his skin was just pale, and his eye was blue, it’d be like looking at a torn photo. This causes much pain, later on.

Ranboo has a secret little cabin miles away from the main Smp area, hidden in a dark oak forest. He shares the area with George, who has his own little hideaway here. Neither have ever said anything about it, but sometimes they invite each other over for snacks, and just...sit and enjoy being so surrounded by the world.

Purpled has mixed feelings on the others. As a wolf hybrid, he’s incredibly loyal to those who earn it...but that doesn’t explain why he’s so ready to go to war for these people he barely knows. The minors, maybe he could understand. He knows them at least a bit, and they all get along fairly well. But Wilbur? Niki? Why does he feel the need to protect them when they don’t even speak? These confusing feelings lead to him keeping his distance from everyone quite often, though he doesn’t hesitate to join Pogtopia’s side when they come asking.

Ranboo’s frequently adopted by cats. It doesn’t matter where he is, if there’s a cat, there will soon follow a few dead rabbits at his feet, and he will be promptly stared down until he eats them. This is actually how he met his own cats, and they continue to do this to this day.

All the X-life members have little trinkets from their former students, kept safe in their Enderchests.

Speaking of Enderchest, the first time Hbomb opened one, he found it already filled with a bunch of items, including a strange, oversized golden harness, carefully carved and inlaid with moonstones and garnet. He feels strangely sad when holding it.

He never mentioned it to anyone-half these items didn’t exist on this server, it seemed like it would make Dream to happy to have them here.

(Every once in awhile though, he does take out his Elytra and use it to fly around. The wings always take on a draconic form, despite being feathery for almost everybody else)

You know that Familiar Book Lizzie has in her Shadowcraft series? Tommy and Tubbo both had one too, which eventually end up back in their possessions, thanks to the weakening walls between worlds, and some very persistent creatures. Thicket’s favored familiar was the Ocelot, like Lizzie. Thimble personally was fond of 1up and the Fairy.

Purpled taught Ranboo how to teleport. How did he know? Not even Purpled knows that, but his tips certainly were helpful.

As for Niki and Hbomb being close, well, that’s what I was going for! He easily takes up a mentor role with her, and the two just seem to connect quick, which is definitely because of their past lives. Hbomb helps protect all of them, and it’s not long before Niki’s joining him, decked up in armor. Neither of them may remember, but they have always been the protectors, from one dragon to another.

Yeah, he should definitely like warm spots. Maybe he can have a small base in a lava pit. It’s pretty far away, and all it has is a few chests, a bed, and the nether portal entrance, but it’s very warm and toasty...for him. For anyone else, it’d probably feel more roasty.

#dream smp #This Life And The Next AU #dream smp au #purpled #ldshadowlady #x life smp #tubbo #ranboo #tommyinnit #georgenotfound #hbomb #niki nihachu

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firespirited · 3 years

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Listening to people explain why they’ve held on to Harry potter for so long coincided with some dredged up memories and well, I’m able to throw a whole thing away because I’d already done this rodeo several times by my tweens.

long post, press j to skip, safe to reblog and reply, you know the deal

The spiritual leaders who were hypocrites, the mentors who were actually bad people, the artists who you hold on to while their art is rotting more each time you look at it, the children’s book authors who gave you bravery and kindness who also wholeheartedly believed in a disgusting benevolent white supremacy because it was just “science” and “civilisation”. By 10, the misogyny wrapped in kindness was pissing me off more than the overt agressive type. God was dead and I was ignoring the maggots. By 15, I was a snarling kicked dog in a corner who was never going to trust anyone fully unless it was entirely earned. You hold on to people far longer than you hold on to formative art, philosophies, stories because you think you might be able to reach them, omg especially if they’ve shown the ability to grow in the past for others... then it just hurts more that you weren’t able to get through.

I guess I *really* envy people who are conflicted about Michael Jackson or JK Rowling or whatnot. I tried to hold on to Led Zep after finding out a really bad thing because it was ages ago and everyone seems okay but everytime it comes up on shuffle, nah I can’t. I can read problematic stuff, watch films by bad people but I can’t LOVE it. The fifth element was a film I loved to bits and now it’s a bunch of good performances with interesting costumes and world building that i’m not sure i’d want to rewatch because the Diva Plavalaguna is his teen wife. I refused to believe i was ace or without faith because that’s just wierd and creepy, it’ll magically come back when trust does (spoilers: it did not) Yeah, still holding out a tiny hope that i’m just broken with a “spirit of bitterness” “maliciously seeding doubt” “embracing mistrust and anger instead of trying”.

I really envy people who can take an artist like a rotten vegetable and cut off the bad bits. I don’t get it though because I love salvage, sorting and reparing broken things, you know i love a deep cleaning! Redemption stories move me more than anything. Mj set innappropriate boundaries with the kids who idolized him in the Bashir documentary and just like that Off the wall (which is undeniably a fantastic album) was unlistenable even though that was a whole different era.

I don’t want to be a “toss the whole man away” person and I wish someone would tell me if that’s an unhealthy coping mechanism or just empathy overriding personal taste and wants. I have a lot of shame about not managing to keep parts of stuff that i like without it being tainted, is that the brainwashing or just wanting to be normal? I want answers that are more in depth and nuanced than what I’m finding about people’s relationship to the wizarding world.

Been preaching about how you need to follow your own personal gut feelings and boundaries but I have no clue if that’s healthy in the slightest. How are the people who’ve made Harry Potter or other made-by-bad-people content theirs doing it? The words ‘it lives in our world now’ make sense but also I don’t know how to make that work?

#saf #death of the author #yeah but how do you get the stench out?#tw: religious guilt #separating the artist from the art #this is incoherant and adhd bouncing all over the place i'll probably refine it tomorrow

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aloysiavirgata · 4 years

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In The Gale

Title: In The Gale

Author: Aloysia Virgata

Rating: PG

Category: MSR

Author's Notes: For @perplexistan, who asked and helped me make it better. This is shortly after settling into the Unremarkable House. I tried making sense of their legal status, but it’s simply impossible and I gave up.

Our heroes quote from Melville, Shakespeare, Sagan, Baudrillard, and (Emily) Dickens.

***

Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessed face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

***

She recites The Raven to herself on the drive in, lists all the state capitals in alphabetical order, and goes through the periodic table. Her body fizzes like a shaken soda, tiny anxious bubbles rising through her blood. They’ve done so much for this, called in so many favors. Mulder put his book on hold for a month, quizzing her with dog-eared notecards.

“Immediate treatment of myocardial infarction,” he’d call, and she’d say “MONA TASS.”

She feels a pang for the simplicity of the other life, the hiding one, where she just had to ring up cigarettes and herbal Viagra at gas stations.

***

She’s the new girl at the cafeteria table, awkward and alone. Mulder had prepared her a lunch like it’s the first day of school, and she stares at it, wishing for an appetite.

From the corner of her eye she sees two colleagues - an MRI tech and an obstetrician, she thinks - talking softly and glancing over. Scully thinks she hears “FBI,” and she looks up and smiles, uncertain.

They blink at her, look away.

***

Ybarra comes around the corner, gliding in his cassock like a disapproving ghost. “Dr. Scully,” he says, in his pinched voice.

She smiles thinly. “Father Ybarra.”

“Nurse Mossing was looking for the chart for Mrs. Sullivan. Imagine my surprise when I found it in Room 314 instead of Room 413. That’s a potential HIPAA violation, Dr. Scully. That’s a federal law.”

Scully curls her hand so that her nails dig into her skin. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Father Ybarra, please forg-”

He holds up his palm. “It won’t happen again,” he says, and glides onward.

Scully closes her eyes and leans against the wall. She breathes through her nose until the ringing in her ears stops.

***

She wants to collapse into his arms and cry when she gets home, but that would be giving in. It would be letting them down.

“How’d it go?” he asks. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a Knicks shirt, a five o’clock shadow.

She smiles brightly. “It was good. Learning curve, but good. I think Father Ybarra might be a tough nut to crack, is all.”

Mulder rubs his cowlicked hair. “Put your feet up, Scully, since you won’t wear sensible shoes.”

She does, and accepts the glass of wine he holds out. “Thanks. I’ll sleep well tonight, anyway. There are miles of hallways.”

He sits next to her on the couch. “I wrote a few pages,” he says. “I deleted a bunch, but I think there was a multi-paragraph net gain.”

“I’m glad you’re able to stop focusing on my stuff now,” she says. “Both back in the saddle.”

“Go team.”

She clinks her glass against his. She drinks her wine too fast.

***

Ybarra had come in during her rounds that morning and startled her into knocking a metal bedpan onto the floor. Scully thinks the reverberations of that sound will follow her to the grave.

She’s now in the chapel, tucked into a back pew. She’s been staring at the small altar, at the stained glass windows flanking the crucifix. The Blessed Virgin smiles beatifically down at her, a wretched sinner.

Scully laces her fingers on the back of the pew in front of her and bows her head against them. “Please,” she whispers. “Please.”

***

Mulder wakes her with tea and eggs. “You haven’t been eating,” he says, brow furrowed.

She rubs her eyes, yawning. “What?”

He sits next to her on the bed, sets the plate and mug on her night table. “You just push your food around your plate, you hardly talk when you get home. What’s going on, Scully?”

She sits up, looking at his worried face. He’s sun-browned and tousled, beautiful, with a mouth that still makes her weak in the knees. “Nothing. It’s just a lot to jump back into.”

“I’m sure it is. And I still want to help you with it.” He pulls the flash cards from his pocket, touches her wrist with his other hand. “Let’s see - causes of upper zone pulmonary fibrosis?”

She looks at the ceiling, back at him. “I don’t need help.”

Mulder blinks, stung.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. You just don’t need to hover over me. You have your own things to work on. Work on your book, patch up your henhouse. ” Her voice sounds snappish to her own ears.

His changeable eyes, now mossy green, darken. He chews his bottom lip, nodding slowly. “I thought you were one of my ‘things.’ Sorry to bother you.” He rises, walks downstairs.

“Mulder,” she whispers.

The tea goes down fine. Scully tries to eat the eggs but feels bile rise in her throat. She flushes them down the toilet instead of leaving them behind, because that is love.

***

She arrives at the nurses’ station on the second floor with three dozen donuts and two cardboard boxes of coffee. She deposits them on the desk. “Good morning, Annabel,” she says.

“Anneliese,” the woman says.

Scully nods, walks away.

***

He slides his hand up her pajama top, tracing circles on her ribs, sliding his fingers around to her breasts. He kisses the back of her neck. “Scully,” he whispers, his breath warm and ticklish in her ear.

She wants to pretend to wake up, to turn towards him and lose herself in his body. She wants to tell him everything, to be held and loved and petted and reassured. She wants him to remind her that she once stared down Congress, that some backwater priest and his prickly staff should be a joke to her. She wants them to laugh together at these silly, petty people.

But she can’t, she can’t disappoint him. He’s been so proud of her.

Scully stays still, breathes evenly until his hands move away and she’s alone again.

***

Her car rattles over the driveway, through shimmering waves of heat that rise from the crisping grass. It is the kind of late July afternoon where the sun is a hazy white ball in the west, and clouds of gnats are a permanent feature of the landscape.

Scully parks, avoiding a puddle in which a peacock is standing. Mulder has recently become enamored of yard fowl. She narrows her eyes at it while opening the car door.

“Good boy, Kevin,” she calls to it, wary.

Scully picks her way over the gravel in her thin heels. The peacock mews an alarm as she approaches, but doesn’t charge. She lets herself inside, shuts the heat and sun and wildlife outside. The house smells of coffee and microwave popcorn.

She walks into Mulder’s office and finds him hunched at his desk, typing. “Hey,” she says, and drops a kiss on his head. There’s a sketch of Baphomet taped to his monitor, her worn flash cards atop a tome about Raëlism.

He turns in his chair. He puts his arms around her hips. “Hey.”

