#it feels like i am inan oven

[draconic-idolatry]

flu is the worst im going to explodr my moms boss

#it feels like i am inan oven #god.txt

[littlewetbeast]

hi! i love your tumblr fics/writing in general… sending you so much love and appreciation! if you’re taking requests and if the mood takes you… do you think you could write something about dean’s lack of hunger? i’m obsessed with it as a concept, it’s fascinating! i don’t think we talk about it enough :( happy 4th july!

Note: timeline is a bit muddy - set roughly in kripke & gamble era, s4-s7. Warning: very vaguely NSFW, depressive and suicidal feelings Word count: 2k

It’s always the little things that end up getting to him, in the end. The server glances at his unfinished plate of food, and with a tilt of her head says, “Not to your liking, honey?” He stills. A tight sensation coils in his stomach. “I’m good,” Dean says, flashing her a smile, willing every muscle to relax. “Just had a big lunch.” He pats his stomach for show. She nods, leaving it at that, and brings him his bill. Dean reminds himself that there is no need to check around the diner to see if anyone heard it. He rubs his greasy fingers on the napkin and downs the rest of his beer, leaving an extra large tip with the odd hope that it will, somehow, quell the unease deep in his gut. It doesn’t. Then again, nothing ever does.

* * *

The reality is - he gets the urges. He gets the pangs of hunger and the dry-mouthed thirst; the deep aches for rest; the need for an extra long shower with his hands on himself, gritting his teeth to bite back the noise. Dean has basic desires and fleeting wants. All of them remain only surface-deep - they never soothe the gaping void in his chest, or the sensation that he is rotting from the inside out. Dean tried to explain it to Sam once. After seeing the way his mouth twisted with pity while he listened, he vowed never to bring it up again. He peers into his drink, his tongue darting out to wet his numbing lips while he drums his fingers absently against the glass. Dean’s not sure how many he’s had now, but he has enough muscle control that as he waves down the bartender for another one, he isn’t met with protest. It takes him far too long to realise someone has appeared on the stool next to him. Mind moving sluggishly, he realises that the stillness with which they arrived means they can only be one person. “Not seen you in a while,” Dean says, still looking into his drink, eyeing the sorry drop that’s left. “Hello, Dean,” Cas says, voice low. Dean knows for sure he’s had too much now, because the sound of him instantly sends a flush across his cheeks, one he can’t blame solely on the alcohol. He lifts the glass to pour the last drop onto his tongue, for something to do.

“How’s all that angel crap going?” Dean says as he sets the glass back down, not bothering to dampen the slur of his voice as the bartender brings him his next drink. “It’s fine,” Cas says, a little curtly. He shifts on the stool, half-turning against him. “Sam wondered where you’d gone.” Dean snorts and takes another sip of his drink. “He sent a babysitter.” “He’s been worried about you,” Cas says. Dean hums, licking his lips again. “I’m fine, Cas,” he says. He turns towards him, roaming his eyes across him lazily, then grins, big and toothy. “I’m wonderful. Peachy. Having a swell ol’ time.” As if to prove it, he lifts the glass up with a jerk, inadvertently sloshing some of the liquid onto his fingers. He swears and puts it down on the napkin, sloppily licking his fingers. Dean only barely has enough self-control to stop himself from making a sensual show of it.

Cas doesn’t say anything. Dean can feel the weight of his gaze, but he now feels unable to look at him. After a moment, he hears Cas call the bartender over. “Whatever he’s having, please,” he says.

Dean feels himself sink into the seat, releasing tension in his body he hadn’t even known was there. As Cas receives his drink and lifts it to his lips, Dean watches. He’s too drunk now to be able to look away; the willpower it takes is already challenging while sober. Cas maintains eye contact as he takes a sip, and something in his eyes keeps Dean’s gaze locked to him. The urges, as always, are there - even if they are inhabiting a dead man.

He’s starting to feel the latent effects of the previous drinks now, buzzing underneath the surface of his skin. Dean takes another long sip, relishing the burn of it at the back of the throat, and Cas doesn’t say anything more. He remains a warm, solid form next to him as they drink. None of them push each other further, and Dean is grateful for it. By the time the glass is empty, the full effects of the alcohol is working its way through his body, sending the room into a hazy spin, with Cas being the only steady thing left. Dean vaguely registers being taken out of the bar, feeling the bite of the night air on his skin, cooling the warmth on his cheeks.

“I’m not really hungry, Cas,” Dean says, eventually, as he begins to register his feet moving under him. “You’re not making any sense,” Cas says, his breath hot in his ear. Dean desperately wants to lean into it. He realises now that he’s been talking for a while.

“I told you,” Dean says, “I’m not really hungry.” He laughs, a sharp bark that punctures the still midnight air. “You’re upset because you’re not hungry,” Cas says slowly. Dean snorts inelegantly. “Dude,” he says, “I’m upset because you fucked up.” He disentangles himself from Cas from a second, and realises swiftly his mistake as he wobbles around, waving his arm at something to grab at. Eventually, his arm is clasped by Cas, bringing them together again. Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to separate himself from him, but there is nothing solid around to steady him except for Cas. He feels giddy now, inane laughter bubbling up from his chest. “I’m not all here, man,” Dean says. “There’s something missing.” A bizarre thought occurs to him. “I’m not soulless, am I?” “No, Dean,” Cas says. Dean shakes his head. “You angels ever get that feeling where,” he snaps his fingers, clumsily, “you keep worrying you’ve left the oven on?” “No,” Cas says. “Well, it’s like that,” Dean says, swinging his finger emphatically. “You did that. Except it was me. I was the oven.” They shuffle along quietly for a moment, Dean slumped into Cas, pulling back every urge to nuzzle into his neck. “I’m very confused by this metaphor,” Cas says eventually. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re the one who left it on,” Dean says, as if explaining to a toddler. “I see,” Cas says, resignation laced in his voice.

This time, Dean can’t help but nuzzle into him. “I should be pissed at you, you know,” Dean says into his ear.

Cas doesn’t say anything, seemingly focused entirely now on keeping Dean upright, urging him to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Dean wonders if Cas ever expected himself to be abandoning his heavenly missions in favour of dragging a drunk man home. “No,” Cas says. Dean realises he’s saying everything out loud, and snaps his mouth shut. “Hey,” Dean says, deliberately this time. “Why aren’t you, uh,” he frowns, and makes his one free hand flap like a bird, “you know, just flying me back?” “Not sure how the effects would be on someone this inebriated,” Cas says. “Keys, Dean.” “We should go to Hawaii or something. Get a couple of drinks there,” Dean says. “Dean,” Cas repeats firmly. “The motel keys.” Then he starts patting Dean’s jacket down, and Dean sways in place, focused now entirely on keeping his head cool while Cas’ hands move all over him. He pulls the keys from his jean pocket, his hand far too close to Dean’s crotch for his liking, and they jingle as Cas unlocks the room. The giddiness deflates from Dean’s chest as he remembers, suddenly, why he’s here. How he had left Sam with a mumbled excuse, booked a room for just himself, because he could no longer bear how the hollowness had grown to a gaping hole in his chest; or how he had the overwhelming sensation of being nothing but a puppet, an empty vessel that was simply being manouvered into doing things he was supposed to. Drinking, sleeping, eating, hunting, teasing Sammy, flirting with girls - all things he had done before spending a lifetime in hell. He does all the same things, but they are no longer the same. This time, Dean Winchester is no longer there. He died a long time ago. “Dean?” He looks up, and realises he’s gone still in the doorway, and the image focuses slowly in his eyes. Cas is watching him with his brows furrowed together, his mouth set in a worried line. Dean feels like he should laugh again, but there is nothing left in him now but what remains at the core of him - a deep, aching nothingness. Dean swings the door shut behind him, and Cas reaches out to him as he attempts to stand on his own two wobbly feet. Smiling thinly, Dean says, “I’m all wrong.” With effort, he tugs the jacket off. It feels like it’s wound tightly around every limb, refusing to let go, but eventually he manages to peel it off. “You left a piece of me down there in the pit,” Dean says, and huffs a dry, humourless laugh. “You left the damn oven on.” For a moment, Cas says nothing. He hovers a half-step close to him, and they stand quietly while Dean’s breaths get thick and raspy, his hands trembling by his sides. “You gotta fix this shit,” he bites out, and he feels his cheeks have turned hot and wet. Dean braves the journey to the bed, with Cas’ hands securing him by his side, and he slumps down heavily on it. “You gotta,” he presses the palms of his hands into his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath, “You gotta fix this, Cas.”

He breathes into his hands, both covering his face, and he draws in a breath, then another, his whole body trembling. “I can’t do it anymore,” he says, his voice small, breaking at the end. “I can’t go on anymore, Cas.”

Dean’s hands are gripped by something warm and soft. Cas’ hands are pulling them gently away from his face, and placing them on his knees. He doesn’t make a move as Cas tenderly brushes away the tears streaking down his cheeks. He doesn’t protest as he cups his face. Distantly, he wonders if anyone has ever touched him like this, and comes up short. Cas is just inches from him, his eyes watching him like he wants nothing more than to draw out every bit of pain and ache Dean has ever experienced. Dean is gripped by the notion that he could lean forward and kiss Cas right now. It’s not the first time he’s thought it, but it’s the first time he’s let himself seriously consider it. “You need to get some sleep, Dean,” Cas says. His voice is barely a whisper off his lips.

Dean feels Cas’ hand over his forehead, and for a brief moment, he wonders if it is normal for angels to have a touch that is so unbearably tender, as if they can pour love into their skin. He feels as if something warm has filled his chest, the dry ache smoothed away, the sensation of something like peace. For one insane moment, he wants to tell Cas he loves him. He doesn’t.

Instead, he sleeps.

* * *

When Dean awakes the next morning, he thinks for the briefest of seconds that he can see a dip in the mattress, fresh from the weight of a body. As he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and shakes himself awake, he remembers that he is alone.

Dean reaches out for his phone, clumsily plugs it into his charger and waits impatiently for the screen to finally light up in a glow. He calls Sam, who has left five increasingly panicked voice messages on his phone. He ribs him mercilessly for it - What are you, an old man? Send a text like everyone else! - and then lets him know his phone had died over the night. There, nothing to be worried about.

The events of the past day feel foggy, courtesy of the hangover. Despite that, when Dean looks up in the bathroom mirror, he finds himself looking refreshed. He feels lighter than he has in years. Later, he tells Sam that he clearly needs to take more vacations away from his griping, and receives a half-hearted punch to his shoulder. "I prayed to Cas, you know," Sam says, looking at his hands. "He must be busy. Didn't answer." Dean huffs, sipping his coffee. "God, you're such a drama queen. Can't survive without your big brother for one day." "Shut up, jerk." "Bitch." Sam sends him a look, but he doesn't say more - he changes the topic, and that's that. Dean drinks his coffee as he half-listens to Sam filling him in on a new case, and he tries to recall when he last saw Cas. He wonders, briefly, if he should pray to him. His stomach flutters traitorously at the thought, and Dean swallows thickly, deciding against it.

He swirls around the remaining coffee in his cup, rubbing his chest absently, and wonders at the ache that has settled there now. Distantly, he reaches for the broken pieces of an old memory, a lingering sensation of a warm palm to his forehead.

#fic prompt #unbetaed #rosa writes #deancas #destiel #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #thank you so much for this AWESOME prompt anon #not sure i did it a sliver of justice but i loved the concept

[aimeelouart]

WHAT. oh my god diff anon but i loved the snippet with ur protag but also HOW CLD U THROW HER TO HOJO.. UR VERY OWN CHILD /j anyway very excited to see u talk abt ur setting and lora more i like the her

>:3c Shall we have a part two of this self-indulgent SSC crossover, then?

Lora wasn’t missing for long, but she was missing long enough. They found her in the labs, floating curled-up in an empty holding tank⁠. The glass and metal was all melted to slag around her, but she didn’t seem aware. Her whole body was glowing like liquid steel, eyes open wide and mouth slack as bluish-white light poured from the inside of her throat. The bodies of unlucky lab technicians littered the ground around the tank.

Science had finally tried to meddle in something truly beyond their grasp.

They found Hojo, too, burned to near unrecognizability and leaning up against a control panel. He was muttering deliriously to himself, breath rasping like sandpaper down his damaged throat. “Magnif...icent...like...the power...she’s…”

Sephiroth stared at him coldly. He couldn’t put Masamune through the wretch’s body without consequences⁠...but he could leave him to die. So he stepped over the body of his father and moved to the computer by the control panel, pulling up the information he needed. 

The radiation pouring from the little outworlder child was frankly staggering. If it wasn’t for the protective shields around this section of the room, Hojo would have been long dead. More’s the pity, though the shields were also protecting the Firsts at the moment.

