#but my knowledge still feels woefully inadequate

[puppygirlkat]

.

#i can go on like long rants about us history #its been a long time since i like actually studied history #most of my knowledge is of 20th century US history #i need to get back to studying history #ive been a leftist basically since i was a teenager #i dont think i still have the pamphlets that really pushed me into learning about communism #though again i was still learning mostly from the imperial core #so there were some gaps in my knowledge #but even learning from that was enough to be like 'ok this shit fucking sucks ass #idk #my memory is spotty so i dont remember super well #god i remember trying to stand against my dads islamophobia and homophobia #shithead #i dont talk to him anymore #learning history is important #i still need to read a lot of books though because my picture is always feeling incomplete #it will never be complete and ill be arrogant if i ever think it is #but my knowledge still feels woefully inadequate #anyway enough rambling #rat thots

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Dear Fucking Diary: Entry the 13th - Let it Snow!

Pairings: Dean x Fem!OFC (Daisy)

Explicit 18 +/Warnings: Smut, PinV, fingering, oral (m receiving), lots of fluff, my crappy HGTV-based knowledge of house construction.

Word Count: 2,178

DFD: Series Masterlist

Series Summary: I’ve been tasked with writing in this fucking diary like a some teenage girl. It sucks, but who else am I going to talk to about the incredible hottie who lives next door?

Chapter Summary: 13th Entry. Dean and I are on an adventure together, and I'm loving every minute of it.

A/N: So, this is a continuation of the series, really. It’s a self contained entry. Hope you guys enjoy a return to Dean and Daisy! 😊

A/N 2: I was telling @princessmisery666 that we got our first real, big snowfall yesterday, so I've been in some cozy Dean feels. Originally I thought I'd just write some Dean fluff that involved snow, but I quickly realized it was meant to be a Dean and Daisy story. It also got smuttier than I was planning! 😆 So, enjoy!

The awesome dividers both below and at the bottom is created by @talesmaniac89

The title card was created by me.

Main Masterlist || Tag Lists

Hey DD! I just got back from an AMAZING night, and a pretty embarrassing morning.

It started yesterday when we woke up to nearly 6 inches of snow on the ground. It was the first snowfall of the season, which always makes me want to stay inside and cuddle. I made that suggestion to Dean, but he was worried about the snow interrupting the construction on the house the next day. He didn’t think the trucks would be able to pull onto the property with all the snow piled up.

So, he decided to go shovel it all out. It was a LOT of shoveling.

I started out doing it with him, but within a half hour my back and arms were screaming at me, reminding me that I was not built for manual labor and Dean ordered me to go inside and rest and warm up in the shelter of our almost house. I ignored him for another ten minutes before I finally had to admit defeat and moved grudgingly inside.

But Dean just kept on going, for almost two more hours, only stopping once to drink something. While I was watching him, I had the urge to try yet again to draw him, but all I had with me was my small sketchpad that I take with me everywhere and a plain, number two pencil.  They were woefully inadequate for the job of putting to paper an image of the Adonis I’m engaged to.

I watched Dean lift shovelful after shovelful of heavy snow, and I tried desperately to capture the fluidity of his movements, the way his muscles rippled and flexed under his heavy gray hoodie, how his display of strength set up a flame in my blood and turned me into something almost feral.

But as usual, I mostly struggled to do his beauty justice. His allure is something slightly evasive, something I haven’t yet been able to capture to my satisfaction, whether on paper or canvas.

Though the human form isn’t something I draw or paint very often, my skills have occasionally managed to halfway replicate the beautiful lines of his face and body, but I’ve never managed, in my two dimensional images, to emulate the way the room seems to brighten when he enters it, or the way people tend to be drawn to him like a moth to a flame. There’s just something in his soul that seems impossible to distill into a single, flat image.

I’m thinking of taking up sculpture.

While watching Dean and trying to draw him, I stood inside the shell of what would soon be our house. Right now, though, it wasn’t much more than walls, windows, a door and a floor. We were still about four months away from being able to move in; we had it planned for early spring.

And a couple months after that, we’re gonna be married there. It still feels like a far away dream. But it HAD been exciting when they’d finally put in the front door and the windows to try and protect it from the elements while they continued to work over the winter. It had finally started to feel like a real house, and not just a construction site.

At long last, Dean finished shoveling, tossing the last clump of heavy snow onto the massive pile he’d created along the side of our property. The whole yard had been shoveled out now, and the trucks would be able to get through easily the next morning.

He came back to the house, and up close I could see he was sweating, in spite of the chilly temperature. I gave up on my sketch, tossing pad and pencil back into my bag and focusing on the real Dean in front of me.

After locking the door behind him, he moved to the middle of the big, open room and slowly lowered himself to the bare wooden floor with a loud groan, before falling backwards to lay on his back with his knees bent, feet flat on the floor.

“Dean.” I said in slight exasperation. “The floor is filthy and cold and not really a floor yet. It’s still just a pretend floor.”

Dean chuckled. “It’s called a sub-floor, and it feels amazing on my back right now.”

I shook my head, but sat down beside his prone body, trying to criss-cross my legs under me which was kinda hard to do in boots.  Finally I just stretched out beside him, leaning on my elbow, head in my hand. Dean’s eyes were closed, and the faint smile that graced his expression told me he was truly content there on the floor.

I couldn’t resist reaching out and tracing my finger down over his straight nose and then across the sweep of his bottom lip. I could feel the heat coming from him after all his exertion, and I sidled up closer to him, seeking his warmth, even though he was the one without a coat on.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at me, and there was so much love and lust in his gaze that I felt my heart pick up its rhythm and expand with adoration in the same moment.

He reached up, curling his hand around the back of my neck and pulling me close. He teased me, brushing his nose lightly against mine, and breathing softly against my lips, before pressing his mouth to mine far too gently. I deepened the kiss, and he groaned, wrapping his arms around my torso and pulling me down on top of him.

I squealed slightly and pushed against his embrace. “Dean, I’m gonna squish you; your back must already be sore, the last thing you need is me crushing you into the plywood.”

Dean just shifted his hands to cup my ass and squeeze it, pushing me tighter against him. “I’m a big boy, I’m good.” He said with a wink.

My dirty mind was triggered, as it usually is with this man, and my expression turned cheeky.  I moved my hand to cup the hardening bulge in his sweats. “Oh, I know you’re a big boy, honey.” I said in the sultriest voice I could manage; I was channeling Mae West.

Dean let out a theatrical growl and rolled me over, so that I was pinned beneath him. “Let’s not start something that we can’t finish, sweetheart.” He warned, but then he moved his exquisite mouth to run kisses up and down my throat and neck.

I was falling completely under his spell when he suddenly pulled away. “Wait! I have a great idea.” He said, his eyes lit up with excitement.

“Yeah, so do I.” I said, tapping a finger against my lips in an attempt to get his mouth back where I wanted it.

Dean smiled wolfishly at me. “That’s definitely part of my idea.” He said as he pushed up off the floor, and yanked me up after him.

Feeling slightly confused by the abrupt change of mood, I trailed after him, as he kept hold of my hand and dragged me with him outside.

“Where are we going?” I asked with a bit of a whine.

“To finish what we started.”

***

Dean drove immediately to a hardware store and bought a couple of LED lanterns, lots of batteries, a little space heater that ran on kerosene, and, logically, a few gallons of kerosene. Then he stopped at our apartment and ran up to grab a bunch of blankets and pillows. His last stop had been to grab a large deluxe pizza and a six pack of beer.

He’d explained his plan when we first got into the Impala, headed toward the hardware store.

“I think it’s about time to spend our first night together in our new house. We should christen it properly.”

I’d balked at the idea, reminding him that the only amenities we had at the place so far was running water to a hose outside and a porta-potty behind the house.

“Why not wait a few more months until we have heat and indoor plumbing?” I asked, bemusedly.

Dean gave me a pouty, puppy dog look that I knew I’d never be able to resist. He knew it too, and he’d reached across the front seat to grab my hand and plead his case.

“Cause this will be more of an adventure, something we can remember and reminisce about when we’re old and gray and sitting on the porch rocking away together.”

I gave my head a shake and sighed, just jumping into the adventure with him, as I always have, and honestly, always will.

But once we were sitting on the floor of our soon-to-be home, (well Dean was sitting on the floor, I was quite comfortable in his lap) warmed by the heater and full of yummy pizza, cocooned in a thick blanket together, I was ready to fully admit to the brilliance of his plan.

“Dean, this is so much more amazing than I thought. I’m sorry I doubted your vision.” I said, grinning as I cuddled further into his lap.

Dean chuckled. “You’re forgiven.” Then he groaned slightly as I shifted again. “You’ll be even more forgiven if you keep wiggling that gorgeous fucking ass against me like that.”

Giggling with admittedly malicious glee, I purposely rubbed against his dick, which was once again beginning to stand at attention. I pushed up his hoodie and trailed my fingers through the soft, light blonde hair that disappeared into the waistband of his sweats.

“Forgive me father, cause I wanna sin.” I breathed as his cock stiffened even more under my hand as I wrapped my fist around it.

Dean’s voice was strangled slightly as he grabbed my wrist, but didn’t pull my hand away. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

I shrugged and ran my thumb over his leaking tip. “But it’s the truth.”

I shifted out of his lap, and pulled his cock out completely, before sinking down on it, taking him in as deep as I could in that position, using my fist to pump up and down on what I couldn’t fit in my mouth, my saliva acting as an effective lube.

As always, having him all velvety on my tongue, muscles straining above me as he fought to keep from coming too quickly, had me dripping wet in a matter of minutes.

He still had hold of my wrist and when he couldn’t take anymore of my mouth without bursting and spilling down my throat, (definitely what I was going for!) he pulled me off of him and rolled me over beneath him. He pinned my wrist above my head before reaching down with his free hand and pushing past my jeans and underwear.

“My turn, sweetheart.” He rasped huskily in my ear before he slowly pushed two fingers into me, knuckle deep. I’m not ashamed to say he had me coming on his fingers in less than five minutes. The man is a fucking expert in playing my body to a perfect pitch.

He quickly pulled off all our clothes, but wrapped the blanket more firmly around us, and set a pace for us to create our own heat, slamming into me over and over, stretching me and filling me. He lowered his mouth to suckle and nip at my breasts, alternating sides, but covering both of them in kisses and small bite marks. All I could do was writhe beneath him and tug gently, and then not so gently, on his short locks.

We ended up christening our new house four times throughout the evening and into the night. One time, in the dead of the night, when it was coldest, Dean made me come, fully clothed, just from whispering filthy promises and scenarios in my ear.

His voice should have to be a registered weapon.

All that home-christening ended up leading to a very embarrassing situation this morning. Our plan had been to wake up around five, gather everything up and head out before the crew arrived at seven.

Unfortunately an afternoon spent shoveling snow followed by hours and hours of very vigorous lovemaking, made us sleepily shut off and ignore the phone alarm when it went off. So, when the contractor and foreman arrived on site promptly at seven, they found the homeowners in a pretty compromising position.

It was fairly humiliating, but the crew was pretty good about pretending they didn’t know what we’d been up to all night.

Now we’re back in our apartment, and it’s warm and great and all, but after last night this apartment doesn’t feel quite as much like home now. Our real home, the one where we plan to get married, and make babies, and rock on the porch together when we’re old, is still months away from being permanently habitable.

But I don’t think I’ll have to try too hard to convince Dean to head back there a few more times and continue the adventure.

1 - Jensen RPF + Any/All characters Jensen plays.

@lyarr24

@siospins2

@impalaslytherin

@maggiegirl17

@akshi8278

@candy-coated-misery0731

@nt-multi-fandom

@deanswaywardgirl

@slytherinlyn314

@globetrotter28

@jensensgirl

@perpetualabsurdity

@tristanrosspada-ackles

@djs8891

@muhahaha303

@kayyay1219

@emily-winchester

2 - Dean Winchester Fics Only.

@saikosheadcanons

@lgranger67

@carryonwaywardgirl

3 - Any/All Fics (regardless of fandom/character.)

@sunshineandwings86

@kazsrm67

@sexyvixen7

4 - Everything (includes fan vid/DOOL edits as well)

@unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men

@awkward-and-indecisive

@maliburenee

@supernatural4life2022

@spn730015

@b3autyfuldisast3r

@kickingitwithkirk

@waywardbaby

@foxyjwls007

@deanwanddamons

@deandreamernp

@deanwithscissors

@myloversgone

@snowlovespie

@leigh70

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

@fangirlxwritesx67

@charred-angelwings

@hopefuldreamers-world

@mysherlock221b

@jensensgotyoudean

@stixnstripesworld

@thoughts-and-funnies

@magssteenkamp

@norman1967

@princessmisery666

@eevvvaa

@mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@deepsketchsupernaturalcowboy

@b-i-t-c-h-i-e

@twirpbunwarrior

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@waynes-multiverse

@mrsjenniferwinchester

@bernasaurus

@jensenslady79

@courtn92

@avanatural

@ellie-andthemachine

#dean winchester fic #dean x ofc #dean x daisy #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fluff #dfd: entry the 13 #let it snow

[mollymagician]

New chapter of Translation of the Dream is up.

(Finally 😬)

They walked along the river. The wind was cutting. Hob mourned the fact that he’d launched out the door with a mystical fucking banana peel in his pocket but left his hat and gloves behind. Dream walked silently beside him, looking like he didn’t feel the cold at all and somehow simultaneously like the most resigned of human popsicles, hands jammed into his coat pockets and collar turned up against the wind. Hob wished again for his gloves, at least, for a completely different reason.

They walked in silence another half block farther before Dream blurted out, “I wished to. Apologize.”

Hob looked at him, feeling the confusion plain on his face. “What in the world for?”

“For what happened that day. At the pub.”

“What, for making me think I was having a complete mental break?” Hob asked. Dream made a small distressed noise, drowned out as Hob plowed on. “Forgiven. Or for embarrassing a dickhead who was harassing my staff? No apology necessary for that, mate.”

“Hob.”

“Earned you free drinks for life as far as I’m concerned.”

Dream’s expression was pained. Hob knew he could inspire that look on just about anyone when he really got going with the razzing, but this had an extra edge it it. Dream huffed impatiently and it curled away in the chill like dragon’s breath. “It was wrong of me. To…lose my composure. I promised I’d never again…” He looked away out over the glinting dark water and hunched down further into the shelter of his woefully inadequate coat.

Hob lifted an eyebrow. “If that was you losing your composure, I’d hate to see what happens when you get properly pissed off.”

“Yes,” Dream said quietly. “You would.”

Okay, then. Hob’s mouth clicked shut and he looked straight ahead down the pavement. He was wildly out of his depth, here, and he knew it. But. He’d spent so much of his life already throwing himself into things without knowing if he would ever touch bottom, so why start now?

“Make it up to me,” he said.

Dream’s eyes flew to his face, wide and blank.

“You wanted to apologize? Make it up to me by telling me what it was I saw.”

They’d stopped walking, he realized. Dream turned to face him, gaze locked to his. It was the longest stretch of unbroken eye contact that they’d shared and Hob felt it like a charge up his spine. Whatever it was Dream was looking for, he must have found, because after a moment he tipped his head to the side and said, “This way.” Once again Hob was following.

They crossed into a narrow lane between the nearest two buildings, thankfully out of the wind. The way opened into a small common yard between three blocks of flats, shabby but clean. An elderly fountain stood in the center, looking like it had been dry for a long time. Someone had perched a pair of candles in tall glass holders on the edge, burned down far enough to stay lit in the wind that occasionally still made its way into the sheltered space.

Dream folded his gangly frame to sit on the edge of the fountain and Hob did the same, gazing around them curiously. They were alone. The windows around them were mostly dark, a few reflecting flickering late-night screen glow. He wanted to ask. Which one is yours? You know the way to my door, can I know the way to yours? The curiosity burned like a coal, but he knew better.

Dream puffed out a breath, curling steam, and said, “I can make things. Real. When I draw them with my hands.”

Hob blinked.

Dream reached into his battered satchel and drew out his sketchbook. Flipping it open, he took up the pencil that was jammed in like a bookmark and began to softly sketch. “I discovered that I was had the…ability…when I was young enough to be foolish but old enough to know it was strange. Keeping the knowledge to myself was, perhaps, the least foolish thing I have ever done.”

It was the most that Hob had heard him say at one go, as though the words had been piling up as they walked together in silence, and now he had a queue waiting to work it’s way out. It was easier to mark, now that there was more of it, how oddly formal his speech was. He spoke like he moved, as though every word needed to be set down carefully, or something would break. Hob watched his fingers guiding the pencil in careful strokes over the paper. The streetlights were too far, it was too dark in the faint flickering light of the candles to see what he was drawing. “How…did you figure it out?” he asked, slowly.

“I drew a raven,” Dream said. “And it flew off the page in front of me

“Oh,” Hob said. Of course, I hate it when that happens was right behind it but he beat the words back with a mental stick.

“I saw her…I supposed it to be a her…outside my window. Nearly every day. She must have been nesting nearby. I thought she was interesting. I’d never seen one marked before like she was—“ he gestured with his opposite hand at his own chest, the first nearly casual movement Hob had seen him make—“with white banding her chest. I drew her, one day, as carefully as I could. I wished I could…” He stopped, and the pencil stopped. Hob watched him stare down past the paper, into the dark at his feet.

“I wished I could be with her, somehow. I wished I could be free like she was.”

The way he said it made something curl nervously in Hob’s gut.

The soft scratching of the pencil picked back up again. “I’ve learned how it…works…over the years. It’s easier when the image is. True to life. But.” Hob could see him turning the words over in his mind. Keeping the knowledge to myself whispered back through his mind, and he almost jumped in, almost told him to stop, that he didn’t need to know. But it would have been an enormous lie. He did need to know. He’d never burned to know anything the way he did this. Not knowing would drive him completely mad.

Dream said, “There has to be. A desire. To create or have the thing. I can intend to make a thing I do not want, but it won’t work without the desire to have it. Or. To gift it. To someone.” Now Hob could see what he’d drawn. It was a poppy, he realized, perfectly rendered in spare, clean lines. Dream dropped the pencil and let it roll into the gutter of the book. Long fingers touched the page, were still for a moment, and then there was that strange little gesture. Even this close it was hard to follow.

Dream lifted his hand and held the flower out, offering it to Hob with a look as though he expected to be bit.

Hob took it gingerly in one hand. Scarlet, heavy with pollen. Real. The page was blank.

“Christ,” Hob whispered. “That is…incredible.”

Dream’s expression softened and his gaze dropped his knees. “I suppose you could say so.”

“You suppose?” Hob sputtered. “I just…you…” He blew out a long, long breath, until he was empty, then drew it back in through his nose. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Dream replied, softly.

“Yeah.” Hob toyed with the poppy. “So, what, does this run in your family? Your da knew how to talk to animals or…?”

For a long moment the only sound was the distant din of traffic from down the street. “Perhaps. I don’t know,” Dream said, slowly. “I do not know my biological parents.”

Of course, Hob thought. Christ. He wasn’t sure his gob could handle being any more smacked this evening, but he had the sinking feeling that they weren’t done. Bracing himself, he said, “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Dream opened his mouth, struggling with his words again. Hob just barely caught his lips trembling and almost regretted prodding, but what was done was done.

Dream asked, slowly, “Do you recall the name Roderick Burgess?”

#the sandman netflix #dreamling #dream x hob #dream of the endless #hob gadling #human au #A Translation of the Dream #Dreamling au

[ruleofvee]

[something short for the au i outlined here]

Grab it. 

His fingers twitch. Some long-wilted instinct has him force them to still, force himself to remain frozen behind the rocks. Remnants of a life that feels so very distant, and yet clings to him like the marks of some ghost. It saves him, this time. His target is wary, ever on the alert. Cyno has one chance, and one chance only.

The memories are - blurred. Scribe, his fractured mind says, when he eyes the gray-haired man. His mind stutters over the second man - friend, lover, Tighnari - but it feels far away from himself, somehow. A life that is and isn’t his. He tucks it away among the shattered glass that has become his mindscape.

The others are irrelevant, and he dismisses them. Nothing matters as much as what the Scribe carries.

No matter what, Cyno must get his hands on the divine knowledge capsule. 

~=~ 

Electro always wears on his mind, dissolving his tenuous grasp on reality. He staves off its usage for as much as he can, and then when green mist starts to gather around the Scribe’s hands, he realizes he has no more choice.

friendloverTighnari is shouting something. Cyno doesn’t have the time to make it out before purple sparks fill his vision, and everything slips away. 

When he comes to again, he is running. Running across the sands, feet tracing the path back to the temple. Something clangs against his chest, and he looks down to see the capsule cradled in his arms. There is shouting behind him, but he doesn’t hear it. His gaze lies on the dunes ahead, where a figure stands waiting for him. My handler. 

Red is encroaching along the corners of his vision. He reaches for them, suddenly short of breath. Their face etches in something like and yet unlike worry as they catch him before he can keel over.

It’s already slipping away, now that he’s no longer alone. He’s been clawing onto sanity with both hands during this chase, and now he is beyond spent. The madness is creeping in, insidious, scraping the shattered glass of his mind down the edges of his thoughts.

“Unsafe,” he gasps, and then he is gone.

~=~

Merimaat sighs quietly. With one hand, they take the capsule from Cyno - exposure to it surely did nothing for his mind. Once it is safely tucked away in their robes, they grab him by the wrist and haul him to his feet. 

He sways, unsteady, eyes vacant. It’s always disconcerting to see him like this. They have done so much and yet so little. Sometimes Merimaat wonders if it was a good idea to even try.

But, they would hardly go against the Temple. And what they have learned has been useful.��

Cyno leans into air like he’s about to keel over, and with an impatient huff Merimaat stoops and picks him up in their arms. He has learned by now to go willingly, and so he lies limply, muttering nonsense under his breath that Merimaat doesn’t care to hear. 

Unsafe - what a woefully inadequate description of such matters. The chances that Cyno would ever be himself again are low indeed, in Merimaat’s opinion. The knowledge is too entrenched, too deeply permeated through his mind. If only they’d gotten to him sooner - 

Shouting, in the distance. They are out of time. 

Merimaat shifts their grip on the General Mahamatra, and walks.

~=~

Once, Cyno described his madness as ‘a kind of living nightmare’. It was one of the few times he ever willingly spoke about his condition. Normally he prefers to pretend that it does not exist, which does little to aid their research - but they would not dare to force him. The higher-ups were clear - whatever Cyno says, goes, including refusals to cooperate.

(He is our only potential connection to Irminsul. Even in his madness, he knows things we do not.)

The entrance hall of the Temple of Silence is blessedly cool after so long in the blinding sun. Merimaat drops Cyno, a sound that echoes in the space, and the General sprawls out onto the floor like a spilled sack of flour. It doesn’t seem to affect him. His murmurs have risen into incoherent syllables, that bounce off the stone walls and make Merimaat shiver.

Trying to block out his words, they instead reach inside their robes and pull out the capsule. It illuminates the shadows with a harsh, angry red light, and Merimaat finds themselves unexpectedly captivated. Lucky, they suppose, that they have long removed their Akasha Terminal.

Still, their eyes linger on the glow. A shape moves in the endless red, and they stare unblinkingly, trying to make it out - 

A hand grabs their shoulder. They yelp, and nearly drop the capsule. They’re whirled around to face the furious eyes of what looks like a man with fox ears. Something cold presses under their chin, and they look down to see an arrow in the man’s other hand like a knife, the tip flush to their jugular. 

