#you could ask me to write actual in-universe contingencies for these guys and I could probably do it

[generic-sonic-fan]

I’d love to hear your headcannons on what G.U.N. thinks of the sonic cast! Idk what it is exactly but the idea of G.U.N. coming up with a bunch of plans in regards to (mostly) a bunch of teens and kids is intriguing to me

This is such a fun and interesting prompt, thank you so much for sending it! I love worldbuilding in the Sonic universe lol. LONG post below cut

Sonic:

The ultimate worst case scenario.

Much in the same way an ICBM can be anywhere in the world within 30 minutes, Sonic can be anywhere at any time and cause MASSIVE amounts of destruction.

GUN wasn't nearly as worried about Sonic before they tried to frame him in SA2. They thought it'd be easy to pin the blame of Shadow's behaviors on Sonic and then pardon him later.

They were wrong.

Now GUN threat evaluators place Sonic just behind Eggman in world threat level. They struggle to understand what his morals might be and all their attempts to reach out to Sonic and ask him to clarify have been met with a "nah!" from the hedgehog himself.

There's one group in particular within the organization who are extremely paranoid about Sonic to the point of suggesting proactive measures against him.

. . . which everyone else in the organization either laughs at/ignores/prohibits.

There is no set-in-stone contingency for Sonic, as nobody can agree on one, but the plan that has the most consensus is to somehow utilize Team Dark.

Any attempts to discuss this with Team Dark have been turned down. Shadow refuses to speak of it, Rouge laughs it off, and Omega refuses to collaborate because he promised Shadow he wouldn't.

Tails:

Due to Tails' extensive social media presence, GUN feels like they have pretty good tabs on what's going on in Tails' head at any given moment, so they're a lot less paranoid about him.

A very exclusive group of people brainstorm what the contingencies might be on the off chance Tails does present a threat to the world.

(Because even in discussing Tails, they're much more worried about Sonic's reaction to them have contingencies for the fox)

A lot of their contingencies for Tails are the same as those for Eggman. GUN feels pretty prepared for any sort of Tails Overlord scenario, actually.

Minus Sonic, that is.

Current GUN protocol is to treat Tails very very nicely so that Sonic doesn't start getting concerned.

This is why Tails is allowed to be Omega's primary mechanic.

Knuckles:

GUN sent drones directly to Angel Island. Once.

Their old protocol was for him to remain "uncontacted". Yikes.

After Knuckles started getting more involved in struggles against Eggman, GUN started doing more research into him.

Because he mostly stays up on Angel Island and acts as a competent guardian of the Master Emerald, GUN isn't too worried about him? If anything, they're glad that someone with a significant power level is preventing Eggman from stealing the ME.

They've tried to initiate diplomatic contact with him but he's turned them down every time

He knows that GUN monitors the ME from afar- sometimes on clear days he sees a GUN drone floating a few miles off of Angel Island.

It's a bit of an uneasy truce honestly. GUN's biggest concern is that Knuckles could start using the ME for his own purposes, but so far it hasn't looked like that would ever be the case.

As for contingency plans- GUN has asked Rouge if she thinks she'd be able to steal the Master Emerald. (To which she's replied yes, of course.)

The plan is to get the ME off of Angel Island and into a specially designed GUN stronghold in an undisclosed location.

Once the guardian is separated from his emerald, GUN is pretty sure they'll be able to deal with him.

(They are VASTLY underestimating him due to a lack of data)

Amy:

No contingency plans. She's flying under GUN's radar.

They probably should have something in place for her honestly.

See Knuckles' note about vast underestimation due to a lack of data.

Shadow:

The contingency for Shadow is the most detailed contingency file GUN has.

. . . and Shadow himself has helped write some of it.

The file has a long and storied history reaching all the way back 50 years. It's always been something on GUN's mind.

The current contingency is based on the idea that the first thing he'll do once he goes rogue is try to collect the chaos emeralds.

A lot of the plan involves setting a trap with lots and lots of firepower.

There's also an addendum of the plan about utilizing the other members of Team Dark, either to combat against Shadow or as hostages. Shadow is unaware of the latter. In either strategy, Omega is considered vital.

GUN has a lot of scientific data on Shadow's weaknesses to certain kinds/amounts of chaos radiation and all that jazz, so they feel a lot more confident about their ability to bring him down compared to Sonic.

Something about the enemy you know being better than the enemy you don't.

Rouge:

GUN has determined that Rouge is very unlikely to be a world-ending threat.

But a GUN-ending threat? Absolutely.

Rouge going rogue is the worst case scenario for GUN's continued survival as an organization.

They know they can't keep her out of their files or any of their locations. If she wants to sell all of their secrets or steal all of their tech, they know they're very unlikely to stop her.

Current contingencies include using the other members of Team Dark to persuade her against destroying the organization if they're willing to cooperate, or taking them hostage to negotiate if they're not.

They also plan on a public smear campaign against her- basically revealing everything they know about her while she tries to reveal everything about them.

Rouge knows about all of these plans, of course.

There's definitely a tension between her and GUN because of this.

The current plan is to treat her well and convince her to stay on GUN's side at all costs (usually through bribery!)

Omega:

GUN's contingencies for Omega are really, really barebones.

It pretty much just boils down to "destroy him".

They aren't too worried about him, kinda like with Tails. GUN knows how to destroy Badniks. They've been destroying Badniks for lots of years at this point.

If anything, they consider Omega to be the least threatening member of Team Dark and the best lynchpin for if either other member of the team goes rogue.

(It should be noted that they still expect any scenario where Omega goes rogue to have the highest number of immediate civilian casualties.)

See my fic on this

Silver:

HOO BOY, is GUN worried about Silver.

Not because of his powerset- GUN is pretty sure they can just knock him on the head to neutralize him.

(Like Knuckles and Amy, they are vastly underestimating him)

But the time travel shenanigans scare the shit out of them.

GUN is the sort of organization to have protocols in place for working with future or past versions of themselves.

They also fund a shitload of research into detecting changes and potential threats in the timeline.

(They detected the Sonic Generations incident when it happened and it remains one of the most intensely studied events.)

(They've also detected a strange sort of time blip over Soleanna, but every time someone gets interested in studying it, their drive seems to wane until they're no longer concerned about it. Strange. . .)

TL;DR: They treat Silver like a fucking SCP. Current protocol is for all agents to limit contact with him in order to prevent damage to the timeline.

Honestly if GUN wasn't so scared of him, Silver wouldn't exactly be opposed to getting their help managing the timeline shenanigans.

Blaze:

Blaze has not initiated any sort of formal diplomacy with any government or organization in Sonic's dimension.

GUN tracks the unique energy signatures of the Sol Emeralds through their strange link/interaction with the Chaos emeralds.

They haven't quite figured out what's going on.

And frankly, they don't actually know that Blaze is from another dimension.

They see her very rarely. They know that something is strange about her energy readings but just assume that she's one of Sonic's lesser known friends who doesn't get out very often.

Team Chaotix:

I'm grouping them together because GUN doesn't have any contingencies for them. Vector, Espio, and Charmy are all under their radar.

They should be worried about Espio. They're already worried about Rouge's stealth capabilities. I'm pretty sure whoever's managing these contingencies within GUN would have a heart attack upon learning that somebody on this planet figured out how to actually turn invisible.

And that's it!

I'd actually like to end this post with a bit of a weird note- I don't think that GUN would be evil for developing contingencies like this.

I myself work in the field of safety. This field includes things such as occupational safety, and most pertinently for this post, emergency management. I've actually helped write protocols for companies about what workplaces should do in the event of an active shooter or other outside threat such as a natural disaster or a civil conflict.

(If I lived and worked in Sonic's universe, I would most certainly have to write safety protocols about what to do if Eggman attacks, for example!)

It's important to have protocols in place for the worst case scenario, no matter how unlikely or unthinkable that scenario is. And in Sonic's universe, this is especially important! This is a universe where society is regularly attacked by a mustache-twirling, robot-building terrorist! Of course GUN is going to keep tabs on other individuals who could post a similar threat and plan on how to stop them should they ever become a threat to the public.

I'm definitely not excusing GUN for any of the shady things they've done in canon, but it is an interesting point to think about that they're the best equipped to handle any sort of Dark Sonic/Sonic.exe/insert your favorite name for "this character but evil" here/mirror universe scenario.

#sonic the hedgehog #sth #GUN #guardian unit of nations #sonic adventure 2 #miles tails prower #knuckles the echidna #shadow the hedgehog #rouge the bat #e-123 omega #silver the hedgehog #sonic worldbuilding #this sort of idea borders my other special interest #you could ask me to write actual in-universe contingencies for these guys and I could probably do it #(that would be unhinged. don't actually ask me to do that) #but it's an interesting subject to think about

[peterman-spideyparker]

Costumed (Matt Murdock x fem!Reader)

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! I think I started to write this back in July, and I didn't want to forget to get this posted like I usually do with holiday themed fics. I'm just sorry the title sucks. I hope you enjoy! :)

Summary: You're not really one for Halloween, but you love a good costume. And while you're not looking forward to doing a group costume, you find something that you just can't pass up.

Warnings: Fluff, regular Nelson and Murdock shenaniganery, mild swearing

Other Characters: Foggy Nelson and Karen Page

Word Count: 1,668

What compelled Foggy to come up with the idea that you all wear costumes to the office on Halloween is beyond you, but Matt agreeing and being pretty enthusiastic about it all confused you even more. So when Karen suggested a theme of “superheroes” with a sly smirk and Matt still agreed, you thought that Ashton Kutcher was going to jump out with a camera crew to tell you you’d been punk’d. But when none of that happened and everyone started to plan and chatter about their costumes in the main reception area, you decided that a walk around the block was exactly what you needed. 

“Oh, you’re being a bit dramatic,” Karen chuckles as you grab your jacket on the coat rack. 

“I’m not being dramatic, I’m just convinced that I’m in a parallel universe,” you say as you slide on your windbreaker. 

“Just think about it, though,” Foggy adds. “We go straight from work to Josie’s for the costume contest.”

“All this being contingent we don’t have client meetings or need to go into court,” Matt says with a little smirk. 

“I can’t believe you. Matt Murdock, of all people, wanting to have fun. Voluntarily.”

“What can I say, you’re rubbing off on me.” Taking a few steps in your direction, Matt leans in and gives you a kiss. “See?” he teasingly smirks.

You roll your eyes and grin, kissing him again. “I’ll be back soon. If you guys want me to grab coffee—.”

“Yes, please,” they all say in unison. 

“Fine, text me what you want. I’ll be back!"

With a final round of goodbyes, you leave the office and trot down the stairs and into the street. A few minutes into your walk, you find a new little costume shop open for the season. With everything in the office fresh in your mind, curiosity gets the best of you and guides you into the store. You slowly browse the shelves, looking at the different options available, some very impressive, and others in need of some extra fabric. 

“Hi, welcome in,” a salesperson greets behind some pumpkin trick or treat pails. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Maybe,” you hum, peeling your eyes away from something particularly high up. “I’ve been outvoted in doing a themed group costume.”

“What theme?”

“Superheroes.”

“Ah, a classic. Well, we’ve got plenty to choose from. Classy or sexy?”

“I’m thinking a bit of both, actually.” Turning my focus back to the wall, the sales clerk comes to your side. “Could you help me grab that one, please?”

“Ooh, nice choice!”

A few minutes later, you’re leaving the costume shop with a bag in hand, continuing your route of the coffee cart, and returning back to the quiet office, each of your friends nose-deep in work. 

“I thought I was gonna have to send Matt out looking for you,” Foggy finally says. “Where’d you go to get the coffee? Italy?”

“No, I just got a bit side-tracked along the way,” you hum, stuffing the bag into your desk drawer before going over and handing everyone their drinks. 

“What did you pick up on this side track?” Matt hums with a kiss to your cheek as he grabs his cup. 

“Something you guys will get to see in two weeks,” you hum. 