“What do we do?” Genesis asked as he looked at Lora’s glowing form. “What did he even do to get her in that state?”

“Is there anything we can do without getting burned to a crisp?” Angeal said, looking between the temperature readout and the molten state of the holding tank.

“At a distance, maybe” Sephiroth replied, leaning away from the screen and tilting his head a little. “Let us start with the obvious.” He flicked on the intercom. “Ameliora Octavia Perdel,” he said, enunciating each name clearly. “Do you remember my voice? It’s Sephiroth. Genesis, Angeal, and I are all here. You are safe now, but we can’t reach you until you calm down.”

The radiation levels dipped slightly.

Genesis bumped Sephiroth away with his shoulder. “Princess,” he crooned. “Princess, what mess did you get into, hmm? That all looks quite exhausting. Why don’t we tone it down a bit more?”

This time, she blinked and uncurled a little, legs dipping toward the floor.

Angeal went next. Maybe hearing all their voices individually was the key factor. “Just listen to my voice, Lora. Can you see where you are? I know it must be scary, but we can’t come get you until you calm down.”

The radiation levels fell rapidly, matched by the way her skin’s unnatural luminance dimmed. Her mouth was moving, eyes blinking rapidly. Steam hissed off her cheeks as she started to cry. Delicately, her feet touched the melted floor of the cage. The second the radiation levels had fallen enough to be safe (safe for a SOLDIER) they left the shielded vestibule behind and ran into the room. 

The air was stiflingly hot, like an oven, and had an odd metallic tang to it. The hairs on their arms stood on end. Sephiroth darted forward as the last of the glow faded from Lora’s skin and quickly pulled her out of the molten tank. Her clothing was gone (taken or destroyed?) , and he wasn’t sure if her unprotected skin would burn against the metal. His boots left thin layers of melted rubber as he stepped quickly in and out.

Wordless, Genesis stripped off his coat and together they wrapped her in it. She still felt unnaturally hot, like a soldier pulled from the desert with heatstroke. Her eyes were wide and blank, irises glowing even when the rest of her didn’t. Odd green sparks danced within her pupils. Her lips were still moving as she murmured fretfully, but the language she spoke was incomprehensible to them.

Angeal glanced at the burned corpses. “Shhh, close your eyes for a minute, Lora.” When she didn’t respond, he frowned and held his hand over her eyes⁠, walking beside Sephiroth. He didn't cover them all the way⁠—didn’t block the light⁠—but he made sure she wouldn’t see the bodies.

And as they passed out of the room, Hojo’s rasping voice stuttered, stalled, and at last fell silent.

—

Cloud had fallen asleep almost as soon as the Firsts had gotten their hands on him again. He wasn’t too upset, actually—he’d accomplished all his goals this time around. But he was a bit miffed when he woke up with a little girl’s sleeping face just a few feet from his.

He sat up quickly, scooting backward a little. She didn’t wake, and after a few seconds he recognized her as the odd child who’d helped him escape. What the hell was she doing here in—he glanced around—Sephiroth’s bed? 

Gaia, was she here because he’d accepted her ‘help?’ He’d assumed they would just get her back to her parents.

The door opened and Angeal poked his head in, one finger raised to his lips. He gestured to the girl, then motioned Cloud toward him. When they were out in the hallway, Cloud harshly whispered, “why’s she here?” with a suspicious glare.

Angeal rolled his eyes a little and herded him away from the door, not responding until they were in the kitchen. “Her name is Lora, and she’s here for much the same reason you are. No one else could safely keep her.”

“Okay, first off I don’t need to be kept,” he said, glaring as he took a chair. “You just think I do. Second off, why?”

Genesis sauntered in and answered for Angeal. “Because she has strange and frankly inconceivable abilities, Cloud. Beyond that, we are not keeping her forever, merely waiting for her parents to find her.”

“Theoretically,” Angeal muttered, tending to the food on the stove. It smelled like stir-fry.

Sephiroth arrived to join the conversation as well. “Given what we have seen, do you really find it so unlikely that her Grandfather would be capable of similar feats? I am inclined to doubt nothing, at this point.”

Cloud was baffled. Feats? Abilities? He’d given the kid a chunk of his hair in exchange for her providing a distraction—she’d claimed something about ‘needing it for the spell.’ Had she...meant something real by that?

Genesis noticed his baffled expression. “Lora doesn’t need materia to do magic,” he explained succinctly. “There are some other things too, but that’s the gist of it.”

Cloud paled. Alright, maybe it really was better if they kept her here. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if Hojo got his hands on her.

Sephiroth was staring at him intently. “Hojo is dead.”

Every thought went right out the window. “What?”

“Hojo is dead. He’s never going to hurt anyone else again.”

How? His lips moved, but he made no sound. The damned Professor had been at the top of his list of things to take care of, what could possibly have taken him out before Cloud could even try?

Angeal lowered his voice enough that no one but a SOLDIER had any hope of making out his words. “Lora killed him, and we are not going to tell her that, understand?” For the first time, a very serious, protective look was aimed at Cloud for someone else’s sake. “She’s not like you, Cloud. She was protected from the whole world until she came to Midgar.”

“...right,” he said numbly. “I’d never hurt a kid.”

All three of them gave him Looks at that, but he was spared the commentary by a distressed, high-pitched whine from the direction of the bedroom. Genesis vanished from the kitchen in the space of a breath. When he came back, it was with the girl bundled up in a blanket, sniffling into his shoulder.

“It’s alright, darling,” Genesis was...crooning. Cloud was vaguely glad that particular tone (in that particular intensity) had never been aimed at him. He might have bitten the man’s fingers off. It seemed to be working on the actual seven-year-old though. “Shh...you’re fine. You’re safe. Don’t you want to come out and meet Cloud properly?”

Still sniffling, she raised her head and turned to Cloud. She looked groggy and miserable, eyes red-rimmed and teary, but when she saw him her face lit up.

“D’you do it?” She asked in a sleep-roughened voice, smiling. “Your task?”

“Uh,” he blinked. “Yeah. I did. Thanks for the help.”

She beamed, forgetting her tears entirely. “Welcome. It’s important to always follow your Virtue.”

He had a feeling he was missing a lot of the context of that statement, but he thought he’d gotten the gist. “Yeah.”

When they ate dinner she sat in Angeal's lap, still bundled up in the blanket. Half way through her plate⁠—her proportions were hilariously tiny compared to the four enhanced SOLDIERs⁠—she made a face and pushed it away.

“What’s wrong, Lora?” Genesis asked.

“Hurts,” she said, rubbing at the center of her chest. “Can’t eat any more.” She looked like she was on the verge of tears again.

“Okay, that’s alright. Do you want to go sit on the couch and watch something until we’re all done eating?”

“Yes please,” she said, sliding to the floor and taking Genesis’s hand.

Cloud frowned thoughtfully at his plate as he listened to her settle down on the couch as Genesis turned the tv to some inane children’s cartoon. When the redhead returned, Cloud quirked an eyebrow at him. “Is she okay?” he asked, too low for her to overhear.

His expression sobered. He shook his head. “What she did to...survive the lab...it damaged her in a manner we simply have no way of understanding. She thinks it won’t be permanent, and I suspect she may be right, but for now the pain comes and goes. It would hurt her enormously to use magic as well, though she has yet to slip up in that regard.”

“Poor kid,” Cloud murmured.

That earned him a bit of an eye-roll from Genesis before the man continued. “Healing energy does seem to help her, however. If she’s in pain and we’re unavailable, can I count on you to cast a Cure on her?”

Cloud frowned at him and crossed his arms over his chest. “Listen, I know I fight you guys a lot, but do you really think I’d hurt a kid? Or ignore one in pain?” It made him very uncomfortable that they seemed to think he would.

The Firsts exchanged a glance between themselves. “Cloud, you are absolutely unpredictable to us,” Angeal said eventually. “But you’re right, and I’m sorry we insulted you like that.”

Cloud sighed and went back to his food. “It’s whatever.”

Ugh. He’d been a kid for too long if he was starting to use phrases like that.

⁠—

They watched a movie after dinner, some mindless family film with a plot that was about as substantial as cotton candy. Cloud didn’t much care, but when Angeal said it would make Lora happy he sighed and relented. He absolutely refused to share the couch, though, claiming one of the armchairs before anyone else could ‘accidentally’ maneuver him into arms reach.

To be honest, he spent most of the movie’s run time watching Lora anyway. She was just so...weird. For one thing, she did everything in her power to make sure she was being held at all times. If one of the adults had to move, or got tired, she shamelessly transferred herself to someone else’s lap.

Sephiroth ended up with her for most of the night, looking about as content as Cloud had ever seen him as he let her snuggle close to his chest. They only had to pause the movie once as she whined and curled around her chest. All three of the Firsts had mastered Cures on them, and it wasn’t difficult to see why they needed them.

“Are most kids like that?” he ended up asking Angeal once the movie had ended. Lora was fast asleep, knuckles curled into her mouth, as Sephiroth got up off the couch and carried her to bed.

“Like what?” the dark-haired man asked, cocking a brow.

“...touchy?” Because he couldn’t remember Marlene ever being quite so demanding, and Denzel certainly wasn’t.

In the kitchen, Genesis stifled a laugh. Angeal looked amused as well. “Ah, no,” he said. “I wondered too, but after asking around a bit it turns out you and Lora are just on polar opposite ends of the spectrum.” He grinned a little. “You…avoid touch and distrust everyone; she demands touch and trusts implicitly.”

Cloud frowned. He could get away with being extreme because he wasn’t actually what he appeared, but the way Angeal described the kid’s tendencies sounded downright dangerous. “That’s not safe.”

Angeal sobered abruptly. “She’s starting to learn that too.”

Cloud winced. Yeah. Hojo would have that effect, wouldn’t he. Poor kiddo.

⁠— 

Today was the first day since Cloud had gotten back that all three of the Firsts would be busy, which meant that he and their cross-dimensional princess house guest would be dropped off to be babysat (ugh) by the entire Turk department.

Yes, the entire department. That one was his own fault.

He wasn’t all that upset, actually. He had some snooping to do for his next task, and Veld was a very strange and accommodating person to Cloud’s...eccentric behavior. He swore the man was using him as a training program, but had yet to find definitive proof.

Lora, on the other hand…

Cloud walked straight into Tseng’s office and flopped down on the couch, pulling out his handheld gaming system. Sephiroth had to be well out of range before he could begin his kind-of-sort-of extended espionage battle with the Turks. Lora lingered half-behind the silver-haired man, clutching his hand with both of hers as she looked around nervously.

“Come on,” Sephiroth coaxed, looking down at her. “Don’t you want to go play with Cloud?”

“No,” she mumbled, pressing against his leg. She eyed Tseng, who was watching the proceedings with an expression of (to Cloud’s eyes) carefully curated warmth.

“Yes,” he countered. “Besides, you like Tseng. You’re going to have plenty of fun with him and the other Turks, and I promise they’ll keep you safe.”

She looked up at him and adopted puppy eyes that would have put Zack’s to shame, huge and pleading. “Can’t I just come with you? Please?”

Sephiroth visibly wavered, and Cloud had to press his lips together hard to keep from laughing outright. What was it about big, tough soldier-types being the weakest to little girls’ puppy eyes? He’d been an absolute sucker for Marlene’s before Barret had finally let him in on the secret to resisting (physically looking away, apparently).

But Sephiroth, to his credit, gathered his resolve and told her, “no, you can’t come with me on mission. It’s not safe.”

Her pleading stare turned to a pout. “But I have a lot of magic! I could help!”

“I’m sure you could,” he said, which was probably actually true though Cloud had yet to see a firsthand demonstration, “but your parents and grandfather would be very upset if they found out, wouldn’t they?”

She narrowed her eyes a little. “Papa’s taken me on campaign before.”

He arched his eyebrows. “On the front lines?”

Lora’s scowl was answer enough. Sephiroth released her hand and plucked her up off the floor, carrying her over to the couch. Very, very reluctantly, she released her grip from around his neck and let him put her down beside Cloud.

“You’ll be fine,” he promised, patting her head briefly. “Tell Tseng or Veld when your chest starts hurting, alright?”

She nodded sullenly, curling up into a ball on the couch, and he left. She huffed sulkily when he was out of sight. Eventually, she leaned over to watch Cloud play his game and he obligingly tilted the screen so she could see easier. He kept half an eye on her and half an eye on the clock.

Maybe thirty minutes after Sephiroth left, around the time Cloud was certain he had also left the Tower, Lora crossed her arms over her chest and hunched her shoulders up around her ears. He was familiar with that tell by now⁠—her chest was starting to hurt. But instead of asking Tseng for a Cure, she shot him a single nervous look and didn’t say anything.