“Kevin behaved himself,” she offers.

“You two will be friends yet, you’ll see.”

She peers at the computer. “You get a lot done today?”

Mulder shrugs. “Eh, a bit. Waiting on a few emails, and I had to run that tubing to drain the sump down into the woods. Ate up most of the afternoon.”

Scully shakes her head in admiration. “I don’t know how you manage all the multitasking.”

“Well, the book helps me avoid the house, and the house helps me avoid the book. It’s a perfect system. That Ybarra guy still riding your ass?”

She chews her lip. “No,” she lies. “I think we’re okay now.”

“Good,” he says. “I’d hate to have to beat up a priest.”

***

Scully gazes at herself in the empty locker room. She looks thin and tired, and her hair is frizzing up, even pulled back like this. All her makeup has sweated off except for smudged crescents of mascara. Her bra is the color of a Band-Aid, her underwear white and sensible. Between the two is the hard white rose of her gunshot scar, like a second navel, an artifact of a second birth. It is numb when she touches it, indifferent. There are no stretch marks from William, a tale missing from the anthology of her skin. She unhooks her bra, lets it slide down to the damp floor. Scully turns to observe her body in profile. The scar is gone this way, the tattoo hidden as well, and she smooths her hands along her ribs. Her breasts seem out of place to her when they are unbound, frivolous somehow. Vestigial.

She looks away.

***

The hospital is labyrinthine, having been constructed of various additions when funds allowed. There are dead ends, pointless staircases, and a mysterious storage closet filled with old televisions. She makes little maps on notepaper.

“So where did you work before this?” an orthopedic surgeon asks her.

A diner in Wyoming.

“I was out West for a while,” she says.

***

A week in, and Mulder has made a cake to celebrate. A bouquet of Kevin’s shed tail feathers ornaments the table.

An offering, Mulder calls it, tickling her chin with one.

A week down, she thinks, and blows out the candle. She wonders when she’ll stop counting the time.

***

Shy, he gives her a chapter to read. It’s good, and she tells him so. It’s very good. She hears his voice in her head when she reads it, his passion. She loves the esoterica tucked into his gyri and sulci.

“Your prose was never this clear in your reports,” she remarks.

“Hey if you can’t blind them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.”

Scully laughs. “You want to read a few medical reports?”

He looks at her, suddenly serious. “Yeah,” he says. “I would. It would be nice to hear about your day for once.”

She wonders if love is the weapon that lets them wound so casually.

***

“You’re late,” Ybarra says softly.

She doesn’t explain that she’d somehow ended up at the TV closet again, that the room numbering system in this hospital had been designed by nihilists, that the nursing student had Dermabonded her glove to a patient’s forehead.

She lowers her eyes like she did at Catholic school. She promises to do better.

***

“What’s going on?” Mulder asks her for what feels like the hundredth time. “Talk to me, Scully.”

She presses her hands to her face for a moment, drops them to her sides. “Nothing,” she says again, frustrating them both. “I’m tired. It’s a hard schedule.”

He places a throw pillow on his lap and pats it. “Come here,” he says. “Please.”

She acquiesces, curling on her side with her back to him. He runs his fingers through her hair, traces the Fibonacci spirals of her ear. She wants to relax, to melt into his touch. She indulges in a Mulderesque conspiracy theory that the hospital microdoses the water with tetanus toxin to keep everyone rigid and tense.

Scully gazes at the windows, at the hard white light of summer streaming in. The curtains are blue with an arabesque pattern, and they looked very chic in the store. She wonders now if they seem desperate in this odd little house. She thinks of Meg March, dressed up in borrowed finery at the Moffats’ ball.

***

Scully clomps up the steps to the porch and kicks her rain boots off next to the umbrella stand. It contains four umbrellas and a gnarled hickory limb that Mulder claims is going to be polished into a fine walking stick one of these days. She goes into the house and is dismayed to find it stale and stifling and dark. Dust motes waft in Brownian motion through shafts of sunlight, undirected by fans or air conditioning.

“Mulder,” she calls, and there is silence.

She twists her hair into a bun as she pads upstairs, old wood satiny under her bare feet. She pushes open the bedroom door, and the air is hot and still.

“Mulder?” She needs his help with her zipper, but there is no reply.

She wrestles herself out of her silk sheath, sticky and irritating, and lets it puddle on the floor. Her bra follows. She feels guilty, as Mulder has turned out to be a surprisingly diligent housekeeper. His office is filled with perilous stacks of home improvement books and arcane journals about lake monsters, the walls papered with clippings and blurry photographs, but he seems able to quarantine his own entropy.

She is trying to do the same.

Scully pulls on soft cotton pajama shorts, a gray tank top imbued with the compressive powers of Lycra. She uses lotion to rub away the mascara beneath her eyes. She goes downstairs and out the back door, shielding her eyes against the piercing sunlight. A mosquito whines at her ear and she pinches it out of the air.

“Still got those reflexes, kid,” Mulder says from somewhere off to her left.

She turns and sees him crouched next to the hulking green block of the transformer. “All the lights are off, and the house feels like a rainforest. I take it you’ve had an eventful day?”

He sighs. “Not really. Well, not the event I was hoping for, which is the power coming back on. There was a pretty heavy thunderstorm around one and that’s when the electricity blew.”

She sits on the bottom step, knees drawn up. She likes to watch him working, a side of him they’re both still learning about. There was never much call for home maintenance at Hegal Place, or living out of cash-only motels. “You call the power company?”

He huffs. “Yeah, they told me they had no reported outages and the power should be fine. I explained that I was trying to report an outage and that it definitely was not fine and she promised someone would be here between tomorrow and eventually.”

Scully smiles. “And that’s why you’re out here toying with death?”

“Not much else to do, really. Can’t write with the power out.” Mulder sits back on his heels and shrugs. “You, uh, have a good day?”

She hadn’t. “Yep. Starting to feel like part of the team.”

“Good. You need to get your career standards as high as your standards for men,” he says, getting to his feet.

“Oh, well, that’s an obviously unattainable bar.”

“Obviously.” He sits next to her on the step. “You wear that to work? You know I think bras are a tool of the patriarchy and you shouldn’t bother, but I’m just surprised Our Lady of Perpetual Shame takes such a liberal view.”

She laughs a little. “I figured as long as I tossed a lab coat over it, I’d look like a real doctor. It worked when I was a kid.”

“Hey, that’s what I did with my badge half the time. Listen, Scully. The house is pretty tropical. You want to bunk up in a hotel until they get the power sorted out?”

Scully thinks about the convenience it would afford. Maids and room service and maybe a pool, depending. But she is tired of hotels, even nice ones. She is tired of polite signs that remind her that the pillows and towels and hairdryers aren’t hers, the tiny toiletries an indicator of her temporary status. She is tired of living out of suitcases and dressers that made her clothes smell strange, tired of running from her own life. She wants to be home.

“Nah,” she says. “We’ll manage.”

Mulder looks surprised, but doesn’t question it. “I’ll call Lowe’s about getting a generator delivered tomorrow. We ought to have one anyway out here.”

She’d always had a vague idea that Mulder had money - it was the only explanation for his complete disinterest in it. But when they’d come back, when they’d talked to his lawyers, she'd been staggered. The Vineyard house alone explained his casual international jaunts. They can have things now, endless things, and there is something frantic in her that wants to spend the money. Bingeing chocolate bunnies after Lent.

Mulder peels his shirt off, wadding it into a limp ball. He tosses it so that it hooks over the doorknob. “Still got it,” he says. He preens.

“Does the NBA realize the tremendous talent they’re missing out on?” she asks. “Do they even know that, at this very moment, a six foot tall middle aged white man is out here flinging his clothing a distance of several feet?”

He snuggles up to her, wrapping his sweaty arms around her shoulders.

“Ugh,” she says, and pushes at him. “Mulder, you’re disgusting and it’s a thousand degrees out here.”

“Hoping that cold, cold heart of yours might cool me off.” She sniffs disdainfully, and he releases her. “Scully, how do you feel about bees?”

“We have a history, bees and I,” she observes, tapping the back of her neck.

Mulder curls his hand over the scar, kneads the muscles there. “Well, these wouldn’t be fancy bees.”

“Hmmm,” she says. “I’m not inherently opposed. Why do you want bees, Mulder?”

He shrugs. “I’m getting older, and I’ve got to consider funeral plans. The last one didn’t really go as expected, so I thought maybe I’d mellify myself this time.”

She nods. “Makes sense. I mean, of course, there’s no actual proof that mellification actually occurred, but that’s never stopped you.”

“I also like honey,” he adds. “And bees are good for the planet.”

“Honey often contains botulism spores,” she remarks. “Botulinum toxin is the most lethal toxin known, and it’s estimated that as little as 40 grams of it would be enough to kill everyone on earth.” She doesn’t say you shouldn’t give it to babies, that she sweetened her smoothies with dates and maple syrup so that -

“Well, nobody better piss off my bee army and me,” he says darkly.

“Everybody eventually pisses you off. Mulder, is that old tent in the shed still? We could sleep in that tonight.”

He shakes his head. “Heavy mildew and dry rot, so I threw it out. We could sleep out here if you want, though. We’ve got that big air mattress.”

“Let’s do that,” she says. “We can put it on the porch. Tell you what - you get stuff together, and I’ll even make dinner.” Scully doesn’t like cooking, but she wants to create order, to complete a finite task. She can be domesticated again, like a lost house cat finally returned to a hearth.

“We having eggs or peanut butter?” he asks, smirky.

“I’d hate to spoil the surprise,” she snips, and goes back into their sauna of a house.

In the kitchen, she stands in front of the open fridge, letting the delicious leftover cold soak into her skin. She’ll deal with the spoiled food later. Eggs had, actually, been her plan but it’s just too hot. The stove doesn’t work, and she doesn’t have the fortitude to turn the grill on. She finds some leftover shrimp pasta that Mulder has made, some vegetables, and assembles it all into a passable salad.

There, she thinks, pleased. I’d pay twelve bucks for that somewhere. She uses her foot to scratch a mosquito bite on her calf.

Her skin is clammy, hair stringy and damp from sweat. Maybe they should just go to a hotel after all. Perhaps she should stop ascribing symbolism to every damn thing and enjoy herself once in a while. But she thinks of packing, of driving, of unpacking and somehow it’s all too much and her eyes start to fill and her sinuses sting.

Scully pinches her wrist until it passes, feeling weak and hating the weakness in herself. It’s the heat, it’s the exhaustion, it’s the heavy mental load. She considers going outside for a dip in the pond, but suspects the water will be unpleasantly warm. Instead, she drags herself back upstairs for a cold shower.

She sits on the edge of the bed, weary, and stares at a framed picture of a sea turtle on the far wall. If she lets her eyes drift out of focus, it looks like it’s swimming. She tips her head back for a better angle, watches it float across her vision. It slips away then, into the black of the deep waters.

***

She startles awake when he touches her shoulder, gasps.

“Jesus,” Mulder says, and sits next to her. “Bad dream?”

Scully sits up, dazed. “What? No, was I asleep?”

“You’ve been out cold for over an hour, but I wanted to make sure you got some food. Water at least, it’s too hot up here.”

She blinks, confused. “I don’t remember,” she says. Peering to her right reveals night outside.

Mulder holds a hand out and she grasps it, letting him pull her to her feet. She wavers and he steadies her, arm about her shoulders.

“I just need some water,” she says, defensive.

He guides her down the stairs and out the front door onto the porch. The air outside is substantially cooler, a light breeze kissing her face. She settles into a chair, stares deep into the felty dark. She still can’t remember falling asleep.

Mulder hands her a water bottle from the little table and she rolls it between her palms, the plastic crinkling. “Hey, I thought you were setting up the air mattress out here,” she says.