“Did you just pick up your costume?” Foggy asks excitedly, much akin to an excited golden retriever. “But you—!”

“Yes, and that’s all you’re getting, because I’m clearly nothing to win. No hints, no nothing, and no dwelling on how quickly I caved.”

“But what if we wear the same thing?”

“Trust me, Foggy, we’re not gonna have the same costume.”

“If you do, it’ll just have to be a who wore it better,” Karen grins as she sips her latte. “A little Halloween fashion show.”

“Yes!” Foggy cheers enthusiastically.

“No fashion show,” you counter.

“Yes, fashion show,” Matt grins like a cat that ate the canary.

“Goobers, all of you!” You take Matt’s face in your hands, pressing kisses to his lips. “And you’re the head goober!”

Matt smiles and kisses you once more. “I appreciate the recognition, sweetheart.”

“Alright, break it up, love birds,” Foggy teases. “We’ve got a law firm to run.”

“I don’t think that’s much of a costume,” Foggy pouts as you walk into the office. 

“You just gotta wait,” you hum as you walk around to your desk to sit down. 

“Is it a couples costume?” Karen asks. 

“No. Honestly, I don’t know what Matt’s dressing up as.”

“Well, the established plan is to wear our costumes and then go to Josie’s,” he clarifies. “So this ain’t gonna cut it.”

“I know. And this is part of my costume. Just take a deep breath, Flash.”

“No way, if I am wearing this Catwoman bodysuit all day, you’re wearing yours all day,” Karen hums. 

“Fine. You two go get coffee and bagels, my treat, and I’ll be in the Foggy and Karen approved costume by the time you get back.”

Handing them some cash, you shoo them out of the office and lock the door, working on taking off your clothes to reveal your Wonder Woman one piece underneath. You slide on the matching boots and throw on the tiara before you adjust your gauntlets and loop on your lasso of truth. 

Sitting back down at your desk, you resume your previous task of responding to emails when you hear the door unlock, the squeaky hinges opening wide. You smile and stifle a giggle when you see Matt walk in in a Superman costume—giant S on his chest and a cape and all.

“Looking good, Kansas,” you tease, leaning back in your chair. “It’s a good fit, but, part of me can’t help but think your broodiness would make you better suited for a Batman costume.”

“You—I . . .” Matt stutters with his mouth agape as he tries to figure out what your costume is. “What are you wearing, angel?”

“My costume,” you say, turning to give him your full attention from your computer. “We agreed on a superhero theme, did we not?”

“Yeah, but, this . . .”

A smile pulls across your face as you watch his cheeks flush with a deep blush. You stand up and make your way over to him, the click of the heels of your boots loud against the old hardwood. 

“Wow,” he breathes as his hands settle into your waist. “This . . . Wow.”

“You like it?” you chuckle as his hands start to trail up, his fingertips hitting your exposed shoulder blades.

“That’d be an understatement, angel.”

“I kinda hesitated about it. It was an impulse buy initially. I’m glad it’s paying off,” you hum as his hands go down over the curve of your ass before giving it a squeeze. “Maybe I should dress as a superhero every year.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea, sweetheart. It’s definitely paying off.”

“Feels good?”

“Very.” He leans in to kiss your neck slowly and repeatedly. “I don’t know how I’m gonna focus all day with you in that costume, smelling your skin like that.”

“Well, you should find a way, Murdock.” You can’t help how your eyes flutter shut and the goosebumps that spread all over your skin as he holds you flush against him. Matt knows just what buttons to press and how to press them to make you putty in his hands. “Otherwise, I’ll have to use my Lasso of Truth on you.”

“You gonna tie me up, angel?”

“You need to behave, but it’d be a bit unprofessional to do that here. We’d just have to go back to your place tonight if that’s what you’re jonesing for, though. Not like I need to return the costume or anything.”

As Matt leans in for a kiss, you lean back, taking your index finger and twirling Matt’s cowlick onto his forehead. It holds into a curl, and you lean forward to press a kiss to his freshly-shaven cheek. “There. Now you’re perfectly Superman-ed.”

“Thanks for keeping me authentic, angel,” he smiles as he leans in for a kiss. 

“Hey, whoa, you can only kiss Lois Lane!” Foggy calls as he walking into the office. “Of course you’re Superman. And damn, (Y/N), rocking the tiara and one-piece. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I wish I had your legs.”

“Thanks, Fog,” you say. “I’ll never not be weirded out and flattered when you say that.“

“Thanks a lot Fog for—holy shit, (Y/N)!” Karen says as she comes in, box of bagels and coffee in hand. “You look hot! I mean, you usually do, but, damn!”

“Thank you,” you chuckle. “Now that you guys know I’m committed to the costume theme, can I please put some more clothes on? It’s kinda drafty in here.”

Matt presses a kiss to your temple before going over to his office to pick up an emergency suit coat he hangs on the back of his door. 

“To keep out the draft,” he smiles softly, kissing your cheek before whispering in your ear: “And so I can hold on to you easier during the day while you wear that.”

“I’m seeing now how this plan is backfiring,” Foggy nods with an exaggerated, turtle-face pout. “It’s worth it, though, cuz we’re gonna win the costume contest! Or at least you two are. But a victory for part of Nelson, Murdock, and Page is a victory for the whole! So let's get to work, keep it in our pants, and then get that victory title. That middle part is for you two, by the by.”

“Yes, Fog, we get it, we’ll behave” Matt confirms, his hand still on your waist as he presses a kiss to your cheek. “But let the record show I’m glad we’re not having a costume ‘Who Wore it Better’ with you can (Y/N).”

“Joke’s on you, Murdock, I’d look fabulous dressed as Wonder Woman. This hair was made for a tiara.”

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[yellowocaballero]

Not Your Queer-Coded Disney Villain: Annabelle & Web!Jon Ficlet

Got bored again today and forced myself to write something that wasn’t gratuitously long. Set in the same universe (or, one of the universes) as The Convention on Chronographer Lane, but it’s completely unnecessary to have read that one before this. 

Content warning for (apparent and fake) predation of a student by a teacher, body horror, and spiders. REVERSE content warning for A PSYCH 101 LECTURE WRITTEN BY SOMEONE WHO WAS A TA FOR PSYCH 101. ACCURATE SCIENCE, BITCHES. 

“What am I turning into?” Annabelle asked, after a half-second of rapid thought. “Who are you? And what do spiders have to do with any of this?”

Jon smiled again broadly, grey eyes dancing with a barely hidden delight. “You’re fully aware that these are all the same question.”

“Then answer them. You said you’re here to help me. Then help me.” Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “We’ll negotiate a price later.”

“This one is a freebie,” Jon said. He leaned back, face fading into the shadow of the dim yellow light of the hanging light. “You’re turning into something much akin to myself.”

In the darkness, Annabelle saw Jon open his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes…

Annabelle was sleeping through Psych again.

In her defense, she was really tired. The nightmares had been getting worse every day, and yesterday she hadn’t gotten more than forty minutes of sleep without jolting up in the middle of the night. She had flipped on the light five times during the night, hysterically convinced that bugs were crawling over her and earning the eternal ire of her roommate. Whatever - Irene would forgive her once she bought her an iced coffee from that campus shop she liked. If Annabelle gave it to her later at night, she’d stay up later and would be less likely to bitch when Annabelle inevitably made a stink at three am again.

It didn’t matter. Psych was tediously easy anyway. Not that everything wasn’t tedious, but there were few things more boring than listening to the drone of Mr. Sims’ voice. She had no idea how that guy had a fanclub. Emmanuela Odugawa had asked her if she thought that he recited Piaget’s developmental stages in bed. Barf. 

Thankfully, Annabelle had mastered the art of sleeping with her eyes open in class and barely aware enough to recognize when somebody called her name a decade ago, and she ruthlessly used this skill now. She dropped into a half-doze, and was only startled into awareness when she heard the word that had been running in a nonstop track loop through her mind for the past month. 

“Phobia: an extreme or irrational fear or aversion to something.” Mr. Sims adjusted his glasses, pressing a button on his laptop that advanced the slides. “It’s an interesting definition, in my opinion. Like many things in Psychology, it is almost infuriatingly vague. How do you define ‘extreme’? How do you define ‘irrational’? Oftentimes, that label is determined by society, science, and our therapists. However, I believe you can argue that phobias are the most rational thing of all.”

Annabelle rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. These auditorium classrooms were always freezing. 

“The concept of aversion is heavily rooted in evolution and biology. Anyone here ever eat any bad shrimp?” He didn’t wait for a response. “The smell of seafood probably made you sick for weeks afterwards. Our bodies are primed to detect poison, just as they are to detect danger. Phobias rooted in modern, abstract concepts - clowns, elevators, airplanes - are easy to extinguish. But phobias rooted in real, present, perpetual dangers, the sort of dangers that threatened the lives of cavemen, are far more difficult to ignore.” 

Despite herself, Annabelle found herself awake. She found herself listening. 

“Snakes. Heights. The Dark. Dogs, bears, large animals. Storms, driving, insects.” Mr. Sims’ looked up at the auditorium, and Annabelle could have sworn that he was looking right at her, he was looking at her. Annabelle’s breath caught, her heart thumping in her chest - a little differently than it used to. “Spiders.” 

A horrible clicking echoed in Annabell’s ears. She was afraid that it was her. 

Then he looked away, and the spell was broken. “Phobias are one of the most powerful and motivational forces in human evolution. Like mental illnesses, pack bonds, and emotional needs, the perceived weaknesses of the human mind can frequently be some of the most powerful forces that allow the survival of the human species. It isn’t a bug, it’s a feature. I find that a useful way to think of humanity, and of ourselves: that our weaknesses can make us very strong indeed. Next slide…”

If Mr. Sims said anything after that, Annabelle didn’t hear it.

She didn’t pay any attention to anything he said until the end of class, when she shrugged on her cute little silver backpack and merged into the stream of students filtering out of the classroom. A few students had stayed behind to talk to Mr. Sims, and he appeared wrapped in conversation with the giggling girls, but somehow he picked her out of the thick crowd. 

“Annabelle?” Mr. Sims asked. “Stay after, please.”

So she leaned against the long sweep of desks, left with nothing to do but squint at Mr. Sims as he spoke with another student about the requirements for the upcoming paper, wondering why he looked so familiar. 

All of the other students had assumed he was in his late twenties - “total DILF”, they all inanely assured her - but Annabelle wasn’t so sure. Despite the already graying hair, small glasses, and severe expression, she really wouldn’t put him any older than 23.

Maybe his greying temples were hair dye. Or stress did that to you, right? Annabelle squinted. But when Annabelle looked closer, if she really focused, then she really wasn’t sure it was his hair color at all. 

So she looked closer. Her eyes had been itching for the past week. She had caught her skin flaking and peeling, and instead of pink raw skin underneath there was hard and scratchy black necrosis. Her eyes itched now, as if they were striving to split apart, and if Annabelle only let them then they would burst. And as her eyes itched in a horrible, visceral pain, she thought that maybe the white at Mr. Sims’ temples was the thin, sticky webs of spider-silk. 

“Annabelle? Are you alright?”

She snapped back to attention, fairly embarrassed. She had been zoning out more in the past month than she had her entire life. Her older siblings had said that college would be rough, but she hadn’t known it would be this rough. This wasn’t like her. None of this was like her. 

“I’m great,” Annabelle said reflexively. All of the other students were gone, and Mr. Sims was staring at her over his glasses. “Sorry. Is this about my test…?”

“No. You did quite well on your test. Best in the class, actually.” Mr. Sims smiled at her, as if this was a compliment or important. “Is that why you’ve been so bored in class?”

Ah. Busted. A rare thing for Annabelle. She affected a faux-abashed posture and expression. “Sorry, Mr. Sims. I’ve been staying up ‘til two every morning trying to get my homework done on time. If I’m ever going to go to med school…”

“I thought you were a poli sci major,” Mr. Sims said cheerfully. Annabelle fought a shudder - how did he know so much about her? This class had 200 students.