Aw, kid, he thought.

Lucky Tseng wasn’t an idiot. “Lora,” he called with a deliberate gentleness.

She looked up, lips pressed into a wary line. “...yeah?”

“Does your chest hurt?”

“...no.” She curled up into a ball, mumbling the denial into her knees. “Doesn’t hurt.”

It was a bald-faced lie. Tseng looked, for a second, genuinely sad, then his expression shifted as he considered how to respond. Cloud paused his game, curious how this would play out. Would he call her on the lie? Trick her into being honest?

“Alright,” he said eventually, “tell me when it does.”

“‘Kay.”

Cloud scowled at him. Lora would have to say something eventually, once the pain grew too much, but that also meant letting her hurt until she caved. He would have accepted that tactic against himself, but Lora was little. She didn’t deserve that.

When Tseng quirked a brow at his glare, Cloud rolled his eyes and heaved an inaudible sigh. Why was it he had to do everything around here?

He switched the game off and set it aside, pulling his legs up so that his position mirrored Lora’s, then lowered his voice to a level that Tseng would still be able to hear, but Lora would think was too quiet. “Hey,” he said. “I know your chest hurts.”

“Doesn’t,” she said, raising her face just enough so that her eyes peeked over her knees.

“What are you scared of?” he asked. “Sephiroth said you could trust Tseng, right? And you trust Sephiroth. They wouldn’t hurt you. It’s safe to tell them.”

She narrowed her golden eyes a touch, spine straightening, and Cloud suddenly remembered youth and naivete were not the same as stupidity. “You don’t trust them,” she accused. “You don’t trust anyone.”

He bit back a groan. “I...don’t,” he agreed. “But you should.”

Lora looked outright irritated now, one hand rubbing absent-minded circles over her sternum. “Why? Why, if they wouldn’t hurt us?”

“You and I are...different,” he said slowly. Gaia, he very much regretted getting into this conversation, but it was too late now. "They wouldn't hurt me, but they don't understand what I am, and that means that even if they mean well...I can’t trust them to do what’s best for me.”

The look she gave him was highly skeptical, so he sighed and added, “I would definitely trust them to cast a Cure on me, okay? So you should too. Everyone is sad when you’re hurting.”

“What if I’d rather hurt?” she snapped. “This hurts less than⁠—” she cut off, blinking rapidly against sudden tears, and yeah, he knew that feeling. Poor kiddo. At least he’d been almost an adult when Hojo had gotten him into the lab.

“No one wants to hurt, Princess,” he said, patting her knee. “C’mon, it’s not that big a deal. I’d be right here the whole time.”

“You want to hurt,” she said, but it looked like he was finally starting to wear her down. “You hurt all the time and you never tell anyone.”

Cloud blinked at her in surprise. “What?”

Lora looked uncommonly serious in that moment. “You hurt all the time. I can tell. I can’t look at the Strings without hurting⁠—” she was still rubbing at her chest “—but my pa...passive? My passive sight still works and you’re like…” She brushed her fingers against just over his heart. “...jagged. Jagged black and purple thread, fraying all over.” Her voice dropped to barely a breath of sound. “It hurts to look at.”

Cloud jerked away, startled and alarmed, and brought his hands close to his chest. “I⁠—”

She sniffled, the pain finally getting to her. “If you get to hurt, I get to hurt,” she insisted stubbornly. He suspected it had more to do with sticking to her guns by this point than any actual desire to endure pain.

“I...Lora, you don’t...have to hurt. They can help you. That’s...that’s why you should ask.”

“But you do?” she fired back, swiping at her eyes. “You have to hurt? They can help you too!”

“No,” he whispered, briefly shutting his eyes against her innocent, righteous indignation. How had the argument shifted around on him, especially given that he was a twenty-three-year-old gown-ass man and she was seven? “No, Lora. They can’t help me.” He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Too much dangerous information to be discussing while in Tseng’s office. He was stupid to have let it get this far. “Would you let me cast a Cure on you?”

She looked at Tseng, who was going his level best to fade into the paperwork and pretend he wasn’t even there. Then she looked back and narrowed her eyes at him. He recognized that look as the ‘I’m going to dig in my heels until you give in’ look that Marlene was so fond of. “No,” she said. “Not unless you stop hurting too.”

This time he did groan aloud. “I⁠—Princess, that’s not…” She folded her arms across her chest, knees shifting to sit criss-cross on the couch cushions. He tossed his hands up. “Fine, I’ll let Tseng cast a Cure on me too, okay? Would that make you happy?”

She offered him a watery, triumphant smile and immediately flopped over to curl up in a ball. “Yeah.”

He got up, jaw clenched, and stalked over to Tseng’s desk. The man looked up, expression betraying nothing. “What is it, Cloud?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard every single word.

“Lora will let me cast on her if you cast on me first,” he ground out, irritated. “Not that it’ll do anything since I am fine.”

“Of course,” Tseng agreed, that lying motherfucker. He pulled a Cure out of his desk, then checked to make sure Lora was watching before casting...a full Curaga. Overkill. Cloud snatched the materia up and went back to the couch, irritation cooling as he saw the way the kid was shaking and trying in vain to blink back tears.

“Here,” he said, laying a hand on her head of wild red curls and casting a Curaga of his own. “Better?”

She rolled onto her back and smiled at him. “Yes. Thank you.” Then she frowned. “But...you’re still…?”

“I told you, kiddo,” he said with a shake of his head. “They can’t help me like they can help you.”

⁠—

Cloud got up shortly after that exchange and said “I’m going to the bathroom,” which everyone except Lora knew by now was the opening salvo of their espionage battle. He handed his gaming system to the Princess so that she’d be entertained and left, several Turks following after him.

Here we go, he thought, a little smirk curving his lips up.

Except, less than thirty minutes later, when he was squirming through the vents, he heard Reno yelling, which was...not usually part of their game. Puzzled, he stopped and listened.

“Hey! Cloud! Listen, I know you’re having fun, but little Princess is freaking out and you need to get to Tseng’s office ASAP! She’s⁠—listen, she thinks we did something to you and we’re all worried she might try to use her magic and hurt herself. Please.”

Cloud groaned and let his head thunk down onto the metal beneath him. He should have anticipated this. With a sigh, he squirmed around and quickly reversed course, popping out of a vent near but not right in front of where Reno had been shouting.

“Alright, I’m going” he called, loud enough for the redhead to hear, and ran for Tseng’s office.

He burst in to find Lora perched on the back of the couch, staring down Tseng, who was sitting on the floor trying to placate her. She gasped when she caught sight of him and promptly lost her balance, falling onto the cushions with an oof!

“You’re okay!” she said, scrambling up and launching herself at him.

“I’m fine,” he said, staggering a little as she cannonballed into his torso. “What, were you worried about me?”

“Yes!” she said, upset. “Where were you? I thought they’d...that they’d…”

Cloud sighed, unable to hold on to his irritation in the face of a little girl on the verge of tears. Damn his daddy instincts. He picked her up and carried her back to the couch, well aware of how ridiculous that must have looked. He had to deal with this now, for her sake and everyone else’s. Hopefully the conversation wouldn't veer into dangerously exposed territory this time.

“You were scared I’d been taken away, right? Lora, I’m...very hard to take. By anyone. I got away from Seph and Ange and Gen the first time you met me, remember?”

She looked uncertain, keeping hold of one of his wrists. “I...know,” she said. “Where were you?”

“I was⁠—” inspiration struck. He knew exactly how to fix this, or at least begin to fix it. “Well, I was breaking the rules.”

Lora’s eyes widened. For a second, he saw exactly what he was hoping for: curiosity and longing. A split second later it was eaten away by anxiety, but now that he knew it was there, he could draw it out again. “You shouldn’t break the rules,” she said. “What if they’d taken you?”

“I’m hard to take,” he repeated patiently. “And you know what? If you broke the rules, Lora, it would be okay, because you’re hard to take too.”

She blinked at him, uncomprehending. “But...no, he...it was easy to take me,” she whispered, trying to blink back tears.

“Only because you didn’t know you couldn’t trust him,” Cloud said. “Look, you trust Gen and Seph and Ange, right?” She nodded. “Okay, why?”

“Because...they got me out,” she said slowly, tense and miserable as she re-lived that memory.

“They saved you, which is proof that they don’t want you hurt and proof that you can trust them,” he summarized. She nodded again. “But they told you that you can trust Tseng, right? Why don’t you trust him too?”

Lora stared at him helplessly. He knew this was a lot to ask of a seven-year-old (a real one) but she was smart. She would get it if he helped her along a little bit.

“Is it because you don’t have any proof that they’re like our Firsts?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, throwing a glance at Tseng, who was holding absolutely still and carefully not looking at them.

“Do you want to trust them? Because Seph said so?” He suspected she did, at least. He suspected she wanted to go back to trusting everyone, but didn’t know how.

“...yeah.”

“Okay. You want to trust them, but you don’t have any proof, so you feel scared because they might try to take you. Lora, what if I told you that they couldn’t take you even if they tried?”

She blinked at him, head tilting in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“If you had known that the Frog-Faced Bastard⁠—” she cracked a little smile at that “—was going to take you, would you have gone with him?”

She recoiled. “No!”

“What would you have done?”

“I would have⁠— I would have frozen him solid and ran away!”

“That’s right. You would have defended yourself. So if Tseng tried to take you, would you defend yourself?”

The light of realization dawned in her eyes. “It...it would hurt,” she said, rubbing her chest with her free hand.

“But you would do it?” he prodded. “And you have a lot of magic, Princess. Magic that they don’t understand. Even if it hurt you could get away, couldn’t you? And then Seph and Gen and Ange would come kick Tseng’s butt, right?”

He smiled as he watched the anxiety drain out of her eyes, a kind of relieved joy taking its place. “Yeah,” she said, smiling back at him. “Yeah!”

“So you don’t have to trust the Turks yet,” he said. “You can just act like you do until they prove that you can trust them, because even if they tried to hurt you they couldn’t.”

⁠—

Angeal was the first back and thus the one to pick up Cloud and Lora from the Turks. He was directed to Veld’s office, which was something of a surprise, and was told that Cloud was currently out ‘playing’ with some of the others, which was not a surprise. Tseng had been keeping them all more or less abreast of the kids’ activities, including two very interesting and concerning conversations.

Despite hearing about the progress Cloud had made in teaching Lora about trust and self-defense, Angeal still found his eyebrows arching when he entered Veld’s office and found the little princess dozing in the Turk’s lap. That wasn’t just progress⁠—that was nearly a full recovery back to the fearless child they first met.

“Hewley,” Veld said without looking up from his work. He was writing with one hand, the other arm wrapped around Lora.

“Veld,” he said back, smiling. “I hope she wasn’t too much trouble?”

The Turk didn’t smile, but something in the corners of his eyes gave him away. He was pleased. Very pleased. “Oh, I’m afraid she was,” he said. “Very troublesome. She and Cloud raised quite a ruckus before he tricked her into coming here and pinning me down.”

Angeal laughed. “Did he? That does sound like Cloud.” He grinned, knowing that they⁠ (and the whole of the Turks, probably⁠) were both pleased by the knowledge that Lora had been a handful. Cloud was just...Cloud, and he would always do what he wanted.

He rounded the desk and Veld passed Lora off to him. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t wake⁠—the girl slept like a rock, even after the lab when her hours asleep far surpassed her hours awake. “How many times did she need a Cure.”

“Twice,” said Veld, looking at his PHS. “Cloud cast one this morning, I cast the other near lunch.” Which meant she would probably wake up hurting again before dinner. Angeal nodded, shifting her on his hip. “Cloud’s back with Tseng,” Veld added before he could ask, checking his PHS.

“Of course. Well, thank you.”

“My pleasure. Really.”

#ask #Tumblr exclusive writing #fic reply #aimee's self-indulgent crossovers #the royal house perdel #ameliora octavia perdel

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Also saw you're doing requests so yay!!. Any chance of jercy bakery au? Love your work sm hope you have a great day ☺☺

My Darling Anon how dare you make me fall more in love with Jercy???????? I squealed when i saw this and then promptly started writing even though i should be studying for my (ironically) Greek Mythology test.

i hope you love it because if i fail at least i know it’ll be worth it :) Also this was honestly supposed to be a quick drabble and it somehow ended up as 1,5K+ words so??? #isanyonesurprisedthough

Masterlist

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jason Grace smiled as the birds beside his head chirped and then swiped his phone to cut off the amusing sound. His fiery friend, and co-worker thought it was hilarious to steal his phone and change his alarm tone every few weeks. Usually it was something inane and silly like a cartoon laugh track or just a repeating “It’s time to get up BakerBoi” that gets increasingly louder. He had arrived to work with a scowl on his face only to see the shit-eating grin of Leo Valdez waiting at the door.