“My name is Tighnari,” the man says, more like a growl than a sentence, “and you have thirty seconds to explain why you are holding Cyno here. Begin.”

#fanfic #fanfiction #genshin impact #genshin fanfic #cyno angst #genshin cyno #genshin au

[ainulindaelynn]

Hmm… Amphipolis or Amphipolis alt for the WIP game please - whichever you feel more comfy sharing (or both, if you like!) 😊🤍

Amphipolis 😫

I may expand the wall top scene a little and the battle to reflect history (because WOW), but right now this picks up immediately after the fight with Kleon. Personally, I needed to run back to the battlefield in that moment, and I'm furious with Ubi for denying it. Before anything, I want to capture the feeling of my childhood night terrors, where there was no ground and unless I was clinging to something I might get sucked into space... It's still eluding me, so progress has been minimal... xD

From that point forward, Kassandra stays with Brasidas, taking the role of guardian over his body through the funerary process. She's with him almost continuously, experiencing Amphipolis' initial shock and watching their response unfold as a grim bystander. This has required several OCs and more research than anything else I've done for Odyssey and my knowledge still feels woefully inadequate. I want to blend (what we know of) Spartan & Macedonian rituals and highlight the historical honors from Kassandra's view. The city's response was so beautiful in history - I want to bring life to that as much as possible. It does end early though, as Kassandra leaves the moment she can no longer see him in the cremation flames, slipping away to the mountains for solitude.

I have 10k thrown in a document, but honestly I really hate all of it, so I'm gonna skip a snippet for this one :)

----------

Amphipolis Alt

This one is very underdeveloped. It's a little AU where Kassandra says, "Hey, If Deimos shows up, he's MINE" and because he trusts her, he DOES and LIVES. Bypass death, go to Kleon's attack, and the game resumes as normal, except everyone is happy. The central conflict is around Kassandra's troubled relationship Sparta and learning to support the campaigns in shadow form (I can’t imagine military structure smiles on commanders messing around while their subordinates go without - or that Brasidas would publicly permit that discrepancy), keeping with the traditions of military structure. It would follow Brasidas future campaigns if the treaty of Nicias never happened. AND EVERYONE WOULD LIVE HAPPILY.

Realistically, I'll never write this because there's not enough tension in the story to push me through. But also, knowing myself, I would need context to play at Brasidas' next strategic step and that would be a slippery slope into dedicating my life to understanding every intricate detail of the Peloponnesian War, which I do not have time for xD

This fic is a pretty little pipe dream and a couple scattered thoughts :)

#fanfiction #tag games #ac odyssey

[fearofahumanplanet]

hello and how are you?

Reaper's Harvest for the WIP Challenge?? (o゜▽゜)o☆

I'm doing alright how about yourself?

Okay, i ACTUALLY know what this one is. for real this time.

And you wanna know why? It was my very first attempt at a book! Ever! Back at the ripe young age of like... fifteen. I've taken a lot of elements from it and re-incorporated them into the Epitaph (Serpents) universe now, so it's not truly forgotten, but it still holds a fond place in my heart.

It was essentially about an amnesiac soul that found themselves obligated to be turned into the next Grim Reaper when they died (a process that involved a lot of body horror), and finding out that they were being handed the oh-so-wonderful task of dealing with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Oh, yeah, and Death of the Four Horsemen is a very bitter former Reaper. Also, Satan is a trans woman, and she may or may not have the protagonist's best interests in heart.

The first 2,000 or so words of that abandoned manuscript below for your enjoyment!

(Flashback to when I was just ripping off Douglas Adams and Dante's Inferno)

Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark…

July 16th, 2025.

The sicarius awakens…

Cling to the womb, it’s only dark out, every loss…

He bleeds, crown of thorns nestled deep…

How does he keep falling, eons buried beneath…

You could walk away right now.

The fallen stirred, restless in their sin, beneath the blackened surface.

He’s a fighter, isn’t he?

He saw beyond the pale, alien shapes dancing through his darkness, unobscured by unconsciousness.

You can’t see past your psychosis, can he?

The burden of tomorrow unsettled his thoughts, threatening an oncoming awakening.

Do you remember? You’ve ascended without them…

He struggled to perceive, senses absent, the water that submerged him more of a certainty than an observation.

They wanted him to survive. He so, so desperately wanted the rest.

Wake up!

The final voice was distorted, ferocious, ravenous. Hungry.

It startled him out of his self-imposed reverie, the Wanderer snapping his eyes open - and that would be the first strange event of a day that certainly wouldn’t lack them. He had no eyes. In fact, it didn’t seem as if he had a body at all. The lack of stimulus from his senses was easily explained by the fact that he didn’t have senses to begin with.

He knew he was submerged in a pool of black murk, the surface indistinguishable from the depths. But he didn’t know how he knew that. It was an impression, a deep knowledge imprinted into his brain, and he was as certain of that knowledge incarnate as he would be if someone asked what colour the sky was.

He couldn’t feel the water, but he was sinking. He couldn’t see the water, but he could feel it - not physically, but the mental imprint was on the forefront of his psyche, mind driven to make sure he knew where he was. It seemed that it was his sheer, human willpower making sure he didn’t become a worthless, imaginary husk.

The Wanderer rose, no body to drift upwards. No, whatever physical presence a consciousness could possibly have rose, floating above the surface, water undisturbed by his movement. He had no body. That fact, though hitherto-suspected, was confirmed now. The water had refused to budge in his presence, never stirring, ever silent.

What bloody nonsense had he gotten himself into? It was a simple question, one better suited for lesser situations, but he had never really come up with a good phrase to use in the circumstance that he woke up in a pool of dark without a body. For now, “bloody nonsense” would have to do.

“Greetings.”

The voice startled the Wanderer, but he had no body to react with, and he was not the type to yelp, prompting no visible reaction on his part. This was for the better, anyway. He needed to remain guarded in odd places like this.

He struggled to picture what was around him, trying to force his mind into doing the imprint thing. He seemed to be woefully inadequate at this task, but he got the feeling there were trees around him. Trees, dead trees. Stone? Crumbling stone. Like… Ruins, perhaps? A darkened sky above? Of course. It was always dark down here. But how did he know that?

Oh, right. There was a cloaked man before him. Perhaps that would’ve been important to focus on.

The Wanderer fumbled, not exactly sure what to say here. He wasn’t used to speaking with strange hooded men, especially without his body. Could he even speak? He tried, but there was no tongue for him to use.

Well, my missing mouth is going to make conversations inconvenient, innit?

“I can hear you. Don’t worry about speaking. You can’t do that, anyways.”

He can hear- The Wanderer paused, aware that he could probably hear that, too. No need to belabour the point. Ah. So you can read my mind.

“Well, you are only a mind right now,” the hooded man said, his tone gravelly and monotone. It was like listening to a corpse fresh out of the grave, or at least what the Wanderer imagined one would sound like. “It would be difficult to communicate with my clients if I couldn’t do so.”

Fair enough, the Wanderer conceded. About that body thing. What happened to it?

“Well, you left it behind,” the cloaked man said matter-of-factly.

Well, yes. Obviously. But I certainly didn’t intend to.

“I am aware.” The man paused, clearly mulling over his next words. That, or he was giving his (likely decaying, by the sound of things) throat a rest. “My name is Charon. Do you remember yours?”

Well, why wouldn’t I remember my sodding name?

“Then what is it?” Charon asked.

Well, it’s-

The Wanderer paused, his nonexistent tongue stalling to find an answer it didn’t have. He thought for a moment, a little bewildered and disturbed to find that he actually didn’t remember his name. Then he thought further, discovering information even more frightening.

Oh God, I don’t remember anything!

“Yes, as I expected. That’s okay, it’ll come back to you.” He paused thoughtfully, if one could even do such a thing thoughtfully. “Also, don’t say that. People don’t like that phrase down here.”

What, “I don’t remember anything”?

“No, no, that one’s quite common,” Charon waved his gloved hand. “No, don’t say ‘oh, G…’ You know. They don’t like that down here.”

Well… Okay, I guess. I can’t see why it’s a big deal, but I won’t say it.

“Just avoid anything with that name in it,” Charon explained, skillfully avoiding use of the word ‘God’. “They don’t like that here.” He nodded, his frequent repetition of the phrase somehow sounding more eloquent with each iteration.

Right. Okay. Where is “here”, then? And why do you hate… you know, him, so much?

“You’re in Hell,” Charon said dryly, as if he was merely reciting boring, insignificant details. This was neither of those things. This was an intriguing, significant detail. “And that should answer the second question as well.”

Hell?! The Wanderer could scarcely believe this. What did I do to come here?

“You died,” Charon said, as if this was obvious. “You’re not alive anymore. You passed. Et cetera.”

Well, of course I’m dead, and I’ll let that shock settle in later. But for now, I meant to ask what on Earth I did to justify sending me to Hell?!

“Oh, right. Well, first I must explain that you humans have really got the whole Heaven-Hell dichotomy wrong from the beginning.”

Wrong? You mean to tell me that Hell is good?

“Nowhere is ‘good’, and nowhere is ‘bad’. Heaven and Hell are much like real life. There is no black and white, only confusion and blurred morality. No human goes to Heaven, it is strictly not allowed, so how good you are in life has no bearing on where you go. You all end up here, or Tártaros or Diyu or… Okay, I can’t list them all, there’s a lot. Gods forbid you end up in Hel or Duat. Point is, Hell isn’t that bad.”

The Wanderer pondered this for a moment, concluding with horrifying certainty that Charon was a shite teacher. You just said “gods forbid you end up in Hell”. You’re contradicting yourself.

“No, Hel with one L. As in, Helheim.”

What’s the bloody difference?

“A lot. Trust me.” Charon seemed trustworthy, so this wasn’t an issue. It was the sheer volume of strange names and bewildering information that was tripping the Wanderer up.

Okay, fine. So, why are there, what, half a dozen different afterlifes?

“Oh gods, no, there’s more than that,” Charon said. “One hundred or so, by my reckoning.”

One hu- Jesus Christ!

“We don’t like that name either,” Charon sighed.

Right. Sorry. So you don’t say the singular form of gods?

“There is a difference between capital G God, and lowercase G gods. One is an individual. The others are a… well, I don’t know. They aren’t a race, or a species, so…”

You don’t do the explaining thing very often, do you?

“No.”

Alright, fine. Gods. So, then, is Christianity not correct? Or all those other religions that believe in one god?

“Well, that’s a complicated question,” Charon said.

And you’ve given me nothing but complicated answers, so it’s par for the course, innit?

Charon shook his head. “Okay. The mythologies and religions on your Earth, the ones humans worship? All those stories, they all happened. All of them. Just not in the way most of your people interpret them.”

Wait, all of them?

“All of them. I work for Satan. Hades runs Tártaros right next door to us. My boss gets into catfights with one L Hel constantly. I specifically avoid the Egyptian, Mayan and Aztec underworlds on my morning jogs. Sometimes I go and party with voodoo death deities.”

Hold on, you work for Satan?! And I thought Hel with an L is a place!

“It is. The gal who runs it is also named Hel, or Hela. Hel with one L. And yes, Satan is my boss. I am here under her orders.”

Her?

“Precisely. Satan is a woman. Like I said, you humans only got these gods, erm… 75% correct.”

Something told the Wanderer that Charon was inflating the number to downplay human stupidity. It wasn’t exactly necessary. He couldn’t remember anything, sure, but he got the distinct feeling that humans were daft pricks.

Well, okay, she. I guess it’s not the weirdest thing you’ve told me. Did she order you to greet everyone who ends up here, or am I a special case?

“You are aware of how many people go to Hell, right?” Charon said with an amused tone. “There is a reason the combined pantheons have a small army of psychopomps to ferry people in. You thought overpopulation on Earth was bad? This is something else.”

Okay, okay. So I’m a special case then. This wasn’t exactly something the Wanderer was excited about. Maybe it was the human preconceptions in him, but he had never really aspired to have Satan desire his presence. That just didn’t seem right.

After all, the “deal with the devil” cliché had to come from somewhere, right?

“Yes, you are,” Charon said. “You are to become the next Grim Reaper.”

It took the Wanderer a few seconds to formulate a response. As per usual, it was nothing if not eloquent.

You what, mate?

“The next Grim Reaper,” Charon repeated. “The position’s open.”

Look, unless I sent in an application before I died, I don’t recall asking-

“It’s not a choice. Unless you’d like to tell the Icon of Sin herself that you wish to decline her job offer.”

I… Of course he didn’t want to do that. Well, it doesn’t sound like an offer then! It sounds like I don’t have a choice!

“You’ll find blatant lies, blackmail and false advertising are common practice down here.”

Naturally, the Wanderer thought in exasperation. Besides, didn’t you just say you had a whole bunch of Grim Reapers already? Like, the psycho… pops. That ferry the dead over. Why do you need another?

“Psychopomps are not necessarily Grim Reapers,” Charon said slowly, clearly realizing the depths of the ignorance he was dealing with. “Psychopomp simply means anyone who transports the living to the realm of the dead. By definition, I am a psychopomp. But I am no Reaper.”

Okay, fine. Then what’s the difference?

“The Grim Reaper is the most esteemed and capable of psychopomps. They are the psychopomp - they’re well known amongst your people for a reason. They also get a number of privileges befitting their position. For one, you’ll get your own body.”

What, and I wouldn’t normally? Don’t I have the right to a body?

“You no longer walk amongst humans. Rights are not handed out, they are given by the gods.”

That doesn’t seem right. When you said privileges, I expected something… else.

“Well, you’ll also become a demigod. You will be immortal.”

I’m already immortal! I’m dead! What, are you gonna kill me again? I’ll be right back here!

“Actually, unlike mortals, if a demigod or a god is killed in battle, they stay dead. Barring extraordinary circumstances, anyways.��

The Wanderer could not believe what he was hearing. What?! Then what benefit is there?! I’m trading off invulnerability for a body and a shite job!

Charon mused over this point for a moment. “Okay, that’s a good point. Can’t deny that. But, as a demigod, you will have power, and lots of it. You will be capable of reality warping and time travel, for one.”

I don’t want power. Honestly, I’d gladly settle with going back to my nap.

“Then you are a rarity amongst mortals.”

Probably. You should’ve asked a politician.

“Satan specifically requested you.”

Why? I’m nobody!

“How do you know? You can’t remember your life.”

Alright, you got me there. I still think trading off my invincibility is utterly moronic.

“You may be invincible, but you can feel pain,” Charon said.

So?

“So, as they say around here, ‘hell’s fiercest fury is a woman scorned.’”

Oh.

“Like I said, I don’t care if you march over and tell Satan you don’t want the job. Just remember that I’m not liable for what’ll happen after.”

It’ll be really bad, won’t it?

“Hell earned its reputation purely from those who angered its lord. I’d advise staying on her good side.”

The Wanderer hovered there in nonexistence, contemplating the futility of any opposition. He knew, just as he knew for certain that he was in a dark forest, that Satan was not a being he should ever dream of enraging. If he did, he’d likely see the fire and brimstone that permeated the nightmares of millions.

The Wanderer relented. Fine. Where do we begin?

#abandoned wips #asks #besties tag

[battlinghurricanes]

DEIPHOBUS TIME!

I'm honestly not entirely sure how I got such a deeply involved concept for his character and motivations, but I definitely did. I just feel like he fits into an especially interesting place in everything and that there's a lot of great potential with him.

Shout out to @petalveinedwarrior for enabling me and also I'm very sorry for being incredibly long winded. My bad.

Also DISCLAIMER! I am NOT an expert on the Trojan War and all its surrounding mythology lol. This is just for fun, based on my own fairly limited knowledge of the myths (though I think I pretty much cover everything that’s relevant to this). These are just my headcanons woven with some details from various myths. Sorry if anything’s missing or inaccurate!

SO!

-

First and foremost, I headcanon Deiphobus as the oldest of Priam and Hecuba’s children after Hektor.

Hektor calls Deiphobus the dearest of his brothers, and to me, this is why. They are the closest in age and they were the closest growing up, best friends when they were young. They also get the closest to being on equal footing which means a lot to Hektor, who often feels distance between him and his other siblings because of being heir to Troy.

Despite the relatively equal ground and Deiphobus treating Hektor with a very casual familiarity, deep down, he idolizes him. Deiphobus adores and admires Hektor, ever a younger brother in how he looks up to his strength and intelligence and reliability but close enough in age to not feel the same envy as so many of their younger siblings.

Deiphobus is aware that he is next in line to inherit the throne of Troy after Hektor, and the possibility of that is more real to him than to the rest. He doesn’t envy or want the responsibilities Hektor has to bear being the first son and admires him for it rather than resenting him. He never wants the weight of Troy on his shoulders.

Additionally, as close as they are, Hektor confides more openly in Deiphobus than the rest of their siblings. Consequently, he has a more realistic idea of both the burden he bears and also the ways he struggles to manage it like any human would.

Deiphobus holds Hektor in the highest regard- he means the world to him. It is a strange and unique combination of relating to and understanding Hektor exactly as he is and then loving him so dearly for how remarkably he seems to do in all of it, all that Deiphobus adores and strives to be like.

Hektor calls Deiphobus the dearest of his brothers, but Deiphobus would never need to say the same of Hektor, that much has always been obvious.

Deiphobus himself is ferociously loyal, boastful and fiery proud, wild and energetic, and always quick to smile and laugh with a sharp sense of humor. He’ll defend his own with tooth and nail, Hektor first and foremost, and they make a well balanced pair. Hektor’s level headed sense of responsibility softens many of Deiphobus’s rough edges, and Deiphobus’s enthusiasm breaks through many of Hektor’s more anxiously formed reservations.

Deiphobus would do near anything for Hektor, to a concerning degree in the eyes of some, but Hektor, by his nature, isn't overly controlling. He doesn't want Deiphobus to change how he is. Mostly, the only place Hektor truly pushes him is on moral grounds, for better rather than for worse.

Deiphobus hates to spend time overthinking anything, which benefits him in some ways, but also frequently has him following the example of those around him without considering what might lean towards cruelty. Hektor never tolerates hurtful and needless rudeness or otherwise, and their friendship doesn’t spare Deiphobus his reprimands.

Hektor's needling, though, has him step back and reexamine his actions and the second look is generally what he needs to correct his missteps. Admittedly, he’ll sometimes act better in some way solely to please Hektor, but far more often than not, he’ll come to recognize why it’s best with time and continue that way from his own compulsion.

(He grows and his conscience sounds irritatingly like Hektor.)

Deiphobus is actually one of the best of his siblings at not holding a grudge. He might for drama or humor’s sake, but once a squabble is past, he’ll easily set it aside in favor of having fun with whoever he fought with.

Regardless of his flaws, Deiphobus is amiable and of the opinion that it’s never worth passing up a good time over some pettiness. He’s never one to ignore the value of little joys, no matter how fleeting they are.

Before the war, when he is still younger, there is Antheus. He’s the pretty son of Antenor, and both Deiphobus and Paris are quite taken with him. Paris’s involvement rubs him the wrong way, but he elects to ignore it as best he can. It doesn’t sit right to consider policing Antheus’s actions. He can hardly demand he stop seeing Paris while still insisting on his company, after all.

Besides, he can’t really complain. Antheus favors him with his presence often, laughing at his jokes, stealing off his plate when they share meals, tumbling with him when they wrestle. And when Antheus lifts his hand to idly toy with his lower lip as he smiles slyly at him, Paris is the last thing on Deiphobus’s mind.

Hektor teases him sometimes when he turns up ruffled from some exchange turned overzealous, but his flustered frustration pales in comparison to his excitement, so Hektor gets away with it. Oh, he loves Antheus and the feeling is so heady, better than the most potent wine.

Then it all shatters when some men rush into the palace with Antheus’s limp body carried between them. He was in the gymnasium with Paris, they learn. One throw from Paris with a warped discus and Antheus was gone. Deiphobus stares at the blood soaked in his lovely hair.

Deiphobus is ready to rip Paris apart, but when his brother is guided in after, there’s just no room for it. He’s in complete hysterics, shaking all over as he hyperventilates, and screaming would have gotten through to him no more than their family’s vain attempts to calm him down.

Paris is inconsolable afterwards. He retreats in on himself, though without any attempt to defend himself, first to give himself the blame. He makes for a pitiful sight, and at first, Deiphobus can’t stand being in his presence at all, to take his anger and grief out on him or otherwise.

It doesn’t take that long for Deiphobus’s anger to grow more painful than cathartic anyway and, well, it is hard to lash out at someone acting exactly how he feels. He feels the same heartbreak and pain he sees in Paris and he can’t find it in himself to rage against him when he’d rather just sit and cry himself.

Paris does take it upon himself to face Deiphobus after a time and claim responsibility for what happened that day. Deiphobus doesn’t forgive him, doing that feels... off, but he manages to convey that he won’t turn on him for the accident with Antheus. He thinks that might make Paris feel better but he can’t truly tell.

It all still hurts then, even as they try to get things to settle. Nothing but more time can do anything more to heal those wounds.

And time passes and then Paris returns from Sparta with Helen, and, well.

The brewing war doesn’t drive a rift between Deiphobus and Hektor, but it does force a new distance between them. The pressure on Hektor spikes and never eases, and the time he has to spare becomes exceedingly rare.

Much of the time the two would have spent for themselves together now shifts to working together to manage the complications that come with this new conflict; Deiphobus has new responsibilities to shoulder himself. More work, less play, but the mutual affection and respect between them remains just as strong as before.

Deiphobus can’t help but feel a certain bitterness over having the casual companionship of his brother taken away from him, but he does all he can to set it aside. He refuses to let it be another source of stress for Hektor, so often too caring for his own good, and he doesn’t hold it against him anyway.

As always, Deiphobus remains aware that these tasks could easily have been his and, privately, he feels woefully inadequate in the face of that possibility. And truly, it just serves to make Hektor even greater in his eyes, handling it all with grace he can’t imagine. He knows he’s not perfect, yet still, it’s hard to imagine that anything could ever truly bring Hektor down.

And so, Deiphobus helps his brother in the ways he can and loves him as ever, always ready and eager to fight at his side.

Deiphobus leads a contingent himself, and does it well. It comes easier to him to manage a smaller group like that. He does as directed and guides his men through the fighting. One can say what they will about his ability to lead, but his capability as a warrior is undeniable.

Things shift between Deiphobus and Paris as well. Much of Troy turns on Paris, some faster than others. Deiphobus ignores the greater dramatics which, in his opinion, help nothing. Still, it is often tempting to berate him for his flippant disregard of the battles so he does, which is, admittedly, not entirely unwarranted.

However, Deiphobus and Paris share a mutual, unspoken understanding that they simply cannot focus on the war at all times. Sometimes it must be set aside. This is more often true to Paris than to Deiphobus, but that invites Deiphobus to keep Paris’s company when he can no longer bear all the stress.

In turn, when Deiphobus approaches him like that, Paris can trust not to be reprimanded as he so often is, as that gets ignored along with the rest of it. So there are times during the war where the two can be found together affably, chatting about nothing important. Their personalities can still mesh in such moments.

And, well, it’s shocking how steady things can stay over nine years of war, but they do. Death and loss become far too familiar companions, but they can do nothing but keep fighting through that, and things proceed much as they have been.

Until, of course, Achilles.