“No air flow behind the wall,” he replies. “Drink that up like a good girl and I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

Scully obeys and feels better. The water tastes stale, but it’s cool and wet. “Maybe you should have my job,” she says, looking up. “Caring for live people is so much work.”

“Everybody eventually pisses me off,” he reminds her. “Come on, Doc.”

She follows him down the steps and around the side of the house. Their property is vast and feral, pocked with mole burrows and rabbit nests. The floodlights are out with the power, and the house is nearly swallowed up by the vast night. Scully glances up at the Milky Way, at the waxing moon, and marvels again at the sky they have out here. We are star stuff, she thinks.

“Moonstruck?” Mulder asks.

“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars.”

“As long as you can tell a hawk from a handsaw,” he says, and tugs her along.

She follows him to the back of the house and then stops, smiling. Mulder has hammered some old two-by-fours into a frame, draped the structure in white bedsheets. Inside, the air mattress is piled with sofa pillows. Outside, camping lanterns, candles, and two strands of solar lights make it into a kind of fairy circle.

“Mulder,” she says, delighted. “This is ridiculous.”

“Indian Guide saves the day,” he says.

“Your architecture badge is definitely more impressive than your fire badge,” she says, walking over to the little tent. He’s brought her salad inside, and there is a cooler packed with ice and water bottles. Cans of bug spray sit at the flap. She crawls inside, suddenly ravenous.

Mulder joins her on the mattress, which bounces in response. “Remember my water bed?”

She laughs, piling food on a plate for each of them. “What a swinging bachelor you were.”

She remembers the water bed fondly, the leather couch and the fish and the postage-stamp bathroom in his apartment. It shouldn’t hurt still, but it does. She knew herself there, her place on the map. She eats her salad, wistful for Chinese food and beer at that battered coffee table.

“Scully,” he says.

“What?”

“Scully.”

“Just middle-aged nostalgia, I suppose,” she murmurs.

He reaches out to take her hand. “You’re scarcely middle aged.”

She smiles, squeezes his fingers. “If you go by life experience, we’re both about two hundred years old.”

“Like those Galapagos tortoises. But you need to tell me what’s going on at work. You won’t disappoint me.”

It can be very disagreeable to live with a profiler.

Scully drops his hand. She bites at the fleshy part of her thumb. This is real, she thinks. This place. It is not down in any map; true places never are. She can only deflect for so long, and her armor is rusting away. “I’m afraid,” she whispers, then chances a look at his face.

His eyes are soft, searching. “Why?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, I don’t…” Her sinuses sting again and she presses her palms hard into her eyes. “Please.”

Mulder’s hand on her back, in endless, gentle figure eights. He pulls the elastic from her hair and lets it tumble down to her shoulders. He shifts so that her back is to him, his long legs on either side of her body.

“Mulder, what -”

“Shhhh,” he says, and gathers the hair at the crown of her head. “It’s not a real sleepover if you don’t get your hair French braided.”

Scully blinks. “Since when do you know how to braid hair?”

“Little sister, absent parents. Now stop moving and talk.”

She keeps her head very steady, thinking of her own sister’s deft fingers when their mother was too busy for anything but ponytails. Mulder tugs at another little section of hair. Scully thinks she might be okay if she isn’t looking at him, if she can’t read herself in his eyes.

Moth shadows dance across the white sheet wall, drawn to the flickering candles outside. It fascinates her that they never figure out that fire burns. “I don’t know how to do this,” she says, and her voice is thick.

“To talk, or to be still?” he says in his Oxford psychologist voice.

She isn’t sure of what she means either. “Yes,” she says, with a hiccupy laugh. “Both.”

“Me too,” he says, slipping his thumb through the strands behind her ear. “I don’t know how to do this.”

She swallows hard. “I just...I’ve always had something to consume me. I had the FBI, we traveled all the time, and then we were running and I thought it was hard but it was so easy to just survive. There were no decisions. I didn’t care about, I don’t know...plates.”

He pauses in his work. “Plates?”

Scully chews at a hangnail, frustrated. “Just things, the things you buy for a house. Long term things. I did with William and then…” she trails off, her chest tight. “I feel like I’m playing a game sometimes, like improv theater. Fox and Dana Build A Home.”

“Fox and Dana?” he repeats. “Surely not.”

“Well, we’re hardly Mulder and Scully anymore, are we?” Her stomach clenches and that’s it, she sees. That’s the fear.

He finishes the braid and fastens the elastic at the end of it. “Of course we are,” he says. “We are who we are.”

She turns to him then, the whispering anxiety back with a roar. “And who is that, Mulder? I was plain old Dana Scully until I met you. And we had this life, this strange and wonderful and terrible life where I was Scully because I was your partner and now that’s over. It’s all nothing.” She’s crying openly now, quietly, and it feels cleansing.

“You’re still my partner,” he says, and his eyes are shining too.

She wipes her nose with a paper napkin. “Am I? At what? I go to work and see patients but I forgot there’s no closure with the living. People get sick and get better and get sick again. It doesn’t end. And this house, the power is always going to go out and the chickens will always be hungry and -“ she stops, feeling hysterical.

“You don’t have to work,” he says softly. “The settlement from the FBI, my inheritance…”

She shakes her head. “You know I have to work.”

He sighs, rubs her knee. “I know you do. But it doesn’t have to be this. It doesn’t have to drain you.”

He’s right, of course he’s right, but he’s also so terribly wrong that she wonders if he knows her at all. She has to be a doctor for her father, for William. For him. She has to see something through. Scully smooths her hand over the back of her head, feeling the even ridges of the braid. Mulder is so competent with everything he does, so easy with himself. He’ll get his damned bees and become some kind of honey magnate in no time.

“People at the hospital, they ask me what I did before. And I don’t know how to answer. How can I possibly answer that question? I just say I was with the government, but that isn’t really the answer, is it?”

Mulder shrugs. He’s never felt the need to explain himself to people. “It’s true.”

Scully stretches out on her stomach across the mattress, chin on the pillows, watching the moths again. They tumble like acrobats, untethered in the thick air. “There’s this number called Graham’s number, used in Ramsey Theory, which is, well, nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, it was in the Guinness Book for being the largest specific number used in a proof at the time. And Mulder, this number is so big that writing out all the digits would exceed the bounds of the known universe.”

“Nobody likes a math nerd, Scully.”

She rolls onto her back to glare at him. “Yes they do, they give them Nobel prizes. Anyway. A whole new notation system, Knuth Notation, had to be developed to express these massive numbers. Graham’s Number, Tree(3), et cetera. And I feel like that at times. That there’s this endless amount of vital, inexpressible information inside of me that is so essential but that I have no way to share.”

She blinks a few times, spent by this unburdening.

Mulder stretches out next to her, propped on his side. “You can express it to me,” he says, massaging her temple with his thumb.

Scully closes her eyes. “I feel like a ghost sometimes. How do you do it, Mulder? How do you just keep moving forward without getting lost?”

He sighs. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you have a tendency to compile people into perfect specimens, then measure yourself against that imaginary standard. It’s the precession of simulacra.”

She looks at him, indignant, then realizes he could be right. “Well,” she says. “It’s possible. But Mulder, is that such a bad thing, to want to hold myself to the highest goals?”

He tugs her onto her side so that she’s facing him, nearly nose to nose. Her lips feel tingly. “Yes,” he says, stroking her hair. “When the goal isn’t attainable. And when it puts everyone else on pedestals where we’re ill equipped to balance. And when it puts you in a constant state of frustration and anxiety. No one is perfect. Not even you.”

“I don’t want to be perfect,” she lies. “And I don’t need you to be either.” That part is true, at least.

He laughs in reply. “Apropos of being Galapagos tortoises, Charles Darwin once said ‘I am very poorly today, and very stupid and hate everybody and everything.’”

“He rode the tortoises,” Scully says, calming. “I can’t defend his methodology.”

“See? You’re better than Charles Darwin.” He kisses her forehead.

“Well,” she says. “Well.”

“Scully, look. You’re not alone here, feeling at sea. I went to the feed store and some guy picked a fight, shoved me pretty hard with his shoulder. And this reflexive part of my brain wanted to grab my badge, stick it in his face, and put him against the wall for assaulting a federal agent. But I ignored it and bought the chicken feed and just headed out. And I felt like, is this who I am now? Some pushover with yard birds and home improvement books?”

“You made a little fast and loose with your authority sometimes,” she says, thinking of Roche. She curves her palm against his cheek, thumbs the fine ridge of his zygomatic bone.

He bumps her nose with his. “You broke into a secret morgue.”

“You made me.” She sniffles, laughs a little. “The good old days.”

“These can be the good days too,” he says. “They can, if we work at it.” He traces her mouth with his finger.

“Okay,” she says. Hope stirs in her, a thing with feathers. “Partners?”

“Partners.”

He kisses her, in their small tent, in their ring of light.

#xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #my fic #iwtb

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words-writ-in-starlight · 4 years

Note

Untamed TAZ Balance AU? Don't have to write anything, just consider that (is Wen Ning Lucretia in this or is he too nice for that)

NHS IS LUCRETIA, NHS IS ABSOLUTELY LUCRETIA, I HAVE THOUGHTS, my girlfriend yelled at me for these thoughts. Hell this got long, I’ve literally been saving it in my drafts until Tumblr fixed the Read More issue.

WWX is Taako, JC is Magnus, WQ is Merle, JYL is in the umbrella (became a lich to keep her brother from doing it), WN is the Red Robe (became a lich because he thought it seemed reasonable), NHS is Lucretia, XXC is Davenport, LWJ and LXC are mutually Kravitz (LXC sets his bro up with the death criminal wizard), Wen Zhuliu is John Vore, LSZ is Angus but also a baby Reaper

ONE

So Wei Wuxian isn’t really a wizard, is the thing. Like, he does the wizard magic, and apparently he has strong Wizard Vibes because wherever he travels, people ask him if he can solve their magical bullshit problems, but he’s, like, barely a wizard. He’s an inventor, technically, except that a few years back some stuff went explosively awry while he worked with this traveling show and–yeah. So he’s working as a wizard because, hey, he can cast Magic Missile and he needs to eat and he’s an Evocation specialist, anyway, so it’s not like he’s out here making food from rocks. He’s hired on with a couple other random jackasses, a fighter who took a dislike to Wei Wuxian right off the bat and a cleric with a bad temper and an itchy Sacred Flame finger, and they’re doing a job for some dwarf, or whatever. The dwarf has a guy hired on as muscle, but he doesn’t look like much, all wide eyes and baby face. He calls himself Qionglin, no last name, and stares at Wen Qing like he’s never seen a cleric before, and Jiang Cheng spends the entire trip to Phandolin messing with his whip, which is the stupidest weapon Wei Wuxian has ever seen.

Well, then everything immediately goes horribly wrong, though, and turns out that Jiang Cheng is pretty okay with that whip. Qionglin (Wei Wuxian spoke to the man all of one time, but he was sweet, if a little awkward) gets himself kidnapped by a bunch of goblins, and their employer is gods-know-where with whatever a Black Spider is, and suddenly this very boring escort mission is a very not boring rescue mission.

There’s a skeleton in the cave. Wei Wuxian takes an umbrella from it, and it crumbles into dust beneath its red robe. There’s a very annoyed man with a sword who calls himself Song Lan and speaks in static, and he’s somehow not the weirdest part of this whole day.

Phandolin doesn’t survive its brush with the Zidian Gauntlet, and neither does Qionglin. Wen Qing screams when he dies, and Wei Wuxian grabs her under the arms with Jiang Cheng and books it for the empty well in Song Lan’s wake, and they just hide.

And then they go to the goddamn moon, apparently.

TWO

The goddamn moon is run by an older man with hair still a glossy black, toying with a beautifully painted white fan in his hand. He calls himself the Director and–after some testing–hires them more or less on the spot. Something flickers over his face when Wen Qing, bemused by her own upset, makes an offhand mention of a man named Qionglin who died when the Gauntlet brought down so much lightning that it turned Phandolin into black glass. But it’s not Wei Wuxian’s problem, so he doesn’t worry himself over it too much. He takes the payment offered to him by the Director’s aide, a blindfolded, stunningly handsome man in Bureau blue and white who rests his hand on his own chest and says “Xiao Xingchen” and not another word.