Now Jason stumbles out of bed, letting his limbs loosen as he pads softly to the bathroom, feeling cool tile and a winter breeze on his exposed skin. He loves mornings like this, when the world isn’t quite awake, and the sky hasn’t decided what colour it wants to be for the day. He knows in is baker’s bones that it’ll be cold and rainy, but he has time for a morning jog before the world starts crying.

“Good morning boss,” A bright eyed, fidgeting Leo greets as he steps into the bakery.

Jason had been there at seven thirty, pulling down the café chairs and cleaning the counters. He already had a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies and about three different types of muffins in the oven. The bread was waiting for the busy hands of Leo and Hazel who somehow always seemed to make heavenly fluffed, soft rolls and the deliciously crusty baguettes. Hazel jokes that it’s the New Orleans blood that flows through her veins. They’re all half inclined to agree.

“Morning Valdez, I like the alarm this week.” He tosses a grin over his shoulder before going back to his icing ritual. Mix, taste, mix, ice.

“I figured you would old man. Even though i much prefer my ASMR food audio from last week. What’s the specialty today?”

“We need to get beignets out and the pain au chocolats before the breakfast crowd. Also the fruit stuffed pastry twists and the honey bread have to be prepped before we open so we can bring them out hot in time for the brunch crowd. Specialty today is a new thing I’ve been working on. Blue blondie doughnuts with Oreo cream filling and sugar glaze.”

“Gods boss, you tryna give people heart failure?”

“Just trying to insert some sweetness into the world,” He winked.

Before Leo could give an undoubted snarky reply a bubbly head of dark brown curls and glittering eyes popped around the door.

“Goooood morning everyone,”

Jason couldn’t help the smile that graced his face at her cheeriness, “Hello Miss Levesque, glad to see a prettier face around here,”

Leo made a strangled noise of indignation from the other side of the kitchen but didn’t get the chance to voice his offense before the last member of their little group walked in.

“Ah there you are Miss McLean, I do wonder how you arrive with Hazel and still manage to get in after her.”

She gave him an exasperated look, “I have to say goodbye to my girlfriend before I come in Boss. You’re the one who banned couple calls in the bakery.”

“Well maybe if we didn’t have to hear you and Annabeth explicitly planning your night’s activities I wouldn’t have had to do that.”

Piper just rolled her eyes and went to grab her apron and a cloth to wipe down the tables.

"Everyone ready?" He asked, from the door of the kitchen an hour later.

"Ready for the storm boss," They all yelled back, as they did each morning.

"Then let's roll like thunder," He grinned, flinging the doors to Ambrosia Bakery open.

"Oh thank the heavens, I could smell the goodness from here and it was a struggle to keep the drool in," One Reyna Avila Ramirez Arellano breathed in deep.

"Good morning my favourite customer," Leo smirked from behind the counter.

"Jason tell your bread boy to stand down before I make him,"

"Is that an invitation?" Dark eyebrows wiggled in amusement.

"That is a threat," She growled.

"Well mark me down as scared and h—"

"Valdez I swear if you finish that sentence I'm putting you on wash-up duty for the next week."

A faint "you got it boss" followed Jason into the kitchen, where he allowed himself to smile. It was an ongoing amusement that Leo flirted with Reyna and in return she came up with increasingly terrifying threats.

"Jason, your sister is here to see you" Hazel said, gently shoving him out the way so she could take over rolling the pastry.

"Get the doughnuts ready for the fryer I'll be back soon, thank you!"

He maneuvered around a blushing Leo who had icing on his nose and a suspicious lipstick stain on his cheek, finally making his way to the confectioners stand.

"What's up loser?" He said by way of greeting.

"Hey you're only allowed to call me that if you come baring nice things." Thalia Grace frowned.

"I am nice things," He pouted.

"Not even on your best day." She snorted, "I want to know if you're coming to the gala this weekend. I need a date to steal extra bread-sticks for me."

"Why can't I just make you bread-sticks and we can sit in your lounge and watch bad reality TV?" He groaned

"Because I have to show face or the sponsors aren't going to sponsor. Besides you need a night out. You're gonna start smelling like bread if you don't take a break."

"It's insulting that you think I wouldn't want to smell like breadsticks."

She laughed at, that ruffling his hair, "Just be ready by seven. You better be wearing a suit."

And with that his sister had grabbed her daily croissant and cappuccino and vanished into the drizzling day.

Before he could make it back to his safe haven beside the ovens and marbled counter-tops a flash of black hair caught his eye.

Turning around he couldn't contain the grin that tugged at his lips; standing by the counter already staring intently at the newest creation was Jason's favourite customer.

"Hello Percy Jackson,"

"Jason," A dazzling smile revealed pearl white teeth and the tiniest dimple on a cheek the color of rich toffee.

"I see you've already found Neptune's Tridoughnut,"

A bright laugh escaped a wickedly beautiful mouth, "Oh I love that. How'd you come up with that one?"

Jason smiled softly, debating whether to tell the owner of the 5-Oceans Conservation Company that he was the muse behind all of his latest creations, hence the variations of green and blue.

Instead, as he did every time Percy asked, he lied, "My sister went to an opening ceremony for a new exhibit at the Education center all about Mythology so I thought I’d offer my services and well, they were a hit."

Piper who was walking past at that exact moment coughed something that sounded suspiciously like "Liar" but with a pointed glare she disappeared behind the counter.

"That sounds great. Guess I'll have to recruit you for all my functions," He winked, a small smirk playing at his lips.

Jason cursed his pale cheeks and hoped the blush he now sported wasn't too noticeable, "What can I get you besides a specialty doughnut?"

"Can I get one banana and walnut muffin, a dozen chic chips, and I'm gonna go see mom this afternoon so maybe a couple of caramel pastry twists and some blueberry muffins?"

"Sure. I guess Estelle is off her carrot cake faze?" He laughed, remembering how Percy had to stop at the bakery twice a week to grab carrot and pecan mini cakes just for his little sister.

"Ugh she's onto wanting fruit in absolutely everything now so my mom has been frantically buying boxes of peaches, strawberries and apples to cut up and send with her for lunch at school." Green eyes rolled in fake annoyance.

"Well if she likes fruit things maybe she should try the raspberry and orange pastry twists?" He pointed to a display stand piled with various pastries coloured by blackberry jam, apricot pieces, kiwi slices and mango syrup.

"I could kiss you right now!" Percy exclaimed rushing towards the display, unaware that the baker was frozen to the spot.

I could kiss you, could kiss you, kiss you, kiss...

Jason's brain had short-circuited, his neurons too busy having a dance party with his hormones to process the world.

I could kiss you.

A lazy, unconscious smile took over his face as he stood there in the middle of his bakery, arms slack, head lolled, and eyes crinkled.

"Jason?" A faraway voice called.

"Jason? Hello?"

And suddenly a hand was waving in front of his vision trying to get his attention.

He pulled himself out of his reverie, blinking back into existence, "Right yes the pastries"

"Didn’t get enough sleep last night?" Percy teased, slugging him softly in the shoulder.

He snorted at the implication, "Unfortunately I'm a bit of a grandfather. Sleep early, rise early."

"Oh guess you like morning activities then,"

He sputtered, head snapping up to stare into twinkling eyes, "N-no, I just meant—"

"I'm kidding Mr BakerMan," That brilliant, bright laugh again, "I know you're a homebody. Your sister likes to tell me how boring you are."

He huffed at that, "We'll see if she gets her pear tarts this weekend."

"Speaking of this weekend," A sly grin played at Percy's mouth, "Are you coming to the gala?"

"Yea," He sighed, "Thalia says she needs me to steal bread-sticks ."

Sea green eyes widened before Percy burst out laughing. In a matter of moments tears were streaming down his face.

If Jason wasn't so smitten with that gorgeous smile and those mischievous eyes he may have been inclined to laugh too. But Percy Jackson was a vision he half believed only his dreams could conjure.

When the laughter had mostly seized Percy wiped his eyes and managed to gasp, "That sounds exactly like something Thalia would ask. When we worked on the marine life project together she always stole the mints from every CEO’s office because she said they had enough money to buy a mint factory, they could afford to replace a single bowl."

"Yep, her life goal is to end capitalism. I swear if it wasn't for Annabeth, Thalia would be walking into office buildings with a sack like some reverse Santa Claus where she steals the office supplies and fruit bowls."

"Well I can't wait to see you stuffing your pockets with bread-sticks on Saturday so I guess I'll see you then," He gave another dazzling smile.

"Yea, and say hello to little Estelle for me. Tell me how she likes the pastries."

"Don't worry I'm sure I'll be back soon with a long list of request."

"Can't wait." He grinned.

Percy chuckled, "Me neither, see you Friday." And then he was gone.

Oh gods, Jason thought, how am I ever gonna survive Percy in a suit?

***

Spoiler alert past-Jason: you didn't.

#Okay but i lowkey love baker jason and big boss percy #Thank you Anon #this ask was too cute #PJSSG asks #she speaks #jercy fic #baby fanfic #baby fanfic series #jercy fanfic #percy jackson #jason grace #jason #grace #percy #jackson #PJO #HOO

[sigmalied]

Sig’s Anthem Review

Verdict

BioWare’s Anthem is a genuinely fun and engaging experience that sabotages itself with myriad design, balance, and technical oversights and issues. It is a delicious cake that has been prematurely removed from the developmental oven - full of potential but unfit for general consumption in this wobbly state. Anthem is not a messianic addition to the limited pantheon of looter shooters because it has somehow failed to learn from the well-publicized mistakes of its predecessors. 

Am I having fun playing Anthem? Absolutely. Does it deserve the industry’s lukewarm scores? Absolutely. But this is something of a special case. The live service model giveth and taketh away; we receive flexibility in exchange for certainty. Is Anthem going to be the same game six months from now? Its core DNA will always be the same, but we’ve already begun to see swift improvements that bode well for the future. 

Will my opinion matter to you? It depends. When I first got into looter shooters I was shocked at how much the genre clicked with me. They are a wonderful playground for theory crafters, min/maxers, and mathletes like myself who find incomparable joy in optimizing builds both conventional and experimental by pushing the limits of obtainable resources ad infinitum. The end game grind is long and at times challenging as you make the jump to Grandmaster 1+ difficulty in search of top-tier loot to perfect your build. This is what looter shooters are all about.

If you don’t like the sound of that, you’ll probably drop Anthem right after finishing its campaign. But if you do like the sound of that, you might find yourself playing this game for years.

TL;DR: This game is serious fun, but is also in need of some serious Game & UI Design 101. 

I wrote a lot more about individual aspects of the game beneath the read more, if you’re interested. I’ve decided not to give the game a score, I’m just here to discuss it after playing through the campaign and spending a few days grinding elder game activities. There are no spoilers here.

Gameplay

The Javelins are delightful. I’ve played all four of them extensively and despite identifying as a Colossus main I cannot definitively attach myself to one class of Javelin because they’re all so uniquely fun to play and master. Best of all, they’re miraculously balanced. I’ve been able to hold my own with every Javelin in Grandmaster 1+. Of course, some Javelins are harder to get the hang of than others. Storms don’t face the steep learning curve Interceptors do, but placed in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing, both are equally as destructive on the battlefield. 

I love the combo system. It is viscerally satisfying to trigger a combo, hearing that sound effect ring, and seeing your enemy’s health bar melt. Gunplay finally gets fun and interesting when you start obtaining Masterworks, and from there, it’s like playing a whole new game. 

Mission objectives are fairly bland and repetitive, but the gameplay is so fun I don’t even mind. Collect this, find that, go here, whatever. I get to fly around and blow up enemies while doing it, and that’s what matters. Objectives could be better, certainly. Interesting objectives are vital in game design because they disguise the core repetitive gameplay loop as something fresh, but the loop on its own stays fresh long enough to break even, I feel.

The best part is build flexibility. Want to be a sniper build cutting boss health bars in half with one shot? I’ve seen it. Want to be a near-immortal Colossus wrecking ball who heals every time you mow down an enemy? You can. There are so many possibilities here. Every day I come across a new crazy idea someone’s come up with. This is an excellent game for build crafters. 

But... why in the world are there so few cosmetic choices? A single armor set for each Javelin outside the Vanity store? A core component of looter shooters has always been endgame fashion, and on this front, BioWare barely delivers and only evades the worst criticism by providing quality Javelin customization in the way of coloring, materials, and keeping power level and aesthetics divorced. We’re being drip-fed through the Vanity store, and while I like the Vanity store’s model, there should have been more things permanently available for purchase through the Forge. Everyone looks the same out there! Where’s the variety? 