With all the cruelty of fate, it of course follows after they get the closest to driving away the Achaeans as they ever have. Such a brief, amazing hope. In his unmatched fury, Achilles slaughters their soldiers, butchers many of his brothers, escapes Scamander’s rage through the grace of the gods, and drives the army behind Troy’s wall with his advance, except for-

Then-

Hektor is dead.

Deiphobus tastes blood in his throat screaming at the sight behind the chariot.

In a way, it’s a blessing that it takes twelve days to get Hektor’s body and another twelve to bury it. With his death, command of Troy and her allies has passed to Deiphobus, and he could barely lead his own horse after losing Hektor, much less an army.

Deiphobus falls to pieces. He can barely process it, losing the one he held in the highest regard, held every confidence in, believed in to his core. Hektor was the best of all of them and now he’s dead, leaving him shattered. Deiphobus is hysterical, wildly heartbroken.

In this time is when Priam first turns on his remaining sons. He lashes out at them as he prepares to ransom Hektor’s corpse, degrading them as the most worthless of his sons. Still half blind with tears of grief he can’t hold back, he thinks that it’s true in the same moment he thinks of how he will now have to take Hektor’s place, worthless ruin though he is.

Most often, Priam refrains from speaking of his remaining sons after that, and in rare, fleeting heartbeats he almost seems contrite over cursing them. Neither is enough though to keep him from savagely reproaching them in unpredictable instances as Troy continues to spiral towards its doom. Deiphobus shakily chokes down his father’s abuse without a word.

Of course, he returns to the battlefield once Hektor is buried, coming to truly learn the crushing weight of his new role. How did his brother bear this? Every day feels like one failure after another; he’s not strong enough, not smart enough to do this. He tries anyway, each day more taxing than the last.

Deiphobus can hardly bear Paris after Hektor’s death. A large part of him hates him for it, desperate to pin the blame on someone despite knowing deep down that he’s not responsible. Though, even then, part of him is drawn to Paris, broken same as him, shaped by a sort of desperation to grieve for their brother with him. Misery loves company.

His anger burns hotter, but now he can’t bring himself to berate him even in the way he did sometimes before all this. He never confronts him with his hatred, such that it is. He simply avoids Paris entirely, knowing that if he indulges in the impulse to curse him for what happened to Hektor, he would fall apart at the seams.

Even now he can’t face the truth of what happened and keep going. It is all he can do to try never to think about it.

And then, with the aid of Lord Apollo, Paris kills Achilles.

The undecided limbo of Deiphobus’s feelings towards Paris topples into something like affection the moment he hears of it, connecting them once more. Paris has destroyed Hektor’s murderer, avenging him, and that matters to Deiphobus more than anything else.

That night, the two of them drink together until it half kills them, close enough to keep knocking shoulders as they revile Achilles with the worst profanities they know. It’s the only celebration they can muster after everything, but they’re both laughing for the first time since they lost him.

(When the night grows damnably late, Deiphobus’s attempt to laugh turns into retching and Paris collapses to the ground when he tries to get up to help. They suffer the agonizing morning together.)

They make a strange pair from then on. Friendship would be a generous word given the still unavoidable tension between them, but they somehow manage to maneuver around that and share a certain closeness. They maintain it despite differences that grind against each other. Sad as it is, it’s one of the only things either of them have left.

Paris and Deiphobus also weather Priam’s spontaneous tirades together. Usually wordlessly, but there is something to be said for the company of someone enduring the same pain you are. It is a quiet solidarity, but a significant one.

They talk of the war far more often now. Every day it devours more and more of their lives, always harder and harder to ignore or set aside. On rare occasions, they do still manage it. Those conversations make for a breath of fresh air, though that does little to stave off the feeling of drowning.

And then Paris takes a poisoned arrow and dies.

Deiphobus doesn’t wail and sob in the same way he did for Hektor. He’s too numb for it now. It hurts in an unnatural, distant sort of way. All he can muster is a ugly, stilted feeling of shame for letting himself come to care for him in the first place. Of course he would die like the rest, he should know this by now. He crumbles further.

After Paris’s loss, there's only two reasonable options for what to do with Helen. Either they need to return her to Menelaus or arrange a new marriage and keep her in Troy.

Helen pleads to be returned to her first husband but Deiphobus competes with Helenus to be the one who weds her. Troy does not stop them. There is a quiet but tangible tension to the city and he doesn’t think their people would tolerate Helen departing. He competes with everything he has left and he wins. And they marry.

That first night, Helen stares at his back while sitting in her new place on his bed. She expected to be treated like a piece of meat, a feeling she's grown well used to through living her life under the eyes of men, but he's barely even looking at her. He fought for her hand with an undeniable, feral sort of desperation. What was it for if he doesn't even want her?

"Why?" she asks him. "Why bother going through every effort to marry me only to be so cold now? What do you want?" Her voice would cut razor sharp if only she wasn't so tired.

He turns to face her with bloodshot eyes narrowed in a glare, riddled with barely restrained anger and grief. "I'm not letting you leave," he forces out and Helen pushes down the urge to scoff because that much is obvious.

"It has to be worth something," he continues. "There has to be something we fought for. If we just let you go back, then it won't have been worth jack shit." He paces, not looking at her again. "I won't allow that. Don't think you can avoid all this so easily now that Paris is gone. There has to be a point. My brother is dead because of this shit! If you're gone, then what would be the fucking point?!"

His brother. He means Hektor. He means Paris. He means every last one of them, so many dead. He means Hektor.

Helen doesn't reply. There is nothing she can say to that. For all that it doesn't make a difference, what he's laid before her is something she knows well. She's spent so long now berating herself and blaming herself for all that's come to pass and she understands. She hates this, all she wants is to go home, but she understands him.

She knows that they both hate each other and themselves all in equal measure. What a wretched pair they make, Helen thinks.

Not that they make much of a pair at all. They're rarely ever together. Deiphobus camps outside whenever he can, and when he can’t, he goes out of his way to avoid her. Helen accepts it as the best she can expect from the truly miserable situation this has become. The war drags on, but the truth hangs in the air that Troy is losing.

Then the horse.

The people, starving so desperately for peace, bring it inside the walls. Deiphobus tries to be cautious. He tries to think of what Hektor would have done. He commands Helen to walk around the horse, calling out in the voices of the Achaeans' wives. If there's some wretched spy or invader, let them show themselves. He'll kill them.

No one answers. Deep down just as desperate for peace as them all, he breathes a sigh of relief and leaves the damn horse.

He hopes the Achaeans filled their mouths with blood, biting their tongues as hard as they must have.

Troy is burning. The Achaeans fill the streets with slaughter; they are everywhere. Reunited with her husband after so, so long, Helen tells Menelaus where Deiphobus is. And so, Deiphobus dies alongside Troy.

(Deiphobus and Hektor meet again in the Underworld and Deiphobus tries to apologize for his failure to keep Troy safe. Hektor will hear none of it, refusing any of the anger he has every right to put on him. Still, a long time passes where Deiphobus silently and anxiously wonders if that was a lie, if Hektor truly does hate him for what happened.

Hektor keeps throwing him tense, unsettled glances sometimes when he thinks he’s not looking, even though he never says a thing. Each one worms further and further underneath his skin and he starts to squirm under the conviction that he’s done something wrong. Something Hektor holds against him.

When it finally grows so unbearable that Deiphobus confronts him about it at last, Hektor flinches and doesn’t disguise his fear and upset. Deiphobus braces himself. But then, mangled in with confusing, ashamed apologies, Hektor recounts for the first time how he died.

Athena luring him to his death in Deiphobus’s shape, speaking in his voice. How he turned to face Achilles believing he had support. When he called for a spear from his brother, he was alone.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I think of it at all, I’m so sorry I let you believe I was angry with you because of it. I’m not, it had nothing to do with you, you shouldn’t have to know of it at all. I just- remember it sometimes. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Deiphobus feels nauseous. Hektor looks even more so.

“If I had actually been there-”

“No! Don’t do this. Achilles would have just killed you too.”

“We wouldn’t have died alone, then.”

They clutch at each other, these battered remnants of their souls, carrying with them the wounds of their lives.)

#the iliad #deiphobus #hektor #hector of troy #paris of troy #and misc others i wont tag lol #trojan war #greek mythology #my writing #goal: make everyone else have thoughts and feelings about deiphobus too #hes my randomly selected emotional support child of priam #and hes perfect for my favorite thing #weird little character studies #hopefully this was at least somewhat interesting to read #its been a long time since ive done a post like this #an unsurprisingly it is way too long lol #sometimes it really is just all or nothing with my headcanons #i also think about the version where achilles is going to marry polyxena and deiphobus grabs him while paris stabs him in the back #inchresting

[willow-salix]

The Shirt

This little thing is for @misssquidtracy and @soniabigcheese and was supposed to be a ficlet (tell that to the 2.5k that came out). It came about after a throw away comment to Sonia last night and then John ‘helpfully’ dropped the whole thing in my head fully formed. Enjoy!

Thanks to the awesome @myladykayo​ for the gorgeous shot of this dude!

"I don't need any new clothes, I told you that."

"And I didn't listen. Come on, John, you haven't bought anything new since college."

"And I'm happy with that, all of my clothes are perfectly serviceable," John continued to argue as Gordon towed him into yet another shop. 

As always they drew attention, Gordon because of his loud voice and, according to him, his swimmers body that the women loved. Gordon had always loved to be the center of attention, he'd reveled in it back in his Olympic days, proud of the knowledge that his promotional pictures had graced many a teenagers phone backgrounds and lock screens. 

John, on the other hand, had no idea what people saw in him and why they still watched him even when he was with his brothers. He knew his hair always drew looks and over the years he'd heard more than a few people whispering something about checking if he was a natural redhead, although he'd never wanted to stick around to listen too closely and had gotten out of there sharpish. He'd much rather just be left alone to fade into the background where his introverted wallflower tendencies could be appeased. 

"Well, I need new clothes and you can't leave a man to shop on his own, it's just not done," Gordon continued. 

"I'm pretty sure there's no such rule."

"I'm making it a rule, it's part of the bro code now," Gordon shot back, flicking through yet another rack of eye-wateringly bright shirts that even Hawaii would have disowned. 

"I reject your rule."

"You can't, I'm your baby brother, you have to be nice to me, that's in the bro code too."

"I demand to see written proof of this rule book that you seem to keep pulling things from whenever it suits you."

Gordon glanced at his brother, seeing his lips twitch as he fought valiantly to keep any display of amusement firmly at bay. John didn't often get the chance to hang out with his younger brother but he always enjoyed it, not that he'd ever admit that out loud, that would only encourage Gordon to up his annoyance level by at least five points. 

"Ha! You smiled, I'm off the hook!" 

"I did no such thing."

"You did, I saw it! The robot had a feeling- ow!" Gordon ducked out of the way, avoiding another cuff around the back of the head from his, far too lanky for his own good, brother who apparently had the reach of an orangutan. 

"I'm not a robot, you little jerk. Stand still so I can hit you properly." And there went the warm fuzzy feelings. Back to reminding himself just why said hang outs didn't happen more often. 

"Yeah, right! Like that's gonna happen." Gordon shimmied backwards through the rack of shirts that made the sun look dull and out the other side to freedom. "Too much time in space has made you slow, bro!" 

"What? HOW DARE YOU!" Without thinking John dived around the side of the rack, stretching out to grab at his grinning brother. "I'll show you who's slow!" 

"I am lightning, I am the wind!" Gordon dodged aside with perfect ease, avoiding the grasping fingers of his brother. 

"Full of wind, more like! Stand still!" How was the squid so fast? 

"Come on, old man, keep up!" 

John made another grab at the back of Gordon's shirt but the little shit wiggled out of his grasp like an eel. 

"Ha! Victory is mine!"

"I wouldn't be too sure about th-" WHUMP! John spluttered, screeching to a stop as he got a face full of fabric, evidently thrown by Gordon who'd decided that weapons were now in play. 

He flailed, tripping over the leg of a clothing rack as he stumbled blindly. He made a grab for the first solid feeling thing he could find, although his judgement of solid was woefully inadequate. He landed on the floor in a tangle of limbs, both his own and plastic, as the mannequin he'd inadvertently grabbed fell with him. 

"Gordon," he gasped, winded from his tumble, but the sound of his brother's hysterical laughter was all that he received by way of an answer. 

He yanked the material off his head, a shirt of some description by the looks of it, and staggered to his feet, dragging his dance partner up with him. 

He managed to get her upright and back on her stand after a great deal of huffing and many swear words muttered under his breath as Gordon continued to howl like a hyena, hanging onto a mirror to stop his own downward descent. 

Yanking her skirt back up where he'd accidentally yanked it down, John finally got the mannequin back in place and decently covered up. 

"Gordon stop laughing!" he ordered as he bent to pick up the shirt that had assaulted him before angrily turning to face his brother. 

"What a clumsy idiot," he heard someone whisper a few rows over, stopping him in his tracks. "Keep out of the way, he'll take us down with him next."

John ducked his head, his cheeks as red as his hair, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He hated being the center of attention and now, he risked a peek to confirm his suspicions, yep, now the whole store was looking at him. Great, just perfect. 

"I'm never coming shopping with you again," he hissed in Gordon's direction. 

"Too right. Did you see the shirt he's holding?" the woman's friend whispered back. "Anyone that picks out something like that should be avoided at all costs."

"He's looking, quick, pretend you haven't seen him!" Both women quickly looked away, suddenly extremely interested in a nearby coat. 

What were they talking about? John glanced down at the pile of fabric still clutched in his clenched fist. It was definitely a shirt of some description, beigey-brown in colour, but not just one shade, oh no, this monstrosity had at least four other shades of brown thrown in for good measure, all coming together in wavy lines of what-was-this-designer-thinking to form some kind of texan nightmare, complete with gaudy gold piping. It truly was hideous, quite honestly the most disgusting thing he'd ever laid eyes on and he'd trained with astronauts who didn't have control of their digestive systems yet. 

He looked around desperately to find somewhere to hide it away from his sight, ignoring Gordon who was taking deep breaths in an effort to calm down. 

There! He spotted a convenient looking pile of sweatpants on a shelf and moved over to stuff the offending article back into the depth of hell from whence it had crawled when a single, solitary thought tickled at the back of his brain. 

He paused, thinking, his brain hamster now awake and racing at top speed around its wheel. He glanced from the shirt to the women who had spoken before, then back down to the shirt. 

"I'm going to try this on," he announced to his stunned brother, marching past him to the changing rooms. 

He quickly stripped off his T-shirt, the one that declared that he was a communications engineer not a magician, and pulled on the horror shirt. Surprisingly enough it was actually made of quite a soft material, something his overly sensitive, due to time spent in low gravity, skin really appreciated. 

He pulled it closed and buttoned it up, rolling his shoulders to allow it to settle into place. It was remarkably comfortable, actually long enough in the body. He stretched out his arms, pleased to see that the cuffs didn't immediately hike up to his elbows. All good so far, but only one thing would assure its purchase…

He pushed open the changing room door and stepped outside. The effect was immediate as two men, three women and a toddler that had been independently milling around near the entrance took one look at him and, as one, turned as quickly as they could in the opposite direction. 

Grinning to himself he tugged the tag off the sleeve, grabbed his T-shirt from the changing room and headed to the counter. 

"I'll wear it out," he informed the cashier, loving the way he not so subtly averted his eyes, unable to look at him. "And I'll take as many as you have in stock in this size and the next one up too." The cashier rushed to do his bidding, desperate to save what remained of his eyesight. 

"See, I told you coming shopping with me was a good idea," Gordon grinned as they made their way back to the parking lot, their arms filled with bags. 

"I will admit that it had its advantages," John answered as they strode easily through the crowd that parted like the red sea, unwilling to risk being contaminated by their fashion flu. 

John breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like he could relax for the first time since they'd gotten there three hours before. 

"That shirt is magical," Gordon declared, watching in astounded awe as eyes all around them shifted to avoid looking in his brother's direction. "It's like a people repellent in clothing form, it's….it's…" he groped around for the right words. 

"It's perfect," John declared, lovingly stroking a sleeve like one would a beloved pet. And it truly was. It was like people had a filter, an ugly shirt firewall in their heads that made them avoid it at all costs.

He couldn't remember a time that he hadn't been stared at since the year he'd turned seventeen and hit his second growth spurt. In that year he'd shot up six inches, his lanky frame had filled out a little, his weedy arms turning into tightly packed muscles and he'd developed abs and a voice that had deepened a few octaves. Then, for some reason, his anxious aura with its go away vibes had become nothing but a challenge for most people, acting as a kind of siren call for them to latch on to him and decide that he needed to be included, chatted to and made the center of attention. 

Now it was like he was practically invisible and it felt amazing. Even with the neon orange shirt Gordon was wearing, people were mostly ignoring him. 

"I'm never taking this thing off again."

       ***

"Why am I always the one doing the laundry for you lazy arses?" Selene bitched as she dragged a massive basket of assorted Tracy clobber into the lounge where the assorted Tracys owners sat around in various states of lazy. 

"Because you love us?" Gordon answered, grinning cheekily. 

"Nope, that can't be it," Selene retorted, sitting down on the steps of the seating area to begin the mammoth task that was sorting and folding. She dragged out one of Virgil's plaids and folded it into some semblance of order and dropped it on the floor to start his pile. 

"Let me help," John offered, moving to sit beside her and take some of the pile from her lap. 

"Thanks, gorgeous."

"Whipped," Scott teased, reaching for his coffee cup. "Hey, Sel, if you're the only one doing the laundry as you claim, how comes you haven't managed to wreck John's ugly shirts?"

"Why would I?" she shrugged, balling up a pair of Scott's socks. 

"Because I know you. Any excuse to shop, right?" 

The socks made a handy projectile as she threw them at his head. 

"Thanks!" Scott grinned, effortlessly plucking them from midair. "Seriously though, look at it."

Selene looked at the shirt that was currently hiding the delightful chest of her even more delightful husband. 

"I fail to see the problem with it."

"Really?" 

"Hey, leave my shirt alone, it's perfectly serviceable, thank you."

"It's old, it has to be at least seven years since you bought them," Gordon joined in. "They probably don't even make them any more."

"They don't," John said, concentrating on folding one of Alan's T-shirts into a perfect square. "So nothing had better happen to the ones I have left."

"Now's your chance," Alan whispered to Selene. "Kill them with fire and you'll never have to see them again."

"Yeah, you know that he's got much nicer clothes in his wardrobe," Scott added. 

"I've actually grown quite fond of them," Selene answered, carefully folding one she'd plucked from the depths of the pile, smoothing it out like it was something precious. 

All three Tracys, minus one Virgil who was down in the hangars no doubt creating more washing for her to do by getting covered in grease and muck, stared at her like she'd just announced that she was going back to blonde. 

"What? How? You said that he's never looked better than when he's wearing a decent shirt, I had to give you a drool cloth at your wedding."

"All true," she shrugged, folding one of Virgil's vests to the best of her ability. 

"Yet you continue to let him walk about in, what was it you called it, his rodeo clown shirt?" Gordon asked, completely bemused. "Are we missing something here?" 

"I'm a witch," she started by way of explanation. 

"Duh," Alan snorted. 

"And I have a healthy respect for glamour magic, and that right there," she continued as if she hadn't just been rudely interrupted, pointing at the shirt that John was wearing, "is the most magical thing I've ever seen in my life." 

All three of them burst out laughing, unable to believe what they were hearing. Selene waited patiently for them to finish cackling like they had just cursed Macbeth. 

"Allowing the shirts to live is doing the world, and my arrest record, a huge favour. Now, if you'll excuse us…" she got to her feet, relieved John of the socks he was busily matching and dragged him to his feet.

"OK, OK, I'll bite," Scott continued to chuckle, wiping the tears from his eyes. "What makes you think it's so magical?"

"That should be obvious, nothing short of a miracle could hide that amount of sexiness. Why do you think I'm good with him hiding in Five when he's wearing that space suit?" She dumped the half folded pile of washing back into the hamper.

"I've decided that you lot can sort your own laundry, because I've got the sudden and overwhelming urge to see that shirt on our bedroom floor. Later, fashion rejects."

John put up zero resistance. 

"I love this shirt," he grinned, waving a cheerful goodbye to his stunned brothers as his wife yanked on his hand, towing him bodily from the lounge and on to far more pleasant things than chores. 

#we need more squidboy and spaceman #SquidMan #John Tracy #Gordon Tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirdsarego #thunderbirds #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds fanfiction

[aspenflower17]

Finding You (Part Six of ??)

Heya! I finished part six (yay!) and it is ready to be read 😁 It’s weird to me I’m on part six already seeing as how that seems like a lot, but also not enough. If you’re new here, the link to Part One is below. I also have links at the bottom of each chapter to go to the next one. You can also find my new Master List on my blog as a pinned post. As always, if you would like to be added to the tags list, just ask in a comment down below, or you can send me a message, and likes, comments and reblogs are always welcome!

Also, for anyone wondering, IKEA was fun (as always), but the store actually reached max capacity.. 1,400 people... During a pandemic... The line was so long, it reached the back of the self-serve furniture area (the place where you can pick up all the heavy/big items), and was starting to wrap around. Note, our IKEA has the switchback thing that amusement parks have for rides... So the line was easily hour wait. Suffice to say, we didn’t end up buying anything.

Part One

The Peeps!:  @simpingforsatan @naimena @hachimochi @wrathandgreed @magi-minminxiii @rensphilia

Word Count: 2030

Triggers/warnings: claustrophobia?... Maybe...?

I had my show in the Devildom. It was successful. He didn’t show up though.

Mc sighed, putting her journal down. As much as she hated to admit it, she was too upset to make much more of an entry for the day. It had been her first show in the Devildom, and it had been a huge success. She should be happy. No other show had ever been as successful. She wanted to be happy. She wasn’t though.

Mc got up to open her suitcase. She had made a secret compartment to carry the letter S had written to her. It had given her a lot of strength over the years and she almost considered it a good luck charm at this point. She reread the letter, laying down on the bed, though she knew it by heart at this point. 

She knew she was probably projecting too much on S. Besides the letter, she had only spoken with him maybe half an hour. Why was she so caught up on him? She didn’t even know his real name. Yes, he had greatly impacted her life and his letter and words of comfort had been a constant companion, but what did she actually know about him?

A sharp rap at her door interrupted her search, “Mc? Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

Luke entered her room, carrying a tray of tea.

“I figured you could use some tea after the day you’ve had.”

“Oh, thank you,” Mc smiled softly as Luke brought over a chair.

“Still upset?” Luke asked, pouring a cup for Mc.

“Hmmm?”

“Ever since the show you’ve seemed unhappy. Kind of depressed, like when you were a child.”

“Ah, well, I was a bit upset that my artist talk was interrupted so abruptly.”

“That turned out alright though, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s just not the same,” Mc shrugged, taking the proffered tea.

“So, that’s seriously what’s bothering you?” Luke asked, his eyebrow arched, then, “You’ll have plenty more shows down here if Diavolo had anything to say about it.”

“You think so?”

Luke smiled and shook his head at Mc, “Of course, silly. Barbatos told me all about it when I was getting the tea.”

“Well, I’m glad. I like it here, even though most of my time so far has been spent in that gallery space.”

“Well, I don’t know how much Michael likes it down here. I kept telling him he needs to ask Diavolo about Lucifer, but he says it’d be improper.”