“Double major,” Annabelle said blithely. “I’m sorry about sleeping in class, I’ll manage my time better. It won’t happen again.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Sims waved her apology away, as if that wasn’t what he had been looking for. Then what had he been looking for? “I’m afraid I had somewhat of an ulterior motive for speaking to you today.” He leaned in a little, pulling his glasses down, and his foggy grey eyes - same color as the grey at his temples - focused solely on her. Annabelle made her eyes bigger, and she leaned in too, adjusting her posture so she looked smaller. “You’ve been doing very well in class. I actually wanted to invite you to a meeting. About...oh, your potential for med school. I’m excited to see you succeed. I think you could do quite well in whatever field you choose, and I’d like to help. It would be just us, of course.”

Ding ding ding. Annabelle affected a giggle. “I could totally use the help! Like, in your office? Or, like...lunch, or…?”

“I was thinking dinner, actually,” Mr. Sims smiled. “How’s Bombay Bicycle Club?”

Restaurant and bar, with a casual yet dignified atmosphere. Not formal enough to put up anybody’s guard, but nice enough that a freshman girl could feel treated and be impressed. Most importantly, it was popular among the businessman crowd and almost nobody on campus visited it. Annabelle used it herself to meet up with her sugar daddies all the time. 

For a brief, strange moment, Annabelle felt as if he did - but of course he didn’t. But it wasn’t impossible. But if he knew, then why wasn’t he blackmailing her? Was the blackmail for later, once he got her alone? This was probably a power play, getting her off balance by insinuating that he knows but not being explicit about it. He’d probably pull out the blackmail, ‘I’ll ruin your reputation you slut etc’, once they actually got there. Not that he could - Annabelle had contingency plans - but she would have to be careful to actually record him propositioning her anyway. Worst case scenario they had a MAD situation, best case she could squeeze him. Probably not for very much money, since grad students were poor as dirt, and she didn’t exactly need him to boost her grades...get him to slip her the test key and sell the test key? That could work. She could probably get him to strategically cut grades, which was a service that Annabelle could probably sell to students with a grudge…

But then Mr. Sims smiled at her, as if he knew what she was thinking, and Annabelle realized that she had been silent too long. She wanted to come off as panicked, maybe desperate, definitely flattered. 

“Sure!” Annabelle said, barely having to feign the anxious creak in her voice. “What time? I have night classes, so…”

“Next Friday at six,” Mr. Sims said instantly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too.” Annabelle affected Smile #35 - shy virgin. Mr. Sims’ grin widened. Annabelle silently put aside the ‘Catholic schoolgirl’ outfit for Friday. “See you then!”

She turned around, gave him a shy smile, and bounced off. She had just opened the heavy door out of the room when she heard him speak again, freezing her in her tracks. 

“Oh, Annabelle - how is the study with Dr. Bates going?”

And his question panicked her so much, made her heart change rhythm and made her skin itch as if something was straining to come out of it, made her eyes itch and crawl and burst, that every calculated move went out the window. She didn’t answer his question, didn’t even give an excuse - she just ran out the door, bright purple vintage boots thumping against the linoleum, breath catching in a chest where she was no longer sure she even had ribs. 

Most of her was already calculating. She was already two months into uni, she had to start establishing her power base. The minute her sorority accepted her she’d have greater access to money, popularity, and influence, but she needed reach with the administration too.  Mr. Sims was her in. This was a good thing. 

But part of her was disappointed, because she had liked him, and she felt a little used. Feelings of disgust, as strong and vivid as in her nightmares, rose in her chest. She squished far down in her chest, familiar with the feeling and effortlessly repressing it.  

Annabelle was good with disgusting things. 

She had another session with the Arachnophobia study on Monday. Which went fine. It was fine! She didn’t wake up that morning so sick with nerves that she almost threw up. She didn’t stare at her email inbox for thirty minutes, begging herself to cancel and drop out of the study. Nope. 

She distracted herself by befriending all of her roommate’s friends and dropping faux-concerned gossip about how cranky and anxious Irene’s been lately, have you noticed she’s been blaming me for how badly she’s sleeping? It was really super sad, frowny face, how do you think I can help, frowny face frowny face frowny face? 

So Annabelle went to the Arachnophobia study (it was fine), had increasingly realistic and vivid nightmares about her chest caving in and a nest of spiders crawling out of her chest and eating her eyes, and slept through class. It was all fine. 

She should have gone to Oxford. It still made her a little bitter. She had been smart enough to get in, but she hadn’t been smart enough to get the full scholarship. She couldn’t afford it, so instead she was stuck in University of Surrey, where dreams went to die. Future politicians should go to Oxford. Yeah, Surrey had some peers and Parliament members, whatever. She needed better, Oxford and awards and money. From there, from some swotty school or another, it was easy street. Annabelle deserved easy street, and she deserved Oxford, and it just wasn’t fair -

After another three am nightmare, Annabelle blearily scrolled through her sibling groupchat. Barney was doing great in med school. Tricia had posted her maternity photos. Wow, look at that, Robin had gotten a commendation at his law firm. Whatever. 

No hope of distinguishing herself in the world. No hope of distinguishing herself in her stupid family. She was smarter than any of her siblings, brighter and better than those doctors and lawyers and accountants, but nobody cared. Mum and Dad were living their retirement in comfort and cooing over their grandchildren, finally rewarded in old age for all their hard work. 

If Annabelle dropped off the face of the earth, nobody would even notice. 

It should have been a depressing thought. The idea that nobody cared about her, not really, that nobody knew the real her. But somehow it just made her heart beat faster in excitement. 

The idea of disappearing from all of this, of cutting herself free from a thousand threads that brought her plummeting down to earth...in the cold hours of that dark morning, to an eighteen year old terrified and alone in uni, it was a siren song. 

It was a siren song that sounded, oddly, like the chittering and scuttling of a thousand tiny bodies, but Annabelle was learning to look beyond that. 

By the time next Friday rolled around, Annabelle was considering breaking her self-imposed rule against drugs and popping a Xanax. But that wouldn’t help her exhaustion, the persistent bone-deep frazzled sensation of going a week on almost no sleep whatsoever, so she settled for an espresso as she wriggled herself into a tight, slinky plaid dress paired with a puffy olive green windbreaker. She wasn’t sure if she owned any clothing that was made after 1990 - a habit born from a childhood of shopping from thirst stores, and continued voluntarily into high school when she started making her own money online fleecing suckers. It was her, so much as anything was. 

“Hot date?” Irene asked, bending over her Physics textbook without looking up. She glanced at her vibrating phone, scowling. Poor baby - her friends were staging an intervention. “New guy or old guy?”

“New guy,” Annabelle said vaguely, carefully picking out a bold red lipstick - or did that seem too forward? Should she go for a natural look? “If I’m not back by midnight call the police. I’ll text you a picture of his car.”

“Roger.” Irene flipped a page of her textbook, oblivious to the fact that she was one of the few people Annabelle genuinely liked. Not enough not to screw with her, but she liked her. “He’s not good enough for you, something something.”

“Darling,” Annabelle said, winking into the mirror, “nobody is.”

She hoped Irene believed it. She didn’t. 

It wasn’t a frequent occurrence that Annabelle wished she was stupid, but today she wished she was stupid enough to take a power nap during her ten minute Uber ride. Her mind felt frazzled and frayed, as if it had been taken out of her scalp and spread out with a rolling pin onto a floured countertop. She felt as if she was melting, her vision spiralling into fractals or blurring out. She wanted to sleep. God, she’d do anything for some sleep -

So she blared Bad Romance in her frayed earbuds instead, clutching her iPod Touch tightly, pulling herself together. Gaga, give her strength. 

By the time that she tipped her driver, effortlessly found Mr. Sims’ car in the parking lot of Bombay Bicycle Club and texted Irene the license plate (Volkswagen, obviously), she had dragged herself into focus. She stapled on her confident posture and walk - no, we’re going with ingenue today, make it shy and hesitant - and slipped inside the restaurant, making a show of holding her clutch tight to her chest and looking around with big eyes. 

She saw him instantly. He was sitting in a corner booth, head down and texting on his phone with a half-smile. The corner booth was poorly lit, light dampened by the wood panelling and soft leather seats, and half of his face was draped in shadow. 

Great. She had even arrived ten minutes early just so she could pick a brightly lit, intimate little table in the center of the room. This guy - he was almost like her. He was almost like her, but he was better. 

Annabelle fought the urge to grind her teeth. She smiled instead, waving cheerfully until he raised his head. He smiled back at her, wriggling his fingers, and Annabelle wove around the tables until she could slide into the seat across from him. 

“This is cozy!” She said brightly. “Thank you so much for inviting me out, Mr. Sims. It’s been ages since I got away from my books -”

“Oh, cut that shit out,” Mr. Sims said, bored. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Annabelle’s mind shut down. Error 404, blue screen of death. 

“I’m sorry,” she said pleasantly, smile frozen on her face. “What?”

But Mr. Sims just shrugged listlessly, slumping against the cushioned wall. His expression was no longer fond, indulgent, haughty. He just looked bored now, as if he was too tired and underpaid to deal with eighteen year olds. “I don’t want to sit through this entire dinner fending off flirting. We have actual business to talk about, and I am uninterested in beating around the bush when there’s no point. You aren’t even subtle.”

“Excuse me -” Annabelle started, enraged, but Mr. Sims put up a hand and cut her off. 

The change was instant. On a dime, Mr. Sims straightened his posture, swept a finger through his hair to transform it from slicked back professor type to windswept, adopted a friendly and casual expression, and leaned in as if he was happy and excited to be sitting with Annabelle. In a moment he dropped ten years. Barely a second after his transformation the waiter approached them, holding a notepad, and Annabelle realized with a start that he had noticed the waiter coming before she did. 

“How are you two doing tonight?” the waiter asked politely, smiling at the both of them in a rote routine that Annabelle remembered from her own days waitressing. 

“Doing great!” Mr. Sims said, and even his accent was different, closely matching her own. He glanced back at Annabelle, nothing but open and friendly. “Mum says get whatever you want, dork. It’s on her bill, so let’s run her out of house and home.”

Instinctually, Annabelle shot back, “Aren’t you old enough to take me out to eat with your own money, loser?”

“Not with your stomach!” Mr. Sims laughed, and the waiter chuckled along too. Mr. Sims effortlessly rapped out an order for the waiter, before Annabelle even got a chance to look at the menu, and when she floundered Mr. Sims just rolled his eyes and ordered for her too. It was, somehow, her favorite food. 

He waited for the waiter to move onto the next table, eyeing him carefully, before he let the persona drop. Mr. Sims sagged again, dropping the friendly act, sizing her up from half-lidded eyes. 

“How did he even believe that,” Annabelle said flatly. “We don’t look anything alike.”

“White people will believe anything,” Mr. Sims said, rolling his eyes. “I have the Belgian government convinced I’m an Iraqi scientist and most high profile Australian celebrities think I’m Egyptian royalty.”

“...does Egypt have -”

“Nope.”

Annabelle was beginning to feel a little like the star actress in the school play who got upstaged in every way by the villain’s performance. Nobody did what she did. Nobody did what she did, but better. 

“Don’t feel insecure,” Mr. Sims said, as if he could read her mind. “I’m a good actor, and I’m excellent at reading people. But I can’t plan or plot like you do. I’m shit at thinking three steps ahead, much less thirty. You can keep plots and schemes going for years - decades, even, if I were to guess. I’m not sure how someone as competent as you can have self-esteem issues.”

Annabelle bristled. “You try having nobody care about you for - how do you even know that shit about me?” Something terrible occurred to her. “Are you some kind of stalker, Mr. Sims?”

Mr. Sims shuddered in real disgust. “It’s Jon. And no, of course not. You just aren’t as subtle as you think you are.”

Yes, she was. She was subtle to everyone on the planet - everyone save, maybe, Jon. Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Jon said immediately. 

“Liar. Everybody wants something.”