Story, Characters, World

Anyone expecting a looter shooter like Anthem to feature a Mass Effect or Dragon Age -sized epic is out of their mind, but that doesn’t mean we have to judge the storytelling in a vacuum. This is BioWare after all. Even a campaign that flows more like a short story - as is the case with Anthem - should aspire to the quality of previous games from the studio. Unfortunately, it does not, but it comes close by merit of narrative ambience: the characters, the world’s lore, and their execution. 

(For a long time I’ve had a theory that world building is what made the original Mass Effect great, not its critical storyline, which was basically a Star Trek movie at best. Fans fell in love because there were interesting people to talk to, complicated politics to grasp, and moral decisions to make along the way.)

While the main storyline of Anthem is lackluster and makes one roll their eyes at certain moments or bad lines, the world is immediately intriguing. Within Fort Tarsis, sophisticated technology is readily available while society simultaneously feels antiquated, echoing a temporal purgatory consistent with the Anthem’s ability to alter space-time. Outside the fort, massive pieces of ancient machinery are embedded within dense jungles in a way that suggests the mechanical predates nature itself. The theme of sound is everywhere. Silencing relics, cyphers hearing the Anthem, delivering echoes to giant subwoofers… It’s a fun world, it really is. 

As for the characters… they might be some of the best from BioWare. They feel like real people. Rarely are they caricatures of one defining trait, but people with complex motives and emotions. Some conversations were boring, but the vast majority of the time I found myself racing off to talk to NPCs as soon as I saw yellow speech bubbles on the map after a mission. And don’t even get me started on the performances. They are golden.

The biggest issue with the story is that it’s not well integrated with missions. At times it feels like you’re playing two separate games: Fort Tarsis Walking/Talking Simulator and Anthem Looter Shooter. And the sole threads keeping these halves stitched together during missions - radio chatter - takes a back seat if you’re playing with randoms who rush ahead and cause dialogue to skip, or with friends who won’t shut the hell up so you can listen or read subtitles without distraction. I found it ironic that I soloed most of the critical story missions in a game that heavily encourages team play.

Technical Aspects: UI & Design 

This is where Anthem has some major problems. God, this category alone is probably what gained the ire of most reviewers. The UI is terrible and confusing. There are extra menu tabs where they aren’t needed. The placement of Settings is for some inane reason not located under the Options button (PS4). Excuse me? It’s so difficult to navigate and find what you’re looking for. It’s ridiculously unintuitive.  

Weapon inscriptions (stat bonuses) are vague and I’ve even seen double negatives once or twice. They come off as though no one bothered to proofread or edit anything for clarity. Just a bad job here all around. And to make matters worse, there is no character stat sheet to help us demystify any of the bizarre stat descriptions. We are currently using goddamn spreadsheets like animals. Just awful. 

The list goes on. No waypoints in Freeplay. Countless crashes, rubber banding, audio cutouts, player characters being invisible in vital cutscenes, tethering warnings completely obscuring the flight overheat meter… Fucking yikes. Wading through this swamp of bugs and poor design has been grueling to say the least. 

And now for the loot issues. Dead inscriptions on gear; and by dead I mean dead, as in “this pistol does +25% shotgun damage” dead (this has been recently patched but I still cannot believe this sort of thing made it to release). The entire concept of the Luck stat (chance to drop higher quality loot) resulting in Luck builds who drop like flies in combat and become a burden for the rest of the team. Diminishing returns in Grandmaster 2 and 3; it takes so long to clear missions on these difficulties without significant loot improvement, making GM2 and GM3 pointless when you could be grinding GM1 missions twice as fast. 

At level 30, any loot quality below Epic is literal trash. Delete Commons, Uncommons, and most Rares as soon as you get them because they’re virtually useless. I have hundreds of Common and Uncommon embers and nothing to do with them. Why can’t we convert 5 embers into 1 of the next higher tier? Other looters have already done things like this to make progression omnipresent. You don’t have to reinvent the wheel here, BioWare. It’s already been done for you. 

When you get a good roll on loot, the satisfaction is immense. But when you don’t, and you won’t 95% of the time, you’ll feel like you’ve wasted hours with nothing to show for it. We shouldn’t be spending so much time hunting for useful things, we should be trying to perfect what’s already useful.

It’s just baffling to think that Anthem had the luxury of watching the messy release of several other looter shooters during Anthem’s development, yet proceed to make the same mistakes, and some even worse. 

Nothing needs to be said about visuals. They are stunning, even from my perspective on a base PS4.

Sound design is the only other redeeming subcategory here. Sound design is amazing, like the OST. Traditional instrumentals meet alien synth seamlessly. Sarah Schachner is a seriously talented composer. 

I’m just relieved to see the development team hauling ass to make adjustments. They’ve really been on top of it - the speed and transparency of fixes has been top-notch. They’re even working on free DLC already! A new region, more performances from the actors... I’m excited and hopeful for the future. 

#siganthem

[inthesummerswelter]

recipe for disaster: chapter fourteen

They don’t talk about it, that early morning with Penn lying on the floor and tea spilling out of the quivering cup in her gran’s hands.

There’s more tenderness between them though, with gentle touches on the arm, hands placed comfortingly on shoulders as they soldier on together, the days getting longer as the New Year comes in on tip-toe.

They don’t talk about it, not when their positions are reversed just under a week later, and Penn is screaming into her mobile, asking for emergency services as her legs buckle underneath her at the sight of her gran, fallen and unconscious at the bottom of the stairs, a small pool of blood staining her pure white hair a sickly shade of peach.

Seeing the gurney wheeled in through the front door has her in near hysterics, utter chaos flooding the living room. She nearly forgets to slip on a pair of shoes before locking the door and rushing out into the back of the ambulance, leaving Cardy and Clove frantically dashing around the flat.

They don’t talk about it, not when Penn’s knuckles are the same sort of pale as the inside of the ambulance, a side effect of the sterile, overhead lighting and from clutching the bars of the gurney too hard. The emergency medical technician in the back drapes an arm over her shoulders, just enough to keep her from flying into the walls as the vehicle takes a sharp turn. All of the sounds come muffled, as if someone’s stuffed cotton into her ears, drowning out the wailing sirens with an eerie blanket of nothing.

She calls Zayn again, numbly, after they restrain her from bursting through the heavy swinging doors where they’ve taken her gran in to do further examination on the severity of the head wound. The reception is bad on his end, crackling with fuzz and static, but she knows that he can hear her telling him about the tacky art adorning the whitewashed walls of the waiting room.

They talk about it when Miriam Bunting gets a room to herself, condition having stabilized enough for Penn to go in and see her.

Or, Penn talks about it, really.

Gingerly holding her hand, made trickier with the tubing feeding into her body, Penn talks about it.

“You’re not scared, I know. But I am. I’m ridiculously scared. And I shouldn’t be, I know. It’s just hard. I know all these things. I know that tomorrow the sun will rise, and I know that tomorrow you’ll still love lily-of-the-valley. I know that the restaurant still exists, and that the clams are one of the most popular appetizers. But I don’t know the scariest things. Where will you go? How long will it take for you to get there? Will there be ovens and lawn chairs and Pop?”

Her voice gives out at the end, and she’s silent for a long time.

The slow beep of the heart monitor is the only other sound in the room, along with the constant whir from the air shaft, providing ventilation in the small room.

“I’m scared and I’m worried and I’m so tired. And I love you so much. I just wish we had more time.”

The monotonous drone is broken by the sound of footsteps. A nurse comes in, presumably to complete a cursory check of the patient, and Penn takes that as a cue to leave for a bit.

All the hallways look the same. She doesn’t pay attention to the signs as she wanders around, taking stairs up and down when she can to avoid groups of people clustered about.

Soon, however, she finds herself in the natal ward, standing just opposite a large pane of glass, behind which lies orderly rows of newborn babies in hospital bassinets, the nursery surprisingly busy.

There’s a digital clock right near the front, flashing the time: 12:48 a.m.

They left the flat at quarter ‘til nine in the evening.

Crossing her arms and bracing them on the small ledge in front of the glass, she watches the babies sleep, reading the name cards over and over again until her whole world consists of linking letters together.

It’s a welcome distraction, until someone nudges her shoulder and pushes something into her hand.

Ashton stands beside her, hair sticking up at odd angles, dark thumbprints of exhaustion evident underneath his hazel eyes. He’s got an old flannel on and a pair of sleep trousers, and a carry-out cup of something in his hand.

“It’s really crap tea,” he mumbles before sipping from the rim of the cardboard cup. She barely registers the cup that’s pushed into her hand seconds before, struck dumb by his presence.

How had he known…?

Pausing in the midst of blowing across the surface of the liquid in an attempt to cool it, he turns and looks at her, taking in her wide eyes and open mouth.

“Zayn,” Ashton says, shrugging his shoulders and turning away, causing the plaid pattern of the flannel to stretch and warp momentarily across the broad plane of his back. “Called me up, told me what’s been going on. Y’know, since you’ve decided to keep me out of the loop and all.”

“I -”

“Told me that I shouldn’t be coming onto private property uninvited? I know you’re hurting, Penn, but that’s no reason to push me away.”

He doesn’t look at her, staring instead through the glass at the little bassinets, one now with waving fists, an apparently unhappy occupant. They watch as a nurse bustles in and takes the newborn in hand, cradling it to her chest and swaying around in loose circle before its cries wake up the other residents.

She didn’t mean it, not really.

He had stopped by on an especially bad afternoon, and she had just, well, snapped.

“I…,” she tries again. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. It’s just me.”

“I fucking know it’s you, Penn, okay?”

Startled at the vehemence in his voice, she accidentally spills a bit of her tea, splattering the pristine tiles.

“Don’t do this to me again. You didn’t answer my calls or my texts. I may not understand exactly what you’re going through, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be there with you, helping you!”

Penn closes her eyes and gently leans over until her head hits his shoulder. It’s shaking.

“I’m so sorry. I’ve fucked everything up.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you have.”

They stand there in the hallway, waiting for nothing in particular.

Everything is quiet now, blanketed with the stillness that only after-midnight hours bring. So quiet that Penn thinks she can hear the thud of their hearts, beating together in a syncopated rhythm.

All that’s missing is a change of scenery, a change of situation. Something that’s not so utterly grim and tinged with a sort of low-budget desperation that washes out all characters on the screen into pale facsimiles of themselves.

Ashton huffs out a sigh, fingers curling into the cool metal of the ledge before finally swinging his head to look at her from underneath honeyed eyelashes.

“Hold this a sec for me?” He gestures to his cup of tepid tea, placing it in her other hand when she nods.

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting him to do - probably bend down to retie his shoe or nip off quickly to the loo, something inane like that - but she knows that it’s not this.

This being him taking three decisive steps forward, until her back hits the drywall just to the side of the large window, liquid in the cups sloshing dangerously close to the rims.

This being him bringing large hands oh so delicately up to slip a lock of hair that had escaped its pin back into place and then back down to cradle the slight curve of her waist and cup the line of her jaw, stroking the skin just behind her ear gently with a calloused fingertip.

This being him using his arms to pull her forward into his front, his chest warm and comfortingly solid.

This being him leaning forward to whisper, his lips a hairsbreadth away from touching the curve of her ear.

“It’s going to be alright. I promise. You just have to be strong a little bit longer.”

He retracts after a moment of hesitation, and, after a moment more, presses a kiss to her forehead, echoing the one on the landing between their flats that seemed like eons ago.

Taking his cup, he mumbles something about needing to see if they’re done in the room and picks up a duffel she hadn’t even noticed off the floor, trudging away back towards her gran’s wing.

Her legs give out seconds later, and she slides down the wall until she’s sitting, all folded up against the wall.

God, what is she even doing any more?

  Less than an hour later, in the dark of her gran’s room, she shifts her head on the coarse canvas of his backpack, nestling further into the nest of spare blankets the nurse on duty had given them. Penn had fallen into a sort of drowsy reverie a lot faster than she initially had thought, and consequently feels just about half-asleep right now.

Her spine bumps up against the long line of his leg, the clacking of the keys on his laptop as he types trailing off.

“‘M still a little pissed with you,” he sighs out, seconds before she feels a hand stroke the side of her head slowly.

The typing picks up again, as Ashton works to finish up a paper, the liquid-crystal of the display casting a glow onto his face for hours after.

They leave the hospital later that next day, in the sun-soaked afternoon.

Ashton comes over and makes up proper tea while Penn touches the pots and pans for what feels like the first time in ages.

   “C’mon, Gran, we’re going to be late for your appointment!”

Penn bustles around the flat, gathering up all the things that they’ll need for their routine visit to the doctor. She’s steeling herself for the day when Dr. Stamford tells them that they should just stay at the hospital until the end, that the cancer has almost completed its goal.

“We’re not going, Penelope.”