Mc snorted, “Well, we wouldn’t want to be improper now would we?”

“He’ll be so surprised when he finds out what Diavolo’s planning for next week.”

“Hmmm?”

“I can’t tell you about it yet. It’s not set in stone, so I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

“Luuuuke! Where are you?” Michael’s voice came drifting from down the stairs, “I can’t figure out how to turn on the light in here!”

Luke rubbed his temple, “I’ve explained it like three times… Hold on! I’ll be down in a second!” Luke kissed Mc on the cheek, “Get some sleep and cheer up Sis.”

“Thanks Luke,” Mc smiled up at him, “I do have the best big brother don’t I?”

Luke grinned happily, “Good night Mc.”

After he left, Mc’s smile faltered and then fell. Her thoughts returning to before he had come in, “I should probably find something to do to break me out of this. Sulking in my room isn’t going to get me anywhere. I do have a whole castle to explore, though I don’t know how much of it I’m allowed to explore… Surely they couldn’t get too mad about me checking out the library…” and with that, she put her letter back in it’s secret place and left her room.

The castle was quiet, the padding of her feet the only sound. I guess even demons sleep. Her knowledge of demons seemed woefully inadequate as opposed to the knowledge she had about anything else that interested her. There just hadn’t been much information to find in the Celestial Realm unless it was how to defeat a demon, or to break the influence they had over a human. Of course she’d also heard the stories about the Great Celestial War. Six angels, led by the Morningstar himself, had gone on a rampage, and had been cast out. Being a scholar, Mc had never found a reason why they had rebelled, though she had read a lot of theories, most of them mere speculation that cast angels in the purest light possible. These, of course, she hadn’t listened to too intent;y. She knew angels had a lot of secrets already, being privy to many of them; they weren’t entirely innocent in many respects. She suspected this was true of this instance as well.

The library proved to be hard to find in one night, but by the time Mc felt sleep start to pull her back to her room, she had the layout of the castle halls almost memorized. She had actually found it easy to do, easier than almost every other place she’d been in. Of course, she didn’t know everything about the castle. If this castle didn’t prove to have a lot of secret doors and passageways, she would be sorely disappointed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

The fog was so thick Mc felt like she could chew it. The ground beneath her feet was soft, but it didn’t feel like anything she knew. There was no sound, not even her breathing. Just a murky white everywhere. Mc couldn’t remember how she got here or what she was doing here, but she was searching. No time to think. No time to remember. She needed to find it. She had lost it. It hadn’t been on purpose, but it had happened. She would find it though. Surely she could find it. It was the most important thing. Cherished. Loved. So important.

The world was growing colder. Her hands were stinging and her feet were clumsy. She could still feel though. So cold. Too cold to move, yet she did. Nothing should be working right now. She should’ve collapsed long ago. How long ago? How long had she been here? Did it matter?

She hadn’t found the thing yet. What was it? If she found it, she’d be warm. It would keep her warm and safe. No more searching. She would never lose it again. She just needed to find it.

A dim light started to pulse slowly. Was that it? Was that what she had lost? No. Maybe it could help her find it. The light got brighter as she continued forward. What was it? Light was good though, right? Light was a marker. Light could help the lost. It illuminated. It could help her find it.

The light was now right in front of her. It was so bright! Almost blindingly so. The area around her started to heat up, her feet and hands throbbing with relief. Was this it? What she had been searching for? Something within her screamed to turn around, but the heat was so welcome, even if it hurt. Hurt worse than anything she knew. She would be safe here. If she had to keep searching, so be it. She just needed to rest a bit. She reached out to the light, her hand backlit against the light. She grabbed at the light, and was then falling.

Mc gasped, sitting up straight in bed. Where was the light? Where was she? After a couple moments, Mc remembered where she was. On a bed. In a guest room. In Lord Diavolo’s castle. In the Devildom.

Mc reached for the glass on the bedside table with shaking hands. Spilling a little on her blankets, she tried to shake off the claustrophobic feeling that lingered. She hadn’t had a dream about her first memory in a while. After she had become an angel she had learned about what happened to human souls after they passed. Some found their way straight to the Celestial Realm, blinking and waking up to the eternal light. Some were wanderers though. While many wandered just a little while, some wandered endlessly through the fog she had experienced. Though the angels didn’t know exactly what caused this, many of those who wandered a long time before finding their way to the Celestial Realm were sad in some way, as she was.

She had gone home that day and asked Simeon about it, and he had told her she had wandered the longest of any soul in the Celestial Realm. She had been very cold and it had taken a while for her to wake up. She had been a little horrified, and Simeon assured her it was nothing to be concerned or ashamed about. It was simply a fact and no one held it against her, least of all Luke or him. She had wanted to believe him so bad, but everyone treated her lasting loneliness as a bad thing, so she had been forced to hide it. Pretend she didn’t feel lonely. Pretend she was fine.

She fumbled for something to distract herself and found her DDD. She worked for a second and finally turned it on, the light actually hurting her eyes. They adjusted quickly though and she groaned as she saw it was nowhere near time to get up. The thought of falling asleep again was not an option so she decided to start scrolling though Devilgram. Apparently the app was rather old as far as in-vogue apps went, but Lord Diavolo had said he would never use a different social media app, so it persisted as the number one app. She still wasn’t really used to the layout, Luke having helped her set up her artist’s talk.

She went to the post and found a lot of comments and likes. She started reading them, smiling as people praised the ingenuity of her work, frowning slightly at those who were impressed “an angel could have such an eye for art”, and rolling her eyes at the comments that criticized her species, clearly just upset she was an angel.

As she continued reading however, she ran across a couple comments asking if anyone had more information about the demons who had caused quite the uproar during the artists talk. Confused, because everyone had been very respectful at the center, Mc opened the replies, and found a whole thread of people who were upset they had been pushed and otherwise knocked out of the way of one demon who had been running through the maze following another demon who had been flying. Many speculated they were the reason the artists' talk had been cut short, and some theorized they were running to the center to harm her. A couple people tried to cut through the noise, stating the demons in question were Mammon and Satan, both Avatars of Sin. Most of the comments about this said Mammon acting this way seemed normal, but they couldn’t understand why Satan would do something like that. It seemed so out of character, a lot of the replies to these comments said they were either liars or sorely mistaken thinking it was Satan.

Mc’s heart jolted a little bit, seeing Mammon’s name. She recognized it as one of the angels who had fallen, and the name Satan had been mentioned in some history accounts as having taken form from Lucifer’s anger, though the information on him had been scarce and some thought he was just a myth. After all, how could someone be born from an emotion?

So, he’s real after all. Not that I thought he wasn’t, or at least, I figured there was at least some truth to the stories. Oh, someone has a picture of them. Wait… Is that?

At that moment, the app shut down.

“No, no, no, no,” Mc said, clicking the app again. It couldn’t have been… Could it? Her screen changed, but nothing loaded. An error message then popped up on screen, saying the app could not load, and to try again later.

Mc sat stunned for a second before springing into action.

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

Part Seven

#obey me! #OBEY ME #obey me! swd #obey me satan #obey me mc #obey me michael #obey me diavolo #obey me luke

[mimssides]

One Spade for five Hearts: Chapter 5

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“It’s more than one,” Logan heard himself say.

He could punch himself right in the face. Virgil had just given him the perfect out of the situation; Just say that you don’t want to tell them who it is. But no, Logan had to be honest and admit that he had not only one but several soulmates. What was wrong with him?

“Huh, didn’t take you for the polyamorous type…” Remus commented as Logan buried his head in his hands and sighed woefully.

“I was just as surprised, thank you very much,” Logan retorted bitterly and decided to never look up again.

His three friends shared a look in in the meantime. Their otherwise always so knowledgeable and prepared companion seemed to be rather at loss as for what he was to do next. A bit hesitant Virgil put his hand on Logan’s shoulder as Patton put their homework to the side and got out a few snacks from their bag. As they placed a package of cookies on the table, they shot Remus a look with raised eyebrows, prompting kæm to say something.

Taken by surprise Remus cleared kæs throat and told Logan: “Feelings are always surprising, specs. I have tons of them and I’m still getting blindsided by them half the time. But having feelings for several people is fine, man. You’re good.”

“And,” Patton added softly putting a few cookies in front of Logan, “you have no obligation to get involved with your soulmates in any way. It’s not a rule and you are free to do what you deem fit, as long as you are not hurting yourself or others.”

Logan sighed again and Remus raised kæs eyebrow at his dramatic display. Like that he almost reminded kæm of Roman’s dramatics.

“Come on, Lo. We get that you don’t like this but we just wanna help you out. There’s no judgement here,” Virgil tried to get Logan to at least look up for a moment.

Logan didn’t look up though. He kept his eyes shut in his face buried in his hands.  He really just wanted this to stop. Also, he very much doubted that they wouldn’t judge him for this. All of this would certainly mess with their friendship and Logan didn’t want to risk that.

And as if Virgil had heard his thoughts he asked suddenly in shock: “Wait. Are you scared us knowing because we know them?”

“Uuh! Juicy! What a bad boy you are, Logie!” Remus said with a chuckle.

And just then Logan made the mistake of looking up to Remus. Immediately his face flushed more, he could feel it, and hid his face again in his hands. That move did not go unnoticed by the three others and their thoughts were racing.

Was it Remus? No, it couldn’t be otherwise Logan would not have come. Logan would never make a mistake like that. But why then would he blush even more looking at Remus? Did kæ remind him of his crush?

“Are you-” Remus started hit by a sudden realisation, “are you in love with my sister? Oh, my gods do you have the hots for my siSTER!”

Logan let his head drop on the table and let out a pained wince which answered Remus’s question adequately. Remus flapped kæs hands and started squealing for a few moments, while Patton and Virgil were still recovering from that revelation. But it did make sense. And it made quite clear why Logan was so worried. This could very well change their group dynamic completely and Virgil knew how much Logan liked what he had with them. These were their first friends who weren’t Spades and Logan loved their company and time spent together more than anything.

“I - wow,” mumbled Patton before they motioned Remus to dial it back a little. “Logan this is. This. Well. It is a little unexpected to say the least but Roman is a fine person and I am sure she wouldn’t be mad if you told her.”

Logan groaned against the table top and the three others exchanged looks once more. This would be harder than they had anticipated. Especially considering that Roman was not the only soulmate Logan had according to him. And Remus knew too well that Roman wasn’t one for sharing.

“Not to make you more uncomfortable, if that’s even possible,” kæ said forcing kæmself to sound nonchalantly, “but who is the other one? Like, if it’s anyone but Erin I think Ro might get upset if she had to share you. But what are the odds of the other one being her, right?”

Remus snickered a little after kæs comment only to rapidly stop when Logan sat up and stared kæm right in the eyes. As he looked at kæm, he took a deep breath and took one of the cookies in front of him.

“Well, I clearly beat all he odds then,” Logan commented defeatedly and took a bite from the sweet treat.

Remus blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. And then kæ asked: “Are you serious?”

Logan wanted to point to his tie but remembered just in time that today he wasn’t wearing one and instead settled with the answer: “Yes, I am fucking serious. Can I now please die peacefully of embarrassment?”

“Oh, sweetie no!” Patton told him fiercely. “Feelings are not embarrassing and certainly something you would die of. It’s okay! I am sure you can make it work. They are both very sweet people and if you talk with them, they’ll be happy to find a solution with you. No matter what that looks like.”

Logan just huffed and looked down. They didn’t understand how difficult this was. Of course, they couldn’t since they didn’t know he lo- liked them as well. And he wanted them all. He wanted them all to know and be okay with it but he also didn’t want to tell them and see their reactions.

“They’ll be happier together without me,” Logan eventually said not looking to Patton. “I’m not good at this and they can be perfectly happy without me messing things up for them. It’s better like this.”

There followed a beat of silence.

“This is so not “better like this”, man. You sound miserable talking about not being with them! Are you really telling yourself that you are going to be happy without ever admitting your feelings to yourself or them?” Remus asked.

Logan jerked his head up and glared at kæm with tears welling up in his eyes: “How could I deny this! It’s - It’s far too strong to ignore how much they mean to me and I just don’t want to hurt them with my stupid emotions! Their lives are complicated enough without some stupid nerd fawning over them. I don’t want to add to their stress. I – I just want them to be happy and I don’t know that I could make them happy. Not as much as I want them to be, anyway.”

Another beat of silence followed by the sound of gentle cooing by Patton accompanied by the sweetest little Tings Logan had ever heard.

“That is such a sweet sentiment, Logan!” Patton squealed very unaware of the fact that they just caused Logan to fluster even more.

Then Logan felt Virgil’s hand on his shoulder and heard a small change in Virgil’s melody, which he really didn’t like but could not exactly explain why.

He didn’t get to muse over it as Virgil asked him: “Are you that serious about them, Lo? Are they truly that important to you that you think you should suffer for them to be happy?”

Logan just wanted to say yes. Of course, they were worth it. Of course, he would suffer for them if it made their lives better. No questions there. But he couldn’t say that now. Not when he couldn’t tell Virgil that he felt just the same for him.

“Erin is lovely. She is graceful and such a great improviser. She is so wickedly intelligent and knows so well how to read people when I have no clue what is even going on. She listens so well and she doesn’t use sarcasm around me as much because I have expressed my difficulties of understanding sarcastic remarks. And her voice is very nice. Very nice. And Roman... Roman is like a freight train. I don’t know how to stop her and sometimes she makes me not want to stop her, even though it is stupid and dangerous. She is so much prouder than I could be and she is so unafraid to hold my hand or hug me even though so many other people shy away from me because of my name. They are both amazing and I don’t want to make them worry or sad because of some stupid crush or soulmate curse. They deserve someone to woo them correctly and love them best.”

They really were amazing, Logan realized once more as he was talking and felt even more inadequate than he had before. They truly deserved the world and not some stupid boy like him.

“Oh, honey.”

“Logan no.”

“Lo...”

And so, did those three. Their compassion made Logan weak and he glimpsed to Virgil by his side. He looked at him with such sorrow that Logan could not help himself but slump together.

“Lo, please that’s simply not true,” Virgil said oh so gently and Logan really wanted to believe him. “You’re an amazing guy and I do think they both like you well enough. I don’t know if they are in love with you but – They might be and then it would hurt them a lot if they didn’t get a chance to be with you just because you decide you are not good enough for them. Because, trust me, you are amazing. I’ve seen you be spectacular and Roman certainly thinks the same considering you caught her and Erin after she jumped out of a window.”

“I fell, though,” Logan faintly objected.

Remus almost audibly rolled kæs eyes and retorted to that: “She didn’t warn you that she’d jump. And while you are strong, catching two people is not an easy task, dearest shield. Also, you caught them nevertheless, so don’t worry about it.”

Logan looked up to kæm and allowed himself to feel a bit comforted by kæs words. He had caught them after all. Quietly, he looked at the cookie in his hand and gulped for a moment. Maybe it would work out eventually.

“Is that when it happened? When you caught them?” Virgil caught him off guard and he jerked his head up to look at him.

“The moment of harmony?” Logan asked for clarification and to buy himself some time. “I think it was a little later, when we started running, but I didn’t realize until after. Then I heard it.”

“Heard what?” Patton asked curiously.

Logan cleared his throat. He still hadn’t figured out what the melodies really were. He was positive that they were instruments but he could not clearly point out what kind of instruments, since all of this was very new to him. Maybe bringing it up with Virgil would make things easier now. He knew part of it now, so why not try to utilise his newfound resources.

“So,” Logan started rubbing his thumb over the cookie, “that fact about the curse had never been mentioned to me before but I hear some sort of music around my soulmates? Not- not like music you listen to, Virgil. It is just one thing that makes the melody and, uhm, beat and, uh, rhythm, I think? No voices singing or something like that. I think, it’s just one instrument for each of them and they change according to things they feel, but I am really bad at reading that and I did not have a lot of practice figuring that out.”

“That’s so cool!” Virgil immediately said and unlocked his phone. “Do you want help with figuring out what instruments they have?”

“Please yes, very much so.”

And so, Virgil helped Logan to get acquainted with different instruments. Both Remus and Patton gave their inputs as well, and were highly entertained by Logan’s all too concentrated face as he tried to focus on the music that was playing. It took them a while until they figured out that both had string instruments. Erin was identified first as a violin and Roman apparently had some sort of harp.

“Good fits,” Remus commented after thinking for a moment, while Logan finally ate the cookie he had been given. “The minimal changes you can create with a violin really fit Erin’s micro expressions and the harp is just extra enough to fit Ro.”

“Oh, don’t be so mean to her! It’s also a very miraculous instrument and fits her finer and dreamier side very well,” Patton scolded and the couple bickered for a moment.

Virgil listened to them with a grin and shot Logan a side look to see if he was just as amused as he was. But instead of amusement he found a frown on his friend’s face, as he munched on his cookie. Subtly, Virgil nudged him and Logan looked up to him.

For a moment there was a wordless exchange until Logan admitted in a small voice: “I miss hearing them. I missed hearing you too, but talking about them and listening to their instruments makes me – it makes me want to hear them more.”

“Good news then!” Remus exclaimed scaring both Spades successfully. “The rehearsal is still on! We can go there and listen to them sing, specs! There’s a song at the end of the thing and you might like to hear that.”

Logan did not get much of a choice after that. Patton was immediately enraptured with the idea and apparently, they had a contagious effect on Virgil as he immediately went with the idea and help the two other boys pack up their stuff and then pulled Logan along as they went to the assembly hall where the rehearsal took place. Logan tried to chicken out, telling Virgil that they had to finish their reading but was thoroughly ignored. And the last protests that was left in him died the second they had pushed him inside the assembly hall and Roman’s voice and her melody filled the room as she was delivering a rather dramatic monologue.

From that moment on, Logan was simply pulled along by the others and stared to the stage where Roman was performing with another kid, apparently the villain of the story. They took a seat in a middle row but Logan barely noticed anything as Erin just entered the stage and backed Roman’s character up. Their melodies were resonating and despite the tense scene that was taking place in the play, Roman’s Plings were playful and accompanied the quick and light mmmngs from Erin.

Logan was mesmerized by their acting and he didn’t notice the fond looks Patton and Virgil exchanged as they watched him. No, Logan was so captured in their performance that he barely noticed how fast his heart was beating and how happy it made him to see them like this. Their passion and talent were extraordinary and Logan wanted them to feel this happy all the time.

And then the song came. Roman and Erin started to sing a soft little duet, just accompanied by a guitar. It wasn’t a complicated song by any means but something about it went right into Logan’s heart and he grabbed Virgil’s hand vigorously. He didn’t know why, just that he needed to hold something or otherwise his heart would figuratively jump out of his chest and explode.

Virgil flinched a little, when Logan’s hand was suddenly on his but recovered quickly when he realised that Logan was probably overwhelmed by all the music and singing in this very moment. Most Spades were rather sensitive to sound and connected outstandingly well over music. Logan hadn’t been exposed to music in the past and right now it was coming all at once for him. So, Virgil kept watching Logan cautiously, ready to get him outside if need be.

Luckily, that did not end up being the case and Roman and Erin ended their duet and the theatre kids bowed proudly as their rehearsal had ended. Remus then forced Logan to get up and pulled him along towards the stage. Patton was following kæm closely and tried to get him to cool down but before they could stop, Roman had jumped down from the stage and approached the little group with a big smile on her face. Both Patton and Virgil kept a close eye on Logan who looked extremely stiff as Roman walked up to him.

And as Remus stepped to the side Roman quickened her pace and tackle hugged Logan with a little sprint on her last steps towards him. Logan had to catch his breath before he could gingerly put his hands around Roman’s shoulder and hugged her back.

“Man specs! You really scared us with your disappearing act, you know?” Roman said after pulling back from the hug.

Logan absentmindedly nodded and told her: “That wasn’t my intention. I did not mean to worry you.”

Roman laughed lightly at the stern tone of his voice and shook her head fondly.

“Oh, don’t feel bad about it! I’m glad you’re back! Did you talk with Virgil? He was so worried about you,” Roman asked him vividly.

For a few seconds Logan just heard Roman’s Plings. They made him feel warm and listening close to this melody he somehow got the sense of relieve and joy coming from Roman, before he actually heard what Roman had said. And then he turned around and shot Virgil a panicked look. Yet before Logan could dissolve into panic, Erin’s voice pulled him out and he turned back to see her standing behind Roman and holding her by the shoulder.

Smoothly Erin said to Logan: “Don’t think about it too hard, Logan. Ro is forgetting herself. And we all know how easily worried Virgil is.”

Virgil’s first instinct was to snap at Erin but he did not do that in favour of giving Logan a reassuring nod. Logan was more important than a petty jab with the laughable Dimond.

Erin then asked if they had enjoyed the show, which Logan awkwardly confirmed and told them that he really liked the song. For a minute they talked a bit longer, before Roman and Erin had to go back and the four which were left back needed to get ready for class.

Logan and Virgil headed to Geography and Virgil made sure to make enough notes for the both of them as he saw Logan still being a bit lightheaded after all that had transpired in the last two hours. It probably also was the first time ever for him to Logan an answer the teacher had asked him. Eventually, the class ended and the two headed home.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Logan said after a few minutes of quiet walking together.

Virgil raised his eyebrows. That was a rather emotional wording for Logan and he scratched his nose and looked down to the wheels of his bike.

“She’s not wrong to say that I worry too much, Lo. It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

Virgil looked up and saw the guilty look on Logan’s face. He wanted to say something to console him but Logan was quicker.

“You know me better than they do, and I should have been more considerate about all of this. Having a soulmate or not having a soulmate is such an insignificant thing and I clearly blew it out of proportion. And while I agree that having emotions is difficult and that I am allowed to feel them, I should not make you suffer because of that. Just because I have difficulties you shouldn’t have to have them too. I’m truly sorry for what I did and I will try and do better from now on.”

Virgil stopped in his step and gaped at Logan for a moment. He stood there with this determined face and the little cease between his brows his father had too, when he was promising something that he really, really wanted to fulfil. Virgil loved it. Frankly, he loved Logan for a good while, around eleven years now, and moments like this always made him fall deeper.

And it also made it harder for him to tell Logan what he told him next: “Apology accepted if you promise me to keep me updated on this soulmate situation. I know how you think about the curse and that you don’t think that soulmates are important but I think today in the rehearsal I almost saw you have a heart attack because of them singing together and I’d say that does mean something.”

Logan’s cheeks flushed again and he began to vent over how fast his heart was beating around them and how inconvenient that was. Virgil laughed a little, as Logan went on and explained how the feelings had been there before but he hadn’t noticed it until that moment when they started running and now, they were getting stronger and more distracting. Even as they reached Logan’s home the boy went on and for the first time since last Tuesday, Virgil stopped and listened to his friend in front of the driveway for a few minutes. This was okay even if it meant that he would help Logan with figuring out what to do about his very obvious crushes and probably giving away his own chance to ever be together with his best friend.

But that was okay. Virgil just wanted to be close with Logan and he believed that his friend wouldn’t abandon him for any romantic interest in the world.