“I’m here altruistically,” Jon said, the perfect picture of innocence. “Really. I’m here to help you, Annabelle.”

“You are stalking me.” Annabelle leaned forward, but Sims didn’t move. “Are you even a real graduate student?”

“Absolutely not. I’m twenty three, I got my Psych degree last year and I’ve been bouncing odd jobs since.” Jon shrugged, as Annabelle felt silently vindicated. Nothing about this man acted like a twenty three year old - she remembered her siblings at twenty-three, there was nothing adult about them - but it was probably just another persona. She wondered how far she’d have to scratch to get to the real Jon Sims. 

“So you were just at Surrey to spy on me,” Annabelle said slowly. “I don’t know what country you’re from, but in England that’s definitely stalking.”

“I’d call it scouting,” Jon said. The waiter dropped by to place their drinks on the table - Jon had gotten a mule for himself, and he had ordered water for Annabelle in a move uncharacteristic for a sketchy guy. He waited until the waiter left to continue. “Call me a recruiter.”

“For who? What kind of job recruiter teaches a class for two months just to get to me?”

“How’s your study with Dr. Blake going, Annabelle?” Jon said, almost randomly, and Annabelle shut up. He must have seen something in her eyes, because a sharp little grin stretched in the corner of his narrow and sharp face. “Thought so. What do you dream of, Annabelle? In the cold corners of night, what fears come to life in the dark recesses of your mind?”

Maybe, Annabelle thought inanely, this was a dream too. Just an extended nightmare, one she hadn’t woken up from. It felt like that: distant and strange, hyper-real and unreal. This strange man sitting in front of her, who swapped faces so easily even Annabelle couldn’t keep up, was far too out of place to truly exist. 

Or maybe he was the first real person she had met in a very long time. 

Jon continued talking, as if she had responded. Maybe she had. “I am not a hero in this story. If I was, I would have come earlier. I would have deleted your name from the pool of subjects, and I would have made it so that you never got that call.” Jon looked away from her for the first time, letting a little sadness show on his face. “I couldn’t. No - no, I could have, I simply chose not to. You’re important, Annabelle. And I didn’t want to rob you of something that you may grow to treasure. I’m afraid that the choice you make now may not be much of a choice at all - but, perhaps, there is still a chance. At the very least, I would like to make this transition a little easier for you. It is a terrible thing, to have to do it alone.”

That…

“That was so vague it was completely meaningless.”

Jon barked a laugh, strangely delighted. “It’s not fair to speak in circles to somebody who’s gone a week without sleep!”

“But you’re doing it on purpose,” Annabelle said, too dead inside to feel mad.

“Oh, absolutely. I am not taking the risk of taking you on at full power.” Jon smiled at her, as if they were friends sharing a joke. “I saw what you did to that Walker boy in secondary.”

Despite herself, Annabelle smiled. “Hear he gets out on parole in five.” Something else occurred to her, a bit belatedly. “You are stalking me!”

“Does a spider stalk the fly that strikes a string on its web?” Jon asked cheerfully. “Or is it simply investigating an encroachment into its territory?”

“Does that mean that you’re going to eat me?” Annabelle said archly. “Thought you said you didn’t want to fuck me. Rude, by the way.”

Almost hilariously, Jon wrinkled his nose. “Sex is a waste of time, resources, and my attention. Can’t imagine why people are so obsessed.”

“I know, right!” Annabelle burst out, before she could help herself. “Do you have any idea how much money I get a month from guys just to talk to me? It’s like they’re aliens! Why do people fuck or date if it’s not to manipulate someone?”

“Right! It’s ridiculous.”

It was the first time anybody had ever agreed with her on that. It was the first time she had even told anybody she felt that way. For a brief second, Annabelle felt connected to Jon. It was the first time that happened in...a very long time. 

Jon was the first person Annabelle had ever met who was like her. Everybody in Annabelle’s life had always been either useful or useless. Jon seemed above that, somehow. To be beyond utility, to exist on your own power...what did that look like? To be the powerful, instead of the powerless?

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many puppet strings Annabelle tied around her fingers, she was never powerful. Not really. She was eighteen, from a nothing family, and no matter how many molehills she made herself queen of she would never rule the mountain. She couldn’t get as far as she wanted with what she had. The only reason she had even volunteered for the stupid Arachnophobia experiment was because she needed to crush out weakness in herself, erase the hidden flaws in her mind.

But Jon said her flaws were strengths. What made her weak could be turned into power. 

Annabelle needed more, more, more. She needed everything, if she was to have anything. She needed what Jon had. 

Everything Annabelle said had a purpose. Every word she used was chosen carefully, every little gesture or body language was calculated. She said nothing without thinking, and she could do it so quickly nobody even noticed. Jon would notice, a con man as perfect as she was.

Let him. Give her two straight days to sleep, and they’d have a real battle of wits. In the meantime, she just had to pick her questions strategically.

“What am I turning into?” Annabelle asked, after a half-second of rapid thought. “Who are you? And what do spiders have to do with any of this?”

Jon smiled again broadly, grey eyes dancing with a barely hidden delight. “You’re fully aware that these are all the same question.”

“Then answer them. You said you’re here to help me. Then help me.” Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “We’ll negotiate a price later.”

“This one is a freebie,” Jon said. He leaned back, face fading into the shadow of the dim yellow light of the hanging light. “You’re turning into something much akin to myself.”

In the darkness, Annabelle saw Jon open his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes…

All eight of Jon’s glittering black eyes shone in the darkness, straining her own and making her head thump. It was wrong, outside of humanity or reality, and it felt as if the very sight was straining the fabric of her delicately maintained life so tight it would tear. It felt as if it was tearing her, right in two, ruining her forever. Her eyes felt like they were going to burst out of her head. 

She didn’t want to know what would replace them. But she had the feeling that she already did. 

“Then what,” Annabelle gritted out, “are you?”

“I am the eldest and most treasured Son of the Mother of Spiders,” Jon said. He smiled at her, just a little, almost apologetic. “Sorry about that. I know you’ve always wanted to be an only child.”

Ah. Duh. Obviously. She should have known.

“...do I want to know who the Mother of Spiders is?”

“Your mother, should you choose to accept her,” Jon said cheerfully, leaning back into the light, and his face was normal again. Human as ever. Strange and foreign as ever - possibly everything, possibly nothing. “I know you aren’t strictly in the market for adoption, but you may not have much of a choice. You’ve felt her scratching beneath her skin. She’s going to tear out of you, and soon. Did you know some species of wasp lay their eggs in the body of spiders to provide food for the grubs?”

“During the next experiment,” Annabelle said dully, already filtering out Jon’s useless tidbits of information. That was a guy who spoke for the sake of hearing himself talk. “That’s when it’s happening. When I’ll...change.”

“Yes. It’s a painful process,” Jon said, and it was almost apologetic. “My own happened when I was fifteen - quite young, all things considered. I still remember the sound of my bones snapping as -”

“Don’t.”

“Of course! Anyway, I thought I’d make sure you had...to use the psych term, informed consent, before you entered the crucible. Our - my, sorry - Mother often foregoes true consent in our operations. The beauty of nature!” Jon laughed, as Annabelle felt sick. “Agnes wanted to put together a pamphlet, but then we let Gerry go wild on the clipart and...well, it’s better if I just explain. I can’t give you the full story now, but I’ll tell you as much as your mind can comprehend.”

Annabelle wasn’t sure she could even comprehend this. It was so much, and she was so tired. She had just heard that her body was going to rupture like a cocoon and give birth to a giant spider that may or may not also be her, and all she could think about was the fact that she wanted to go back to bed. Somehow, all she could ask was -

“Why?” She asked, so stupid and pointless, as if she was stupid, as if she wasn’t her at all. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s like I said.” In the dim yellow lighting, Jon’s eyes glittered pure black, and in that brief and stupid second Annabelle felt as if they were the same in that way. “Nobody should have to go through this alone and ignorant.” Then the moment was over, and his eyes were a human grey again, just left of normal. “Besides. Siblings stick together, right?”

“I hardly need more siblings,” Annabelle snapped. 

“You’re about to lose seven of them real soon,” Jon promised, extremely worryingly, “so I’d take what you can get right now, Annabelle.”

“Are you going to kill -”

“Unfortunately, you may have to fake your own death!”

Then their food came, and Annabelle received her first lesson in the class of hard knocks. 

They talked for hours. It took hours, to even just get a picture of the story. Jon was patient, answering every question, and Annabelle strained so hard trying to fight through her exhaustion, trying to understand the answer, Jon’s motivation in answering it or what he could be leaving out, that by the end of it she felt as if she had run a marathon. She had never felt so tired in her life, in the most dangerous situation in her life, with the most dangerous person she had ever met. 

By the end of it, Irene was texting her to ask if she was dead, and Annabelle was falling asleep at her chair. Jon cut an end to their conversation when he slid out his wallet, covered the bill with a black Amex card, and slid a business card against the table. Annabelle squinted down at it. 

The text in the center just said [FREELANCERS]. That was it. She stared at it.

Underneath the vague word, she saw a phone number [555-555] and an email [[email protected]]. Annabelle looked up to stare at Jon. “Are you for real?”

“Almost never,” Jon said cheerfully, “but the card will make sense when it needs to. Let me take you back to your dorm, alright? You can get some sleep in the car.”

If he was a creep, she was dead anyway. Annabelle didn’t bother arguing. She grabbed her jacket and got in the passenger seat of his car, and true to his word Annabelle drifted asleep almost immediately. She even felt as if the ride took longer than ten minutes, as if he drove in circles just waiting for her.

For the first time in a week, Annabelle slept uninterrupted, and had no dreams.

Annabelle wanted what Jon had. 

And a week later, she took it. 

Shivering in an alley, clothing ripped to shreds, her own skin hanging off her triple jointed limbs, she dug out a creased and torn business card. She had been worrying at it intensely over the weekend, staring and it and clenching it tightly as if it was her only lifeline. It was, of course. But Jon had known that.

The card looked different now. The text now looked handwritten, but with a beautiful and old-timey slanted handwriting. It now just read: 

‘To Annabelle, with love. From your new friends Gerry, Jon, and Agnes’. There was a number underneath, and Annabelle frantically dug in her tattered leather jacket pocket to draw out her cracked phone. 

Annabelle hated taking favors from people. Everything she had, she had fought for herself. She would scrape, borrow, beg, and steal whatever she had to. But, when it came to siblings...maybe, then, it was okay.

Dizzily, as Annabelle let the phone ring, she thought: this is my supervillain origin story. 

The thought sent a slow smile crawling across her inhuman and warped face. 

Sounds like fun. 

#AROACE ANNABELLE RIGHTS #tma #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfiction #annabelle cane #jonathan sims #web!jon #realized while writing evilcon that annabelle was seven while jon was twelve #and that their sibling relationship must be a NIGHTMARE #anyway i'm trying to convince myself not to write a web!jon agnes and gerry fic where its basically a leverage au #and i am failing miserably #so i wrote this instead of that #GRIFTER!JON AND IN THIS ESSAY I WILL #my writing

[artificialqueens]

Not Nineteen Forever (21) (Branjie/Scyvie/Ninex) - Ortega

a/n: omg i’m emotional. guys, welcome to the last chapter of n19f. this fic has been the absolute best fun to write and i truly love these girls and the journey they’ve been on so much. big big huge thanks and love to every single person that’s ever left a note, hit reblog or left me lovely anons, DMs, comments or tags, they’ve all meant the absolute world to me and i love u so much. obviously i can’t let things go, so keep an eye out for some form of sequel coming in the next few months or so (patience is a virtue xo). for one last time…….let’s go, lesbians!!!!!!!

please note: this fic contains young adults often behaving in irresponsible/unadvisable ways with regards to alcohol, drugs and sex. if you are someone who feels as if they could be heavily influenced by fic and incorporate what happens in the plot into ur own life, pls steer clear!

tw: bit of weed in this one. no zoos, dw xo

summary: Brooke, Yvie and Nina are three flatmates who forged a friendship in their first year of university and picked up some other waifs and strays along the way. Now in their final year, there are feelings that need to be unravelled and confessions to be made whilst navigating drunk nights, hungover mornings, takeaways, group chats, library meetups, cafe gossiping, and the small matter of getting a degree.

last chapter: the girls all went to the beach, Scarlet and Yvie made plans for after uni, and Scarlet got the degree classification she so desperately wanted.

this chapter: it’s Brooke’s graduation day.