Sitting in the rocking chair positioned just close enough to the window to catch the beams of afternoon sun that stream through, Miriam Bunting watches the traffic flood by across the busy fareway.

She stops mid-stride, hand outstretched to grab her keys off the hook by the door.

“What?”

Her gran shrugs. “There’s no point to wasting time with that sort of nonsense. I’ve already phoned up the office and told them. I want to die at home.”

One would think that Penn has cried herself dry by this point, but a flood of tears still rush up unbidden to her eyes.

Illuminated by the shaft of light floating through the window, Miriam looks practically angelic already, pale skin and white housecoat near glowing.

“I’ve made other arrangements for my care for the next days and called for David and Laura. They’re on their way. And, I’ve taken the liberty of going around gathering most of your things. You should go now, Penelope.”

“Wait, what?”

Blindsided doesn’t even begin to describe it right now.

Penn reels at the news. Her gran is dying. Her parents are coming. And she’s supposed to leave her like this?

“You heard me. I don’t want you to see me like...that,” she says, making a gesture off into the air. “I don’t want your last memory of me to be that. Not like how it is with Ichiro. I always felt like we made a mistake, letting you see him in the hospital, but you were so young and so heartbroken…”

“Gran, I’m heartbroken now.”

Facing her granddaughter, there’s steel in Miriam’s eyes, an inner strength completely at odds with her wasted frame.  

“Don’t do this, Penelope. Don’t you dare do this to yourself. You can’t linger and waste your life thinking about this constantly. You have the capacity for great things, and I know you will accomplish them. You can’t linger, can’t waste your life grieving over the inevitable!”

There’s nothing she can do to change her mind, to make her let her stay until the end.

Silently, Penn nods, swiping at her eyes with her fists like a child again.

“I love you, Gran. So much.”

Motioning her closer, she gathers the younger girl in her arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you too, Penelope. Never doubt my love for you.”

After a long while, they draw apart, Penn collecting her remaining things and herding the dogs towards the door after they too have said their goodbyes. She turns to look on her gran, one last time, taking the image to memory before she forces herself to close the door.

The heavy wood hits the frame just seconds before tears start falling onto the weave of the throw rug.

Twilight has come.

   It’s déjà vu all over again for him.        

He looks up as the rain paints pictures against the cold glass of the window, and he smiles because he could use a break from the insufferable writing of his poli sci text right now. Well, from that and from all of the second-hand pain of Penn’s that he’s been toting around on his back.

Ashton doesn’t even bother stripping off his shirt this time, a long-sleeved affair with multicolor stripes. Calum likes to tell him that it makes him look like one of the permanent cast members of Sesame Street.

Opening the slider door that leads out onto the shared terrace, he curls his toes in the puddle that’s already forming under the ledge of the entrance. He closes his eyes and tilts his head up, feeling the torrent run across his face, plastering his wavy mop against his forehead.

There’s just something about the rain that’s special to him, always been special to him.

Ashton cups his hands as he strides out into the middle of the downpour, catching and releasing the water just as quickly as it hits his palms, and he heads for the edge of the small greenhouse structure constructed on the terrace. Penn keeps a few small folding chairs there, and they’re just the right material to get drenched without any damage.

Except, as he rounds the corner, it’s not just the chairs that are there.

Penn’s there, too, just standing right at the edge of the roof with a watering can in loosely wilting fingers. No umbrella, no chastising him for a reckless behavior.

Nothing.

And his heart seizes up in his chest as he realizes just how close she is to the drop-off, watches her feet begin to shift, and Ashton dashes towards Penn, feeling like he’s moving through molasses.

The only thing that runs through his mind right now is Penn Penn Penn there’s something wrong with Penn, and vaguely he knows that her gran is a part of it.

(Something’s wrong, something’s terribly wrong.)

Ashton’s arm shoots out and catches her around the waist, dragging her away from the limestone border of the rooftop terrace and pulls her into him, allowing himself one moment of indulgence in the feel of her body in his arms before he lets go and puts his hands on her shoulders.

“Penn! Penn – fuck, you’re freezing – what the fuck, what the fuck is wrong?” He practically shouts this into her face, her face that’s absolutely devoid of any emotion, and he can’t completely keep the note of desperation out of his voice.

Two words come out of her mouth. “She’s gone.”

He knows exactly who she’s talking about, dead-on with his previous assumption. The only she that Penn ever cared for, and, as far as he knows, ever cared for Penn.

Penn’s eyes finally connect with his own, and it feels like he’s been punched in the gut with the utter loss and confusion and desperation that’s there, waiting for someone to notice.

With all of that, Ashton really shouldn’t be surprised at what happens next, but, Jesus Christ, is he ever.  

Something changes in her expression, and she’s suddenly much closer to him that before. Dimly, Ashton registers the sound of the metal watering can clattering against the tiled roof, but right now most of his concentration is being taken up with trying not to stare too blatantly at the wet shirt draping itself over Penn’s chest.

And then she kisses him.

It’s hot mouths and clacking teeth, and fingers sewing stitches at the nape of his neck and lacing around the curve of his jaw, and he staggers back, clutching her waist again, but this time for balance.

After a few glorious seconds minutes hours days later, he regains some control on his brain and pulls back his hand that’s somehow made its way to the curve of her arse, detaching his mouth from hers in the same motion.

He wants to dive back in as soon as she gives a little, breathy gasp at the sudden lack of him, but, instead, Ashton begins say, “Penn, no this isn’t the right way of doing th –”

His sentence gets cut off by a groan that makes its way up his throat because she’s somehow got her mouth on a point right under his jaw that makes his toes curl, and he knows that it’s going to be a moot point to argue with her when she’s wrangling with his belt in one hand and tracing a steady pattern on the planes of his back with her other.

  It’s not until much later that she gets the call, all crackling static and interference, and she wants so damn much to not believe it, but the words come through with deadly clarity.

“She’s gone,” says her mother, no prefacing needed.

And Penn calmly takes the receiver away from her ear. Silently, her index finger presses down on the ‘end’ button, and the phone gets set on the counter, because Penn has to go water the plants now.

She’s since changed into a different pair of linen shorts and a tee shirt declaring her property of whatever university Ashton’s enrolled in, and she plucks at it idly, thinking that she maybe should change.

But Penn has to go water the plants now, so she slips on her favorite pair of Birkenstocks and loops her fingers around the can sitting right beside the slider door. Pushing the pane of glass aside, she steps out into a torrential downpour, but she has to go water the plants now. It makes no difference what the weather is.    

She makes it halfway to the greenhouse before she stops, adjacent to the rim of the roof, and the watering can is now held just tenuously.

Penn looks over, looks through the buzz in her brain, the fog in her eyes, to the streets of the city below.

It’s such a long way down for such a short trip. Just a quick step up and over and that’s it. That’s the end.

Her feet begin to move again – she has to go water the plants now - but this time, she’s caught about the waist with strong arms and held tightly to an unyielding chest, a face bursting into view.

It’s Ashton, and Penn thinks that he’s saying her name, and then she realizes that it’s Ashton Ashton will understand Ashton.

Prying her lips open, she manages to speak.

“She’s gone.”

And the look of devastation and concern that crosses his face makes her heart ache, and she just needs a goddamn distraction right now because - who is she fucking kidding - the plants don’t need a goddamn watering right now; it’s fucking pouring.

It’s pouring, and it’s a Tuesday morning, and her grandmother’s dead.

And Ashton’s there, right in front of her, and Penn wanted a distraction, didn’t she?

The watering can clatters on the ground as she loops her arms around his neck and molds her lips to hers, and damn it, he’s going to kiss her back. Penn sucks and licks and nibbles until he gasps, a deep whooshing sound that takes the oxygen from her lungs, and it’s not her leaning over him now, it’s the other way around.

He pushes back, guiding them away from the ledge, all the while responding with a frenzy of soft touches and slick motions, and vaguely she registers his hand on the curve of her arse and, damn, is she ever okay with that.

Penn’s fingers twine in the hair at the nape of his neck and tug, and he gives this deep groan that reverberates in his chest like a rumble, and everything feels so fucking good until he pulls away and starts talking.

No, no. That won’t do at all.

She takes advantage of the moment, pressing her lips against his jawline, leaving flutteringly small kisses, until there’s a gratifying gasp and his hands mouth presence is back, this time sliding under her skin.

Palms press their way up her sides, slowly peeling the wet shirt away from her ribs, and the pads of his fingers set fire to her bones, and what could be so wrong about something that feels this right?

But it’s warm rain cascading down her cheeks now as her grief truly begins to overtake her, and Ashton’s hands turn from fireworks under her skin to soothing, lazy strokes down her spine that remind her of home. Kisses float from intense to gentle pulls at her lips, and he begins to whisper the nonsensical words of a lullaby in her ear as sobs overtake her body.

It’s an implosion, and they both sink to the terrace, his arms cradling her, building her an ark to stay afloat in. Penn’s sure her face looks horrific right now, so she hides it in the shadow of his collarbones, and Ashton rests his chin on the top of her head, fingers rubbing small circles on her back and carding through her soaking wet hair.

It’s just her and him, clutching to rusted anchors from boats long gone out to sea.

#fic: recipe for disaster #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sosff #updates

[myassbrokethefall]

All right, I just watched This for the third time, and the first time where I could really pause and rewind and have my attention undivided, since the first time through my brain was just a mess of AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH THIS IS SO GOOD THIS IS SO GOOD and the second time it was so I could follow along with Gillian’s tweets. (I may have learned what a taint was that day, but I did not get much detailed information about the plot.) (Just kidding, I already knew what a taint was, unlike Gillian Anderson who is clearly still enjoying the novelty of having recently found out about it.)

Here are my unedited (except for typos/some cleanup for clarity purposes) thoughts as I watched it, under a cut because anytime anyone says “lol here are my UNEDITED THOUGHTS” it should be under a cut, I feel like. Enjoy! Or don’t.

Phone: MULDER! MULDER! MULDER! MULDER! MULDER! MULDER!

Mulder: *sleeps*

Scully (very quietly): Mulder

Mulder: WHAT I'M UP I'M UP

I hope those assassins had to get out of the car and manually heave the gate out of the way like Scully did in IWTB.

Why is there an antler on the floor? Do Mulder and Scully just have...a single antler

"Accuse your enemies of that which you are guilty"?? I didn't even see that because apparently I didn’t look up either time while the themesong was playing. Also, in the grand tradition of "that with which he can't live without," this is grammatically incoherent. Good proofreading everyone

I look forward to someone less lazy than me examining every single frame of film in which the Unremarkable House appears and itemizing all of Mulder and Scully's possessions. I MAY have the same toaster oven as them?

Scully's badge number is XF072161?? What happened to JTTsomething? @startwreck did you know about this

227700 Wallis Road, Farrs Corner, VA. A real town. Google Map it, click Satellite, zoom out and note with pleasure (if you’re me) how in the exact bullseye middle of a bunch of empty green they are, far from civilization. That’s how I like my Unremarkable House. 

Simultaneous thoughts I had as the second wave of bad guys was attacking: How on earth did somebody get upstairs that fast? Did they parachute in? / Look at that beautiful porchlight

Crucial Plot Points That I Missed Entirely While In Raptures Over The Mulder And Scully Goodness Of This Episode, Part 1: Barbara Hershey’s character sent this Russian goon squad. Ah.

russian guy: (mockingly) “I want to believe”?

mulder: it’s not enough this dude is about to kill me, he has to make fun of my nerd poster? insult to injury

skinner: ugh just surrender to them! it's fine 

m&s: they tried to assassinate us two times

skinner: ohhhh lol sorry i didn't know they were going to do that MY bad

This order of presidents/32 32nd 34 35...stuff feels so unpolished and ad-libbed even though it's obviously plot-crucial (so I assume scripted), but it's like, they're just kinda bouncing around NEAR the lines, and I love it. And I love when Scully holds out her hand for him to supply the answer of which president FDR is and he has no idea so she supplies “32nd” and he's like “32 yeah I was totally about to say that yup” and then he forgets the number 33 exists, thus missing the clue. You're a mess, Mulder. Thank goodness for your smart wife.