The Bureau is–weird. They’ve got a giant jellyfish and a store run by–something Wei Wuxian Does Not Trust and a dorm. Wei Wuxian laughs and kicks Jiang Cheng cheerfully in the ankle and says “Just like college, huh?” and Jiang Cheng gives him a dark look and snaps “I never went to college.”

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian says, blinking. “Me neither.”

Whatever. They go on a train adventure and there’s a kid, a kid who blinks and stares at Wei Wuxian like he’s seen a goddamn ghost and immediately walks up to introduce himself as Lan Sizhui, boy detective.

Wei Wuxian fucking loves this kid. He’s not sure why this wide-eyed fifteen-year-old latched onto him so hard, but he’s smart, funny, loyal, and extremely easy to pick on. 13/10 child rating, in Wei Wuxian’s book.

(Sizhui, for his part, more or less kicks down the door to his father’s offices in the Astral Plane the second the Reclaimers are gone and shouts “I HAVE A LEAD ON WHAT HAPPENED TO THE WORLD.”)

(His father, Lan Wangji, the Grim Reaper, is very interested to hear all about it–especially when his son casually name-drops three of the biggest bounties that the Raven King, his adoptive elder brother, has ever sent him after, with the exception of that absolutely insufferably sweet-tempered lich Wen Ning.)

THREE

So…the Crystal Kingdom.

Is it Wei Wuxian’s finest hour, shouting obscure tentacle-related threats at the second crystal construct they’ve seen in the past twenty minutes? No, probably not. But it’s been a stressful day, they’re already down one Regulator and Song Lan is fuck-knows-where with Mianmian and, again, this is the second menacing crystal construct they’ve seen in twenty minutes. Or maybe it’s the same one?

Whatever, doesn’t matter. They’re here to hunt down Meng Yao, a scientist who’s been dicking around with some seriously ill-advised necromancy and also the Philosopher’s Stone, and a crystal construct or two isn’t going to stop them.

Wei Wuxian actually physically cannot help himself, though, when the Reapers appear in the mirror, a matched set of beautiful men, and he grins broadly at the one glaring at him most viciously. They get let go on a technicality, along with a conduit still containing Meng Shi’s memory of a vision beyond the cosmos, and Meng Yao leaves with his life and not much more.

Later, Lan Wangji is absolutely betrayed by the realization that his brother willfully set him up to be the primary go-between for the completely breathtaking deeply irritating wizard-by-way-of-death-criminal. And that’s before the whole lich revelation. (He does get a kiss, though, after he watches his brother pulled under by the Hunger. That’s nice. He hopes Wei Wuxian will mitigate the death crimes now that they’re dating.)

FOUR

The seven Relics are as follows:

The Zidian Gauntlet, which can generate a lightning blast so powerful that it can obliterate an entire city. (Jiang Cheng–he watched the others try to lay in protections, try to make their Relics harmless, and he knew it wouldn’t work. All the Gauntlet does is damage. It can melt a city down to black glass, but it can’t be twisted, it can’t be made into any more of a nightmare than it already is. He’s a fighter. He knows all about damage, knew all about what he was making. That doesn’t mean it didn’t kill him by inches to watch it leave a path of destruction–so much that his beloved jiejie tried to seal it away.)

The Oculus, which can make any construct real. (Xiao Xingchen–Nie Huaisang didn’t take everything. He doesn’t remember the mission, or his own past. Something strange got confused in the process, and he lost most of his speech. But he remembers how to fight, handles his sword as cleanly and effectively as ever, and he remembers that he doesn’t think much of Nie Huaisang’s combat skills. Or maybe it’s just really obvious that Nie Huaisang isn’t much of a fighter. Regardless, Xiao Xingchen insisted on accompanying him, before–before. Then they went into the Felicity Wilds, and…Xue Yang is honestly delighted. He’s never managed to ruin someone so badly on the way into Wonderland before. It’s just a shame that Nie Huaisang sent Xiao Xingchen away before they reached the doors.)

The Healer’s Sash, which can manipulate natural forces like the wind, the tides, and tectonic plates just as easily as it can manipulate a heartbeat or a pair of lungs. (Wen Qing–she prays to Pelor, the Dawnfather, the healer and Lord of Light, but she’s long since lost her faith in him as anything but a contracted boss. It’s a shock to everyone including her when she’s granted a right arm made of glass and magic after losing it. She was so determined to make a Relic that could be used for good, but–well. She supposes she should have known better.)

The Philosopher’s Stone, which can more or less transform anything into anything. (Jiang Yanli–she’s a Transmutation wizard, she’s been feeding the crew of the Starblaster for a hundred years on whatever she can pull together. If the right person found the Stone, it would have ended world hunger. The wrong person found the stone. Jiang Yanli tried her damnedest to hunt it down, but she found the Gauntlet first, and, well–she already became a lich to stop one younger brother from doing it. It’s not a struggle to decide that she’s going to take responsibility for saving Jiang Cheng from his own guilt. Then things go horribly wrong, and she spends the next twelve years in an umbrella.)

The Temporal Chalice, which offers complete control over time. (Wen Ning–he was a strict scholar until his sister was contacted about the IPRE’s creation, but he always did want to travel, and his theories about bonds were too good for Xiao Xingchen to pass up having on his crew. Everything he’s done since they lost their home system has been about trying not to leave his family, about trying for second chances, he became a lich for them, he’s done everything to stay with them, of course his Relic is a second chance generator.)

The Animus Flute, which offers control over the spirits of the dead and, in the hands of a sufficiently competent expert, the living. (Wei Wuxian–he’s watched his brother, his sister, his friends, die so many times. He’s terrified of immortality, but he’s most terrified of being alone. He meant to make something that could keep the dead present, so that they would never have to fear being left behind again. Watching it rip Jiang Cheng’s soul clean out of his body in Xue Yang’s hands is the worst thing Wei Wuxian can remember, even after everything is over.)

The Bulwark, which Nie Huaisang never did explain to anyone, but took the shape of a hand-painted fan. (Nie Huaisang lost the only person who mattered to him when the Hunger ate their home, and then as he slowly, painstakingly, rebuilt something like a family, he had to watch them suffer and die for a hundred years. And then he watched them win, and grieve like dying all over again for the winning. He’s sorry they suffered for his actions. He’s not sorry for what he did.)

FIVE

Wen Zhuliu didn’t mean to make his whole plane give up. But he had spent his whole life being used, and it all just seemed so pointless. It all just seemed so pointless. There was always someone stronger, always something bigger, always a rule he couldn’t break, always something, and he started talking, started telling people as much, and--

Wen Qing is about the farthest thing in the fucking world from a peacemaker by nature, if you ask her, but she’s a healer first, last, and most of all. And, she thinks as she watches the sun sink with a very tired man crumbling away at her side, she might be the only person in the worlds who ever noticed that Wen Zhuliu needed a healer.

(They aren’t from the same plane, but--some of the others have found distant family, on their new home. It’s an unanswerable question, if they might have been family, a few dimensions removed. Wen Ning still thinks about it.)

#the untamed #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #taz balance #taz au #starlight writes stuff #*sprints into the room with this au multiple months late and completely out of breath* H E R E #this has been languishing in my drafts for. mm. ever.#i don't even remotely remember enough of my original thoughts about it to provide a lot of tags #but i do have a case for why wzl is john vore (and it's NOT just that i think he's interesting)#i could've made jgy the hunger BUT the plot of taz requires some...reconciliatory ending structure?#and honestly nhs still being something of a puppet master means that i couldn't justify that with jgy #i needed a villain less close to nhs' heart. so i thought about xue yang but i like him as the wonderland lich TOO MUCH.#so instead i thought about who i should make the parlay person--first instincts were jyl and wn because they're Nice #but then i decided that i didn't actually need Nice nearly so much as i needed Invested #and by god can wen qing Invest #so okay--if she was going to do the parlay then i didn't need someone who could be talked around i needed someone who needed a healer #so: wen zhuliu #i don't have to justify myself to you fools #also jgy is always everyone's biggest bad so he can let someone else have a turn #jyl develops a crush on a completely socially awkward rogue from inside an umbrella by the way!#pour one out for jzx because he is NOT equipped for an ethereal woman of violet fire to blush at him #a queue we will keep and our honor someday avenge #thishazeleyeddemon #asked and answered

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tfw-no-tennis · 3 years

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ani....morphs.....

ok so picking up after the david trilogy, which hit hard as FUCK, we have book 23, which basically was a semi truck that ran over my corpse, jesus christ, they really followed up the david trilogy w/all that....

23 was so so good and also painful. its the culmination of a lot of tobias’s characterization in the series thus far and also we finally get the reveal we’ve been waiting for about elfangor....ooooh man

and there was a lot of painful stuff in this book but the worst imo was tobias wondering if it were possible that somebody wanted him and would take care of him, only to have it all come crashing down in the worst way when it turned out aria was visser three in morph, ouch.

that was so brutal augh. and when he figured it out and just crash landed and kept thinking about how he wanted to die and how he was stupid to think he could have a home...bro get these kids some THERAPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

so yeah that book was absolutely brutal but also so good...and it further fleshed out the animorphs working as a near-flawless team, w/the whole setup of tobias meeting w/the lawyer being so airtight and well-planned

also more free hork bajir!! its cool that there's stuff happening w/them offscreen, I like that

I literally had to take a break from reading the books bc the david triology + 23 was like so much, and also bc the olympics were on and all my time got dedicated to watching those, but then I opened 24, not sure what to expect, and BAM it was the helmacrons lmaoooo

I don't even remember the helmacrons but ig a lot of people hate them? lmao so that whole reputation preceded the book and I was like oh wow time for a change in tone

which wasn't wrong but also I liked that book?? I was never bored, even tho the whole thing was patently ridiculous and also had very little bearing on the overarching story

but I think it would be a standout if it were a TV episode w/a good budget - the visuals were amazing even in text, and I can imagine all the cool shrinking/growing/cellular stuff would be WICKED cool visually (ideally 2d animation but an ant man-esque live action adaptation wouldn't be terrible if they had the budget for it)

whatever let me dream. so yeah I didn't hate the helmacron book even tho the helmacrons themselves were...sure something. lmao I think they come back? that should be interesting

next book is the arctic one, we have yet another alien of the week style adventure - I liked this one too, it felt like more plot-y stuff happened since they destroyed the base, and marco’s POV is always fun

I do find it funny/interesting how sometimes when the animorphs do something - like in this book, destroying that base in the arctic - it doesn't really seem to impact the yeerks much/it doesn't get brought up much after that. and then other things like them destroying the ground-based kandrona get mentioned a lot (that example is understandable tho bc that WAS a big deal). its just hilarious to me how blowing up entire building complexes has become so routine that it isn’t even worth mentioning at this point

Also I adore when they meet other random people/kids and are chill w/them, like w/that kid they met in the rain forest earlier on w/the time travel

the descriptions of the brutally cold weather were great. I hate the cold so I was like oof this is a nightmare lmao

also ig that was the first ghostwritten book and I did kinda notice it was slightly different than usual? maybe? I could be imagining it tho

okay but book 26 tho...BOOK 26. bruh

that was SO good and I really didn’t know what to expect - but when we finally revisited Jake’s dream w/crayak I knew it was gonna be good (but I didn’t expect it to be a chess game war epic..!)

basically I loved it. SUCH a good Jake book - I really appreciate his character now as opposed to when I was 10 and often overlooked him (sorry jake).

similarly, when I was a kid and read these I sympathized a lot w/the chee and felt bad for them towards the end of the series when they had to get more involved in the war (genuinely don’t remember what they even do but ik I felt bad)

but now I've basically 180′d and I'm like damn those chee sure are hypocrites huh.

like they could solve So many of the animorphs problems but their stringent adherence to nonviolence leads to them actively getting in the animorphs way sometimes? and obviously pacifism is a complicated topic, but in this case it also intersect w/the whole ‘child soldier’ thing, and as beings who are insanely old and wise, the chee probably shouldn't just leave all the dirty work to a bunch of literal middle schoolers

aaaaanyways. there’s so much I love about this book. the iskoort! they were sure something. and the ‘plot twist’ that they are actually 2 beings, the Isk and the Yoort - and the Yoort are essentially Yeerks - that slapped. the symbiosis of it all!