___

@varthandi

@sammy-is-obsessed / @exhaustedfander

@alexisrealgay

@softie-sushi

@wolfs-feder

@just-a-neoclassical-painting

@winter-jay-official

@a-ghostlight-for-roman

@mychemically-imbalanced-romance

@whattheremus

( @frawkeye - you liked the pictures of the AU, but if you don’t want to be tagged for the story just tell me^^)

@turnedthefreakingfrogsgay (don’t worry I won’t tag you in any more stuff (excpet you want me to^^) but I wanted to say that I did post this chapter on tumblr because of you reblogging it. The story isn’t doing great in the fandom but I am happy it makes at least you happy <3)

#sanders sides #ts logan #ts virgil #ts remus #ts patton #analogical #roloceit #ts roman #ts janus #logan ward #virgil caron #remus butkus #patton gygax #roman butkus #janus lucas #self-doubt #awkwardness #first crushes #Suits AU #please reblog

[padawanlost]

Isn’t it weird and by weird I mean hypocritical that the Jedi found value in saving Clones, who were made to be disposable, but they couldn’t be bothered to save Shmi, Anakin’s actual mother?

It depends on what you meant by jedi putting value in saving clones. though it’s true most Jedi would do everything they could to save their men during battles, the ugly truth remains that, as an order, they did very little for the clones. 

The was no attempt to given them citizen status;

“I don’t feel like a Republic citizen, because none of us are, in case you hadn’t noticed. We don’t exist. No vote, no identification docs, no rights.” — Fi (Clone Trooper) in Star Wars - Republic Commando: True Colors by Karen Traviss

“He’s not a citizen. He’s a clone soldier.” “I know. And?” “We have no agreement for long-term care with the Grand Army. In fact, as far as the Republic is concerned this patient doesn’t exist, and as he’s been declared brain-dead by the duty neurosurgical team, we would normally terminate life support, except he’s still breathing, which is highly abnormal.” The droid paused as if to check if Besany was following its train of logic with her inadequate organic brain. “Withdrawal of life support in his case means withdrawal of hydration or feeding, or both.” “Starving him to death, for us lay-beings.” “Indeed. This is clearly ethically undesirable, so euthanasia will be administered.” Besany thought she’d misheard, but she hadn’t. “No,” she said, hearing her voice as if she were standing outside herself. “No, it will not be administered. I’ll get his care authorized. In fact, I’ll get him moved to private care.”Did I hear that right? Do they really put patients down like that? Like sick pets? “He’s Grand Army property, so unless you have a Defense requisition, you can’t take possession of him.” “He’s a human being.” [Star Wars - Republic Commando: True Colors by Karen Traviss]

There was no plans for their future post-war.

“[Darman]’d once asked Etain what would happen to the clone troops when the war was over—when they won. He couldn’t think about losing. Where would they go? How would they be rewarded? She didn’t know. The fact that he didn’t know, either, fed a growing uneasiness.” — Darman (Clone Trooper) and Etain Tur-Mukan (Jedi Knight) in Star Wars - Republic Commando: True Colors by Karen Traviss

There was no freedom (clones weren’t allowed to leave the GAR).

While Vau slept and Ordo piloted the ship, Skirata admired the haul for a while, imagining all the safehouses, escape routes, and new beginnings it could buy for clones who decided they’d completed their service to the Republic. He wasn’t encouraging desertion. He was liberating slaves.”— Kal Skirata in Star Wars - Republic Commando: True Colors by Karen Traviss

There was no respect for dead or injuried clones:

That careful comment meant a great deal in political code if the listener wanted to interpret it. Skeenah seemed to. “Yes, I’ve asked repeatedly about casualties—the medical field units are woefully inadequate, and I can’t find out what happens to those killed in action. To the best of my knowledge, the bodies aren’t recovered. There’s no heroes’ return for these poor men. So if you see large sums allocated to clone welfare, I can assure you there’s no sign of it being used to that end.” Star Wars - Republic Commando: True Colors by Karen Traviss

“You might know, then, what happens to them.” “In what sense?” “When they’re wounded but can’t return to active duty. You see, I can find out what happens on the Rimsoo medical stations—or at least I get some limited answers from the Defense staff—but I’m getting no answers about the men who can’t be patched up and sent back.” […] “I would imagine they die,” Besany said. “The army seems to go to a lot of trouble to send them back.” “Ah, but life isn’t that tidy,” Skeenah said. He lowered his voice, even though the doors were shut. “There’ll be injuries that a man can survive, but that means he’ll never be fit for service again. I can’t seriously believe something like that hasn’t happened in more than a year of this war. And yet there are no homes for these men, who must surely exist, and we know they don’t end up being cared for by family—because they have none. So where do they go?” Besany didn’t even want to think about it, but she had to. The only answer she could think of right then was that the most badly injured who might otherwise have been saved were left to die. But some mobile surgical units had Jedi advisers. No Jedi would let such a thing happen … would they? 

They were property, bought like livestock and no jedi ever questioned it.

“He wanted to ask her why only a handful of Jedi objected to a slave army, and why they could claim to believe in the sanctity of all life and yet treat some life as being exempt from that respect.” — Star Wars - Republic Commando: True Colors by Karen Traviss

“‘Explain something to me, littl’un,’ Rex said. Maybe he could have asked Skywalker this same question, but something told him it was a bad idea. ‘What’s the difference between Jedi who fall to the dark side, and do whatever it is that dark siders do, and Jedi who just let bad things happen on their watch?’ He really wanted to know.” — Rex and Ahsoka | The Clone Wars: No Prisoners by Karen Traviss

Considering how clones were treated it makes sense there was no attempt to free the slaves on Tatooine. And it’s not just about Shmi. There were numerous CHILD SLAVES on the planet and the only child they ever tried to rescue was the son of the guy enslaving them.

The Jedi Order was focused on the bigger picture, they can look away if it might work in favor of the greater good. and that’s the exact mentality Palpatine used against them.

#ask #dalekofchaos #sw meta #jedi politics #gffa politics #gffa slavery #clone troopers #meta: clones #txt

[dreamingofscully]

Momentum, Chapter 2

Read Chapter 1 Here

Rating: Mature (ch 1), Explicit (ch 2) Length: ~12k words Classification: M/S RST, Angst, Post-Ep for En Ami and spoilers through Chimera and all things Summary: Scully’s choices lead to some unintended consequences for herself and her relationship with Mulder.

Thank you to my betas! @sarie-fairy​​ @scullyeffect​​ and @o6666666​​ for the machete betas and @suitablyaggrieved​ @starbuckthirteen​ and @unhappybrthday​​ for the feedback.

Tagging @today-in-fic and @kega-umi.

(Read on AO3)

***

SATURDAY FBI HEADQUARTERS

As Scully arrives at their office, she flicks off Mulder’s music, annoyed that she’s been working all morning while he’s been here having a good time without her. “Oh, bring me some lunch on your way over, Scully.” Sure, can I grab your dry cleaning, too?  

When he first mentions crop circles she tunes him out, irritated at his assumption that she had nothing better to do on the weekend than run off with him to chase aliens or monsters or, in this case, mathematically-brilliant farmers. She’s tired of waiting for him and can’t make herself care about a nebulous case even if it’s better than being ignored and forgotten.

A few weeks ago she would have enjoyed spending a weekend with Mulder in England, distracting him from the case for a few hours here and there. But they weren’t lovers anymore, just estranged colleagues sidestepping the one topic they needed to address. Spending an extended and awkward period of time in his company, with no chance to escape, is an unbearable idea.

After the pointless “serial killer” case this past week she’d been just as guilty of avoiding him. He even brought her breakfast one morning but she didn’t meet his eyes, afraid of what she’d see in them, or what she wouldn’t. It was easier to pretend and hope than confront the finality of his decision.

When he tells her he bought plane tickets for them, she shoots him down immediately, not seeing any other option to preserve her sanity. He looks at her like he’s hoping she’ll change her mind, then speaks again.

“I'll just cancel your ticket.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he takes a single bite of his sandwich and heads for the door. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Mulder…” Scully waits for him to look back at her. “Look, we're always running. We're always chasing the next big thing. Why don't you ever just stay still?”

Why won’t he talk to me?

“I wouldn't know what I'd be missing.”

Disappointment is etched in the set of his shoulders as he disappears from view. The idea she’s let him down tugs at her heart, but is quickly replaced by the relief at not having to worry about being around him. The fact that she’s relieved to be away from him causes her mood to sink even further. When has it ever been the case that she’s been more happy away from him rather than the opposite?

*** LATER THAT DAY WASHINGTON NATIONAL HOSPITAL

“I know how difficult it must have been for you... just walking through that door but you wouldn't have come if you didn't want to and that says something, doesn't it?” - Daniel

His words affect her deeply. The touch from another that Scully’s craved for weeks catches her off-balance. His tenderness reminds her of what she misses, but is it the man or the feelings she craves?

It’s serendipitous. If she’d been given the correct patient file or she’d chosen to go to the hospital at a different time, she would never have known he was there. And the timing. She has no idea where she stands with Mulder and she’s losing patience waiting for him to decide one way or another.

Maybe he’s already chosen but I can't admit it to myself.

Daniel was a man she once loved so fiercely, at such a different time in her life. He still held strong feelings for her, spoke of her memory like it was a treasured thing. Even though he disapproved of the choices she made long ago, he remembers her fondly. It’s exhilarating to be regarded with affection after being starved of it for so long.

Was this a sign I should move on?

She remembers the advice Missy gave her when she decided to leave medicine and pursue her career in the FBI. Her almost-affair with Daniel was something she was reluctant to speak about to anyone, feeling guilty for loving a married man. Regardless, she told her sister everything, like always. Missy didn’t know Daniel but she didn’t like the way Scully said he talked to her, or that he was so insistent on breaking his marriage vows to be with a much younger student. Scully didn’t agree with her on the first, but she did on the latter. The trust she had in her sister made it easier to move on and leave him behind.

Was Missy wrong back then?

***

“You've come at such a strange time.” - Scully

Daniel’s focus is razor-sharp and in his eyes she only sees herself.

“I know, I know. You-you have a life.” She can tell he hopes her new life doesn’t include a significant other. She’s not sure what’s true any more.

“I don't know what I have.” She thinks about the interminable silence from Mulder, not knowing what he wants or what their future holds. The small things that brought her here now of all times. “I mean... your x-rays were in the wrong envelope. I never would have even known you were here if it wasn't for a mix-up. It's just…”

“What do you want, Dana?” It seems like so long since someone’s been concerned with what she wants, even herself. The words take her by surprise.

“I want everything I should want at this time of my life. Maybe I want the life I didn't choose.”

It was devastating to get a taste of intimacy with Mulder only to have it turn to ashes. She thought she knew what she wanted, but maybe she didn’t. Here was a path placed in front of her, the chance to choose something she denied herself so long ago. She was tired of denying herself happiness.

She’s interrupted by the irregular heartbeat of the former love of her life. She molds back into the person she’s comfortable with, the doctor, and acts in order to save him. Thoughts, dangerous; actions, familiar and comforting.

*** LATER THAT NIGHT SCULLY'S APARTMENT

Scully doesn’t get much sleep that night. She tosses and turns, unable to relax after the day’s tumultuous events. Her mind is a whirl of confusing and conflicting emotions. The juxtaposition of Daniel against Mulder. One completely devoted to her while the other seems indifferent. Maybe she could have the life she wanted with Daniel but, more importantly, she feels certain about what a future with him would look like. The unknown path lying ahead with Mulder frightens her. She has never been good with not knowing, with not having things planned out.

She used her skills as a doctor to save Daniel. The practicality of having the knowledge and expertise to do something useful feels like a security blanket. For years now she’s been delving into uncharted territory - seeing things she can’t explain. The idea that science doesn’t hold all the answers makes her feel small and inadequate. Leaving that behind for the comfort of medicine and Daniel’s love was very appealing.

After waking and consuming two cups of strong coffee, Scully gets the urge to visit Colleen but she’s not sure why. Her house felt warm and comforting and she regrets the way she acted that night. She has a few questions but nothing that couldn't be answered by a phone call. Needing to experience her presence again, she drives there anyway.

Suddenly the thought comes to her that Colleen reminds her so strongly of Missy. The thought causes a sudden flood of emotion to rise within her and she has to pause before getting out of the car. She’d just recently been thinking of how much she wanted her sister to help her think through her issues with Mulder. Compared to Missy, Scully feels woefully inadequate when it comes to dealing with her emotions. Her sister flitted from partner to partner, dealing with heartbreak and love easily and fully. It was something Scully had always envied. When her feelings for Mulder deepened to a point she couldn't deny anymore, she longed for her advice and comfort.

Scully steels herself as Colleen answers the door, pushing aside the memories and longing for her sister. She prepares herself with more practical questions about her current predicament. Scully doesn’t need help, Daniel does, and she has a vague sense that Colleen could steer her in the right direction. Something keeps driving her to trust her instincts when it comes to this woman, perhaps she should finally listen to them.

*** SUNDAY

“When we hold onto shame and guilt and fear it creates imbalance, makes us forget who we are.” - Colleen

Colleen’s words repeat themselves over and over in Scully’s mind. She moves away from thoughts about herself, directing them to Daniel. Despite leaving before starting an affair with him, his marriage was ruined and his daughter traumatized. Scully had moved on, but he’d lived with thoughts only of her for ten years.

The idea that he’d been so close for so long had meant to make her feel cherished but it only made her uncomfortable. When she’d been abducted he’d been in the same city, working in a hospital while Mulder searched endlessly for her. When Mulder was holding her hair back when she was sick during chemo, Daniel was impressing a new group of students with his brilliance. And when Mulder held her close during her baseball lesson and they finally took the next step in their relationship, Daniel was thinking about her, ignoring his family.

Perhaps Daniel was put in her life again for a reason. Maybe she should take a chance. He was here now and he loved her. She found comfort in his solid presence and the reminder of her former self, so sure of her science. She pushes away thoughts of Mulder, of the guilt and hopelessness from these past few weeks. A sudden ache blooms in her chest and she presses a hand to her sternum to contain it.

She vacillates for a few moments before making a decision, walking towards Daniel’s room with the flowers she’d purchased on a whim. Instead of breezing in his room and matching his smile with an equal one from herself, she’s greeted with news about Daniel’s worsening health.

Unsure of herself, she leaves the hospital, follows her instincts, and has a vision. The black heart - he’d been poisoning himself. The need to heal him, to bring him back regardless of what he would think or want overwhelms her practicality. If she could heal him, make him see what he was doing to himself, he would get better. Her medicine didn’t help, so it was time to trust in something else.

*** MONDAY

She doesn’t even think about what’s happening until it’s done. It felt so natural to utilize something so separate from her beloved science. She just let go and put her trust in the unknown, her instincts screaming at her that it was the right thing to do before her brain could catch up. Missy would be proud. She hopes it’s not too late to share these things with Mulder, that he’ll still care enough to appreciate the distance she’s traveled these past few days.

When she heads home from the hospital, her thoughts turn inward. She realizes now that the woman Daniel obsessed over is a barely recognizable ghost of her current self. Her gradual transition into the person she is now seems sudden and dramatic when she sees herself through Daniel’s eyes.

She wouldn’t have known she wasn’t the same person if she hadn’t seen him again.

Ever since the beginning of her work on the X-Files she’s been in denial of the things she’s experienced. It wasn’t until Antarctica that her refusal to acknowledge what she saw affected her relationship with Mulder and nearly drove him away. It wasn’t just about him or their relationship, but about herself. Her fear surrounding what she’s become and her stubbornness to resist change even in the face of unquantifiable proof.

She justified it as needing to balance Mulder’s penchant for believing anything, to ground him and keep him honest, as he told her himself. Her outright denial was dangerously untruthful. She realizes now how harmful her actions have been. The contradiction of being so unreasonably skeptical in the face of things she sees with her own eyes and then putting her trust in Spender’s words, despite the mountain of evidence pointing to his treacherous nature. The mistake she made was singular, but with all their history, must have been completely devastating for Mulder.

If they can see past this rift in their relationship, Scully knows things have to change. She’ll never believe everything she sees or hears without careful consideration or evidence, but she owes it to herself, to Mulder, to stop letting science blind her. She’s always tried to guide him to be more critical of his beliefs and not trust the first thing that comes into his head. He’s come a long way in the time she’s known him. Why should it be so hard for her to do the same?

A calmness settles over her at these revelations. She sees the path laid out in front of her, as clear as the sidewalk she sits beside. Her thoughts, like a warm blanket, settle over her, comforting her more than the sun’s rays hitting her back. She’ll always carry a little bit of her sister within her, and this makes her feel more like herself than she has in a long, long time.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the blonde-haired woman in the cap for the fourth time during these past few days. Hoping to finally figure out what she has to do with the strange occurrences she’s been experiencing, Scully rushes to catch her. When she spins the figure around, it’s Mulder. She smiles widely, recognizing the path leading to Mulder, with him. The choices she’s made all along. Of course he’d be here now, so she offers to make him tea. She’s ready to open up to him, she owes him that. She owes it to herself.

*** LATER THAT DAY MULDER'S APARTMENT

Scully doesn’t speak about their relationship or about Spender, but it’s an unspoken thread that weaves through the story she tells Mulder. Her past, what she saw, what she finally believes. It’s enough to have him here listening to her, looking at her with wonder instead of indifference. Is it affection or an accident when he grazes his fingers along her own, as they sip their tea?

She lets the rumbling monotone of his voice lull her to sleep. The tension fades from her body, making her curl towards his warmth as she fades into unconsciousness.

Hours later, she treads to his bedroom and watches him from the doorway. A wave of tenderness washes over her as she gazes at his sleeping form. He’s lying on his side of the bed, one leg wrapped in his thin yellow pajamas splayed outside of the covers, the planes of his bare chest half covered by the sheet, his strong muscled arms resting on either side of him.

Taking a chance, desperate to maintain their connection, she lays her jacket on the corner of the bed. Inhaling a shaky breath, she wavers tentatively, not sure about whether she should presume she’d be welcome. Their conversation a few hours ago reminded her of where they used to be, but they have yet to speak of where they are, what their future holds.

"Mulder?" she whispers, her voice sleep-roughened and hesitant.

She can tell he hadn’t been fully asleep. He sits up slightly on one elbow and reaches his hand out towards her.

She approaches with a tremulous smile and stands beside him, twining her fingers through his. Mulder wraps his other arm around her hip, draws her closer and nuzzles his face into her stomach. She feels she's come home.

"Mulder... the right choice, the only choice, is us." She brushes her hand through his hair and leans over to kiss the top of his head.

“C’mere, Scully,” Mulder says, pulling her towards the bed. The awkwardness of their embrace results in a stumbling maneuver that somehow ends with her halfway beneath him, their legs tangled together. She chuckles and caresses the rough, stubbly skin along his jaw.

“I wasn’t sure…” Scully’s not clear how much to reveal but, finding newfound confidence in her recent self-awareness and their time together tonight, pushes on. “...you wanted this.”

He moves a lock of her hair behind her ear, strokes her cheek tenderly. "When I wanted to go to England with you, it wasn’t just a case. I hoped a change of scenery would help me...." he searches for the words, “tell you what you mean to me, that I was sorry for being such an ass lately. That I am very, very sorry.”

“I had no idea.” Tears form in her eyes, regret at how she misinterpreted his disinterest. Replaying the scene in her mind she sees it now. He’d been acting so different that day until she shot him down. They were always unintentionally hurting each other, too afraid to voice their thoughts, afraid of rejection.

“Well, it’s good you didn’t come. You had some pretty incredible things happen here.”

Mulder looks at her closely, the familiar expression of his mind working, taking a dangerous path. Moving to lay on his side, he puts some distance between them.

“I haven’t been myself these past few weeks. Things have been… difficult.” Mulder looks away from her, resting his head on the pillow next to hers. He reaches out, his hand tentatively brushing against her shoulder.

“I know what I did was--” Scully starts to apologize but Mulder stops her, putting his thumb on her mouth and shaking his head.

“I went to a dark place... but I’ve been heading there for a while. I never really thought I deserved you, or the happiness we had together. I just used what you did as an excuse to drive you away.” Mulder takes a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to someone. She’s been helping me. I - I... don’t want to push you away any more.”

“Mulder... you deserve to be happy. We deserve this.” Scully moves closer to him, reaches out and places her hands on the side of his face to emphasize her words.

“I’m working on it. You make me believe, Scully.” He smiles, but there’s still sadness and regret reflected in his eyes. “I just need some extra help.”

Scully nods, touches her forehead to his and they take a few moments to just breathe together, side-by-side. She pulls away and waits for his eyes to open and look at her before speaking.

“We can’t keep doing this.” Scully bites her lip, brushes her hand through his hair. “Not talking. It doesn’t work anymore.”

Mulder nods and squeezes her shoulder.

"And… I want to be truer to myself. Can you help me with that?"

“Yeah. I can do that.”

Scully moves her hand to his chest, tracing a line over his pectoral and across his ribcage to the lean musculature of his back. She grazes her nails to one side of his spine, wanting to comfort, needing to touch. She drops her gaze to his smooth, coppery skin, overwhelmed by his closeness, the smell and feel of him next to her. A tingling sensation low in her belly spreads to warm her chest. Despite the desire building within her, she’s gentle instead of demanding, wanting to give him solace if that’s all he needs from her tonight.

As she meets his gaze again, the somber look has disappeared. His eyes are dilated, irises deep green and filled with desire, always exciting her with their intensity when he directs his gaze towards her. Suddenly he’s above her again, his eyes shadowed in the dark room, the glints of moonlight highlighting the strength of his jawline, the curve of his clavicle. She presses her thumb along the length of the elegant bone, her fingers over the muscles of his shoulder and neck, lightly grazing over his chin and finally his lips.

“Trapezius. Sternocleidomastoid. Orbicularis oris,” she whispers, centering herself as she touches him. Her eyes follow her fingers, absorbing the details she was so afraid she’d forget, trying to regain some semblance of control as her desire threatens to overwhelm her.

“You sure do know how to talk dirty to a guy, Scully.” His voice is low and gravelly and he angles his head into her touch. When she sees the affection reflected at her in his eyes, she's suddenly struck by the force of her devotion to this man. That they are here, again.

Their faces inch closer until their mouths are barely touching, a feathery kiss that makes her shiver and her eyes flutter closed. His hand grazes along her arm and shoulder to the nape of her neck, through the hair at the base of her skull while his other hand moves to caress the side of her breast, teasing her with his closeness. Their kiss deepens, tongues tangling against each other as the tenderness of their embrace builds into something more urgent. Twining her hands through his hair, Scully draws him closer. She’s missed him, missed this. She feels absolutely greedy with her want for him, not holding back now that she knows he wants this, too.

With his teasing hand, he reaches under her sweater and cups the swell of her breast through the satin of her bra, flicks the hardened peak of her nipple with his thumb. She moans softly at his touch, rolling him over and straddling him.

She speaks into his mouth, not wanting to break the contact of their kiss. "Mmm, clothes…" She wants to feel her skin against his length, wants him to devour her whole. She can’t wait a second longer.

Mulder’s hands move down her torso, pausing at the hem of her sweater. He wraps them entirely around her waist, sliding upwards. Scully takes over and whips the garment over her head and in the general direction of her jacket. Pulling her down, he kisses a trail from her neck to the fringe of lace covering her breasts. She gasps and moves closer, stroking her palms over his pectorals and reaching upwards to grip his shoulders. Sucking her bottom lip in between her teeth, her eyes flicker closed as Mulder’s mouth continues over the swell of her breast. He curves his tongue around her areola, skimming around her nipple through the thin material as his hand seeks her other breast, massaging and kneading. His other hand glides down to grip her hip, dipping his thumb slightly underneath the edge of her skirt before cupping and squeezing her ass.