***

Brooke looked around at the chaos that was their kitchen. The kitchen utensils (which were all Nina’s that she and Yvie had shamelessly used as if they were their own over the 2 years they’d lived together) were wrapped up in bubble wrap and packed neatly into cardboard boxes which sat on top of the dining table. Yvie’s kitchenware- a blue bowl with a chip out of it, a huge white plate, a Tigger mug, and a mismatched fork, knife and spoon- had been inelegantly packed into an orange Sainsbury’s bag and left on the counter. Brooke had already packed up her own belongings and had moved them into a corner of her room so they wouldn’t take up space in the already-tiny kitchen. All their store cupboard food was in the process of being packed up for the foodbank, which was inevitably going to be flooded with the discarded super noodles, tinned soups and flavoured teas of the migrating tenants of student flats.

Yvie let out a snort from her position in front of their food cupboards, and Brooke’s heart gave a twinge at seeing them so empty. Top shelf had been hers: pasta, rice, stock cubes, and emergency maple syrup tin. The middle shelf was Nina’s: loaf of white bread, tins of tuna, ryvita, breadsticks, crisps. And Yvie’s food had occupied the bottom shelf: chocolate digestives, Ainsely Harriott cous cous, peanut butter, and sour patch kids. All gone. Except, Brooke noticed, for a jar of Marmite which had sat on the middle shelf and that Yvie was holding in her hand.

“Whose was the Marmite?” she asked, an amused tone to her voice. Nina shrugged from her position on the sofa.

“I’ve never once eaten Marmite.”

“It’s on your shelf, girl,” Yvie shrugged, her eyebrows questioning. Nina gave another shrug.

“I know. It’s always lived there. I swear to God it just turned up one day and I left it there. Thought it was one of yours because Christ knows you’re both too lazy to put it on your own damn shelves,” Nina reprimanded them both. Brooke laughed.

“You know you’re going to regret being so mean to us when you don’t live with us any more and we’re adults and it takes 9 months to clear our schedules for one singular coffee,” she raised her eyebrows at her flatmate as Nina pouted and let out a groan, held out her arms for a hug which Brooke fell into.

“Don’t! This is already too heartbreaking, I can’t believe we only have two days left here.”

“I can’t believe we’re actually organised with this moving out process.”

“I can’t believe we have a phantom jar of Marmite that nobody’s claiming,” Yvie piped up, peering at the jar with interest. “Brooke, you like this shit, right?”

“Marmite is Satan’s black fecal matter and I’m offended you think I eat it,” she deadpanned, shifting to get comfy in Nina’s lap whilst attempting to be as inconvenient as possible to her friend.

“Get the hell off me. Only my girlfriend is allowed to sit on me for so long that I lose feeling in my legs,” Nina huffed, shoving at Brooke until she relented and sat beside her. It didn’t stop her from putting her cold feet on her bare thigh though, and Nina hissed and jumped away. “I take it all back. I’m not going to miss either of you idiots at all.”

“You’re a crap liar,” Yvie smiled smugly, binning the Marmite and joining the two girls on the sofa, squeezing in between them both. “Awh, guys…it’s the end of an era.”

Brooke suddenly felt tears prick at her eyes out of nowhere. “Shut up. We’ve still got tomorrow and the next day.”

“Yeah, but tomorrow you’re gonna be doing graduation-y shit and then it’s moving day!” Nina protested. Her voice grew small, dropping to a murmur. “It’s kind of like it’s our last day.”

The girls fell silent. Yvie let out a huge puff of air from her lungs. “Don’t tell anyone I said this but I’m gonna miss you girls so fucking much.”

“Awh, Yves. I’ll miss you too,” Nina sighed, burying her face into Yvie’s shoulder and curling her arms around one of Yvie’s. “But this is good! Change is good, even if it’s scary and different. And you’re gonna be living with Scarlet! That’s exciting!”

“How’s the flat hunting going?” Brooke asked Yvie, who had a little smile on her face. Brooke didn’t know if Yvie knew that she always began to smile a little whenever Scarlet was mentioned. She wasn’t going to mention it to her. She would maybe mention it to Scarlet.

“Like I’d rather shit in my hands and clap,” Yvie groaned, running her hands down her face. “It’ll be fine, though. We’ve got a while. Her lease isn’t up until August so we’ve got a few weeks to keep looking and in the meantime I’ll just stay with her in that Dickensian death trap she calls a flat.”

The girls let out a laugh, Brooke resting her head on Yvie’s shoulder too. There was a small silence.

“At least you and Monet are sorted,” Yvie spoke again, Nina nodding in agreement. Buoyed by how well Yvie’s suggestion to Scarlet had been received, Nina had been determined not to fuck up another relationship milestone with Monet and had asked her to move in with her as well. The answer had been an emphatic yes, and the pair of them had used their terrifying teacher-levels of organisation skills to find a cute two-bed flat in a nicer, only slightly more expensive part of the city. They both knew their relationship was still new and fragile, so they’d agreed a room each was a good idea to give them their space when they each needed to work or wanted a bit of time on their own to simply do nothing. Brooke knew the two girls were joined at the hip though so they probably didn’t need that sort of contingency plan, but it was a sensible decision nonetheless.

“I can’t wait to get the keys and just vomit up a bunch of fairy lights and candles in every possible room,” she beamed, excitement radiating out of every pore. “It’s going to be so fun- we’re going to take turns cooking, and build pillow forts, and blast our songs on a Sunday morning and clean the whole place-”

“Fuck. Adulthood’s fully got you. Brooke, quick, if we run we can still save ourselves,” Yvie deadpanned, Nina giving her a whack as Brooke laughed.

“I personally can’t wait to go round and visit at every available opportunity. I’m going to move in,” Brooke smiled, and Nina gave another sad kicked-puppy pout.

“I wish. Canada is so far away,” she sighed, a little knife going through Brooke’s heart at the thought of moving back. She didn’t want to think about it, but it was just inevitable. It was happening, and it was fact. She was going back to Canada. She didn’t really know what she was doing, she hadn’t found herself a flat, and she didn’t have a job to earn money and pay the rent with even if she had, so she was flying home.

She really didn’t want to think about leaving. She didn’t want to think about leaving the city, constantly busy with tourists and families and drunk students and Very Important Working Adults. She didn’t want to think about leaving the park, with the cherry blossom trees that lined every path and fond memories of barbecues and picnics and drinking in the sun with the girls. She didn’t want to think about leaving uni- because as stressful as all hell her degree had been, she’d loved studying fashion design, loved making prototypes, loved learning about something she loved, even though her degree was fuck all use to her trying to get an actual job. She didn’t want to think about leaving the flat: the shower with its drippy head, the hob with the one gas burner that didn’t work, the carpet in her room with the incongruous red faded stain, the fucking Sports Direct mug. The girls that she loved so much her heart felt sore if she thought too much about it: Nina singing obnoxiously early as she got ready for placement, Yvie making the kitchen into a war zone trying new recipes, the ridiculous squabbles they got into about the washing up, pre-pre-drinks where they shared a bottle of pink Gordon’s and splashed mixers into their mismatched glasses and sang along to Ariana Grande at the top of their lungs.

Tears stung at her eyes again, and she swallowed the big lump in her throat to shoo them away. It was too late though, as Nina had seen her glassy eyes and reached over to hug her. Her own voice was thick with tears as she spoke.

“Oh, girls,” she let out a shaky breath, Brooke giving up the fight as she felt her own tears drop down onto her hoodie. “Change is good…but it’s shit.”

“Fuck you both, I’m not crying,” Yvie said, her breathing all shuddery and letting them both know that was a lie. The girls all sat and held each other as they wept quietly, mourning the death of their student careers and this life they’d lived for three years that they’d all too often taken for granted.

Brooke was the first to dry her tears, giving one decisive sniff and sweeping under both her eyes with determination. “Right. I’m putting a stop to this, we’re not spending our kind-of last night in the flat sitting crying like a bunch of babies. We’re going to order food, get high as St Peter’s balls and watch shitty game shows that make us yell at the TV. Okay?”

She was happy that Yvie and Nina both snorted a weepy laugh and nodded at her. “Okay.”

And the three girls did just what Brooke had suggested. There was, however, bickering about where they should order from. Yvie wanted sushi from the tiny little place tucked away in a back street that did bento boxes with prawn katsu and salmon maki which were like little rice parcels of heaven. Nina wanted Chinese from their favourite takeaway that delivered from out in the suburbs and where, for about fifteen points all in, you could get a banquet of sweet and sour chicken in sticky red sauce, crispy golden salt and chilli chips with huge red jewels of chilli and slices of garlic, chicken fried rice in a rich Cantonese gravy which bound everything together and chow mein with soft spring onion slices and huge chunks of onions all tossed in soy sauce. Brooke’s selection won in the end though as her argument was the strongest- “I might not taste any of this again, Canada is a long fucking journey, okay?!”- so they ordered burritos and chips and salsa from the incredibly-overpriced-but-worth-it burrito bar on campus. They finished the last of the weed that had been wrapped in tin foil and cling film and shoved to the back of the broom cupboard along with the bong, and they made horrifying cocktails from the dregs of their leftover spirits and mixers. The burritos arrived and they stuck Challenge TV on and shouted at the Catchphrase contestants who couldn’t get the most obvious fucking catchphrases Brooke had ever seen in her life.

The evening was perfect.

They talked about Brooke’s graduation tomorrow, Nina and Yvie both saying how proud they were of her. Brooke was glad she had the girls, since her Mum’s flight over to see her graduate had been cancelled because of freak winds back in Canada. Brooke had already cried to her over facetime about it, but Yvie had managed to find the link to the livestream that was only meant to be shown on campus, and she’d sent Brooke’s Mum the link so Brooke knew she would be watching even if she couldn’t properly be there. As soon as they’d heard the news, the girls had all agreed on the group chat to set up camp in the union and watch the livestream (as Brooke and Plastique would be graduating at the same ceremony) and then take photos with them both afterwards outside the great hall as if they were a gaggle of proud Mums. Even though it wouldn’t be what she’d planned, Brooke was still looking forward to it.

It was around midnight before Brooke took herself off to bed, and just as she got cosy underneath the duvet her phone lit up with a notification. She couldn’t help the smile that involuntarily shot to her face when she realised it was Vanessa.

V: hey what’s ya fav Kanye West album mine is GRADUATION!!!!!!! How you feelin about tomorrow boo? xxxxxx

Brooke let out a laugh, muffling it too late with her hand when it came out louder than expected. Christ, she loved the girl so much.

B: Kanye West is a misogynist pig and i won’t stand for him xxxxxx

B: Stronger is a bop though xxxxxx

V: You got that one right xxxxxx

B: And I’m good! Big jumble of feelings. Big happy/sad vibes xxxxxx

V: I know it’s bittersweet af xxxxxx

V: Me n Scar just held each other and cried once the ceremony was over xxxxxx

Vanessa and Scarlet had graduated last week, as had their other friends. Brooke and Plastique’s graduation date was the latest and so they were graduating last. She didn’t mind that, though. The longer she could stay being a student the better.

B: Lol we just had a big cry as a full flat xxxxxx

V: Don’t lmao idk what we gonna be like when our lease is up xxxxxx

Brooke scrolled up and looked at all the texts they’d exchanged from the past two months, the same signature of six kisses at the end of them all. They hadn’t really spoken about where they were relationship-wise since the night in the library. Maybe Vanessa didn’t want to. Maybe it was for the best. Brooke’s heart hurt as she realised she was going to be on the other side of the world in a matter of days, and maybe Vanessa didn’t want to see her ever again. She frowned at her own thoughts before tears had a chance to start welling in her eyes again. It had been good to truly get back to where she’d been before with Vanessa- just texting random garbage, having deep chats about the future, being ever-so-slightly flirty with each other. She thought about confronting the issue head on over text, but it wasn’t the medium through which to have that kind of conversation.