I loved the part where they all realize what this means, that this is why Crayak wants the iskoort destoryed - because someday the yeerks might come across them and realize parasitism is not the only way. I love it!

alas I don’t recall the iskoort returning in the story (but also my memory is terrible so who knows?) but still that would be cool

basically I feel like this is the book where Jake Truly comes into his own as a leader, in every sense. he outmaneuvers Crayak, and even the ellimist, who’s yanking them around in his own way

the scene where jake shoves the howler off the cliff and jumps off and morphs and acquires the howler...that was fantastic and tense.

also the murder is definitely becoming more overt. I mean, it has been for a while, but it isn’t really pointed out as much anymore. oof

more on the chee - as Jake points out in this book, and other characters point out in other books - the chee could have saved the pemalites, but instead just stood by while their creators were slaughtered. on the other hand, jake says, what do the chee do AFTER they’ve killed the howlers - where to point them next? when is the end of their violence?

buuuuut also standing by while atrocities occur is pretty damning, as is frequently mentioned in this series - from the very beginning, when marco initially doesn’t want to get involved in the war at all, and the other animorphs basically tell him that turning his back on the war and acting like he doesn’t even know it’s happening would be immoral and cowardly (which imo this reaction helps to push marco in the direction he ends up going, but I digress) - this topic comes up again in 19 when cassie quits the team and rachel is upset bc she sees it as cassie elevating her own feelings above the greater good (as in, as long as cassie feels good about how she acts, it doesn’t matter how much preventable evil the yeerks are committing while she turns away). etc etc. but that’s essentially what’s happening w/the chee - even tho they help w/intel, the lack of any sort of Action on their part means that they’re essentially allowing awful things to happen when they could prevent them. this is rambly but basically...animorphs deals so much in grey areas, and the chee are noticeably black and white in their actions, despite falling, in a meta sense, in an extremely grey area. its such good, thought provoking writing!

anywayssss I keep talking about the chee lmao what else was there. oh YEAH jake and cassie kissed for the first time awww that was super cute

and ofc immediately marco teases them as asks jake if he’s gonna kiss him next, and all I can say is...marco is a bicon

also I love the background worldbuilding w/the iskoort, how they have all these groups and guilds and stuff - its not dwelled on much, which actually works really well to give the world/species a sense of lived-in realness

okay oh man and the reveal at the end that the howlers were just like...children who thought the whole thing was a game...AUGHH man that’s sooo fucked

like, when jake morphs the howler and has rachel ready to knock him down in grizzly morph if he gets out of control due to the howler’s murderous instincts, and he morphs to find that the howler is...playful, like a dolphin morph. SUCH a good fucked up sense of dawning horror there

and the fact that as far as I can tell the chee KNEW this, but wanted revenge anyways, so they let the animorphs assume that the howlers were Evil On Purpose

also I love smaller moments, like jake seeing that ax is ashamed for briefly running away during one battle w/the howlers, and then entrusts him w/an important task bc he knows that ax will see that as redemption - and when everyone thought jake was dead and were so happy when he wasn't (they all love each other so much im gonna cry about these child soldiers augh)

basically that book was so good

man one thing I absolutely love is that the longer the series goes on the more obvious it is that andalites, despite inventing morphing technology, barely use it themselves

like, most of the andalite characters we see barely morph. its kind of a last resort to them, as they’re already plenty dangerous in their regular forms

meanwhile for the animorphs, that’s all they have to fight with. that’s their only weapons against the yeerks, and its so fun to see them use the power in so many varied ways, and so creatively, while the andalites have barely scratched the surface of their own technology

its also interesting to contrast against the yeerks who start out w/absolutely no technology, and the andalites share some but not all of their technology w/them...its too bad that morphing technology was just starting out cause that would’ve been interesting

like imo a lot of the conflict w/the yeerks could’ve been avoided if they could just nothlit into better forms - of course, there’d still be plenty of yeerks who want to go start wars or w/e, just like pretty much any species in the series, but a lot of yeerks would probably be like ‘yeah I'm good’ and just chill out as nothlits

also people online love to talk about how humans are alienfuckers and would definitely have sex w/sentient aliens and whatnot, and while I'm not saying that's untrue, its just funny bc in animorphs the truest alienfuckers are definitely the andalites

as of the hork-bajir chronicles, we now have a second instance of an andalite morphing another species to be in an inter-species alien romance (and eventually have kids)

speaking of, I don’t think I’ve talked abt the hork bajir chronicles yet??? even tho I read it a while ago lmao

HBC was great...I honestly haven’t really run into an animorphs book I’ve actually disliked at this point, I’m sure it’ll come w/all the ghostwriting and whatnot, but I’ve liked at least some aspects of every book

anyways HBC was great, and it’s funny bc I remember that I read this book as a kid, and yet rereading it now I didn’t remember a single bit of it lmaooo

I really liked the framing device of the free hork bajir telling this story to tobias. I also liked how we know from the beginning that this story wont have a happy ending - we know all the hork bajir end up enslaved by the yeerks, but it’s still somehow hopeful at the end? I think this is largely due to the framing device tbh.

also I love toby, and I love that the First free hork bajir named their kid after tobias ;_;

and oooh mannn I LOVED the different POVs from this book. all the characters were so interesting! aldrea was fascinating - I really like the increasingly negative view of the andalites that the readers are getting, all while maintaining the sense that they aren’t like, actively evil, just that they have their issues - like aldrea’s arrogance, and the general andalite arrogance which lead to the loss of the hork bajir. also, who knew andalites had their own brand of sexism? Ls

I did like getting a female andalite tho, that was cool. and dak was really cool, he was such a good, compassionate character who was able to maintain his morals in an interesting way throughout the story

and VISSER THREE...or should I say esplin 9466, because he’s not visser 3 yet...getting his ‘origin story’ was excellent - I really like how we’re learning about visser 3 backwards - we start off the series w/him as the main villain, and he’s campy and menacing, and then we see him in the andalite chronicles as a power-hungry sub-visser trying to climb the ranks and eventually getting alloran as a host, and then back even further here, w/the start of his focus on the andalites and the beginning of his ambition. its been very cool and interesting to see

plus, the beginning of the yeerks as we know them! seerow! alloran! it’s a party and nobody is having a good time, except for some of the yeerks.

I like how it’s pretty obvious that the andalites are well-meaning with their interactions w/the yeerks, but go about it the wrong way - they give them enough technology that the yeerks realize there’s a whole world out there to experience, and then they blockade the yeerks on their planet and tell them they can’t leave. nnnnot the best approach imo

again, as I said above, I’m interested in how things could’ve gone if the andalites had given the yeerks morphing technology early on - could a lot of the conflict have been avoided, or would it have been worse? the yeerks seem pretty evil in this book, immediately jumping to enslave anyone they can. otoh we hear from esplin that not all yeerks like having host bodies, and find it overwhelming, preferring to swim around in the yeerk pool as a slug - I assume as host bodies became more available this type of thinking was probably stamped out in yeerk society or w/e, but there are a lot of interesting what-ifs in the situation

I loved the scene where esplin first experiences having a host, and immediately knows he can’t go back. there are a bunch of great sensory descriptions, and it’s a nice scene to pinpoint as a foundational moment for the visser three in the current story, who spent a lot of time and energy getting what he sees as the best possible host body, an andalite

I find it interesting how much visser three clearly respects the andalites, even while constantly deriding them. and you can see the origins of that here as he immediately focuses in on the andalites, working to become an expert on them in order to make himself useful enough to move thru the ranks

another thing I like is how esplin seems a lot more crafty and ambitious than the visser three from modern times - I would guess that reaching his goal (andalite host body) and being given all that power was detrimental, playing on his weaknesses instead of his strengths. basically, I don’t think it’s ooc or anything, I can see how HBC-esplin became animorphs-esplin, especially w/TAC in between

as for seerow...poor dude. you really do have to feel for him, because you get the sense he really did just want to be kind to the yeerks, but it was borne from a place of pity, and he (and the other andalites) consistently held too much power over the yeerks for the species relations to ever be truly equal and functional

AUGH I have so many thoughts about alien space politics. omg. I need to talk about the actual story lmao

so yeah I also feel for aldrea, she had a rough time, watching her entire family die and being thrown into a hopeless war

and then the andalite council or w/e not listening to her bc she's a girl AND seerow’s daughter...oof

also, I really really liked the running theme of the andalites - specifically aldrea - looking down on the hork bajir as ‘simple’ and constantly underestimating them, especially dak

and I like how this is portrayed as a bad attitude for aldrea to have, and she still remains and interesting and sympathetic character even while having obvious flaws. it’s about being 3-dimensional baby!

and oh man I love that dak realizes that aldrea looks down on him, and his entire species, but he can see that that’s how the andalites are, and it all connects back to the beginning of the story w/the yeerks, bc the andalites looked down on the yeerks and treated them with pity and kept them pinned under their proverbial thumb ‘for their own good’ and look how that turned out

but dak is wise and kind enough to not hate aldrea for this, even acknowledging when she’s using him, but not pushing her away because he recognizes good in her too - and she ends up changing, partially because of his faith in her

and I feel like it can all be compared to that scenario of like - a hypothetical creature that lives in a 2D world suddenly being thrust into a 3D world, and comprehending what its seeing, and understanding that there’s so much more out there outside of the flat lines of its world - and then its dropped back into 2D-land with the knowledge of all the stuff its missing out on, and no way to get back to it or explain it to anybody else

I loooove that ‘trope’ or w/e you wanna call it, and it’s done beautifully here w/the yeerks - whos the say they wouldn't have been fine in their pool swimming around; as esplin said, a lot of the yeerks were terrified of having a host, it was only from the andalites’ perspective that their lives were sad and pitiful, and the andalites showed them what the world could be like, and then said ‘no, you can’t travel the stars like we do, you have to stay here on your planet and do what we say.’

and then again, w/the hork bajir - dak talks about how, even though he drinks up the knowledge that aldrea gives him, in the end it might have been better to just have lived peacefully, not knowing what was in the sky or the Deep - as aldrea says: “It was too late for Dak: he knew that the stars were not flowers.”

plus the hork bajir having to go from a completely peaceful species who don’t even understand the concept of violence, to a bunch of soldiers fighting a war...oof

basically everyone in this story uses the hork bajir. the yeerks use them as hosts, the andalites use their planet as a convenient place to dump seerow and then take their sweet time coming to help, and the arn created them as means to stabilize the planet, but block them off from their society and refuse to help when the yeerks come

like, the arn modifying themselves to be un-infestable by the yeerks and then being enslaved for physical labor instead? oof guys. if they had teamed up w/the hork bajir resistance things might have gone better, but probably not

more on aldrea - throughout the story I was always thinking ‘how am I supposed to see her? as a good person, or as a bad person?’

as a POV character, especially a ‘good guy’ andalite, you just start off automatically thinking of her as a good person, but as the story goes on, she starts getting lost in revenge and begins using dak and the hork bajir, and you’re left wondering if this is a story about her slide into darkness, and then towards the end of the story her character development culminates in her making the decision to stay w/the hork bajir, and the be with dak, and that’s about when I went ‘ohhh right this is animorphs so every character is pretty much gonna be grey’