Also it makes me wonder if "now you're just showing off, really" was an ad-lib of David’s because it feels like he interrupts her line; she has just said "FDR" and he says that and then she continues on with the FDR part again. scripted or duchovny? LEAVE MY JOKES IN GLEN

Them just figuring out this cemetery clue like Encyclopedia Brown GIVES ME LIFE

Skinner gave them a Leatherman? Handy/I’m surprised they didn’t trade it for more muffins

“it links to a video of the pet or person” lol

THIS SHOW IS LITERALLY SO DARK I HONESTLY CANNOT SEE WHAT IS HAPPENING; it went to commercial on a lingering shot of something and I don’t know what it was

So we kinda already knew this, but the "I'm gonna open an x-file on this bran muffin" line comes BEFORE the "I opened an x-file on this building in the '90s" line, leading me to believe that the bran muffin x-file line is also an ad-lib (in addition to Gillian’s “alien butt” line directly after, which she confirmed it was) because "opening an x-file” was on David's mind from doing the scene over and over. Scully's "An x-file?" line delivered like that's a new idea doesn't really mesh with her just having heard that term 20 seconds ago in re: bran muffins. DETECTIVE WORK

(also to be clear I’M FINE WITH THAT, leave in all their ad libs, they’re canon now, canon canon canon canon)

scully: walter we need your HELP 

skinner: kids, i literally already gave you all the money I have, jesus I am just trying to go to work, can you please handle your shit

scully: we used UP all that money on MUFFINS, and we ATE THEM ALL ok those muffins were GREAT but we are HUNGRY AGAIN we need your HELP GODDAMNIT even though we don’t TRUST YOU, why are you such a JERK, can’t you just go to the ATM? UNTRUSTWORTHY

"if you want to see the x-files you don't have to go to the office" me: I do spend quite a bit of time at the office seeing the x-files though (or at least various secondary references thereto)

Mulder, after two seconds of searching in the proprietary search bar: fuck this it doesn’t work I'll just google it #relatable

Crucial Plot Points That I Missed Entirely While In Raptures Over The Mulder And Scully Goodness Of This Episode, Part 2: that the spank bank thing was a deliberate secret message leading to the Langly's girlfriend lady. (also that they kept that from Skinner)

I also missed all this Sims talk with Langly’s girlfriend, on how they would know it was a simulation. "you wouldn't be able to click on the neighbor's house" "there would be a loading screen every time you went on vacation" "if you had the pets pack installed the same dog would come every day and dig a hole in your yard" "buy mode would be disabled if there was a burglar" "you would only be able to make macaroni and cheese until you had more cooking points" "if story progression was turned on sometimes you'd go to your neighbor's house and there would just be a random baby on the floor" "blurry boxes would appear on you every time you went to the bathroom" i got a million of ’em

Lollllllll at Mulder's awkward cough after “maybe he saw Mulder in his dreams” / “Who hasn't” / Scully’s look

What’s with all the fly imagery? Two acts have opened with closeup shots of insects.

This skanky bar scene...every moment of it is a cinematic masterpiece that I will treasure forever

Scully's hilarious face in reaction to the beer is another thing I didn't notice. like, this is what you ordered for me while I was asleep? gross dude

also I love her smile as she closes her eyes again like, mulder's yappin, all's right with the world, goodnight

Langly simulation: Are you...Fox...Mulder? Something about that name...is familiar to me...as if from another life...I feel compelled to contact you though I don't know why or what it means

Mulder: Yes, it's me, and Scully

Langly simulation: DANA SCULLY?! Omg how are you girl I miss you so much! omg I'm gonna cry I’m so glad to see you how the hell are you

We're digital slaves...they force us to make grilled cheese sandwiches over and over again and every time we try to play videogames they make us study the mechanical skill instead...sometimes they put us in a pool and take the ladder away just for their sick amusement...that's not even getting into the torment that comes from the move_objects on cheat...sure we may have rosebud!;!;!;!; levels of money and I may be the mayor but aging is turned off and I've already bought the fanciest TV and the most comfy bed and I've done all the tomb quests in World Adventures and I don't know what else there is here for me...plus the game lags every time I try to go on the subway...it's hell, Mulder, hell (sorry, done with the Sims jokes now)

Scully, they don't serve mimosas on the bus; believe me, I would know.

Do Gillian's kids get freaked out hearing her speak in an American accent? No more freaked out than seeing her in a red wig i guess

JACOB JARVITS FEDERAL BUILDING #neverforget

What is with the "looking moodily out at the New York skyline at night while sipping a martini in an ’80s movie" soundtrack in this "get us in the tunnel" scene

Mulder's eyebrow raise after "married to the Bureau" *drapes it all over my body*

the clearest and largest STAIRS sign in all of history; sure half the episode is so dark you can't make out what's happening but god forbid we not know that the door Mulder's gesturing to is the S T A I R S

literally why IS mulder yelling out numbers on the stairs at the top of his lungs? he's not even counting the floors, there are 29 floors and he's like 32 34 36 38...he's counting by twos...is he counting the stairs? Why? scripted or duchovny? "glen please leave in my inane stair counting, it's funny!" "david by gum you guys are magic. magic! ok ok, no problem buddy, just keep it flowing"

mulder and scully get in like 12 physical fights in this episode. AMAZING

Ok, now here’s where I really have to pay attention because i legit did not listen to a GODDAMN WORD of this Barbara Hershey scene the other two times.

Why are there SO MANY lamps in here and how is it still so dark

"You're still refusing to answer the question of your father" am I supposed to remember what that is? Show, you greatly overestimate me

Hold on, did Scully jump some guy with a flashlight and beat the shit out of him during this voiceover and I didn't even realize it? GO SCULLY (closed captioning: “blows landing, groaning”)

Crucial Plot Points That I Missed Entirely While In Raptures Over The Mulder And Scully Goodness Of This Episode, Part 3: the entire earth is about to burn down, whoops, did NOT catch that.

"my company advised killing you" okaayyyy

Did barbara hershey ask muldo to kill csm last episode and he said he wouldn't? why the hell not? do it dude do it

"we can upload a mind through any smartphone" sure until Apple releases a new OS and then it starts lagging

“We can take a piece of your mind anytime you make a call” oh good they’ll get like 3 pieces of my mind a year then. It would be much more efficient to take a piece of my mind every time I open Hay Day

Mulder has been handcuffed or fake-handcuffed A LOT this episode. He's going to need to process this through roleplay once he and Scully get home

Is Scully using the Leatherman as a physical key to switch off a top-secret high-security NSA federal computer system in lieu of the actual, presumably very specialized, key manufactured for that purpose? It really can do anything.

I can’t tell what we’re supposed to be seeing in this conference room to indicate that it was abandoned. Barbara Hershey is gone but was there other stuff in there? Like a sign that said “THE CONSPIRACY” or something? The LAMPS are still there, I guess they didn’t have time to pack those up

There's an orange on the floor in the UH. This is a step up, nutrition-wise, from the time Mulder had potato chips on the coffee table in IWTB. 

There is a basketball hoop DIRECTLY over a lamp. Really, Mulder?

Scully literally drops off to sleep in 3 seconds. all things continuity. 👏

So, destroy the backup? Does that mean there's a backup to the simulation and they’re just going to restore from it and nothing they did accomplished anything? Except for being the most delightful and satisfying episode of TXF ever filmed? Also what does the curly-haired guy being in there mean? I mean obviously he was uploaded after he died but is he in there like, tormenting Langly now? In the backup? How many backups are there? Can a Leatherman be used to defeat all of them?

I don’t care; Mulder and Scully are asleep on the couch and everything is perfect.

#this #scripted or duchovny? #so much duchovny #this is so long i'm sorry #mine

[legojacques]

Jack knew something wasn’t right when he woke up. The covers were too hot on him and his head was pounding like he’d been drinking too much the night before. He shifted, trying to get his bearings, but at some point during the night, he must have pulled the covers over his head. He struggled free, enjoying the fresh air, before noticing a pair of paws on the bed. When he moved his arms, the paws moved too. What followed next was a confusing jumble of panic and incoherent screaming that came out as yowls.

He must have passed out again, because when he came to, he was still disoriented and nauseous. He confirmed that, no, it had not been a bad dream. Somehow, he’d grown four legs and a tail overnight.

After the initial panic, he jumped on his bedside table where his phone was, but he was uncoordinated, and ended up knocking the phone to the ground. He batted at it on the floor, but found that the battery had drained itself overnight when he’d forgotten to charge it.

Cursing and swearing to himself, he wandered his apartment on shaky legs. Thankfully, he hadn’t quite turned off the tap in the bathroom and the dripping of the faucet helped to parch his thirst as he tried to think of what try next. He needed to get help soon. Otherwise, he was going to end up starving to death in his own apartment.

In the living room, Jack found a window that he’d left open because it had been too hot last night. He squeezed out onto the fire escape and tried not to look down. It was strange in this body. Jack never had an issue with heights before, but now, a glance downward to the street had his head spinning with vertigo.

Left with no choice, Jack began to climb upward with the dim hope that someone had also left a window open.

He didn’t get too far before the enticing smell of spices and baked dough reminded him how hungry he was. He followed the smell until he staring into a kitchen where someone was bent over, pulling pies from an oven. Jack called out for the guy’s attention, and when he finally glanced in Jack’s direction, he scrambled to open the window.

“Hey, kitty. What are you doing so high up?” he asked. Jack stiffened when the guy picked him up, but he let himself get rescued from the precarious ledge. “Where did you come from?”

Help me! I’m not really a cat! Jack tried to say, but as expected, it came out in a series of pitched meows.

“Hmmm, okay. You hungry?” He set Jack on the floor to rummage around in his fridge. He set out a plate of leftover meatballs which Jack, losing his composure, attacked immediately.

“I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry, little--uh-- guy?” He attempted to lift Jack’s tail to check, but Jack had hissed and swiped his claws. “Okay, never mind. We’re not going there,” he said backing off. Satisfied, Jack continued to eat, though with a suspicious eye on the guy who’d now dropped onto his stomach to watch Jack with a bright smile.

---

It had been almost two weeks since the cat had mysteriously shown up at Bitty’s window. It was an impressive feat, especially since Bitty’s apartment was on the seventeenth floor. The cat seemed healthy and undisturbed by this though.

Bitty had gone door to door, asking if anyone had lost a black and white tuxedo cat, but no one claimed him. In the mean time, the cat seemed to begrudgingly settle in Bitty’s apartment, and Bitty was now resigned to the fact that he now had a cat.

Bitty was also going to have to give him a proper name instead of calling him Mr. Grumpy Pants, but nothing quite fit him. At first, he was standoffish, growling if Bitty got too close. He didn’t like to picked up or touched, which was something Bitty discovered pretty quickly.

Grumpy Pants liked to sit on the counter of Bitty’s kitchen when he was cooking and just stare. So, Bitty would talk to him whenever he was baking. It seemed to calm Grumpy Pants, and Bitty found it was incredibly therapeutic for him to just talk and get all his thoughts out. Usually, he vented his frustrations about work, or he was recounting his night out with some friends, but at times, Bitty found himself confessing things he would never have admitted to anyone.

Whatever inane thing Bitty was rambling on about though, Grumpy Pants was the best listener.

“It was the worst date I’ve ever been on, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” Bitty said, slamming a pan on the counter. He’d gotten back from blind date his friends had tried to set him up on, but the evening had just ended in a disaster, and now Bitty found the overwhelming to turn his frustrations into baked goods.

Grumpy Pants was already in his usual spot, beside the microwave, his dark tail casually flicking in anticipation.

“I know they mean well, but they have got to stop setting me up with hockey players.” Bitty paused to measure out the dry ingredients. “I mention Jack Zimmermann’s ass one time, and suddenly Ransom and Holster make it their mission to set me up with every gay hockey player they can get their hands on.”

Grumpy Pants seemed to perk up at that, which Bitty took as encouragement. “Yeah, I know, right? He lives somewhere in this building, but only because I saw him getting his mail downstairs once. He’s even better looking in person than on TV.” Feeling judged, Bitty waved a wooden spoon at the cat. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not stalking him or anything. I’ve only ever seen him the one time, but I’m just saying that if Jack Zimmermann ever happened to showed up and asked, I wouldn’t say no to that.”

Grumpy Pants ran over to him and started pawing at his arm, meowing insistently. “What? What is it?” Bitty asked. The cat kept meowing and pacing on the counter. “Jack Zimmermann?” Bitty tried. Grump Pants hopped up and put his front paws on Bitty enthusiastically. “Is.. Jack Zimmermann your owner?” Bitty said slowly, as he put the mixing bowl down. He thought back to a couple weeks ago when he’d gone around knocking on people’s doors. He hadn’t come across Jack Zimmermann then.

"Tomorrow, we are going to find out where your owner lives, and then we’re going to go find out why he hasn’t been looking for you,” Bitty said, picking up his mixing bowl again.

That night, Bitty felt the bed dip as Mr. Grumpy Pants jumped up. He carefully settled in next to Bitty’s chest and purred. Bitty felt a pang of sadness over losing his cat, but as he drifted off to sleep, he had to remind himself that the cat was never his in the first place.

---

A sharp gasp and short scream jerked Jack into consciousness. He was reluctant to move, but something sharp poked his ribs. He turned over, still half-asleep, to investigate the noise.