As if Vanessa could read her mind, however, another text came through.

V: When do you fly back again? 20th? xxxxxx

Brooke’s heart felt sore.

B: 12th xxxxxx

V: oh right

Brooke’s pulse froze at the lack of kisses. Her fingers ghosted over her screen, trying to figure out what to type. Vanessa sorted the problem for her.

V: fuck I wish you weren’t leaving xxxxxx

Brooke’s heart swelled up then popped. Was this the time? No. But their time was running out, she knew that much. Maybe she could see her before she left. She’d see her after her graduation anyway.

B: I wish I wasn’t either xxxxxx

B: But you’re coming tomorrow yeah? Xxxxxx

V: Wouldn’t miss it for the world baby xxxxxx

Fuck, she would miss her so much. She’d already told Vanessa how much she meant to her, just how fucking incredible she was in every way, and yet Brooke felt like doing it again.

She didn’t, because it would be too weird. But she wanted to more than anything.

V: You gonna look so beautiful and clever tomorrow I just know it xxxxxx

Brooke smiled to herself, blushing on her own at the compliment. Vanessa seemed to be firing risky texts to her left right and centre, so Brooke took a risk of her own.

B: Not as beautiful as you xxxxxx

She almost threw her phone away once she’d sent it. A reply came back almost instantly.

V: Stop with the lies xxxxxx

She was leaving in two days so she sent another risky one, caution truly pissed into the wind.

B: You’re honestly the most beautiful girl in the world xxxxxx

At that point Brooke put her phone face down on her bedside table and decided to sleep, her heart full of butterflies and her thoughts filled with the ridiculously massive crush she had on the girl she’d been idiotic enough to let go the first time.

When Brooke woke up, her phone was blowing up with messages. The one she checked first was from Vanessa in reply to the one she’d sent last night, and was simply a series of heart eye emojis. The next one she opened was a text from her Mum, paragraphs of pride and love for her daughter that made Brooke want to cry already. The others were all from the chat- Silky, Akeria, Vanessa, Scarlet, Yvie and Nina all spamming it with messages of luck and love for her and Plastique, and promising they’d be watching the screen and waiting outside for them when the ceremony was done.

Brooke got ready in a dream-like haze. She took her smart black tailored dress out of the cupboard where it had been hanging for the past month, the garment more ready for graduating than she was. She showered then dried her hair, curling it and brushing out so it made waves down her back. She put on her makeup- browns and nudes with only the tiniest bit of highlight. When she stepped into her dress and heels and looked at herself in front of the mirror, she hardly recognised herself.

She looked like an adult. A woman with her life stretching out in front of her, ready to be whatever she made of it.

Brooke phoned a taxi- it was raining just a little, even though it was already July- and pulled on a smart black coat when she saw it pull up outside, dashing carefully down the steps of the stairwell and out into the new day.

Graduation wasn’t til 11, but Brooke had arranged to meet up with Plastique beforehand anyway, just so they could be excited together. When Brooke pulled up at the taxi rank outside the square and the huge ceremony hall, she could see Plastique and her Mum there already, standing bickering amongst the growing gaggle of students and families. The sight only hurt Brooke a bit, until she remembered the girls would all be watching, and her Mum would be watching too no matter how far away. It would, after all, be about one and a half hours of waiting for Brooke to walk across the stage, take a scroll and shake a hand, and then it would all be over.

It was scary to think that that was all that was separating her and the adult world.

Trying not to get too deep and to instead just enjoy the day, Brooke excitedly paid the driver and dashed out of the taxi, Plastique spotting her running towards her and giving an excited squeal. She opened her arms out for a hug which Brooke crashed into.

“Bitch! How are you!” Plastique cried, Brooke only squeezing her tightly in response. “I’m so excited! And sad. And excited! And emotional.”

“Yeah, I can tell!” Brooke teased, Plastique laughing as she stepped out of the hug and gestured to her Mum, dressed very glamorously in a blue dress, blue heels and a pink fascinator. The occasion didn’t really call for it but Plastique’s Mum was always one to embrace the potential glamour in every situation, and so she had gone all out.

“You’ve met my Mum, right?” Plastique smiled. Brooke nodded and waved her a hello. She’d met her once at their second year showcase, the woman keeping her in stitches with her hilarious stories.

“I have! Nice to see you again, Alyssa.”

Alyssa, throwing formalities out of the window, instead pulled Brooke into a crushing hug. “And you too, my angel! Awh, Lord, ‘Tique told me all about your Mama’s flight. My heart is absolutely breakin’ for you, honey. I would’ve sent a plane over for her but nobody’s flying out of there come hell or high water.”

Brooke suppressed a laugh, finding it unbelievable that “I’ll just get her a plane” was on Alyssa’s list of options. “It’s okay Alyssa. Thank you, though. She’s going to watch the live stream, Yvie hooked her up with a link.”

“Well I’ll be your Mama just for today, girl. I am so proud of you both!” Alyssa cried, putting both her hands on Plastique’s shoulders and sighing. “Look at my intelligent daughter, out here gettin’ degrees and lookin’ so beautiful at the same time.”

Plastique smiled at her Mum lovingly, the two of them sharing one last hug before she and Brooke took themselves off to pick up their robes. It was surreal actually wearing the gown, all billowing and black, and helping each other fix their hoods, light blue with fringes of pink. They went to get their graduation photos taken, Brooke surprised that they were given a prop degree to hold as she’d always thought it was her actual degree she’d be holding. She laughed as Plastique moaned to her about not being able to see the photo until it got mailed to her, and the fact that her Mum ordered about twenty four copies so even if it was horrible she wouldn’t ever be able to escape it. Alyssa texted Plastique to tell her she’d gone into the hall to get a good seat, so her and Brooke decided to just go and sit ready anyway. They had to say goodbye to each other briefly until the end of the ceremony, as everyone had to sit in alphabetical order. As she waited for the ceremony to begin, Brooke scanned the huge crowds all seated in the hall’s three tiered levels. Her eyes fell on each empty seat and her heart broke a little more each time she saw one.

Nobody she truly loved would see her graduate in person. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t absolutely gutted. But at least she had Plastique, and of course, Alyssa.

Before she knew it, the ceremony had begun. She tried to pay attention to the Dean’s address and the chamber choir singing in Latin but she couldn’t help feeling like a 16-year-old in her school assembly, bored and just full of anticipation. Eventually, the awards began. Brooke clapped for all the other students crossing the stage, her eyes trained on the way they walked. She swallowed down the panic she felt, banished the thought of tripping over to the back of her mind. It reached Plastique’s turn, and she gave a huge cheer as her friend walked across the stage with all the grace and poise of a supermodel. She could hear Alyssa’s voice shouting from the balcony- “That’s my baby! That’s my girl!”- and, for a moment, she thought she heard the yell of a voice she knew all too well.

No. That was crazy. She must have imagined it.

E in the alphabet turned to F, then G, and eventually, H. Brooke didn’t have many others to sit through, and eventually there was only one girl separating her and her degree. The moment these three years had led up to, finally being lived out.

“Brooke Lynn Hytes.”

She heard her name and smiled as she walked carefully across the stage, shaking the Dean’s hand tightly and collecting her scroll all wrapped up in its little embossed tube. She couldn’t wipe the smile off her face as she walked to the other side, heard the claps, heard the cheers, and heard…

“Love you, Brooke Lynn!”

Stop.

“Go Brooke! Love you, girl!”

It was her. It was actually her. Vanessa’s voice, soaring above the crowd and reaching Brooke like an arrow.

What the fuck was she doing here, at her actual graduation ceremony? As Brooke dismounted the stage she scanned the room like a meerkat, the place far too packed to distinguish Vanessa from any other of the little blobs of people sitting in each row. But she knew it was her. Vanessa had seen her graduate, had seen her collect her degree and had cheered for her.

Brooke didn’t know how she’d managed to get a ticket - they were all reserved for families- but she suddenly couldn’t wait for the ceremony to end.

She didn’t have long to wait, as time flew by and everything was over before it could all sink in. Brooke and Plastique emerged from the hall to the crowds outside and, just as they had promised, the girls all rushed forward to crush them in ridiculously tight hugs, Silky yelling at the top of her lungs how proud she was of them both and Akeria shaking a bottle of five pound cava until the cork opened easily and sprayed the fizz all over the two girls. Brooke clung to Plastique and laughed, unable to stop the smile that was plastered on her face.

“I can’t believe it! You both did it, congratulations!” Scarlet cried cheerfully, Brooke pulling her into another hug.

“Did you see me shaking when I walked across the stage? I thought I was going to trip and fall off the damn thing!” Brooke laughed, the other girls all laughing too.

“You looked like a confident, graceful, successful queen,” Nina told her, Brooke wanting to cry at her friend’s compliment. “And you are all of those things! Fuck, I can’t believe we’ve all graduated now. What the hell are we going to do?!”

“Aw, let’s not think about that,” Akeria shushed her, a proud smile on her face. “Well done, ladies. We’re all proud of you. You did that shit.”

Plastique hugged and thanked them all again before making her excuses, saying she’d be right back, and dashing off to Alyssa. As she left, Yvie took Brooke’s hand and squeezed it.

“So, have you not got some big, teen-movie speech to make, or something?” she quipped. Brooke frowned, looking at her with confusion. The rest of the girls all waited for the penny to drop excitedly, and Brooke saw Akeria’s eyes land on someone just over her shoulder. Brooke turned around and, through the crowd, saw Vanessa waiting beside the hall. Their eyes met, and Brooke could see her try and then fail to suppress the smile on her face. Brooke turned back to the girls, pointing over her shoulder at the girl waiting for her.

“How did…you were all-”

Akeria rolled her eyes, gave her a gentle shove. “Go get your fuckin’ girl, idiot.”

Brooke hardly had to be told twice. She turned around, took two steps, then three, then four, until she realised she was almost jogging over to where Vanessa stood. And suddenly she was in front of her- her hair wavy and falling over her shoulders, her outfit exactly what any graduation guest would be wearing- a smart red dress that accentuated Vanessa’s collarbones and dark eyes and the bright white of the smile she was flashing Brooke’s way.

“Hey,” Brooke began, faltering slightly. She didn’t know where to start, so she chose the obvious. “You were there.”

“Yep!” Vanessa smiled at her proudly.

“How did…how?” Brooke stuttered out, still completely at a loss. Vanessa let out a laugh, charming beyond anything Brooke had heard before.

“I messaged your Mama. Got her number off Yvie after she sent her the link for the livestream. Basically said “hey Ms Hytes…can I grab your ticket and see your daughter graduate so I can surprise her”?” Vanessa grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Brooke couldn’t believe it. Her own Mum had been in on the whole thing and hadn’t let on. She was going to kill the woman the moment she touched down in Toronto.

“Oh my God. You’re amazing,” Brooke gasped, taking a little step forward so they were closer. She felt like crying. Vanessa was here, in front of her for what was maybe the last time. She had to do something. She couldn’t lose her. Not again.

“Amazing, huh?” Vanessa asked shyly, looking to the ground. They both knew the question meant so much more than simply what it was, and Brooke, without knowing where her confidence had emerged from, took both of Vanessa’s hands in hers. Vanessa’s gaze shot up, and their eyes met.

“Can I kiss you?”

“God, please.”