I feel like that moral grey-ness was on full display w/aldrea, and I really enjoyed that. I love so much when characters who are good do bad things, for good or bad reasons, especially in media like animorphs that’s aimed at kids. it’s so compelling.

oof, and the ending when aldrea convinces dak to mobilize the hork bajir and teach them violence...and dak asks her if she’s ever killed another andalite, and she’s horrified, and says of course she hasn’t, and he says that that’s what she’s asking him, and all the hork bajir, to do - to kill their own people, even if they are being controlled by the yeerks. biiiig oof. I love that dak can keep up w/aldrea and her andalite supremacy attitude - it seems that the non-andalite characters who get along best w/the andalites are the ones who wont take their bs

what else happened....oh my god how could I forget about alloran, and his quantum virus. oooof. I like how we find out about alloran in parallel to visser three, in the same backwards way - in animorphs he’s the tragic host of visser three, in TAC he’s the disgraced but still semi-respected war-prince who becomes the first ever andalite controller, and here he’s the guy who decides to commit some war crimes because, hey, we haven’t tried that yet

but yeah that was fucked up, I love it. I’ve said it before I think but I like that alloran isn’t some perfect martyr tragically taken by the yeerks - it’s a lot more compelling that he’s a very flawed person who was taken as a controller partially due to his own bloodthirstiness.

but yeah, the part where aldrea morphs alloran and ‘sneaks’ into that room was great. aldrea’s dedication to disposing of the virus is a great indicator of her character development - it really feels like the straw that broke the camels back w/re: to the andalites not being what she thought they were, w/their tardiness coming to help the hork bajir planet and the way her father was treated being the precursors to this realization. it all culminates nicely in aldrea saying ‘fuck this actually’ and nothlit-ing into a hork bajir.

and it’s really tragic but realistic that even though aldrea and dak end up seeing eye to eye at the end and getting together, the virus ends up being released anyways (and fails in its objective to stop the yeerks from using the hork bajir - the whole thing was p much a lose-lose situation oof), and aldrea and dak still die fighting a hopeless war

but then we have the free hork bajir on earth, including toby, who, like tobias, has andalite ancestry, but no DNA to show for it - I like that they have that connection as well as tobias being her namesake

so yeah I enjoyed that one and its many-layered themes

WOW this got long uuuuuhhh ok I think i’ll leave this one off here. at the time I’m actually finishing the writing and editing, I’m on book 35 lol so I have some backlogging to do. never fear, I have a lot to say....

#lj reads animorphs #animorphs

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purplesurveys · 3 years

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What was the longest time you’ve had the hiccups for? Maybe for half an hour? Mine are never that bad.

What type of TV shows are your favourite? Not a big TV show type of person to begin with since it seems as if my attention span wasn’t built for once-a-week, season-breaks kind of content haha. I do like sitcoms, I guess...bite-sized ones like Friends, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, The Big Bang Theory, etc. Drama shows I’d bite into if the plot is extremely intriguing to me or relevant to my interests, like The Crown or Breaking Bad.

Have you ever been a complete fangirl/fanboy over anything? I was before then I wasn’t for a very long time, then I came back just recently with this BTS shit I got myself into.

Do you know anyone who has died in battle? Hmm. I don’t think so. My great-grandpa lived a few more decades after the war.

When was the last time you went on an adventure? July. My friends and I spent the whole day driving around and stopping by sooo many spots around the metro. It was a lot of fun and we were fucking b e a t after.

What brand is your vacuum cleaner? I dunno. My mom mainly uses ours.

Are you good at rapping? I have a number of songs and verses memorized that I can recite quite okay, but I can’t write any of my own.

Name one world issue that upsets you. Racism.

How do you feel about tanning? I never saw the the big deal. I will say tanning beds and salons are such a culture shock to me, though. Are some people really that obsessed with modifying their skin tone?

Have you ever given a public speech? Hmm, just the one time I was entered into a public speaking competition and was given a topic to talk about on the spot. That was honestly a lot of fun and I wish there were more opportunities to do that exact same thing.

Do you read comic books? No. I tried getting into that whole thing, but didn’t see the appeal.

Do you force your way into conversations in which you are not involved? Not always but if I’m starting to feel left out or awkward, I will start to ask a question here and there to ease my way into the conversation. But if the topic is clearly none of my business then I do stay out of the way.

Kiss with your eyes open or closed? Closed.

Do you believe you can change someone? This isn’t a black and white matter, I think. The idea of changing a person can have a lot of layers; in my org, for instance, I got to pick up a few quirks and behaviors from my friends just by being around them for a long time – in that sense, I changed. But you can also strive to change someone who’s struggling and try to make them become happy, which I tried to do with my ex – which of course I learned the hard way that you can’t change someone if in that context.

How did you react when your first pet died? I was bummed out but didn’t throw a fit.

Have you ever drawn anime? No.

Can you use a pogo stick? I’ve never even seen one in real life. I’m dying to try it out just once.

When’s the next time you’ll see the person that you like? I don’t like anybodyyy.

Do you like bathing/showering? I mean...yes? Like I’m not obsessed with showering, but it’s a necessity that I have to regularly do anyway lmao.

Have you ever considered entering a race? Sure! Just give me a couple of weeks to practice because my endurance and stamina are embarrassing.

Rihanna or Lady Gaga? Rihanna.

Who was your first good kiss with? My ex.

What accessory do you want in your bedroom? SHELVES

What do you take the most pictures of? My experiences.

What are you always in the mood for? Starbuuuuuuckssssssss.

What is something that you never turn down? A day out with friends. I’ll always make time. What is something that you always turn down when offered? Food, if I’m a guest at someone else’s place.

Name something sexy about your significant other. I don’t have any.

What is one of your hobbies that you refuse to give up? Surveys, I guess. I enjoy them too much and have been doing them for nearly a decade.

If you could be a professional in any sport what would it be? Tennis.

If you could be a professional at any instrument what would it be? PIANO.

Would you rather be a surgeon or mortician? Surgeon. I would be too terrified seeing dead people, anyway.

Have you ever been on a subway? Nope.

Are you in love? No.

Do you like having your lip softly bitten when you’re kissing? Sure. Softly, roughly...both are fine hahaha.

Do you want to get married when you’re older? I hope so. I want my turn, too.

What was the last band shirt you wore? Eh, I don’t own any. I wore a fanmade V-themed shirt yesterday, if that counts.

You can have a milkshake right now. What flavor do you choose? OMGGGG that sounds so fucking good rn. Chocolate chip cookie dough.

Have you ever given someone flowers? Mhm, I used to give my ex bouquets whenever it was our anniversary.

What day of the week is usually your busiest day? Monday like 98% of the time, so I hate them. It ultimately varies, though. Sometimes some days are a hell of a lot more hectic than others.

Do you have any concerts coming up? I mean...obviously not.

Do you like or hate the smell of fish? Oh yessssssss. The smell of seafood/ocean always makes me fucking drool.

What’s your favorite brand of chips? Pringles, or this local brand of salted egg chips that I love to get.

Have you ever written a poem and then read it aloud? Yeah, once. We had to write a poem as our homework and my teacher picked out a couple that he thought were the best-written, and one of them was mine even though I still firmly believe I did a shit job.

Do you like pineapple? Oh god no. One of the worse fruits I’ve had.

Does your house have a dishwasher? No. It seems to be just a Western thing.

Do you know anyone who has a flower tattoo? I probably do, but I just can’t give you a lineup of names. Flower tattoos seem to be trendy these days, especially in the line style.

How many different languages can you say goodbye in? So I have goodbye, paalam, 안녕히 가세요, adios, auf wiedersehen, sayonara, au revoir...so that’s 7.

Agree or disagree: You like Adam Sandler movies. Ummmm definitely childish and I can feel that the humor tries so hard sometimes but I do enjoy some of his movies, like 50 First Dates.

Have you ever had to get a tooth pulled? If so, what for? Yeah, I mentioned this on a previous survey.

Have you ever dated anyone while they were in jail? No, I’ve never dated anyone who’s been imprisoned.

If you’ve ever babysat, do you like it? I ‘babysat,’ but technically all eldest Asian daughters are expected to look out for their younger siblings and cousins anyway. I didn’t actively enjoy it, but sure, it was fun playing with them and it’s always nice to be viewed as responsible.

What is your favorite flavor on sunflower seeds? I don’t eat sunflower seeds. I don’t dislike them, I just really never seek them out.

Do you get cold easily? Yes.

Do you get a lot of spiders in your house? Hmm no. If we do get visited they are almost always too small to be seen.

Do you admire nature? Yeah, I try to be around it as often as I can.

Name one naughty thing you’ve done. Had sex while a few people were in the same room. I pay for it now hahaha; those friends who had the misfortune to be in that situation have never let me live it down and it’s one of their go-to stories when I’m being introduced to new friends.

Name two of your favorite things as a child. I loved everything Bratz. I also liked Play-Doh.

Do you own a Pillow Pet? No, I’ve never even heard of that.

Do you tend to solve problems with violence? Never.

Have either of your parents gone to jail? Nope.

Do you know a hoarder? I heard my grandma had been one, but I didn’t see traces of it when I used to visit her. I guess she had been when she was younger and stronger. I show traces of hoarding too, but I don’t think it’s at a concerning level; I literally just threw out a bunch of shit in my room I’ve hoarded over the last five or so years.

Do you wax, pluck, or leave your eyebrows? I don’t touch them; I’m never all that worried about my appearance. On very rare instances, I will shave some of the excess hair off. Do you have any interesting scar stories? None of them are interesting tbh, just results of my own stupidity.

Do you hate the texture of meatballs? I don’t hate their texture but I also just don’t enjoy meatballs in general. I find them boring, which has always led me to think if they’re really supposed to be just boring clumps of meat or if I’ve just always been served average meatballs.

Do you get migraines? Yes, I usually get one after work. They’ve decreased in frequency now but one will drop by every now and then to give me a shit time.

Do you like guns? No.

Are turtles amazing creatures? All animals are. :') < Yes! Except cockroaches.

How much time do you spend taking surveys? I dedicate an hour or so every weekend. I often wish I can allot more time, but I also have other hobbies and interests I would usually want to catch up on during the weekends. 48 hours is just too short :(

Would you rather visit: The Eiffel Tower or Egyptian Pyramids? Pyramids, in a heartbeat. I wouldn’t even need to think about it.

Would you like to work at a candy shop? Uh no. If I had to, it would be on the back-end, maybe in the corporate side of things lol.

Do you have feelings for someone? Nope.

Which one of your guy friends is the best looking? JM.

Do you have anything to say to your ex bf/gf? No.

Which band do you have the most of on your iPod/music player? I don’t use music players anymore but my Spotify always reminds me of how much I listen to BTS whenever they do one of their quirky listening habit reports lol.

Which song describes your mood at the moment? I want to go with RM’s Bicycle just because I’m feeling quite content and relaxed at the moment.

Which movie(s) do you quote the most? Eh, I’m not a big movie quoter.

Which one of your best friend’s friends would you most likely date? I honestly don’t see any of them as date-able.

Would you ever let anybody else drive your car? Sure. I’ve let Hans and Gab drive it countless times when I’ve had too much to drink. It’s a small car and is fairly easy to use and navigate. I would let Anj use it too at some point, but I want her to perfect her u-turns first hahahaha.

Which one of your friends will be the most successful? It’s already one of my friends to begin with but I’m not naming names. They come from a privileged background to begin with and their godfather already handed one of his companies down to them, so. They were also told the CEO position is already a sure slot for them.

What store did you last shop at? I wanna say NCAT, this Korean-themed store that sells trinkets and jewelries and plushies and stuff. They also sell BTS albums so Anj and I dropped by to check out and touch all the albums we can’t afford yet HAHA

Do you think telepathy is real? No.

When did you last draw something for fun? Last Saturday when I played an online drawing/guessing game with my uncles and aunts.