She’s on fire. Her skirt has hitched up to the top of her thighs and she thinks he must feel how wet she is already, even through the layers of clothing she still wears. Too many clothes. As if reading her mind, his hand caressing her breast moves around and deftly unhooks the clasp of her bra. He breaks from his suckling to remove her bra, grinning proudly up at her. Scully chuckles and leans over, giving him a teasing nip on his lower lip as his hands glide down her sides to search for the zipper of her skirt.

“Side,” she says and moves off of him onto her back. Lifting her hips after he unzips her, she helps him slip off her skirt. She watches as he moves off the bed to carefully lay it on her jacket. He finds her sweater lying precariously on the edge of the chair in his room and takes the time to unravel it and lay it neatly on her pile of clothes as well.

“Mulderrr…” Scully exhales, poking his bare ribcage with a stockinged toe impatiently.

“You’ll thank me later.”

He winks at her, standing by the bed, his darkened eyes sweeping over her languid form. Reaching for her waist again, he removes her pantyhose, taking her panties along with them. These he discards on the floor and she sighs as his gentle hands caress the bare skin of her legs. Grabbing her ankles, he pulls her to the edge of the bed, kneels down before her. Kisses the arch of her foot, the delicate bones of her ankle, the curve of her calf and the swell of her thigh, starting over again with the other leg - licking, nipping, soothing. Achingly slowly.

“So good, Scully.” His eyes connect with hers briefly before he lays his cheek against the top of her thigh, breathing her in, the scent of her arousal heavy in the air. He continues, nuzzling his face against her mons. Such a gentle touch but igniting a powerful flood of pleasure within her. Kneeling up, he presses his tongue to the skin at the joint of her thigh, slicks upwards and swirls around her navel, lingering on the sensitive sucking the skin below. Rising up on his elbows and looking into her eyes, he smiles contentedly.

He drags his fingertips over her hip to the curve of her waist, the side of her breast, running down her arm to clasp his fingers with hers, squeezing gently. She smiles at him affectionately, her chest heaving with anticipation.

He tears his eyes from hers and his head dips down between her legs. His other hand wraps around her thigh, cradling her to him as he nuzzles the delicate skin there, pressing tender kisses along each one. He lowers his head and his tongue drifts along the edge of her outer lips, a touch that ignites a fire deep within, spreading to the edges of her awareness. She moans softly and her free hand meanders to her breasts, caressing and squeezing her nipples, a counterpoint to his movements below.

After teasing his way in, he increases the pressure of his tongue. Using the flat of it to swipe upwards, circling around her clit and sucking lightly. He pushes inside her and swirls before rhythmically kissing and licking her folds, increasing his speed before slowing to a near pause. He relinquishes her hand, inserting one, then two fingers into her, curling upwards and stroking her g-spot. The indescribable feeling of pressure and warmth blooms upwards and outwards, causing her fingers to tingle and her toes to curl. His hand around her thigh moves to her hip and caresses back again, an exquisite loop she focuses on, willing herself to hold on and enjoy this moment for as long as possible.

The ache inside her builds as he nips and licks, caressing her just how she likes. She manages to lean up on an arm to look at him, needing to see him there, reassuring herself that this isn’t just another dream. His head peeks up from between her legs, watching her with a mirrored expression of desire as she touches her breasts. His chin is glistening with her wetness and his smile glints at her in the moonlight.

“You’re so… fucking… sexy... Scully.” Mulder punctuates his words with a few more curls of his fingers inside her, making her writhe and touch herself with increasing intensity. Still watching her carefully, he removes his fingers and puts them in his mouth, moaning as he tastes her.

“Jesus, Mulder…” Scully groans, laying back, breathing heavily.

He moves back down, his warm breath causing goosebumps to rise on the skin of her inner thighs and lips, teasing her again, drawing out her pleasure. As he increases his movements, she feels her orgasm build, the tell-tale feeling like she’s about to overflow with sensation. He sucks her clit with the perfect pressure, runs his tongue up and around her lips, before sweeping over the skin above her clitoris, swollen with need. And that’s what sends her off the edge. The sensitive nerves throb, her inner walls contract, and she sees the universe behind her eyelids.

She never remembers what she says when she comes but she can always count on Mulder’s twinkling eyes, proud and affectionate, to recount the details later. Usually expletives and some form of religious heresy but always, always “Mulder, Mulder, Mulder”.

As she comes back to herself, she feels the gentle caress of his hands on her outer thighs, his scratchy cheek resting on the sensitive flesh of her belly. He’s watching her with an awestruck expression, a half-smile making him look boyish and happy. She wants to give him this all the time just to see his face, the rest of it a bonus.

She wriggles herself up the bed, beckons him with her hands. After discarding his pajama bottoms on the floor, he moves onto the bed beside her, grazes his fingers along her side and kisses a trail up her torso. He pauses at her breasts, cupping them tenderly in his palms. Taking one taut nipple in his mouth and suckling gently, her desire flares up sharply once more. He nips gently, then places delicate kisses over to the other breast, giving it equal attention. His attentions are leisurely, all-consuming, and Scully only wants more.

“Oh, Mul--” her breath catches. “Mulder, yes...”

He releases her nipple and looks at her, grinning broadly, stroking her breasts and giving them a sweet kiss on each rosy tip before moving up to embrace her, settling himself beside her tingling body. He presses gente kisses along her neck, trailing upwards to her face, soothing her warmed flesh with gentle grazes of his fingers and the tips of his nails. His hands move to the hair at her temple, slick with sweat, and he tenderly presses his lips along her hairline.

“Love you.” Scully sighs, wanting him close, to make him feel as good as she does.

“You’re just saying that because…” He traces the outline of her ear and sucks on her earlobe, tapping her earring in a familiar pattern.

“Mmm yeah, you’re right.” She grins at him and reaches down to swat his ass. She runs her hand along the firm skin there, squeezing, then moves around to grasp his cock.

Mulder gasps at her touch, suddenly frozen and certainly not the one in charge. She looks down between them, loving the contrast of her pale skin next to his muscled, coppery torso, her small hand grasping his thick, hard erection. She swirls upwards, using her thumb to coat his fluid along his length. Releasing him briefly, she pushes him on his back and rakes her gaze over his naked body. His muscled chest with its sexy patch of soft hair, his defined abs, his thick hard cock - all hers. She wets her lips and leans down, licking him from base to tip with the flat of her tongue, humming contentedly, warmth spreading from her groin when he moans. She swirls her tongue around the head and is about to take him in when his hands grasp her shoulders, stopping her.

“Not… ah, not tonight, Scully.” His voice is strangled and he’s panting already.

She smiles widely, knowing that with barely a touch, his own ministrations on her give him almost as much pleasure as it does her. She releases him and traces her hands along the length of his ribcage, grazing the tips of her fingernails over his skin, pausing to brush over the peaks of his nipples.

As Scully continues her meandering course over his body with fingers and tongue, Mulder slides upwards on the bed, starting to pull away from her. Before moving away he grabs her hands in his, squeezing them and bringing them to his mouth for a tender kiss. Their eyes lock, an understanding passes between them that sends a thrill up her spine.

Mulder reaches around and arranges the pillows behind him as she sits up on her knees. He turns towards her and sits on the bed cross-legged in front the cushions, beckoning her with a crooked, sexy smile and a gentle touch to her arm.

She kneels around him, straddling him, hovering over his cock. She reaches up within herself for some lubrication, coating him before she guides him to her entrance. Mulder’s hands brace her hips, his forehead presses against hers as they anticipate this moment. Their eyes connect as she settles his full length inside her with one fluid motion. Finally.

Scully’s stretched to the point where pain mixes indescribably with pleasure. She feels like he fills her up from head to toe--she’s never been more complete. Her eyes close, the emotions welling up from her chest threatening to spill over.

After what feels like eternity and a singular moment, she opens her eyes, Mulder’s face mere inches from hers. His right arm is holding her close, wrapping around her back, his hand coming to rest at the nape of her neck, surrounding her with his warmth. In his close embrace, she feels secure, protected.

“Hey.” Mulder smiles slightly, a wonder and shyness to his expression she wasn’t expecting.

“Hey, yourself.” Scully giggles softly, enjoys that she can look directly into his eyes from this position, that it’s so easy for them to kiss each other. As she presses her hand against his chest, she feels his heart beating wildly, matching her own. Their breaths coming in soft pants. Their lips touch gently, and they begin to move.

The intense feeling of his cock thrusting urgently within her is such a contrast to his gentle hand caressing her back, grazing the shell of her ear, the curve of her cheek, the soft skin of her neck. It’s her undoing, this duality of the man she loves - his intense passion and aching sweetness. She gasps as she kisses him, her desperation rising alongside her impending orgasm once more.

His mouth on hers, teeth clashing, lips pulling, tongues pushing and exploring. He tastes like her and like him, the mingling of their togetherness a unique flavor that she nearly forgot these past weeks. She gasps at the familiarity of this moment. Tears well in her eyes, fall down her cheeks and she licks the saltiness from her lips.

Mulder’s hand moves up to cup her cheek, brushing the moisture away with his thumb, he looks into her eyes, concern and love etched into their golden-green depths.

“You okay, Scully?” He stills her movements, caresses her neck and shoulders with his other hand.

“Mmm…” She has trouble forming words, so she smiles widely, bites down on her swollen lower lip and nods her head. She grasps the strong muscles of his shoulder and neck, and moves once again, faster this time, desperate for release. Her mouth latches onto his, sloppily lapping and sucking at his lower lip.

Scully feels the burning in her thighs at the effort of their lovemaking and she adjusts slightly. Mulder laps at the sweat gathered along her brow, kisses along her throat, the side of her neck. When he nips at the sensitive place behind her ear a jolt of pleasure causes her to shudder and moan.

He starts to take control, to thrust deeper as her movements become jerky and uncoordinated, his hands moving to her hips to guide and lift her.

“Love you.” He whispers into her ear, his warm breath tickling her there. He grunts, his voice strained and she can tell he’s trying to hold back, to make things last, to get her to fall again before he follows.

“Oh, God..” Scully can feel the rising tide of her release radiating outwards, her awareness laser focused on the feel of them moving together. One of his hands moves between them to rub her clit at their joined flesh. He thrusts sharply a few times, hitting the spot within her perfectly. And then she’s gone, seeing sparks beneath her eyelids, and a fluttering wave rise from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Mulder’s arms brace her as she rides out the contractions lost in his arms, floating in a sea of ecstasy expanding around her.

His breath soothes her flushed skin as she comes down. He’s whispering words of endearment that don’t quite connect with her brain, but his tone floods her chest with warmth.

He lays her gently on her back, leaning over her while she quivers and comes back to herself. His solid body pressed against her grounds her in the present, and she nuzzles into his neck, wrapping her arms around him to keep him close, feeling thick and heavy after her orgasm. When he pulls away slightly, she opens her eyes. Leaning on an elbow, he’s gazing at her and moving the sweat-slicked strands of hair away from her face. She smiles contentedly at him, lazily drawing patterns on the smooth planes of his bicep.

He grins back, but this time it’s his eyes that are filled with the tinge of desperation. His eyes close and she embraces him, encouraging him with her caress. Nestled between her thighs, he begins to thrust again, her palms splayed over his upper back, feeling the flexion of his movement. Her nails graze his torso with a feathering touch. She presses her nose into the hollow of his neck, breathing deeply. The unique fragrance of their sweat and arousal conjures up memories of their many times together before this night. It feels historic and familiar all at once.

She lifts her legs to twine around his waist. He grabs one of her legs, lifting it, letting him penetrate deeper. The weight of him on top of her, the sound of their bodies coming together, surrounds her completely. Wanting to give him as much pleasure as he’s given her, she clenches her inner muscles, tugs at his hair, nips and suckles the warm skin of his shoulder.

“Sc-Scully…” he chokes out her name before one, two, three thrusts and he finds his release, his mouth on top of hers in a sloppy kiss as he comes. He pumps a few more times before carefully collapsing on his side, drawing her on top of him.

Scully nuzzles into his chest, listening to the slowing rhythm of his heartbeat. She wraps her arms tightly around him, wanting to hold onto this moment, this homecoming of theirs for as long as possible. When she feels his heart rate return to normal, he goes to move, to get something to clean them up but she doesn’t let him out of her embrace.

“Stay.” She kisses his neck, tasting the salty tang of his sweaty skin. “Stay.”

Mulder caresses her back, his hand moves to the nape of her neck and through her hair. He  kisses her more firmly, holds her tighter.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh?”

Scully smiles at him, chuckling softly under her breath.

“No, I can’t,” she says, eyes twinkling.

She kisses him deeply, her hand caressing his hair. She breaks their kiss and looks into his eyes. His expression is unreadable and she feels a lurch in her chest. Her thumb moves over his bottom lip, traces its plush curve.

Mulder kisses her thumb, grasps her wrist so he can place tender kisses on each of her digits. She can sense him trying to think of what to say and, for a moment, she doubts herself.

He looks at her and there’s a sorrowful hesitance in his eyes. It reminds her of his words from before - how he’s unsure of himself. She wishes she could rid him of his doubts by reminding him of his worth, but knows it couldn’t be quite that simple.

“Remember, no hiding.” Scully reaches out and cups his cheek, reassuring him with a smile. A thousand words pass between their gazes and she sees Mulder’s expression soften, a small smile finally gracing his lips. She nuzzles the skin below his jaw and sighs, relieved.

“Find me if I do, Scully.” Mulder whispers into her ear, trails his hand along her back.

Once their bodies cool, Mulder ventures into the bathroom, returns with warm cloths to clean them up and a glass of water for them to share. His tender care, his focus on her pleasure, how could she ever doubt his love for her? His eyes tell her everything she needs to know, gazing at her with the love she thought she’d lost.

He wraps them in his light duvet and holds her close, gently tracing patterns on her shoulder. Scully buries herself in his chest, sighing contentedly at his closeness.

“So, uh… seriously, Scully. I’m wondering if I should stick around more, you only seem to experience strange things when I’m not around. Feel like I’m missing out.” His voice is teasing but she hears the vulnerability hidden between his words.

She leans up to look at him, kisses his lips and meets his eyes with a serious expression.

“I’d be okay with that.”

“Yeah?” Mulder brushes his thumb over her cheek.

“Definitely.” They both grin widely, finally acknowledging to each other what they want, what they both need. Pressing her face close to his, she kisses his cheek and jaw before laying back down.

Mulder kisses the top of her head, sweeps his hand through her hair. His touch slows and stops, his breathing even out, but she stays, just a little while longer.

There’s things still left unsaid, but that can wait until tomorrow. Despite the fear she feels about fully exposing herself to him, she’s eager to take this next step with him into their future.

She’ll have to leave before morning and she feels strangely regretful about it. Usually after an evening together, and always on a work night, they would leave before dawn. They would return to their empty apartments by themselves, not wanting to let their independent lives be disrupted by their intimacy. But things feel different now, like they're locked together, united even closer than before. She’s been denying herself so much by trying to hold onto the person she was. Things must change, within herself and between them, and for the first time Scully is at peace with it.

#xf fanfic #my fic #msr #mulder and scully #xfiles #x-files #msr fanfic #todayinfic

[bubonickitten]

TMA fic: where there’s a will, we make a way

New chapter is up on AO3 here!

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 11 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 11: mild self-harm (brief instance of wrist banging/bruising to distract from intrusive thoughts; mention of scratching/skin picking); some Buried-related claustrophobic memories; mentions of Jon starving himself (wrt to consuming statements, but worth mentioning for anyone who needs content warnings related to eating disorders, restrictive diets, etc.; there will be more going forward of Jon being hungry and restricting himself, and I'll keep warning for it, especially in chapters where it features heavily). SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 11: Reaching Out

The tunnels are as ominous as they’ve always been, but at this point, Jon just might be growing accustomed to them. The creeping fear he’s always felt down here has faded to the background – an ambient sense of dread. It's almost tolerable, or at least less oppressive than the omnipresent sense of being watched that he’s long since accepted as his normal.

Here, he can compose his letter to Martin without the risk of Jonah Seeing exactly what Jon’s eyes see.

After the Watcher’s Crown, Jonah did not Watch through Jon’s eyes anymore. Whether that was because Jon was stronger than Jonah at that point or because Jonah did not bother to try, Jon doesn’t Know. Once the ritual was completed, Jonah no longer had any stake in Jon’s trajectory, no need to monitor his progress or ensure his survival. Moreover, Jonah’s inflated ego never allowed for the possibility that Jon could pose a threat to his reign. His Archivist – his Archive – had no further interest to him except as a source of entertainment, and he didn’t need to See through Jon’s eyes in order to behold the show. He could See all of creation from the Panopticon.

Jon is stronger now than he was the last time he was here, but he’s still nowhere near as powerful as he was during the apocalypse. He’s tried to Know how he measures up against Jonah now, but the Beholding seems intent on withholding that knowledge from him. Last time he made an attempt, the Eye treated him to a litany of statistics about the interactions between the human body and the venom of various species of spider.

Sometimes Jon thinks that if the Beholding is sentient, it might just be the pettiest of the Dread Powers.

In any case, Jonah Magnus is still as much of a gnawing question mark as he’s always been. It’s safest to assume that he has the advantage until proven otherwise – and Jon will take the tunnels over Jonah’s voyeurism any day, no matter how harrowing they may be. Even if he has to be down here alone – which he is.

Georgie is with Melanie, and Jon is reluctant to ask Basira for any favors right now. He wonders again if this is how Martin felt, living in the Archives, spending sleepless nights with himself and the scratching of a pen as his only companions. Just like Jon, Martin was never very good company for himself, especially back then – and back now. He was primed for the Lonely long before he started working at the Institute.

Speaking of which…

Jon sighs, puts his pen down, and begins to read through what he’s written.

I’m sorry I left you.

…now I’m here, trying to explain things –

– had changed since he left –

– it seemed he was alone –

– as far as I could tell, all alone in the world, and rather unhappy about the fact.

I will admit to taking a dislike to the man when I first met him – but –

– I’d say that – was a foolish act of past me.

Jon is still worried about starting the letter like this, but this is a point in time not too far removed from his early mistreatment of Martin. Jon had made his apologies and explanations at length in his future, but this version of Martin hasn’t experienced that yet. Jon can’t just jump into showing affection before taking accountability for his past behavior – recent past, from the perspective of this timeline.

He can only hope that Martin will read through to the end, and that Jon’s intention – his sincerity – will be understood.

Soon I was giving my account as a full confession –

– trying my best to fit this into a relatively coherent narrative.

It’s plenty of things I’ve done I couldn’t explain to you. I mean, I’m constantly – looking back at my past self and thinking, what an idiot. How the hell could he have done such an obviously stupid thing? How was I surprised it went so badly? What a relief I’m now so much older and wiser.

I’ve never really been the social type – I’ve always just been happier alone. Well, maybe happier isn’t quite the right word. I did get a bit lonely sometimes. I’d hear laughter coming from other rooms in my building, or see a group of friends talking in the sun outside, and maybe I’d wish I had something like that, but it never really bothered me – I didn’t need another people and they certainly didn’t need me.

Jon looks down at the words with a dissatisfied scowl. Does this come off as too self-centered? As more as an excuse than an explanation? This would be so much easier if he could just say what he means. Then again, Jon’s always struggled with discussing emotional matters, hasn't he? He can’t blame it all on the Archive.

These thoughts, these feelings were always in my mind – until – I realized the deeper truth of it all.

I tried to put it into words, but without any real success. Even here, with the time to compose it properly, I’m not sure I’ve caught the essence of what I felt –

– I had a look through my library, and couldn’t find anything that matched it –

– those are musings for poets, among whom I do not number –

– it’s all very well to say ‘write down what you saw,’ but what if you don’t have the words?

I suppose I’ll just have to try.

I’ve always been more comfortable alone –

– had few friends – reluctant to make the sort of connections that might lead to –

– the prospect of being genuinely loved –

– fully and completely known –

– having people be genuinely lovely to me, I didn’t know what to do with those feelings –

– I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone.

It is the fear of being watched, and judged, and having all your secrets known.

Ironic, in some ways –

– being what I am –

– an Archivist pleading for knowledge –

– to feed the sick voyeur that lurks in this place.

Eventually, I opened my eyes –

– feeling absurd about how terrified I was about being seen –

– kicking myself for having been so stupid –

– it wasn’t natural for people to live in isolation – we were creatures of community by nature.

Soon enough, I could no longer fool myself –

– the man I loved –

– who was by all accounts such a kind and gentle soul –

– when I – saw him standing there waiting for me – I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than in that moment.

He spoke words I thought existed only in my heart, and I loved him as the soil loves the rain –

– and it seemed he felt the same way –

– and together it seemed like we would get past our pain.

Everything about being with him felt so natural that when he told me he loved me, it only came as a surprise to realize that we hadn’t said it already.

…to say – “I love you” – honestly it’s one of the few decisions I’ve ever made that I completely understand.

It’s… woefully inadequate. Too devoid of context. Unlikely to reach Martin through the fog. But maybe it will be enough to at least convince him to talk to Jon. To keep the Lonely at bay, at least for now.

After leaving the hospital, the next thing that is properly clear in my mind is –

– I need him to be okay.

I couldn’t see him or hear him –

– I didn’t even get a chance to speak to him – asked what had happened, he was just gone. And I was alone again.

I wanted to say something reassuring, to reach out and let him know I was still there –

– I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed.

I think he might be part of something really awful, and I don’t know how to make him see that – of course I did worry. I knew that, secretly, he was as well.

I know how that sounds – but – I ask you to read on.

For a split second, the memory of the ritual flits through his mind – Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading … – and Jon brings his wrist down on the side of his chair, hard. The pain jolts him out of the recollection and brings him back to the present. He watches halfheartedly as the discoloration fades before his eyes, frustration with his overreaction itching in the back of his mind. Stupid.

With a longsuffering sigh, he rereads the previous section again. The borrowed words sound patronizing, without the qualifying context he wishes he could provide more explicitly. He isn’t just nitpicking – it’s crucial that Martin knows that Jon isn’t underestimating him, despite a history of doing exactly that for far too long.

The first time around, he trusted Martin – more than he trusted anyone, including (perhaps especially) himself – and even knowing what he knows now, he doesn’t regret it. He heard the tapes.

“But if I could just explain,” Martin had said.

“And how do you think Jon’s going to react to that explanation, hm?” Peter had replied. “You think he’ll accept it calmly? Come through with a well-considered, rational response?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Or would he assume he knows better than you and do something rash?”

“I don’t like being manipulated.”

“That’s fair. But I’m not wrong.”

“No.”

In Jon’s original timeline, he had proven Peter wrong. He had trusted Martin, respected his boundaries, followed his lead. This time, though… Jon won’t be able to demonstrate that with non-interference, and not being able to use his own words doesn’t help him explain that this isn’t just another instance of Jon just assuming he knows better than everyone else, that he actually does have special knowledge, and – well, truthfulness aside, that sounds condescending, too, doesn’t it?

He doesn’t blame Martin for agreeing with Peter. For a significant portion of Jon’s life, it would have been a fair assessment. He didn’t trust people. He didn’t trust himself, either – not really – but at least he knew his own intentions. That bone-deep fear of being manipulated, of being rejected, of not having control… it never played well with the concept of trust.