Without waiting a second longer, Brooke tipped her head down and met Vanessa’s lips. It was somehow just like the first time, even though in many ways it wasn’t at all. This time, Brooke knew every single inch of Vanessa’s body, she knew her ambitions, her fears, she knew what it was like to have almost lost her and be lucky enough to have her come back again. But most of all, Brooke knew that she was in love with her, so fucking in love with her, this one of a kind girl who she was desperate to keep in her life no matter if Vanessa chose her to be hers or not. Their kiss was gentle and urgent and passionate all at once, and Brooke wanted to hold onto the moment forever. When Vanessa’s lips were gone and Brooke was all at once looking at her again, she had tears in her eyes.

“Hey, hey, ‘Ness. Come on, this isn’t…don’t be upset.”

“I am, though! I’m an idiot. These past two months we could’ve been kissing like that and going on cute dates and planning the future and having fuckin’ insane levels of sex but I left you hanging like boo boo the fuckin’ fool when I knew what my decision was the moment we had that conversation in the library, because it’s you, Brooke, fuck, it’s always been you. I love you so much,” Vanessa sniffed, frantically wiping her tears away as Brooke pulled her against her chest. Vanessa’s voice murmured against her, the most hopeful, plaintive question. “Do you still love me?”

“Fuck, Vanessa, of course I love you. You’re just…the person I was meant to meet, you’re the person I’m meant to have in my life. I love you so much.”

Brooke felt like an idiot as tears began to well up in her own eyes. She looked down at Vanessa and she looked back up at her.

“You’re leaving,” Vanessa let out a tiny sob, her forehead hitting Brooke’s chest again.

“I’ll come back,” Brooke said immediately, meaning it. “Honestly, I will. I’ll book my flights as soon as I’m home. I’ll look for flats and jobs and we can start again. We’ll make it work. I want to be with you.”

Vanessa looked up at her, her happy, grateful smile at Brooke’s words all she needed. She let out a tearful laugh. “Brooke Lynn, will you be my girlfriend?”

Brooke laughed too, taking her both her hands and squeezing them. “Hey, fuck you, I wanted to ask first!”

They both laughed then leaned in for another kiss. Brooke didn’t need to answer. Vanessa hadn’t needed to ask.

As they broke away and wrapped their arms around each other, Brooke felt the tears spring up in her eyes as she looked over at the girls. There was Akeria, making some quip about something, and Silky howling at whatever it was she’d said. Monet had joined them all and was swigging the cava out of the bottle, an arm around Nina who was looking at her with adoration. Scarlet and Yvie were telling them both a story, their hands intertwined and their bodies close. Plastique had dragged her Mum over to meet them all and her face was animated as she spoke to her, so full of happiness and excitement.

“Fuck, Vanessa, I can’t believe it’s all over,” Brooke let out a small sob. Vanessa reached up, swept her tears away with a gentle finger.

“Hey. Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”

Brooke smiled down at her girlfriend. Her girlfriend. There was nobody she’d rather have spent the past three years with.

“You wanna go steal that cava back from Monet?”

Brooke giggled and nodded. Joining their hands together and giving them a little squeeze, they walked back over to be with their family.

#rpdr fanfiction #branjie #scyvie #ninex #ortega #not nineteen forever #n19f #college au #university au #lesbian au #s11 #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #scarlet envy #yvie oddly #nina west #monet x change #silky nutmeg ganache #akeria davenport #plastique tiara #alyssa edwards #tw weed

[crmediagal]

I Have A Lot of Thoughts...

Okay. I just got back from seeing TROS. Bearing in mind that I already knew the main spoilers involving my precious boy, Ben Solo, and my beloved ship Reylo, I still have So. Many. Questions. And a flippin’ series of disappointments to whinge about, so get ready.

!!! WARNING: #TROS SPOILERS AHEAD !!!

Lets start with the main and, for me, most important factors: Reylo and Ben Solo

At the end of the day, if Reylo wasn’t ever intended to be end game, I could have lived with that. I’ve shipped whatever the heck I wanna ship and written those ships in fandoms I’ve loved for years, regardless of their basis (or more often, not) in the canonverse. I’d have survived if there was no kiss at the end.

Back in early 2016, when people were still speculating that Ben and Rey were related, I was writing them as lovers and doting parents, so, erm, again, for me, the ship wasn’t contingent upon them becoming canon in order to hold legitimacy/meaning. It shouldn’t for anyone, really. Ship whatever you wanna ship, guys! Love them regardless of screen time or lack thereof!

That being said, I will cherish That Moment™ forever when the Reylo shippers got a glimpse of what this incredible coupling could have been. And in the actual canon material, no less. That’s more than I'd have ever expected to receive and, frankly, was enough for me to be satisfied.

HOWEVER.

I was fully invested in this trilogy from start to finish for Ben Solo.  And that is where I've been most letdown, disheartened, and pained.

At the off, sure, Kylo Ren made for an interesting archetype “villain” in TFA, but the moment we learned of his true identity, the Bad Boy™ appeal, for me, melted away. I fell in love with the tortured young man who had never really had the freedom of choice; who had the burden of war heroes for parents and a royal bloodline that traced back to Vader; who was abandoned by his family and left to navigate the enormity of his powers and abilities on his own. I was taken with Ben Solo’s troubled, many-layered complexity and this character took on a whole new meaning for me after TFA.

Like so many other Ben Redemptionists, I desperately wanted to see Ben Solo free of the torture he’d suffered all his life. And that life wasn’t long in years, unlike Anakin’s. By the end of Anakin’s life, he was more machine than man and middle-aged.

All the more reason that I needed to see Ben redeemed in this story...and allowed to walk freely in the sun. 

SW is built on forgiveness and redemption, after all, so why would they not bring Ben Solo back to the Light and take him where Anakin’s story never could go? The groundwork was laid in two films and reiterated in countless interview quotes the creators dropped on us for four effin’ years. Disney and the creators seemed as invested in Ben Solo’s redemption arc as the fans were, so I wasn’t too worried about seeing it come full circle. 

Hooooo boy. #MyBigFatMistakeThatIWillNeverMakeAgain

Ben Solo’s redemption, while earned in the last few minutes of TROS, was horribly cheapened when the creators decided to ‘play it safe’ by making him sacrifice himself. It wasn’t romantic and tragic, as I’m sure JJ and the creators were aiming for, but, rather, a Grade F example of very poor, very subpar writing. We got to see Ben for a few moments as himself whilst much of his storyline and importance in TROS was cruelly (and, it would seem, very purposely) reduced in the last film, too, when such plot for his character was supposed to be centre stage.

Less time devoted to Ben’s arc and then killing him off sends so many terrible messages, particularly for kids. You’d think Disney would understand that better than most.

Death is not hopeful. Redemption in the form of a young man, who was barely given the chance to live in Light and Love, dying as soon as his true self was realised isn’t hope. It’s been done before in this saga, as it has in many others, so it just makes the whole play-by-play defeatist and devastating. And after 40+ years of Skywalkers and Solos suffering in this universe, haven’t we ALL had enough of that, JJ? Disney?

They made Rey a Palpatine--a ‘surprise’ that had me actually laughing in the cinema and asking myself nervously, ‘Is this a joke?’--who takes the name of Skywalker to renounce her own bloodline but in the end, JJ, Disney, and the creators still sent us the same damnable, harrowing message: that Palpatine won.

#YIKES. That isn’t hope either, JJ! Disney! ABORT ABORT ABORT!

I thought JJ and the creators would be bolder than this PG-level crap. I thought Ben’s journey would be a true reversal of Vader’s, just as the director himself quoted not too long ago, and what did we get instead? Dusty old tropes and the sour takeaway that redemption will always come at a price rather than at its simplest, most exceptional form: the beauty of a second chance. 

In the end, Ben Solo’s never to know freedom from Darkness? He's never to have the opportunity to make right of his wrongs by living in the Light? He's never to grow old? Instead, he’s to die a too-young death in the hands of a woman who actually loves and cares about the role he has to play in this whole saga; perhaps, the only one who cares at that point?

That’s cruel, JJ. Disney. And, again, utterly hopeless.

Hell, Ben’s not even one of the Force Ghosts Rey sees in the last scene of the movie! (A convenient loophole, yes, and the flicker of an opportunity to, perhaps, bring him back but it’s a wildly overlooked mistake if that wasn’t intended by the creators...and I don’t think it was intentional to make him Not There™.)

I don’t get this saga anymore. I failed to grasp the overall message of Hope in TROS. At all. I’m beyond disappointed at the assassination of Ben’s character to give others, who shall remain nameless, more screen time and a beefier storyline which was, frankly, always quite thin to begin with. I feel like I’ve been cheated on...and it hurts so badly to be so letdown by something you’ve loved and supported for so long.

And some other ridiculous absurdities in TROS while we’re still here:

Why was this film ALL about Rey’s lineage, a direction that seemed to come out of nowhere when it was already established in TLJ that her background wasn’t important or crucial to her part in the story? She came from nowhere, so why did this become a central thing?

I’ll admit that I never really cared whether Rey was a Skywalker or a Kenobi or had any given name. I rather enjoyed the idea that she had built herself up from nothing. That was an empowering message, in fact, and a strong one, I think. It was certainly leaps and bounds better than the, ‘HA! GOTCHA! SHE’S PALPATINE’S GRANDDAUGHTER!’ reveal that was laid onto us way too thick in the Final Act.

Ew. Gross. No thanks. I hate it. Take it back. It’s a passe trick to try and pull on the audience at the last minute.

One of many more examples of poor writing by the creators, I suppose. 

Also, since when is Finn a Force sensitive? Did I miss something in TFA or TLJ that suggested he possessed that gift? No? Ah. More lousy writing.

Additionally, why does Finn spend the entire movie running after Rey? Why was his romantic storyline with Rose completely dropped and nonexistent in TROS?

It’s almost as if JJ and the creators were giving TLJ director, Rian Johnson, the middle finger throughout the entire finale that was this garbage of a movie. Nice work in undoing all the innovative things Rian brought to the saga, JJ. TROS is even worse™ than the Prequels...and THAT’s saying something.

Why did all the voices of Jedis past speak to Rey but never the helpless Ben Solo who had Palpatine raping his ear from the time he was a baby? It seems sketchy and unfair?

Again, lots of TROS makes little sense. It felt like an entirely separate movie to me--separate from the rest of the saga--and doesn’t wrap 40+ years of this series up all too nicely. It’s anything but. It’s confusing, heartbreaking, and leaves one without much hope.

So...we come to the end of my ramblings and wailings:

Ben Solo was the most interesting, convoluted, and beautifully crafted character from this new trilogy and a true redemption would have served the legacy upon which the SW saga is built--Hope™--so much better, including but not limited to its utilisation in making Han’s death carry meaning. Because his son would have not only returned to the Light but gotten to Live™ and experience it fully.

What a remarkably hopeful ending that would have been...

Instead, we got garbage writing and the redundant SW tropes.

Ben Solo deserved better. JJ and the creators absolutely wasted his potential in this story and I’ll be forever crestfallen..and retreating more and more into my own Ben Redemption fics because to hell with this elementary-level bullsh*t.

Han Solo deserved for his son’s part in his demise to not be utterly pointless at the end because, hey ho, guess what? YOUR SON DIED ANYWAY?!

Leia Organa deserved to not only see her son redeemed but to have that emotional reunion many of us were craving. She had already lost so much, but I guess JJ and the creators decided to just...serve the general more pain in the end. Wow. Rude. Such disrespect. Carrie Fisher wouldn’t have stood for it.

And Rey... My gawd, she deserved better, too. She should never been tied to Palpatine in order to make her seem more important. That grossly underserved her character.

She also should have had her other half. The yang to her yin. The only other person in the entire ruddy galaxy who understood her: Ben. She deserved to not be left alone at the end of TROS, just as she had started in TFA.

I’m going to go work on my WIP Reylo fic now and try to forget TROS entirely.