Who makes the most in your entire family? My dad.

Do you like writing essays? I love essays, it’s my favorite writing piece to make.

Do you think plastic surgery is no big deal? It turns into one when it gets obsessive, like when people get excessive plastic surgeries specifically to look like another person. I’m looking at you, fucking Oli London.

Do you take your trash to the dump or have it picked up? It’s picked up.

When you sneeze do you sneeze into your shirt or your hands? I look away and just sneeze. Sometimes I’ll put up my elbow.

Do you usually have sex in the morning, noon or night time? Erm, I usually had it at night. I only had morning sex when we would spend the night; and I nearly never had noon sex.

Did you ever fail your learners/drivers test? No.

Would you rather listen to Luke Bryan or Lil Wayne? Gun to my head, Lil Wayne.

Name someone you’ve become a lot closer to recently: Reena!!! I’m so grateful Angela introduced us to each other :) We both tend to get shy so we don’t actually actively get chatty when we see each other irl, but I love her presence and I love that she is my friend. I make up for it by being super friendly and wacky in our group chat haha. Does your car have a sunroof? No. We used to have a car that did, but we had to sell that during the peak of the pandemic.

Are you closer to your mom or your dad? Dad.

Have you ever had a friend with benefits? No.

Who’s the last person you cuddled with? My ex.

Are you friends with any of your teachers on Facebook? Yeup.

#survey #surveys

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onthepyre · 4 years

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rest your bones next to me (part 2)

previous / next

1.9k, swearing, prinxiety and background moceit

With Roman and Remus at his sides, Virgil found navigating the desolate streets at night to be far less nerve-wracking. Roman took to rambling about the people they were headed to meet as Virgil and Remus sipped their drinks.

“Okay, so there’s Patton and Janus — they’re married. I probably ought to warn you, Janus has this big scar on his face from something that happened when he was a kid. He won’t tell us what exactly it’s from, but we think it’s a burn. Mostly just don’t make a big deal out of it, ‘cause he’ll kill you.”

“Learned that the hard way,” Remus mumbled. “He seems tough, but he’ll grow on you.”

“And then Patton is the sweetest guy you’ll ever meet. If he had the money he’d take in every kid he meets. Their apartment doesn’t have heat, and there’s only one bedroom, and the stove is pretty shitty. It’s a roof over our heads, though, gives us somewhere to stay. They just ask that you contribute something at least once a week.”

“So like, bring home dinner?” Virgil paused his slurping to glance up at Roman as they walked.

“Yeah! Or give ‘em some money to go towards rent, or buy some toilet paper. Just basic shit. Remus and I usually get some of the groceries. We work part-time at the theatre. Pay isn’t great, but it’s enough to stay with Patton and Janus and save for… whenever.”

“Tell him about Logan.”

“Oh! Logan’s seventeen, he’s lived with Pat and Jan for about two years now, his cousin is a friend of theirs. He was with them for their wedding, actually. He’s hoping to get into college on academic scholarships — he’s managed to stay in school this whole time. Remus and I dropped out when we started living on the streets. School just complicates things.”

“Wait, you guys don’t go to school? What about your parents?” Virgil paused to think, realizing he wouldn’t be able to attend classes without money for public transport — money he didn’t have.

“I think they told the school we moved or something. Or maybe that we got accepted into some private school.”

Remus shrugged. “I think they said we died, but Roman doesn’t believe me.”

“Oh my god. In what scenario would we both die, but not them? Murder-suicide?”

“Maybe.”

Virgil smiled. “It’s plausible. Which one of you killed the other?”

“Oh my god.”

Remus stopped walking so he could cackle properly, with Virgil just behind him. Roman stood, hands on hips, staring at them.

“That’s not even funny.”

“It’s funny because you think it isn’t,” Virgil said. He had stopped laughing, but Remus was bent nearly in half on the sidewalk. Virgil had to admit, it really wasn’t that funny, but something about upsetting his brother had absolutely killed Remus. He wobbled, catching Virgil’s arm for balance.

“If you don’t hurry the fuck up, there is going to be a murder.”

This only prompted more howling. Roman covered his face with his hands as Virgil stared. He assumed it must have been a strange scene to the people in the car that drove by — half-illuminated by streetlights, they were a strange trio to spot in the early hours of the morning. At last, Roman reached down and pulled Remus up, then began walking. Virgil followed at their heels.

“So, how old are you guys?”

“Sixteen. We both got outed by some shithead on student council back in May. Needless to say, our parents weren’t too happy about it. What about you?”

“I’m sixteen too.” Virgil took a long swallow of his slurpee. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Hey, that’s okay,” Remus said. “Shit’s rough. Let us know if you do.”

“I will.”

As they lapsed into silence, Virgil noticed for the first time since he left his house how cold it really was. A gentle breeze nipped through the holes in his ratty jacket, and he realized he could feel his nose going numb. His fingers were already tinted a bright shade of pink, but he chalked that up to the ice in the slurpee. He wondered, if it was chilly enough to bother him in early October, how he was possibly going to survive winter.

Apparently sensing that he was starting to worry, Roman started talking again. “Okay, the apartment is right up here. It… does look kind of sketchy from the outside, but I promise it’s nicer inside.” Remus dug a keyring containing at least twenty keys from his pocket. He handed it to Roman, who found what was apparently the apartment key. Roman, with a smile on his face, handed it to Virgil. It was small, silver, and entirely nondescript, except for the letter “R” carved into the top. The engraving was messy, seemingly done out of boredom — Virgil assumed with a pocket knife.

“Pat let me unlock the door the first day we stayed here. He said it makes it feel more like normal, like you’re coming home after a long day. I figured I should pass it on. We’ll get you your own key sometime soon.”

Virgil tried to hide how strangely soft he suddenly felt, but it was apparent he failed when Roman slung an arm around his shoulders.

“I know it’s kind of a lot. I’m sorry. Really. It’s right up here, we can talk to Pat and Jan and then go to bed, okay? Some sleep’ll do you good.”

Overwhelmed, Virgil nodded. He had little time to process Roman’s words, as Remus skipped ahead with a smile on his face.

“We’re here!” He stopped in front of a large brick building, its white paint flaking off. A set of rusty metal stairs led to an off-white door on the second story, but Remus led them through the gate to the first floor entrance.

“I’m not sure how many people live above us, but they’ve gotta have at least three kids,” Roman whispered. “There’s no other explanation for how much fucking noise they make.” Virgil grinned. Hands shaking, he jammed the key in the lock and turned it. He opened the door gently, in case someone was asleep, though based on Roman’s words he assumed nobody was.

Virgil’s assumptions proved to be at least partially correct when a voice from the kitchen exclaimed, “Boys! You’re finally home!” Remus bounded inside, leaving Virgil and Roman standing in the doorway. Roman’s arm fell from Virgil’s shoulders and gave as he gave an awkward half-wave.

“This is Virgil. He got kicked out. Would it be okay if he stayed with us?”

The man, who Virgil assumed was Patton, melted by about a million degrees. “Oh, honey, of course. Stay as long as you need. Come on in, I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”

Hesitantly, Virgil stepped into the apartment. Roman entered just after him, kicking off his shoes onto the tile floor of the kitchen. Virgil followed suit, then handed the ring of keys back to Remus, who had sat down on one of the mismatched chairs at the table.

“Does anybody know if Logan is still awake? He was studying last time I saw him.”

“He went to bed about an hour ago,” said a new voice. Virgil spotted him suddenly, sitting in the corner of the room, a copy of some obscure book in his hands. Based on the large scar on his face, Virgil assumed him to be Janus. He nodded at Virgil, then resumed his reading.

“Roman, Remus, do you want some hot chocolate?” Both nodded, and Patton pulled another two mugs from the cabinet, making five total.

“I assume they told you the conditions?” asked Janus without looking up.

“Contribute something once a week?”

“You’ve got it!”

Virgil sunk his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He had little to distract him without Roman at his side, leaving him to fall back into every nervous habit he had.

“Come sit,” said Remus, patting the chair next to him. Virgil spent the next ten minutes fielding questions from Patton and Janus — what’s your last name, are you planning on going to school, do you have a job, how much stuff do you have with you, are you able to go home to get more. Jones, no, no, nothing, no. The mug of hot chocolate set in front of him came as a relief, as it gave him an excuse to stop talking.

“I’ll have Roman take you down to the Goodwill tomorrow,” Patton said, sitting down across from him. He glanced at Roman, who nodded, smiling. “That jacket of yours isn’t going to do much when winter comes. If you’d prefer it instead of a new one, though, pick up something to use as scrap fabric and we can mend it.”

Suddenly unwilling to even remove his hoodie, Virgil nodded. “Yeah,” He said softly, picking at a hole in the sleeve. “That sounds good.”

“I’m exhausted,” Roman announced. “Are you tired, Virgil?” His voice was just a bit too loud, and Virgil caught onto what he was doing — looking for a way to get him out of the room. He appreciated the effort.

“Dead on my feet,” he said as he stood. “Where am I sleeping?”

“The couch, if you want, but it’s got a bunch of springs poking through, the floor, or you can join the pile.” Roman gave a wicked grin.

“What’s the pile?”

“There’s only room for one bed. You can figure it out.”

With only seconds of consideration, Virgil chose the floor. With a small nod, Roman led him into the next room. His voice was hushed when he spoke again.

“I know the bed situation is kind of weird. We’ve got an extra blanket, but it can get kind of cold on the floor, so I can, uh, sleep with you. If you want.” He scratched at the back of his neck, then turned to the closet in the corner. “It would be at least a little less weird than cuddling with a bunch of guys you met five minutes ago.”

Virgil smiled at his back as he dug through the piles of clothes. “Roman, I met you like, an hour ago.” The boy in question sputtered indignantly. “But yeah. It is pretty chilly, so if you don’t mind the back pain tomorrow, that would be… fine.”

Roman nodded, almost enthusiastically, as he turned with a blanket in his arms. “Okay. I know there isn’t much room on the floor, but wherever you want.”

Virgil collapsed onto the beaten-down shag carpet, Roman close behind him. He spread the blanket over them then laid down, letting the exhaustion show through his bright facade for the first time.

“Do you just want me next to you for body heat or is it okay if I…?” Roman’s voice, barely a broken whisper, didn’t make it through the end of the question, but Virgil caught the idea anyway.

“It’s fine. I can pretend we’re star-crossed lovers or something instead of dealing with… this. And I trust you. Somehow.” He hoped Roman heard the joking tone in his voice, because his words, though true, felt far too vulnerable to share. Roman took them as an invitation and turned to pull Virgil to his chest.

It felt strange at first, but they quickly settled into an embrace. It kept the cold at bay, after all, so it was better than being alone. Virgil buried his face in the folds of Roman’s shirt, and Roman pressed his nose against Virgil’s hair. It carried the distinct overtones of romance, but it wasn’t something Virgil was eager to fight against. Despite the odds, he slept like the dead.

#prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #janus sanders #swearing #fluff #sharing a bed #kind of #june's writing

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perkwunos · 3 years

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I want to start off by saying I am not uncritical of Nietzsche, am Most surely not a Nietzschian (I also agree many academics get very defensive when you criticize him and his work. I would however argue there are far more critical readers of his work that aren't people mouthing uncritically someone like Deleuze without having even read a single one of Nietzsche's own words.) , and I abhor Pound. My problem is the amount of charity you are able to extend to men like Kant and Whitehead. A.N. Whitehead may very well been a liberal Englishman of his time but credit where credit's due because despite your thoughts on the man (and to reiterate there are many very real problems in Nietszche who I think is a nerd) surely what's impressive about someone like Nietzsche growing up in his specific context was his ability to distance himself from his own previous anti-semitism (which again I agree with you that people tend to blame this on Wagner rather than N. himself) to both very explicitly openly mocking and proclaiming that all anti-semites should be quite literally shot. Have you seen the letters he sent out from when he went "mad" ?