And when they first started working together, Jon made no secret of his knee-jerk judgment of Martin as being incompetent, clumsy, and unreliable. In retrospect, he couldn’t have been more wrong – and he knows now that he was only seeing what he wanted to see, projecting his own insecurities and fear of failure onto Martin to distract from his own floundering.

After learning that Martin had lied on his CV, Jon readjusted his initial opinions. He was impressed. Martin was remarkably capable for someone with no prior qualifications, no experience, no degree. What he lacked in experience he more than made up for in effort. He was clever, and resolute, and dependable, and genuine, and… and god, wasn’t Jon a fool for taking so long to notice? And then for never saying as much until it was almost too late?

This version of Martin hasn’t heard that apology just yet – or the corollary apology for waiting so long to apologize. Georgie had told him years ago that he needed to use his words, that people needed to hear directly that they were acknowledged and appreciated. Jon himself struggled with reading between the lines. Just because he had low tolerance for receiving direct praise – despite craving it deeply – didn’t mean that other people had the same hangups.

He’s since taken that advice to heart, but he should have done sooner. Georgie had been right about a lot of things.

Jon did eventually say as much and more, during those brief few weeks they had in the safehouse. Peter hadn’t been all wrong when he questioned how much they really knew one another. Between Jon’s early irascibility and the distance he felt obligated to keep given their employee/boss relationship; between preventing apocalypses and being in such constant life-or-death peril that it started to feel normal, so normal that Jon didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t being chased or held captive; between the coma, and descending into inhumanity, and the Lonely… they hadn’t had a chance to get to know each other outside of a crisis situation.

Jon didn’t even know himself anymore. He wondered if he ever had.

For the first time, they finally had the time and space to remedy that. Both of them were changed and would never be the same, but they had each other. They were both willing to put in the effort, to learn how to communicate and accommodate and navigate boundaries, despite neither having much experience with a healthy relationship. And for a little while, it had seemed that they could both learn how to be present in the world again – starting with their own microcosm, one day at a time, encouraging one another to be more patient and kind with themselves.

It wasn’t fair, how abruptly that hesitant, hopeful attempt was stolen from them. Jon didn’t feel like he deserved comfort and contentment – he still doesn’t – but Martin… Martin deserved – deserves – to be safe and cared for and loved. Martin deserves to be happy.

Jon desperately wants to help him See that.

Don’t… misunderstand me, please –

– I trusted his instincts almost as much as I trusted my own.

More than I trusted my own, Jon amends in his head – but the Archive isn’t cooperating.

But I knew that I – knew the future –

– the promise of secret knowledge, of seeing something that no one else was privy to –

– there was – a lot – we were missing.

Please. All I ask is that I be allowed –

– a chance to express myself –

– said something about knowledge being a good defense here –

– so here I am, pouring out my lunatic story on paper in the hopes that you might eventually read it.

Statement of Georgina Barker regarding –

– travel through time.

Jon still has to ask Georgie if she can explain the situation to Martin, but he doesn’t think she’ll mind. It won’t be as comprehensive as Jon wishes it could be – he still struggles with explaining the fine details of the apocalypse to the others given his current limitations – but he’s done his best, and he can trust Georgie to do the same.

Some fears can only be endured for so long. I remember every second of that fall. Like it was happening in slow motion. I was certain I was about to watch him fall like I had.

That knowledge I had gained – could finally be put to use.

I shall do my best to explain, and hope that any revelations contained here in me sway you from the path you have started upon.

I wanted to tell him to stop, to warn him – because I knew –

– the Extinction – while I have seen evidence of its influence in other powers –

– there was no sign of – imminent arrival – I resolved –

– its emergence as a true power of its own –

– wasn’t a threat.

Whatever he was planning –

– to try and rescue those trapped –

– trying to protect me –

– defending the world from the darkness…

…I know – to talk to other people about it –

– desperately wishing for another human being to talk to –

– to take too much comfort in – people – would go quite strongly against the spirit of the experiment – had to really feel alone. That at least didn’t take too long to set in.

All that remained was the fog – could wander there for years, and never meet another – utterly forsaken – there seemed to be no end to it.

But it didn’t need to be forever, did it?

“This too shall pass.”

I tried to explain but all I could manage to get through the shaking sobs was, “I love you.”

By then it looked like he was on the verge of tears,

Jon stops reading for a moment, realizing that, aptly enough, he’s on the verge of tears right now. He swallows them back and continues.

By then it looked like he was on the verge of tears, but I couldn’t leave it alone – just couldn’t let it go.

I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand. And now I stare at it and not a word of it is even enough to fully describe the fact that –

I cannot lose him.

I – cared deeply about his well-being.

I know he didn’t deserve what happened to him.

He deserved to –

– to be – beloved –

– cared for – trusted –

– being wanted and appreciated –

– being genuinely loved –

– no matter how wrong it might feel –

– when you’re at your lowest point, when you’re your most emotionally vulnerable.

I need him to be okay –

– and the world is so much better for –

– the easy, charming man I’d fall in love with –

– being in it.

Please. All I ask is that I be allowed to –

– talk to you, before it all comes to an end –

– and I swear to you that –

– if you decide to do it – if –

– you want to be alone – and –

– didn’t say much to me after that –

– I made sure to keep – distance.

There’s so much more Jon wishes he could say; so much that he wishes he could say in his own voice, rather than the stolen words of survivors recounting the most traumatic moments of their lives. It still feels perverse, to use their statements like this. It might not be as bad as feeding directly on a victim, but it still falls on a spectrum of appropriating the torment of others for his own use.

At the end of the day, it really doesn’t feel all that different from Jonah’s brand of dehumanization. It’s just one more way Jon is complicit in the evil that thrives in this place –

“Hey,” comes Georgie’s voice from just a few yards away. Jon startles, sending his pen clattering to the floor. He had been so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t even heard her descending the ladder. “Sorry,” she says with a wince. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Retrieving the fallen pen, Jon waves the apology off – it’s okay – and Georgie comes to sit next to him.

“Finished with your letter?”

“…I’m vague on the details,” he says. “I have to be.”

“Want me to take a look?”

Jon nods; he had been planning on asking her to read it through. Even if it was in his own words, he would likely run it by her. He trusts Georgie’s judgment regarding relationship matters far more than he trusts his own, and he knows she’ll be straightforward with him if he’s said something… well, stupid. He’s gotten better at communicating, but that doesn’t mean his tendency to put his foot in his mouth has disappeared entirely.

He jiggles his leg restlessly as she reads, increasingly self-conscious the longer the silence goes on. He resists scratching at his hands – Georgie is sure to reprimand him if he starts that up again. It isn’t that she has a problem with his fidgeting; she was actually one of the first people in his life to tolerate it. Encouraged it, even. She pointed out quite bluntly once that whenever Jon tried to force himself to sit still, his restless energy didn’t go away, it just came out as waspishness instead.

But she had a rule: no self-harm, no matter how mild. Personally, he didn’t categorize the scratching as self-harm, but she was firm about it. Lately, the scratching is limited mostly to his burned hand, and he’s tried explaining to her that it doesn’t even hurt – the scar tissue doesn’t register much sensation anymore – but she won’t hear it. For the past couple weeks, whenever she catches him at it, she gives him a look until he stops.

“I think it’s good,” Georgie says. “But…”

Jon tenses, but then he glimpses Georgie’s playful grin.

“It’s nothing bad! It’s just… well…”

He can hear the spark of mischief in her tone and somehow that makes him more apprehensive than the prospect of criticism.

“See, you say you’re not a poet,” she says, pointing at the letter, “but this part here…”

He spoke words I thought existed only in my heart, and I loved him as the soil loves the rain –

– and it seemed he felt the same way –

– and together it seemed like we would get past our pain.

“You go and use a sappy metaphor – and I know,” she says, seeing him ready to protest, “they’re not your words and you’re using what you have available.”

Yes, he wants to say, and my vast library comprised solely of people’s retellings of their supernatural trauma isn’t exactly forthcoming with declarations of love, Georgina.

“But,” she says, goading now, “then you go and rhyme the first and last lines.”

Jon squints at the letter, and…

Fuck. It does rhyme.

He moves to snatch the paper away and Georgie stands and holds it out of reach, dancing backwards.

“No, nope, absolutely not,” she says, laughing. “Jonathan Sims, I refuse to let you change it. You’re leaving it exactly as is.”

“…being used against me in a cruel joke,” he huffs, glowering at her – but her laugh has always been infectious, and he can’t fight it as his lips twitch into a smile.

She hands the letter back to him after a minute, still grinning when she takes her seat again.

“I’m teasing you. You can change it if you want, but I think it’s adorable and you should leave it. Besides, Martin’s a poet, isn’t he? He might get a kick out of it.”

Honestly, it doesn’t bother him enough to rewrite the entire thing. And if there’s a chance of it coaxing a smile out of Martin…

“On a more serious note – this part here, ‘statement of Georgina Barker’ – I’m assuming you want me to try to convince him that you actually are a time traveler here to stop the apocalypse?” Jon nods. “Probably easier than trying to write it all out. I don’t mind, but are you sure he’ll listen to me?”

Jon shrugs. He has the same worry, but…

“As for myself, I must cling to –”

“– that most insidious of emotions: hope.”

“Somehow both unexpectedly sappy and predictably ominous,” she replies, “but I’ll take it. Better than despair, anyway.”

Despite the light teasing, the smile she flashes is genuine. Fleeting, though, as she continues.

“Oh, and one more thing – that one bit, capital-E Extinction? One, don’t like the sound of that, and two – should I know what that is? Melanie hasn’t mentioned anything like that before.”

“I’m sorry – it won’t let me say the words,” Jon says with a frustrated sigh.

“Will Martin know what it means, though?” Jon nods. With any luck, Martin can be persuaded to fill the others in on it. “Good enough.”

She watches him for a few moments as he chews at his thumbnail, leg still shaking, staring at the floor.

“Something’s on your mind.”

Jon sighs and closes his eyes.

“I could feel hunger gnawing at me.”

“You still haven’t had a statement?” Georgie says, frowning at him.

“Something he could salvage from the whole situation,” he mutters, not looking up at her. “Just a way of getting some control over his life, you know?”

“Jon, you can’t just starve yourself –”

“Running was pointless,” he agrees sullenly. “To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do –”

“– some hungers are too strong to be denied –”

“– you have to feed it – or it will feed on you.”

“So why haven’t you?”

“Even as I did so, in the back of my mind I hated myself –”

“– to feed the sick voyeur that lurks in this place.”

“I’m not saying you should… go hunting, or whatever you want to call it. This is an archive, there are plenty of statements lying around.”

“…you’ve got all this… all these people’s experiences listened to and filed away.”

“Right. They’re already given. They can’t be taken back. You’re not going out and hurting people, you’re just… reading what’s already here.”

She thinks he was just agreeing with her, he realizes – she didn’t comprehend his true meaning there. How could she have? He hasn’t properly explained to them that he is the Archive. He already Knows all of the statements housed here. Old statements were stale even when he hadn’t read them yet. Now, they’re even less fulfilling.

As a child, he hated reading anything that he felt like he had read before. It seems morbidly fitting that the Archivist in him is much the same way.

“Think of it like… like harm reduction,” Georgie is saying now. “From what I can gather, abstinence just isn’t an option for you, at least not right now. The next best thing is to meet yourself where you are. Even if you can’t stop, you can still take steps to minimize the harm – and that includes harm to yourself. Reading the statements that are already here – I think it’s justifiable, if the alternative is starving to death.”

“I am not sure how long this might continue for. Maybe years. Maybe forever.”

“Maybe. But right now, you need to take it one step at a time. You’re getting ready to hurl yourself into danger. You should be at full strength for that. If you aren’t going to sleep, you at least need to eat something.”

She has a point. There is one other concern, though.

“It seems I cannot avoid the ceaseless gaze of – Jonah –”

“– still there, still watching me –”

“– eyes were always focused on something, always watching. And – I always felt afraid –”

“– being under constant scrutiny and observation –”

“– it may be worth your while to keep an eye on the statements – in case he finds his way here –”

“– my mind has always been receptive to the thoughts that lurk in the written page –”

“– that throw out strange or sometimes even dangerous things –”

“– a simple ruse or deception –”

“– quietly waiting for you to lose your footing, to slip up and fall.”

“You’re afraid of getting tricked into reading the wrong statement again.”

Jon nods, not quite meeting her eye. All of the statements housed here are already catalogued in the Archive. He can recall them on his own word for word, if he concentrates. But something about that doesn’t feel right. Physically reading the statement, speaking it into the tape recorder… it’s like its own little ritual – like there’s an order of operations that has to be followed or it doesn’t count, somehow.

“…I outlined basic checks in due diligence –”

“– checking and double checking –”

“– before I finally felt safe enough –”

“– to read a statement – hitting record and speaking it aloud.”

“Well… we can probably vet them before giving them to you?”

“…they were also there as a backup in case something went horribly wrong – in case –”

“– it tried to read me back.”

“Okay,” she says after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll let Basira know.”

Her expression is concerned, but there’s something else underneath it. It doesn’t seem like judgment, or suspicion, or any of the other reactions he’s come to expect when discussing his reliance on the statements. It’s definitely not fear; this is Georgie. Pity, maybe?

Whatever it is, it makes him feel small and exposed and uncomfortably seen.

“Jon, look at me.” He does, with hesitation. “I know things are bad, and I’ll admit I was skeptical when you first said you wanted to change, but based on what I’ve seen over the past few months? I believe in you. It’s okay to have a little faith in yourself, too. I think you’ll need to, if you want to get through this.”

His gaze drifts to the floor, self-conscious.

“Anyway, it's probably best that Elias doesn’t see us pre-screening statements for you, right? Might make him suspicious. I can just gather a box of them and bring them down here. I’ll bring Basira with me, and we can explain the situation.” She stands and starts to walk toward the ladder, then stops abruptly. “Wait.”

She does a half-turn, not quite facing him, watching the floor pensively.

“I don’t know what I’m looking for. Is there something particular – like, do you have preferences, or – are there… nutritional requirements or something?” Jon can’t help it; he smiles at the absurdity of it all. “Do you need variety? Does a balanced diet even apply in this –”

Realizing he isn’t replying to any of her questions, she finally looks up, sees his amused smirk, and pauses mid-flustered gesture. He chuckles softly and shakes his head, mortified by the idea of cultivating a preference for statements as if choosing from a menu, but also just a bit shamefully, morbidly endeared at her thoughtfulness.

“Well, I don’t know!” she says indignantly, but she grins back. “Fine. I’ll grab a bunch at random then, and you can just deal. Ass.”

God, he missed this easy, playful banter even more than he had realized.

Jon watches as she climbs the ladder, preparing for the customary anxiety that tends to hit him whenever she leaves his presence – that conviction that it will be the last he sees of her.

When she pulls herself up through the trapdoor, though, he’s pleasantly surprised to note that the fear doesn’t come. He’s even more surprised that a half-hour later, when Georgie sends Basira with a box of statements but doesn’t accompany her, the fear still doesn’t overwhelm him. It shouldn’t be that surprising – he does trust Georgie – but intellectually understanding something isn’t the same as emotionally assimilating it. It seems that for once, his emotions have caught up with reality.

“Melanie needs company right now, so Georgie couldn’t come with. She didn't say exactly what you needed help with, but I think I have an idea.”

“…to keep an eye on the statements –”

“– they were also there as a backup in case something went horribly wrong.”

“Figured as much. Anyway, Georgie said she’ll come see you before she goes home today.” Basira drops the box on the floor in front of him. “I told her you probably wouldn’t want her present for the statements anyway. No need to expose more people to them if we can help it. I thought you’d agree.”

Jon nods, thankful that Basira is on the same page and he didn’t have to bother explaining it himself.

“So, any stand out to you?”

May as well get it over with, Jon thinks with a heavy sigh.

He leans over the box and sifts through them, eyes skimming over the case numbers until one catches his eye. CASE #0020312, the label reads. Figures, he thinks to himself with a grim, humorless smile, and he hands it over to Basira for her to inspect.

She skims through it quickly – she’s a fast reader, Jon notes – and at several points her eyebrows raise and furrow.

“Seems normal enough – for a statement, anyway,” she says, handing it back to him. Then, meeting his eyes: “A bit on the nose, though.” Jon shrugs. “You want me to stay while you read it, right? Go on, then.”

The tape recorder clicks on in his pocket, as if to voice its agreement. Jon removes it and takes a moment to glare at it before turning his eyes to the statement, clearing his throat, and beginning his monologue.

“Statement of Tova McHugh, regarding their string of near-death experiences. Original statement given December 3rd, 2002. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins…”

The Coffin sits where Breekon dropped it, hungry and waiting. It’s the densest, most solid thing in the room, as if it has its own gravity, a sort of metaphysical black hole. It’s not as bad as the rift at Hill Top Road, but it has a similar feel to it: oppressive, wrong, its existence impossible but unavoidably present all the same.

Jon stands at the threshold, blocking the entrance, Basira and Georgie standing behind him.

“So this is it, then,” Georgie says. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

“…as you can imagine, getting out of there proved – difficult –”

“– but they did return.”

She still looks uncertain, watching the Coffin as if it might move on its own.

“…try to keep you far away –”

“– didn’t want a good look inside that room – stopped at the threshold –”

“– make it very little distance over the threshold before – swallowed –”

“– you must trust me on that and not come looking –”

“– supervise from a distance –”

“Jon,” Basira says, cutting him off, “we get it. It’s dangerous, stay away, et cetera. I can feel the compulsion from here; you really don’t need to tell me twice, let alone five times.”

Jon barely hears her, his mind already entirely occupied with what he’s about to do. He stands paralyzed, knees locked, hands trembling just slightly, pulse thundering in his throat. Already his breath feels constricted, and he hasn’t even opened the thing yet.

“Do you need more time?” Georgie asks gently.

Jon shuts his eyes, swallows around the lump in his throat, and shakes his head no. The longer he puts it off, the harder it will be to take the plunge. And Daisy has waited long enough.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Jon breathes out, opens his eyes, and turns to face her. She opens her arms slightly, offering an embrace – but he shakes his head, giving her an apologetic look. Pressure is usually good, grounding him, but right now – well, he’s about to have all of creation pressing in on him, and any reminder of that is only going to send him spiraling.

“Okay. You have everything you need?”

He nods, trying to project whatever thin veneer of confidence he can muster – more for himself than the others, really. He holds up the tape recorder with Daisy’s statement tape in it, then gestures vaguely at the tape recorders littering his desk.

“…like breadcrumbs taking us home. Home, in this case, was –”

“Martin,” Georgie says with a knowing smile. “I’ll make sure he gets your message – and yes,” she says, seeing him about to interject, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t read it outside the tunnels. And I’ll explain… the situation. Don’t worry about things over here. Just focus on what you need to do on your end.”

Jon nods again, clenching and unclenching his fist at his side, stuffing the tape recorder back into his pocket with the other hand.

Time to stop dithering, he tells himself firmly.

“Tell Daisy I –” Basira blurts out, then pauses, struggling for words. “Tell her…”

She breathes out a short exhale and looks up at Jon. He nods at her: I understand.

“Tell her I’m waiting.” She pauses, biting her lip. “And Jon?” He makes a questioning noise. “Come back safe,” she says, then turns on her heel and walks briskly away down the hall.

“We’ll see you home soon, Jon,” Georgie says. She pours every ounce of reassurance into it that she can manage, but he can feel that she’s still apprehensive. “Don’t get lost.”

“…I’d – get out of there as soon as possible,” he says, trying to mirror her composure.

“You’d better. I doubt I’ll be the only one cross with you if you stay away too long.”

The tape recorders fill the room with a low, static-leaden murmuring – dozens of overlapping tones, unbroken streams of phonemes rendered nearly incomprehensible, discrete parts unable to compete against the cacophony of the whole. Although it sounds like the background noise of a crowd to Jon, he Knows every word being said: a litany of horror and dread unspooling in the air around him.

He also Knows that they will continue running, replaying each statement on a loop until he returns, no batteries required.

A notebook sits on his desk, battered and careworn. It’s Martin’s, half-filled with poems and works-in-progress, many of them from the weeks he was living in the Archives. He left it here when he went to work for Peter. Whether it was meant as a deliberate symbolic gesture – leaving the past behind him, sacrificing this sentimental part of himself in order to become what Peter’s plan required him to be – or was simply an oversight after months of having no time or mind for writing, Jon still doesn’t Know. He never asked. In the future, after Martin started writing again, Jon felt it was best not to reopen old wounds for the sake of satiating his own curiosity.

If only he could have learned that lesson earlier in life.

Jon has never been a fan of poetry. It’s never really resonated with him; he’s never understood it, and he… doesn’t have much patience for things he cannot understand. But then, Martin went to work for Peter Lukas – and the last time Jon was here, he had burned every other bridge between himself and humanity.

When he was a child, he had convinced himself that he didn’t need friends, didn’t need affection. He found human connection in books, and he told himself that it was enough. It wasn’t, in retrospect: he entered adolescence and then adulthood with stunted social skills, and practicing didn't seem worth the risk of failure. Between that and being the Archivist, it was no wonder he had chased everyone away.

By the time he woke up from his first coma, he knew that books would be no replacement for actual companionship, but he thought it might at least take the edge off, like it used to when he was a child. It backfired terribly. He would always Know how the story ended before even finishing the first chapter, and it would demolish any motivation to continue reading. It wasn’t just that his reading habits now tend to be as particular as they were when he was young, having little patience for anything that felt like he had read it before. It was that he couldn’t have a moment of peace from the knowledge of what he had become.

One day he stumbled across Martin’s notebook in Document Storage, along with some spoken word recordings that Martin had made while living in the Archives. At first, Jon didn’t know what the tapes were, and listening to any tapes that turned up had long since become automatic for him. Once he realized what was on them, he probably should have stopped, but he listened to every second of that handful of tapes, over and over and over again. He felt guilty – he had already violated Martin’s privacy once before, when he was deep in the throes of paranoia – but he justified it to himself because he… well, he'd needed to hear Martin’s voice.

The poetry was… well, Jon still didn’t get it, not really. But he found himself liking it anyway, because it was Martin’s voice and Martin’s words and Martin’s story, and Jon didn’t have to understand it for it to have meaning and value and warmth. He should have been content with the tapes, but he kept stealing glances at the notebook, itching to open it and start reading. Part of it was that simple curiosity that was always leading him astray, but for once, that wasn’t the loudest part of him.

It wasn’t a need to Know. It was a need for closeness.

So, he pushed that guilty voice in his head aside and… he read. Unlike the fiction stories he had been trying to lose himself in, he never once Knew anything about a poem before he finished reading it. He rarely Knew anything about it even after reading it, and then rereading it, and then rereading it again. For the first time in his life, not having answers was… refreshing. Freeing, even.

It didn’t take long for Jon to memorize every word, cover to cover – and he never grew bored of them, despite their familiarity.

Gingerly, almost reverently, Jon turns the pages. There are a handful of poems in here about him, and even now, indelibly etched into his memory, reading them on the page still makes him feel seen in a way that is all at once terrifying and comforting. Affecting, certainly, but in a way he could appreciate, once he gave it a chance.

You’re stalling, Jon tells himself, closing the notebook and placing one last tape on top of it.

He closes his eyes and forces himself to take several deep breaths – it’s the last chance he’ll have for the next few days – and he checks his pocket for the tape recorder with Daisy’s statement in it. Pointless, really; he already Knows it’s there, same as it was the last dozen times he checked.