His arm connected with warm, bare skin, and the shock of it jerked Jack awake the rest of the way. Bitty was sitting up in bed, staring at Jack with wide-eyed panic.

Glancing down at himself, Jack was relieved to find that he was back to normal. “Oh, thank god,” he sighed to no one in particular.

The last two weeks hadn’t been as terrible as Jack had expected, but he wasn’t ready to spend the rest of his life stuck as a cat. Bitty had taken care of him, making sure he was comfortable and well-fed. He talked to Jack, and even though Jack couldn’t reply, it had been nice to listen without having any other expectations of him. If he ever got out this miserable body, he’d promised he would make it up to Bitty.

“Am I dreaming? Am I dead? Oh my god, did I die in my sleep last night?” Bitty squeaked.

Jack cleared his throat, trying to think of something to say that would justify the fact that he was naked in Bitty’s bed. “Well, um,” he started, his voice raspy from disuse. “You did say you wouldn’t say no if I showed up and asked,” he said sheepishly.

---

Thanks for reading! More of my writing here!

#zimbits #eric bittle #jack zimmermann #au #ficlet #mine #lego writing #aaaand this was way longer than i expected #but yeah jack makes it up to bitty for all his hospitality #*wink wink* #ignore the traumatic fact that jack was stuck as a cat for two weeks #or the fact that one one put out a missing persons alert when he disappeared #just hand wave those problematic details away now

[avialaeandapidae]

Got my days wrong and ended up alone in a room with my boss and the President of Ireland while I was on ketamine.

Thread by @shockproofbeats

Right, this was when I was eighteen so don't judge me too harshly. Or if you think drugs are cool and I'm a legend, fill your boots. Anyway, at the time I was working through college in Dublin with bar shifts at [redacted] music venue.

One day I get a call on my day off. Way the gig worked, you'd either get Fri or Sat off. This week it was Fri, happy days. My manager, let's call her Dympna, pipes up on the phone: "So, when you come in this evening, just a few things to remember". I'm like, hold on Dympz, I'm off this eve, jog on. She corrects me. "Remember I said you could get all of Saturday off if you just worked 2 hours tonight?".

And of course THEN, I did suddenly remember, she'd said it to me as I was leaving the building and my conscious work brain was doing somersaults to get out of the place. She could have told me I was to have my foreskin tattooed with a harpoon and I would have given her a smile, thumbs up, and a flurry of yeps to get out of the place. I was eighteen. On minimum wage, and - bear in mind this is really saying something - my absolute minimum effort. So, I'm bang to rights and I say "yeaaah, of course, sorry just got my days mixed up, I'll be there no problem" and she says, "this evening will be fine, just the head of the [redacted] and some VIPs, few hours then you can take off".

All good. Except for the one thing. At that very moment, I was in a mate's house on Dame St, relaxing with (I thought) nothing to do for the evening.

Now you have to remember that, before dabbing and fortnite, kids used "drugs" to get high and I was, occasionally, adjacent to them. I was a fairly sheltered kid before college, and didn't even drink til I was well into my late teens, never smoked even. I was very green.

So too, coincidentally, was the homebrew ketamine that said pal was making IN HIS OVEN when I arrived. My pal had gotten it in liquid form and, for some reason, it had been dyed green - he has subsequently told me he thought it was a St Patrick's Day promotion, and I've always thought it a charming entrepreneurial flourish on the part of his enterprising ketamine wholesaler. (Ketamine wholesalers are often vets, and the stuff originally for cats. People always say horse tranquiliser, either to make it sound more sordid or more badass, but ketamine is used on many animals, and vets have more use for cat tranqs than horses. Not quite as sexy is it?)

Anyway, for want of a better idea, I took him up on his offer of a line of this thick, vaguely slightly clumpy bright green powder, knowing I had nothing else to do for the evening. Felt nothing. Had a tiny further bump 10 mins later. It was at this point that my phone rang.

FLASHBACK ENDS, WE'RE BACK IN THE ROOM. So I'm definitely sweating after the call, not like instant come-up, more worried ABOUT the come-up. Never done this in my life, I've no idea how it's going to feel. But, absent any other idea, I get my stuff together and head to work.

On way to work, starts kicking in. You know when the roof of your mouth starts politely folding your brain in half, and your chest flutters like a cathedral filled with bees? I was holding it together but knew if I stopped concentrating for one second, I would become time itself.

By the time I reach work (twenty mins later) I am sweating like microwaved bread, eyes on hinges, convinced my fingernails owe me money. I have an overwelming urge to yawn, just to get the memories out WHEN in comes Dympna with the rota for the evening.

D: Thanks again, know it's short- oh, you look a bit hot and bothered, did you run here ha?"

Me: Hmnnnnnyes, I did - the dids is"

D: OK, just you tonight and the top man, he's showing the President what's going on for the next while"

[one beat]

Me: Sorr din you sez de presddyen?" D: Yes, Mary McAleese is in to see this season's programme of events.

Me: Hmmnggg

D: All you need to do is stand in the corner and offer them drinks every fifteen minutes.

Me: Ahhh yesssshnshh

D: Maybe have a wash beforehand So the gig is this: Mary McAleese (the *original* MMA) was to go round this room upstairs which had upcoming acts for the season illustrated with photographs and programme notes. The director of [redacted] would walk her around and say "fricken great, Madge innit?" or whatever.

My role is pretty weird, I have to stand in the corner and then every 15 mins, INTERRUPT this live-wire pair to offer them drinks, which protocol dictates they must refuse. I have barely processed any of this before I'm grabbing a tray and heading upstairs.

The tray, btw, contains a white wine, a red wine, a G&T, a whiskey, a rum and coke and some mineral waters. Always found that mix weird. Imagine the President of Ireland seeing the rum and coke and going "oooooh nice one, ta - now tell me about this Latvian choir again".

Right now I can hold it together when stimulated, when the adrenaline and fear is keeping me just ticking over - I'm weird but with it.

Problem is, my job is now to stand silent and motionless in a room on my own until the President of Ireland arrives. Time passes on my own. Empires crumble and glaciers dissolve, stars die and oceans melt, out on the dusty planes of mother earth, hot bursts of young love gift the miracle of life; children are born, raised, stricken infirm and die of old age.

And then Mary McAleese walks in. By now, having been alone with my thoughts for the entire Cretaceous period, I am no longer mildly weird but deeply, extravagantly deranged. As the President of Ireland walks in, with my boss's boss's boss's boss, my first impulse is to greet them like I own the place. It would be rude, surely, to not acknowledge their presence? Out of order even. Best thing to do would obviously be to say "hello guys" like it's my home and I live there, in this big white room, where I stand in the corner, alone, holding a tray of drinks, like you do, at home.

Me: hello guys HELLO GUYS

Anyway, by the divine grace of the infant Christ, they somehow do not hear me say this, and begin their itinerary round the room. I clench my entire head and focus on not shouting across the room to let them know that they should always feel at home here in this room of ours.

I become extremely aware of my hands, and how I haven't felt them in a very long time. They're detuned to static , which would be worrying even if they weren't holding a tray of drinks filled with noise and judgement. I hold no faith or creed other than "do not drop these plz".

Just when dropping everything seems to become less urgent, I realise it's time to go over and offer these motherfuckers some fucken drinks, let's get this party started wooooooo I begin walking over to them and I move so abruptly that the glasses clink and they turn to look at me.

I did this too fast.

Now I'm thinking wooooah slow down there martina hingis, so I self-correct to a much slower speed. Watching my breath, nice and casual, you got this buddy. Guys. GUYS. Now, I'm moving far too slow. I started at this speed and I'm to embarassed to change and now it's gonna take me like 5 mins to cross the room. They are watching me, frowning and sweaty, traversing the 5 foot between us like it's a wooden plank on the Crystal Maze. I'm moving so slow my legs are cramping. I think they're wondering why it's taking me so long. It's way harder than walking at normal speed. I'm shaking so the drinks are making noise again. For what feels like minutes.

Anyway, I offer them the drinks and they say no. Do this another two times - how long was this presentation anyway, is this what the President does all day? Give her a brochure and a carryout ffs - and they say no.

By the end, I've calmed down a bit in physical side (sweating, shaking) but I still feel completely batshit. At one point I clearly remember believing that my mind had escaped my body and was watching me hold the tray of drinks from the wallspace behind my head. Only out-of-body experience I've ever had.

At the very end, they do accept a drink. It was at this point she spoke to me. Just some inane pleasantries, to which I reply with some off-the-hook pablum about work and college, at which point she says;

"Oh, is that a Northern accent I detect?"

Dawgs, you know I'm down for the Nordie solidarity vibe, but this is the last thing I need right now. "Yeeerrrsh" I say, with a goalkeeper's glove in my mouth. She starts talking about her experience coming down to study here, how it can be a real scenic change, but the making of you if you keep your eyes open to new experiences.

I can tell she definitely means green ketamine. She's a lovely woman, and very open and generous with her time, giving me ample space to answer her questions which I mostly do with sheepish, one-or-two-word answers. Finally, she asks me if Dublin is everything I thought it wou-

Me: YES I LIKE IT I THINK IT'S GOOD

I'd been paying such fierce attention, I'd mis-timed my reply AND badly modulated my volume. She actually recoiled a little. I think the head of the venue actually stepped back and said "jesus!". Mary McAleese flinched for what seemed like half a second, then flashed her best your-mum's-sound-mate smile and replaced her white wine on my tray.

The boss man nodded at me, they walked out of the room and I waited a few seconds before making my way downstairs to the kitchen. So at this point I'm thinking, wellll, I'm definitely fired but this will one day make a great story on an Nazi-riddled microblogging platform.

I make my way to the staff area, wipe my sopping face and check my phone. I had only been in the room for 35 minutes. Dympna pads in all smiles, thanking me for my help at short notice. She sees that I'm a bit freaked and says, almost with a wink, "you could have told me you'd be like this, by the way" I'm thinking, of course, Dympna gets what's up, it's the service industry, people mistime their vibes, I bet this isn't the first time she's seen some-

"I had no idea you were such a huge fan of Mary McAleese"

I'm sorry what again was that did you mean The boss man had indeed related the events upstairs to Dympna, but rather than a frightened waif hepped up on cat tranqs, he'd seen a political nerd deeply, irretrievably starstruck by contact with the 8th President of the Irish Republic, Mary McAleese. Presumably a political nerd with a gland problem, and low-grade artritis in both legs, and a tendency to welcome people into their workspaces, but a political nerd all the same.

Me: Oh, yeah well, you know, it's embarassing. She's, just amazing.

And you know what, she kinda is. She was always very nice to me each of the subsequent times we met - me doling out the drinks, her asking me how Dublin was getting on, all the while the other staff eyeing me to see how I was dealing with such close contact with my hero. I'd gurn and fret, play up to it when she'd be coming in, "oh what am I like". I'd bat away suggestions I fancied her from the more ribald members of the changing room, and laugh along with the usual jibes, safe in the knowledge my nerdy affect had saved my bacon.

So take ketamine at work, it's great.

END.

#this is one of the funniest k trips i've ever read #drugs #trip reports #lol #ireland

[magicandthequeen]

I’ve been reading around.

Religion has a certain feel to me. Perhaps sometime in the past, it was inspired, started with some truth, but years and years later it’s a dry, dead husk.

But I get the same feeling from magickal communities too (see, I can be pretentious too and spell it with a “k”!). The principles of chaos magick sounded good, and I played with a sigil last night, but I read through Oven-Ready Chaos. On literally the first page it complains about how “magick has become obfuscated under a weight of words, a welter of technical terms which exclude the uninitiated”, and yet half of the book is filled with its own inane wordy rituals (I love you, Discordians, but still) and belief systems.

Searching on Reddit yielded two books, which I then acquired by dubious means.

One was Postmodern Magic by Patrick Dunn. I tried to read it, honest, but found it impossibly boring and gave up on page 35.

The other was Advanced Magick for Beginners by Alan Chapman.

Two magic wands up. Definitely. It assumes nothing, is inspiring, covers the basics, and I feel driven to play and experiment. It is so good I actually went on Amazon to get a legit copy.

Meanwhile, it too, like the Chaos book, recommends keeping a journal. So I got an inverse-palomino-patterned composition book and dedicated it to the task by writing, in a very neat handwriting, “Magick M1” on the front. 

I added a reference to last night’s activity, of course. “Created sigil; see entry in SD2”.

Inspired by Advanced Magick, I performed two more rituals. (“Rituals”? “Acts”? Not “ceremonies”. Do I need to sacrifice a small animal to make it a “rite”?) Duly noted in my journal. Invested with as much energy and meaning as I could.

Do I have the power to be casting (?) the spells (?) that I am casting? I don’t know. But the only way forward is to keep doing it and learn from what happens.