I agree there are things in his work and subsequently in his general thought that get far too charitable readings by many leftists. Mostly men. Mostly white. I also believe that on much of the same note Holub's own scholarship and specific readings can (and have been) criticized for the same overreaching and inconsistent arguments that let us say someone like Deleuze is often criticized for making in support of Nietzsche.

I would also like to clarify Whitehead's problematic views on Jews and Jewishness are in fact not just in the Price book but also in places like Process and Reality and I believe Science and the Modern World (it might actually be Adventures of Ideas). These passages have been quite literally criticized by Jewish philosophers and theologians who themselves are critical but inspired by Whitehead's thought. Surely these implicit Christian biases of a Victorian Anglican man (no matter how heterodox) make his ideas and system just as easy for prodding as someone like Nietzsche (who let us not forget was brought up Lutheran and never fully escaped the way he had hoped). I frankly do not want to prop up a bunch of dead men and their ideas uncritically nor do I want to be just as uncritically puritanical about the work of a bunch of dead men and shut down open discussion (and which again as an aside I've noticed has increasingly become very white, male and circular. which is a bit ironic given the topics and men discussed. for instance I find it odd that you say you just don't see a lot of critical scholarship on Nietzsche which is quite literally untrue as there are many women and poc who have written work that is very critical of Nietzsche and his ideas. but I digress.) And again I think what bothers people (past the usual reflexive Nietzsche defenders on and off this site) is less that they feel you're playing games about Nietzsche than that you're willing to be more charitable to thinkers who have their own problems (Not just personally but also systematically. Such as Whitehead) who you yourself are more sympathetic and biased towards.

When I identify people like Whitehead and Kant as liberal that’s not supposed to be a good thing, it’s at least a mild insult and more me indicating that there are aspects of their social/political thought I find seriously, systematically wrong and incoherent. Of course, at the same time it’s important to distinguish types of anti-liberal stances: Nietzsche opposes Kant because he’s specifically an anti-liberal reactionary, and he supports aristocratic hierarchies. But I understand that all that probably doesn’t come across in a lot of what I say and it can seem like I’m just accepting them unproblematically as “normal liberals.” I’ve said before on here that Whitehead was eurocentric and naive in his sociological/historical accounts and am pretty open to that kind of criticism. I don’t begrudge you for wanting to bring this up in reference to Whitehead because I do think it’s a very worthwhile scrutiny; obviously, I myself think Whitehead’s main concepts in his philosophy survive this scrutiny, but it’s always worth looking at critically. Also, full identity cards on the table, I am jewish and my concern with antisemitism in philosophy is not a mere academic exercise, the reason I focus on this in relation to Nietzsche is pretty personal, and I have no desire to excuse or ignore its appearance in any thinkers.

I think you and I fundamentally disagree on what it meant for Nietzsche to disagree with the antisemites of his day. He disagreed with antisemites because he thought they were too much like Jews; that’s just what he himself says. My whole point is that he never really critically distanced himself from wagnerian antisemitism, he just adopted it and arguably took it even further, but in his own distinctive form. When I say antisemitism is a constitutive element of Nietzsche’s philosophy I mean when you want to understand his own thoughts on master/slave morality and how he uses that to critique Christianity, this requires understanding his antisemitism. Slave morality, so Nietzsche says, became an important force in history because it was unleashed by the Jews. Christianity is a manifestation of slave morality for Nietzsche because it is Jewish in origin and in character. It is central to his thought here.

So this isn’t comparable to Whitehead. If, in order to explain something like Whitehead’s concept of the “fallacy of misplaced concreteness,” the main works that I would have to cite and reference included extensive passages of him going, “And this fallacy of misplaced concreteness is specifically Jewish in origin and character and is part of how they’ve gained control over modern society...” then it would be comparable.

As to me not having an exhaustive knowledge of different critiques of Nietzsche, I’m not an academic scholar and I’ll admit as much, so yes I’m still likely ignorant of many of the lesser known critiques that have been put out there. I wish you’d mentioned some of who these people and their writings are so I could check them out! Finding all the different scholarly work being done isn’t always an easy process. And you have to admit it’s a bit ironic that you still refrained from actually naming any of these women or people of color who end up getting ignored in these discussions.

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wolfgrowlwrites · 3 years

Text

Tribe of Rushing Water Analysis

Since people were curious both on my thoughts about the Tribe of Rushing Water in Canon and how I’ve rewritten them in my fic Ties that Bind, here’s the massive post on it. If you read this entire thing, thank you.

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Alright so I’m not much of an internet funnyman but I was an English Major and someone with a hyperfixation on the Warrior Cats series so it’s time to analyze the Tribe! The following post will include Spoilers for Watership Down (yeah the rabbit book, I’ll come back to this) and I will speak openly about the Warriors Series as a whole with the assumption that the people reading have already read the books in question. The goal of this is to discuss the Tribe’s narrative placement in the story, and what I’m doing with them in my rewrite.

Now Warriors was originally just going to be one book, and then six, and then first three books of the second arc. The weird effects this has on the narrative and tone is best explored elsewhere, but I bring this up because Midnight, Moonrise and Dawn were meant to be a trilogy ending the series. And this trilogy was based on nothing other than Watership Down, all of which is important to consider when we talk about the Tribe. The Tribe was meant to only appear briefly, which means there was no need for fleshing them out, and they are the Warriors parallel of Cowslip’s Warren.

For those of us who haven’t read Watership Down, it is a story about a bunch of rabbits who have a prediction of the destruction of their home and set out on a quest to find a new one. (Sounds familiar right?) One of the dangers they run into along the way is what originally appears to be a friendly warren run by a rabbit named Cowslip. The rabbits immediately find themselves on edge, as while this warren is exceptionally friendly there is the underlying evidence that something is wrong. When they ask questions the natives to the burrow deflect and dance around answering, and while their customs seem similar, they’re different enough to be unsettling. Behold, I’ve described the Tribe in Moonrise. And like the Tribe, the fact that Cowslip’s Warren is hiding is that there’s something extremely dangerous hunting them. Cowslip’s warren is being maintained by humans who are actively snaring the rabbits, and the Tribe has Sharptooth who is also hunting them. In fact, the snares almost kill one of the traveling rabbits, while Feathertail does end up dying to Sharptooth.

(Thank god I’m doing this on Tumblr not Twitter, god this thread would be unbearable.)

(For those who have read Watership Down, Brook is probably supposed to be Strawberry.)

So narratively, the Tribe are there to be a hinderance to the traveling cats who seem friendly and similar to them but have a danger to them that will put the traveling cats at risk. That is the role they’re meant to play, and as the series was meant to end after Dawn, the Erins didn’t need to flesh the Tribe out really beyond that.

But then money and the publishers spoke and the series continued and we returned to the Tribe except uh… huh. Honestly I kinda don’t want to get into this because it’s the same thing every time. The Tribe, who when we first meet them are described as huge and able to fight eagles, and are well adapted for life on the mountains, have encountered some problem and only the Clan cats can save them. Rinse and repeat. And as someone who has attempted to figure out the Tribe’s Allegiances, if you thought they were bad about remembering details for the Clans oh boy. For specific citations of the Tribe needs the Clans help, oh no, please see Moonrise, Outcast, Sign of the Moon, and Tawnypelt’s Clan. Sign of the Moon in particular because a Clan cat straight up choses the Tribe’s new leader. Can you imagine how the Clans would react if a Tribe cat tried that?

But it’s okay right because of the whole time-travel thing which means that Jayfeather actually founded the Tribe and named the first Stoneteller. I could write an entire essay on how much I hate this plot point, but that’s not the point here. The more important part is that some how the Tribe went from names like Stone Song, Half Moon, Lion’s Roar, Clear Sky, Gray Wing, etc. to names like Brook where Small Fish swim. I, as a white guy, don’t want to touch the racism there, I’m pretty sure other people have explained it better than I can, but the short version is that a group named the Tribe with names like Jagged Rock where Heron Nest comes off like a stereotype for Native Americans, at least from my white American experience. So, uh, solid yikes on that one, especially when those aren’t even the names they use (because of course not they’re a fucking mouthful) which gets to the world building point I’m gonna touch on instead.

The Ancients become the Tribe but somehow the names grow so long that they all have to go by nicknames that… almost resemble what Ancient names were to begin with? I understand this is because the Tribe’s naming convention got established before the time loop thing, but honestly, there is no reason they should’ve been named like that and in fact more reasons why they shouldn’t have. Between the racism and then from a writing perspective, what is the point, of having names like that if they’re never used? Like narratively it makes no sense from the start, and the Time Travel plot only makes that more obvious.

All that said, I actually super adore the Tribe! I wish they’d been handled differently in a lot of places but they had so much potential to be cool that got lost along the way. So thus, we come to my rewrite. If you’re just here for Tribe Analysis you’re free to go, but if you’re here for how I’m rewriting the Tribe than settle in.

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In my rewrite the Tribe has Ancient names from the get go, because it makes more sense and allows for the Tribe to serve its original narrative function, that is, a place similar to what the Clan Cats are used enough to be comfortable, but different enough to be unsettling. The Tribe has ancestors not unlike StarClan but I have the Tribe’s worship working very differently. Stone Tellers are raised from birth to serve as a guiding force for the Tribe because they are the ones that can speak to the ancestors, and every full moon, when the Cave of Pointed Stones glows, they lead their tribe to speak with their ancestors, in something not unlike a gathering, but it is meant to be a form of remembrance, as they are sharing news with their ancestors instead.

The Tribe has very extreme views of their ancestors, refusing to take the Tribe of Endless Hunting’s name in vain. It is also believed that a Tribe cat that has passed cannot move on to the Tribe of Endless Hunting until a final task has been completed. This task is something the cat would’ve wanted to do while alive, but didn’t get to, so now one of their family, or a close friend, does it in their place. (To a reasonable extent, for example telling someone that the cat who died was in love with them, not settling down with them to raise a family because that’s what the dead cat wanted to do.) Those who have not moved on linger as ghosts. They don’t have stars in their pelts, and they don’t have the ability to see the future to warn their Tribemates the way StarClan or the Tribe of Endless Hunting do. They are capable of speaking to those who can see them, usually Stone Teller, but otherwise they tend to simply watch and wait for someone to help them move on.

The Tribe believes that the future is chosen by the Tribe of Endless Hunting, to challenge their omens is the most heretical thing a cat can do. The current Stone Teller decides a cat’s future when they are born, Cave-guard, Prey-Hunter, or rarely, the next Stone Teller. Those kits are taken by the current Stone Teller once they’re old enough to be weaned and raised in the Cave of Pointed Stones. Their name is chosen by the current Stone Teller and stripped from them when they become the next Stone Teller. Stone Teller is meant to be the ancestor’s conduit to the living and an impartial leader to the Tribe. However, not every leader can live up to those expectations, and should the Tribe begin to doubt the current Stone Teller’s capability to guide them, they can make a new cat leader. This cat would do the job of leading the Tribe, while Stone Teller continues to serve as the medicinal and spiritual leader. This rarely happens, and when it does it is rarely so clean cut, as no one particularly enjoys admitting they’ve made a mistake and need to be replaced as leader.

The Stone Teller is assisted in leading the Tribe by the head of the Cave-Guards and the head of the Prey-Hunters, these are seen as the cats that are best at that job and capable of quick decision making and good judgement calls. They often work together to organize hunting patrols and discuss issues in the territory, often presenting Stone Teller with their solutions alongside problems.

Honestly the Tribe won’t be playing a very large role in my rewrite as a whole, but since they have an entire arc dedicated to them, I wanted to make sure I had them well fleshed out. There’s a few details I’ve left out because this is long enough, but if you’re curious about anything I’ve said either about the Tribe or my rewrite, hit me up.

#Warrior Cats #tribe of rushing water #I'm not sorry but this is a lot tm

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