Swallowing hard, he finally turns to look at the Coffin. The moment he lays eyes on it, the static rises in his mind.

Oh, shut up, Jon thinks tiredly. The Dread Powers are like cats yowling at overflowing food bowls, insisting that they haven’t had supper yet. At least cats are endearing. The Fears are noisy and intrusive with none of the charm. You’re all so goddamn needy, you know that?

The Coffin carries on, and Jon rolls his eyes. Wrapping himself in annoyance does little to drown out the fear, but it offers a slight buffer. He’ll take it.

You’re still stalling, he reprimands himself.

With trembling hands he picks up the key, fits it into the lock… and he opens the lid. It lifts easily with only a slight creak, no heft or resistance to it: it wants to be opened, like so many of the other hungry doors lurking around this world, bear traps and snares and spiderwebs all lying in wait for somebody foolish and curious enough to ignore all the alarm bells for just one… peek… inside.

Knock-knock, comes the intrusive thought.

Shut up, Jon shoots back.

The tape recorder clicks on, whirring impatiently in his pocket, as if to urge him onward.

You too, he snaps – but as much as his knee-jerk impulse is to be contrary, he has put this off long enough.

Jon steels himself, takes one last deep breath – savoring fresh air, full lungs, airways clear of dirt and grime and debris – and he begins his descent.

Martin is in Peter’s office, tending to some tedious administrative tasks. His brain feels fuzzy, thoughts sluggish and stunted from the lack of stimulation. The tick-tock of the wall clock drones on and on. He’s considered removing the batteries, but it’s the only company he’s had in days. Complete silence might be worse. Besides, the longer he sits here, the less and less the noise scrapes against the edges of his consciousness – and even when it does penetrate the fog filling his head, he can’t bring himself to care.

If Peter intends for the monotony to highlight his isolation and desensitize him to the absence of… well, everything, it’s working.

Then, between one moment and the next, there’s a shift. It crashes into him, tears through the quiet, and the world around him comes rushing back in, a sharp and blinding and cacophonous flood of sensory input.

There’s a palpable void where one shouldn’t be, and he knows with certainty that it’s distinct from the general sense of absence that he’s grown accustomed to over the past few months. The Lonely feels soft, quiet, gentle – natural, like a cocoon tailored specifically for him. This feels like a knife to the gut, a gaping wound, alarm bells screaming in his mind that something is wrong, wrong, wrong –

“Something’s happened,” he says to himself. He flinches at the sound. It’s jarring, hearing his own voice, raspy as it is with disuse.

Before he even realizes that he’s moving, he’s out of the office and hurrying down the hallway, not bothering to close the door behind him.

“Jon,” he whispers with a passion and urgency that feels alien to him now, thoughts no longer muffled and detached. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does: Jon’s done something drastic, and given his track record, it can’t be good.

The only thought running through his mind is Jon, playing on a loop like a stuck tape; like the nervous stammering of the person he used to be, intimidated by and enamored with the man in equal measure; like a – like a prayer: Jon.

Martin picks up his pace, making a beeline for the Archives.

End Notes:

The Buried, Round Two: BEGIN.

I might not have much free time to write this weekend, so the next chapter probably won't be ready until next weekend at least. It will have some Martin POV though, FINALLY. This story hasn't had enough Martin screentime yet and that is entirely a hell of my own making, but I WILL remedy it. Also: ACTUAL DAISY CONTENT SOON, I SWEAR.

Citations for Jon's letter to Martin are as follows: MAG 040; 112/007/029/102; 007/150; 020/019; 150; 013; 135; 048/144/007/021; 021; 013/002/032/147/153/013; 161/091/101/089/135; 048/028/067/013; 143/150/008/013; 135/048/009; 013; 150; 013/117; 085/052; 063/124; 123; 011; 123/133; 070/154/123; 133/019/036/011; 094/088; 075; 135; 127; 124/157/050/157/130; 143/107/012/056; 122/012/057; 013; 145/121; 150; 042; 042; 032; 037/136/110; 152/008/101/153/032/129/153; 117/155/013/155; 133/112/152/154/013/051/049.

Citations for Jon's dialogue are as follows, broken down by section: Section 1: MAG 064; 019; 138/139; 019; 058; 148; 121/014/089; 066/135; 043; 096; 138/060/154/060/113/017/005/116/121; 054/022/054/147; 057/091; 155. Section 2: 150/096; 095/006/023/157/139; 125; 047. Section 3: None. Section 4: None.

The cited dialogue between Peter and Martin is from MAG 126. And it probably goes without saying but the Jonah/Elias statement quote is from MAG 160.

As always, you can also just ask if you want to know where a particular line comes from. c:

#tma #tma fic #the magnus archives #long post #tma spoilers

[damnonew]

i think some readers get this idea in their head that if they can’t write a long, detailed, in-depth comment on a fic than they just shouldn’t bother

if you can write those kinds of comments that’s great

but sometimes you’re too tired or don’t have the spoons or anxiety is flaring and it’s too much

sometimes you read a fic that utterly wrecks you and any comment you even think about writing is so woefully inadequate that it feels pointless 

i can’t tell you how many times i’ve left a million tabs open because “i need to comment but i can’t right now” only to stress myself out more because I have a million tabs open and it’s a literal weight on my chest of “something I need to do” and end up closing them all in a flurry of anxiety just to feel guilty because I’ll never find those fics again and I’ve failed at what should be the easiest task of all time

my solution? 

i gave myself permission to leave shitty comments

that’s it

any comment, no matter how short, is better than no comments at all 

if all you can manage are kudos, that’s cool 

if all you can manage is a single emoji as a comment, even better 

if all you can manage is a “good job” or “this was great” EVEN BETTER 

half my comments are just a copy and paste of a favorite line or a good ol keyboard smash or even “this comment does not at all express how much i loved this”

you don’t have to be the greatest commenter that ever lived 

you don’t have to write an essay about what you liked 

you don’t have to compete with the other comments

you don’t have to be fluent in the language 

authors are not judging you

they’re just so stupidly happy that someone commented 

the knowledge that someone read what you wrote and liked it AND liked it enough to tell you they liked it is a shot of endorphins like you wouldn’t believe 

so please, make an effort to shoot your favs with endorphins 

they will love you forever 

for me, once I got into the habit of commenting, it’s so much easier and less stressful than what i was doing before. no looming tabs of stress, no feelings of guilt for leaving a favorite author unappreciated (okay maybe a little guilt but less than before) no constant pressure to be good enough or impress 

i’m still not perfect at it, i still struggle to comment on everything i read, i still have to take breaks sometimes because it’s too much... but i know that even my little bit of effort is noticed and appreciated

and on days when that’s all i can manage, it’s enough

#fanfiction #fandom #ao3 #feedback #please show your authors some love #anxiety is a bitch and i really do get it #but for me it's one of those - first step is the hardest oh see brain? that wasn't so bad kinda things #and its so vital to fandom #i've watched so many authors jump ship (myself included) because they felt their efforts were unappreciated #and now my fandom is flooded with - did anyone save so-and-so's fics before they deleted? posts #and maybe if we'd all been better at telling those authors that we appreciated them #they wouldn't have deleted and left the fandom for good? #and that stress weighs on me a lot more than the anxiety of commenting

[someguynamedstevewrites]

Unwanted House Guest: Valentine’s Run - Part 4

Should probably mention that this is based on characters created by  @tamarinfrog , @searching-for-bananaflies , @cafe-cardamari , @bottledupcomic , etc.

And based on the video games Splatoon, Splatoon 2, and Splatoon 2: Octo Expansion by Nintendo.

Arnick let go of the Octoling Girl’s hands, walked over to the bear statue shaped radio, picked it up, and began shaking it like a deadbeat that owed him money. “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND!?” he shouted.

“What’s the problem?” asked Mr. Grizz.

“The problem, SIR…” Arnick said with disdain, “is that if I understand correctly, you expect me to teach three rookies, who barely speak any Inklish, and turn them into Salmon Running savants, using sink or swim tactics, in nothing more than a few hours! Yet that can’t possibly be right because you’d have to be COMPLETELY MAD TO THINK THAT’S POSSIBLE!!!”

“Oh it’s not that bad-“ the bear statue said before Arnick cut him off.

“YOU! WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR!?” Arnick barked while he pointed an accusatory finger at the young Octoling boy.

<Uhh…> the poor boy stuttered, <…what did he say?>

<I think he asked you what your favorite color is, but…> the oldest Octoling said before trailing off.

“OH MY COD!” Arnick wailed while once again screaming at the statue and shaking it like a Polar-Roid Picture, “SOME OF THEM DON’T EVEN SPEAK INKLISH AT ALL!! HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY EXPECT US TO COMMUNICATE IF WE ARE LITERALLY SPEAKING TWO DIFFERENT LANGUAGES!!!”

“Oh I’m sure you can figure something out,” the voice from the statue said, “I mean you’ve worked with Octolings before, right?”

“BECAUSE THEY SPOKE INKLISH YOU IRKSOME URSINE!!”

Arnick bellowed while once again shaking the statue like a Magic 8-Ball that said his chances of winning the lottery looked dim.

The youngest Octoling girl looked up to her big sister and asked, <Is… Is he okay?>

<I’m… not sure,> she said with hesitation, <he’s using Inklish words I’ve never heard before.>

“Whoa! Whoa! Easy there, kid! You don’t wanna break the radio and have it deducted from your pay now, do yah?” Reasoned the statue. Arnick stopped bear-handling the statue, but still wanted to give it a few more shakes for good measure. “That’s better. Now look,” Mr. Grizz explained, “I understand this isn’t the ideal situation or anything, I get that. Really, I do! But you’re a smart guy, and one tough employee to boot! If anyone can make this work, it’d be you!”

Flattery was not going to get Mr. Grizz anywhere with Arnick at this point.

“So just chin up. Be professional. And do your best! You got this, kid,” the statue encouraged, “now why don’t you go over there and meet your co-workers. Make a good first impression on them. Okay? Okay. Grizz, out!”

The radio shut off and there was an awkward silence that filled the air. Arnick set the wooden bear statue/radio down on the small table it was originally sitting on. He looked unnaturally calm and serene.

While showing no emotion on his face, Arnick reached into his pockets as though he was looking for something. Seconds later, he began looking around the boat after not finding what he wanted in his pockets. His eyes settled on a fold-able wooden chair that was sitting peacefully on the main deck. Arnick nodded to himself as if saying, “Ahh, yes. This should do it.”

Before describing what happens next, it is worth mentioning that Arnick does have some experience with the Octarian language. After living with Tetrox for a few years now, he naturally picked up on some words here and there that she would mutter under her breath, or slip out in normal conversation (which was rare because she spoke spectacular Inklish). Arnick had also done a little self study on how to speak Octarian off and on again over the years.

Now that Arnick was going to be working with three Octolings in a team, his knowledge of the Octarian language began to surface to the forefront of his mind.

…unfortunately, all of it was language that should never be spoken out loud in public.

<COD!

DAMN!!

FFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUU~>

———————————-

<HOLY SEA COW!> Aadi said with a mix of awe and surprise.

*SMAAAAASSSSHHH*

Nalini’s tentacles were pointing straight up well before the foul-mouthed Inkling slammed the wooden chair against the deck railing. She dove to cover Lajni’s ears as if hearing the steady stream of Octarian obscenities and euphemisms would melt them off her head. Nalini hadn’t heard such a cascade of curses and swears that flowed like a river since her days in Octarian boot camp.

The Inkling was now jumping up and down on the wooden fragments of the former chair, kicking a piece every now and then like he was punting a Clam Blitz Ball. Nalini tried to focus on what he was saying over the sound of the crunching wood and could make out, <-AUDACITY OF THAT POMPOUS FISH MONGER WHO NEEDS TO HAVE A HARPOON SHOVED RIGHT UP HIS-> before tuning it out again. She looked over to her brother who seemed rather impressed with the Inkling for what Nalini feared was for all the wrong reasons.

The Inkling then picked up a chair leg that somehow was not yet smashed and then began hitting it against the railing. One thing was very clear to Nalini:

…this guy had some anger issues.

About two minutes later, the Inkling had finally stopped raging and was now trying desperately to catch his breath. Being that angry took a lot of energy, and it showed! Finally getting a breath in, the inking turned around and began to walk towards the three siblings.

Lajni and Aadi quickly dived behind Nalini’s back when the inkling approached them. He coughed, cleared his throat, and then tried to explain in broken Octarian, <Sorry… I was… upset…>

Nalini wasn’t entirely sure if she should answer him in Octarian or Inklish at first, but before she could decide, Aadi’s instinctively blurted out, <Upset? I’d hate to see him when he’s->

<AADI!> Nalini scolded him with a shushing gesture. She turned and addressed the Inkling. <Is everything okay?>

<Yes…> the lanky Inkling said. It looked like he wanted to say more but wasn’t sure how to say it properly. Nalini was surprised he was having this much trouble communicating after rambling off nearly every single Octarian expletive, curse, and swear word just seconds ago. <Hard… explain…> he continued before Nalini cut him off in Inklish.

“It be easier if I speak the Inklish?” Asked Nalini.

“Yes, thank you,” said the Inkling, “and my apologies for earlier. Just to be clear, I was not angry at any of you. I was angry at Mr. Grizz since I think it is highly unfair to all of us to be put in this difficult situation.”

Nalini blinked as she processed what the Inkling had just said. He was speaking very formally, but also using words she wasn’t familiar with here and there. She smiled back, looking to make a good impression (and relieved to know his anger wasn’t because of who they were or anything), “It is understandable, Mr. Sixwayfrumsunday”

“My name is Arnick,” said the Inkling.

“Eh?” Nalini squeaked while suddenly feeling very embarrassed, “Ah… I… I am sorry about-”

“No, no. It’s my fault, really,” Arnick interjected, “I shouldn’t have let my usual snark and sarcasm get the better of me,” said Arnick, “Given our respective language barriers and cultural differences, I can see how you could misunderstand what I was saying. I’m sure my diatribe of foul Octarian language didn’t help either.”

Nalini understood roughly half of what Arnick said. She was now beginning to have serious doubts about taking Lajni and Aadi with her today. She hadn’t considered the possibility that they would be paired with an Inkling since she had been on all Octoling teams on her last four runs. She thought that was the way things normally went, but apparently, on those first four runs, she just happened to get lucky. She began to wonder if there was a way out of this, and said, “Maybe… Running Salmon… Not such good idea today, Mr. Arnick.”

“Stilton,” Arnick corrected.

Nalini was once again surprised, “Eh?”

<My name is Arnick Stilton,> Arnick said in Octarian to make sure that he was clear, “You can address me as Arnick, if you wish.”

Nalini was feeling extremely embarrassed. She thought she was pretty good at Inklish, but after speaking with Arnick for just a few minutes, she felt woefully inadequate for handling this situation. She looked down at the ground and could feel a small tear form in her eye.

<HEY!> Aadi shouted at Arnick, <WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO MY SISTER!? YOU MADE HER CRY!>

<AADI! STOP!> Nalini ordered.

<But Nalini…> Aadi said with a figurative tail between his legs.

<He didn’t say anything mean! It’s just…> Nalini paused as he she admitted what she didn’t want to admit, <…I’m having more trouble understanding him than I thought I would.>

Lajni chimed in, <Even after all those classes?>

Nalini nodded, <I’m just… so embarrassed right now. That’s all. So don’t be mean to Arnick, okay? He wasn’t being mean.>

After the tantrum Arnick threw, Lajni was skeptical. <Really?> She asked innocently.

<Yes, really,> Nalini confirmed before turning to Arnick, “I am sorry. My brother… he get too… excited sometimes. Please be forgiving him.” Nalini then wrapped an arm around Aadi’s shoulder and said, “This… is my younger brother. His name is Aadi.”

Arnick extended a hand for a handshake, “Good to meet you, Aadi.”

Glancing at the boy with the Afro, Arnick could see the look in Aadi’s eyes. He was glaring at Arnick as though he wasn’t too sure about him. Given Arnick’s recent behavior and attitude, Arnick couldn’t really blame him for being suspicious.  Not to mention how he’d react if he knew about Arnick’s past of being very anti-Octarian.

“I am sorry. He no speak Inklish,” Nalini explained.

The weight of the situation began to sink in for Arnick. Given that Aadi couldn’t understand a single word Arnick said, there was no way to give him any reassurance that he was a decent fellow. Arnick then turned to the youngest of the three Octolings who looked like she had just turned fourteen and finally got her humanoid form. She seemed scared, but curious, and didn’t show any signs of distrust like Aadi did.

“This is my younger sister. Her name is Lajni,” Nalini introduced.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Lajni,” Arnick said while extending a hand.

This time, Arnick put on the most cheerful smile he could muster to try and put the young girl at ease. After some hesitation, Lajni stepped from behind her sister and shook Arnick’s hand. Arnick’s smile became even more genuine as he began to feel like he was making progress.

With introductions out of the way, now was the time to get down to business. With two teammates that couldn’t understand any Inklish, he needed to work out something and fast before their shift started. Arnick immediately marched over to the table and was about to take a seat before realizing his seat was the one he had pulverized into sawdust a few minutes earlier. Grabbing the other chairs and putting them around the table, he called out, “Nalini, could you bring Aadi and Lajni over here? We’re going to need to work something out and fast, or we’re all going to be fish food!”

To Be Continued...

#Unwanted House Guest #Arnick Stilton #Splatoon #Octolings #Nalini Aadi and Lajni #Mr. Grizz #salmon run

[cruelangelstheses]

technical difficulties

fandom: fire emblem awakening rating: G characters: tiki/say’ri words: 1.1k additional tags: modern au, fluff, immortality description: when tiki wakes up from a century-long nap, she finds herself thoroughly confused by all the new technology. luckily, a friend may have found someone who can help her. a/n: hello hello!! i've been super busy but i managed to bang this out in time for sayriki day on twitter (run by @FEFemslash)! i love the idea of an immortal waking up in the modern day after a loooong time and being like “what the fuck. what the fuck is all this.” the idea was just too perfect to pass up

read it on ao3

—

Tiki isn’t sure if she loves humanity’s new technology or hates it.

On one hand, these machinations fascinate her beyond words—the way they glow at her touch, the way they respond to her every command, breathing life into her thoughts like whimsical libraries. On the other hand, though, she’s been asleep for about a hundred years, restoring her vitality as all immortals need to do from time to time, and she has a lot to catch up on. She’s never seen humanity progress so fast. She had assumed that she wouldn’t miss much, but evidently she was wrong. She still can’t quite wrap her head around an automobile, let alone a smartphone.

The only reason she’s been able to survive in this strange new world is because she entrusted a fellow immortal, a girl named Nowi, to keep an eye on her while she slept. Nowi is the one who got her a “social security number” and a fake birth certificate for when she woke up, and she’s the one who took her in and helped her to get back to her life.

Unfortunately, Nowi isn’t all that great at explaining how all this new technology works, so Tiki has pretty much had to figure it all out on her own, or at least try to. This hasn’t worked well for her, and now she’s sitting in her bed one evening, panicking because her laptop computer won’t turn back on. She turned it off the night before, but now, when she presses the button that’s supposed to make it come to life once again, nothing happens.

Tiki opens the top drawer of her nightstand and grabs a slip of paper with a ten-digit number written on it. “If you ever have any technical difficulties,” Nowi said when she handed it to her, “call this number. She’ll help you. No question is too stupid!”

It still takes Tiki about five minutes to find the keypad on her smartphone, even though Nowi showed her how to use it. Part of her is nervous, but Nowi’s reassurance replaying in her head gives her the courage to type in the number and press the “call” button.

The person answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Uh, hello,” Tiki says awkwardly, holding the phone up to her ear like she’s supposed to. It feels unnatural, pressing a hard, flat mini-machine against her skin, but no one ever said adjusting to a century’s worth of technological advancements would be easy. “I seem to be experiencing a problem with my laptop computer?” It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.

“Ah,” the girl on the other end says immediately. “Are you Nowi’s friend, then?”

Tiki doesn’t really know why, but she can feel her cheeks flush. “Yes, I am,” she says slowly. “What has she told you of me?”

“Not a great deal,” the girl replies casually. “Just that you would likely be contacting me, and that you may have been living underneath the largest rock this side of Demon’s Ingle. No matter,” she adds quickly. “Your name is Tiki, yes?”

“Indeed,” Tiki says. Her face burns with embarrassment. She feels like she’s been caught red-handed, though her only “crime” is being technologically inept, and that’s not her fault. “And you are…?”

“Say’ri,” the girl says. It’s a name Tiki has always liked, and the way this girl says it gives it an almost musical quality. “Nowi and I share a class together. I’m majoring in computer science, which is probably why she asked me to be the one to help you.”

How Nowi managed to convince her college that she was old enough to attend is beyond the scope of Tiki’s knowledge. Nowi is, obviously, much older than the average college student, but she’s still young for an immortal, which gives her the unfortunate side effect of looking—and sometimes acting—like a child.

“So,” Say’ri says, “what seems to be the problem?”

Tiki frowns in confusion at her woefully dark computer screen. “I turned it off when I went to bed last night, but now it won’t turn back on. I keep pressing the button, but nothing’s happening.”

After a short pause, Say’ri asks, “Did you try holding down the power button for a few seconds instead of just pressing it?”

Tiki can’t help but feel a little proud of herself. “Yes, actually, I have. Nothing.”

“Hmm. Did you charge it?”

Oh. “Uh…”

Tiki knows how to charge her laptop—Nowi at least showed her that—but she didn’t think to charge it overnight. She doesn’t remember the battery being that low, but she might have just not been paying attention.

Say’ri laughs, a sound so soft and lovely that it catches Tiki completely by surprise. “Can I assume, then, that that’s a no?”

Tiki chuckles sheepishly. “Yes, you could assume that.”

She reaches down underneath her bed and pulls out her laptop charger, plugging one end into the outlet and the other into the computer. Nothing happens. This never would’ve been an issue a millennium ago. Back then, she could take a century-long nap and only miss a war or two.

“Still nothing,” she reports into the phone.

Without missing a beat, Say’ri asks, “Did you press the button again now that it’s plugged in?”

Any pride that Tiki might still have felt has, at this point, very much reverted itself back into embarrassment. Trying not to laugh at herself, she gingerly presses the power button and watches as her computer comes to life. “Oh.”

Say’ri giggles again. Tiki decides that she could listen to that sound forever. “Is it working now?”

“Yes, it is,” Tiki replies with a sigh. “I doubt any knowledge of computer science was required to help me with this. I apologize for bothering you—”

“You aren’t bothering me, my dear,” Say’ri says. “It’s been...enjoyable, talking to you.”

Her kind words make Tiki’s heart swell. It feels like it’s been so long since she bonded with anyone—and, technically, it has.

“Besides,” Say’ri adds, “I’m sure we’ll talk again soon. Even after you get the hang of everything, computers can be...capricious. And I’ll always be here to help.”

Tiki tries not to smile like an idiot and fails. “I...thank you, Say’ri,” she says softly. It feels strangely inadequate, but it’s all she has to offer. “I will certainly take you up on that.”

“It’s a date, love,” Say’ri replies before she hangs up. Tiki makes a mental note to kiss the ground Nowi walks on the next time she sees her.

#fire emblem awakening #sayri #tiki #sayriki #say'riki #say'ri #tiki fire emblem #fe13 #my fics