#ben solo #reylo #reyben #tros #tros spoilers #rey #star wars #i am in pain #i am....so heartbroken

[foxtophat]

hey i said i was gonna get this up today!!!!

so with this chapter's conclusion i can safely say that i've officially written everything that i set out to write with mercy!  this chapter was literally a skeleton that shaped eighty percent of the entire story, so i'm glad i could finally flesh it out and put it out there!!

there's still one more chapter to go, which will be more or less an epilogue for the main story. after that, i think i'll try to get a couple of other fandom fics going (ones that are ACTUALLY nearly done, not half-ass done like mercy was when i decided to start posting lmao) and then i can set up a schedule to write some more for this universe

anyway, for now i just want you to read and enjoy.  this chapter is all about john's ptsd, and it made me sad, so i hope it makes you sad too heheh

as usual, any likes, comments, reblogs, kudos, casual mentions in meatspace or idle daydreaming about different ways this chapter could go are ALL super welcome and adored. i love you guys, you've been so kind to me <3 i hope you enjoy this chapter!!!

the usual: below the cut is the full chapter text if you don't wanna go to ao3, but you should, ao3 is way easier to read on

Things around the Rye homestead have been pretty good as of late. Eight, nine months ago, Nick never would have expected to see the living room floor again, much less finish even half of the tedious repair work that he's managed to check off his list. The planters are already sprouting with what's going to be an early summer harvest, Carmina's hen-house is ready to go, and they've already bartered off some scrap for moonshine and extra ammunition for Carmina's blooming sharpshooter hobby. The house itself only creaks and groans in heavy winds, and a few additional supports outside have secured the second floor from crashing down in the middle of the night. For an old, blown-out house that's been through nuclear winter, the place is coming back together pretty well. Hell, another couple of years and they might be able to reconnect the septic system, and then they'd really be cooking.

Other people have noticed their good luck, too. Mostly friends, like Grace and Jerome, but the word's spread a bit now about the Rye's generosity, and they've gotten a few good trades out of it, although a lot of them are I-O-U's that maybe won't come to fruition. That's fine by Nick — they don't need the old fencing or the scrap plywood, and there are still two mostly-buried garages out back that could be broken down for some really prime salvage. If people want to give him free use of their future smokehouses or promise to help him find more gas for his truck, then that's more than enough payment. Anyway, that's what Nick tells people when they don't have anything to offer — it isn't like he's going to turn somebody away when they need help.

Of course, not all of their generosity is appreciated equally. John being around doesn't sit well with many of the people who come by, although it's never enough to deter them from doing business with Kim or Nick. There aren't many confrontations, even when John helps Nick load wood into a truck or remains lingering in plain view, although somebody usually has something to say about it. Unless they get really vulgar or violent, Nick usually lets them blow off steam in his and John's direction, and he doesn't take it personally when somebody takes a cheap shot at him for being such a soft-hearted bastard.

Their vitriol usually ends after a few minutes. Most of the time, John can handle it by himself, apologizing genuinely to each person who tries to curse him out. Nick hasn't heard the same regret twice, and even if John doesn't recognize every hateful face, he seems to remember his part in their trauma. It might not be what they want to hear, but John's serious, specific remorse usually puts the fire out of their fight. So far, there's only been two instances where Nick had to call Jerome out to mediate, and neither time resulted in anyone getting shot or knocked out. Sure, John might come out of an altercation with a couple of bruises, but that's usually it.

It stands to reason that something was bound to go wrong at some point. Nick's prepared for all sorts of catastrophes; he's got contingency plans for flooding, wild animals, and even ornery neighbors upset that he let John off so easy. There are a million little things that could go wrong out here, and Nick can only do so much to prepare for every eventuality, but he thinks he's got a pretty good handle on it.

That is, until the radio breaks. It's one thing that Nick hadn't even considered a possibility — they'd left the thing in its box until the apocalypse, and until they left the bunker, it'd barely seen any use at all. And yet, one day Nick tries to confirm a trade and the radio fails to catch anything more than static.

Cheap goddamn made-in-China crap, that's what it is, and that's what Nick tells everyone within earshot as he fiddles uselessly with the knobs. When he turns the radio around to get a look at the connectors, he ignores the stamped metal that reads "MADE IN GERMANY" in favor of hunting down the problem — but that's going to involve unscrewing the back and, well, Nick isn't exactly an electrician. He's not sure the best option here is to dig into the guts of his only radio willy-nilly like. He could go get the user's manual, but it's in a pile of boxes down in the bunker, and Nick really doesn't want to go rooting through trash for it.

Heaving a frustrated sigh that takes all the fight out of him, Nick grabs the flashlight and goes out back to let Kim know what's up. She and John are working in the garden, which used to be something John would avoid at all costs. Now, he doesn't even seem phased to be working in the dirt, barely acknowledging Nick's irritated venting about the broken radio as he pulls weeds. It's only when Nick mentions going into the bunker that he seems to take notice; he tries to be subtle about it, but Nick doesn't miss his head swiveling to stare briefly.

Of course, Nick is so used to John's cagey weirdness about bunkers that he barely notices, too busy

Kim looks sympathetic, but she doesn't sound it as she reminds him, "Nick, complaining to his ever-patient wife. "I'm just gonna grab the manual, maybe see if there were any spare parts in the box we missed. It's not like the thing gets used enough to break!" the radio is ten years old. Even expensive equipment can't last forever."

"If I don't get to sit down and give up whenever I want, then neither does the radio. It's not like we got any choice , here. If we don't have a working radio, we're going to have a bitch of a time reconnecting with everybody. And we've actually started to build something, you know?"

"At least you'll have a diagram to work with, I guess." Kim sighs. "John, have you... do you know where our bunker is?"

John smiles wryly. "I do," he replies.

"Oh, right," Nick sighs. "You probably know where everything is on the property, huh."

"Knew," John points out. "But yes, that was my job. I was as thorough as I could be." He chews his lip, standing after a thoughtful second. "I know where a lot of bunkers are. If you can't repair the radio... We could look for another one."

"Okay, of course you do." Nick waves for John to follow him, which he does, keeping pace as they head away from the wash, towards the opposite side of the hangar from their normal route. "What makes you think I wanna take a radio from somebody else ?"

"Not many of the structures put together out here were by any means safe ." John probably shouldn't sound so blase about it, but the guy's got a point. Doubly so when he continues, "I was suggesting we take one from someone who won't be needing it anymore."

Nick clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Well, it's something to think about," he agrees reluctantly. It sounds a lot like grave-robbing to him, but John's right. It's the smartest option, and somebody's going to have to do it eventually. It might be better for everyone if it's them, and not some opportunistic drifter who won't put the resources back into the community.

That's a problem for another day. Right now, Nick leads John around thick tumbleweeds that have gotten caught in the long grass, bringing them up just short of the bunker door. Covered with about two years' worth of dirt but not yet overgrown, the white hatch is only a marginal pain in the ass to pry out of the ground. John waits for Nick to ask for help, only to realize that isn't happening anytime soon, and wordlessly assists in coaxing the rusted hinges to work.

The bunker is dark and smells like a root cellar. Nick sure hopes nothing important molded. They'll have to get down here and clean up soon, before the mildew takes hold and ruins everything.

"Okay," he says, "You just wait here and make sure that thing doesn't close on me."

Nick half-expects some kind of joke about locking him inside, but John only nods obediently, standing a few feet from the opening with his arms folded across his chest. Nick rolls his eyes but does his best to ignore John's unease as he descends into the bunker.

He decides against testing the power — even if the generator down here still has some juice in it, they haven't operated anything in a while and Nick does not want to be engulfed in flames right now. Instead, he clicks on the flashlight and wanders through the narrow space. He doesn't linger on the drawings Carmina left on the wall or the unmade cots, passing by a pile of laundry that'll never get done and heading to the small utility closet in the back.

He finds the box intact, one corner suffering water damage from what looks like a cup of water that nobody ever picked up. Deciding against rooting around for anything else that might be useful, he takes the whole box back out to the ladder, chucking it up out of the hole once he's tackled the lower rungs.

John is trying hard not to show his nerves as Nick pops back up, shoving his hands into his pockets before changing his mind and folding them again over his chest. Bunkers are a tender spot for him, and Nick knows it, so for now he decides not to make a big deal about it. John's too fragile for Nick to be teasing him, even if he refuses to admit it himself.

Pulling the box apart, Nick scavenges the manual and a couple of accessories that he hadn't needed a decade ago and probably doesn't need now. The cardboard is mostly good, so Nick breaks down the box, chucking the useless packaging back into the bunker before foisting the supplies onto John.

Nick gets up and shoves the bunker door until it falls shut on its own weight. "Well, now I gotta spend the rest of my day reading that crap," he says, gesturing to the chunky owner's manual.

"Give it to Carmina," John suggests, "She's desperate for new reading material."

"And give her the chance to become more technologically savvy than me? I'll pass."

Nick spends the next few hours troubleshooting his way through the manual, vengefully ignoring the support hotline numbers plastered on every other page. Even if the service center hadn't been annihilated in a nuclear apocalypse, fat chance Nick would ever lower himself to call.

By dinnertime, Nick is frustrated but satisfied that he knows where the trouble area is. One of two pieces has given out, both designed to be replaced occasionally. On one hand, that's a good thing — it's supposed to be done by novices, which means the manual is painfully clear on the method. On the other hand, there are only going to be so many matching radios out there, and who knows how many will have the same issue?

"It'll be okay," Kim reassures him that night. "Plenty of people get by without a radio, you know."

"That doesn't mean I wanna be one of them," Nick grouses, turning to pin his hopes selfishly on John. "You said there were bunkers around, right? And maybe one of them has a radio we can use?"

"I didn't promise anything," John clarifies, "But that would be my suspicion."

"Maybe it'd be worth it to look. Who knows, we could get lucky."

Kim doesn't look sure about Nick's optimism, but he ignores her skepticism. If nothing else, it'll be good to use John's old cult knowledge to benefit them for once, and that alone puts Nick firmly in the "in favor" group. Even if it turns out to be a waste of time — well, at least they'll have tried everything. For now, Nick can let Kim think up a contingency plan for a no-radio life — Nick is going to rest all of his hopes firmly on the repair plan and hope that it works out.

Nick wakes up last the next morning, sleeping in an extra half-hour or so before finally peeling his eyelids apart to face the sun. Even as he gets dressed, he feels groggy and slow, dragged down by a long night of forgotten stress dreams. His brain probably spent all night running through every possible outcome of bunker-hunting with John — not that it does any good now, when Nick can't remember any of it.

He isn't the only one who looks like they could use more sleep. Carmina is yawning over her breakfast, eating like a sloth as she processes being awake. The bags under Kim's eyes are darker than normal, too, but she's bright-eyed and dressed for the day.

John is the only one who looks like he's coping with the morning at all, but that's probably because he's been up for a while now. Ever since he's been given free rein, John's sleep schedule has put him as the last one to sleep and the first one to wake. Nick doesn't mind too much, though, since he usually brews up some coffee right before anyone else comes down. He's been arguing with Kim for the last few mornings about going by himself to pull water from the river for the house, but Kim is holding tight to her buddy-system, and John isn't going to convince her to give it up that easily.

From the way Kim looks at Nick as he descends the stairs, they might be arguing about it already today. "What?" Nick asks, "What'd I do?"

"It's not you," Kim says. She gestures across the table at John, who looks like he's been waiting for Nick to come to his defense. "Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"The radio is the same make as mine," John tells Nick, clearly expecting Nick to understand what he's talking about. Fat chance there, though, because Nick has no idea what he means. "It might not be the same model, but it's worth a try."

"Uh... which radio are you talking about, exactly?"

John tries hard to not look like he's suffering at the hands of fools. He fails, but at least he directs his exasperated look towards the ceiling at the last moment. "In my bunker," he explains slowly. "I had a radio of the same make."

"You said yourself it broke," Kim points out, clearly repeating an argument from before Nick's arrival.

"All the more reason to not worry about scrapping it," John replies. "The bunker is closer than any other structure, and it's guaranteed to be there. That is as much of a blessing as you'll get these days."

Nick wonders at first why Kim is so dead-set against going back to John's bunker. Sure, the guy refuses to talk about it, and sure, bunkers in general seem to fill him with unshakable anxiety, but it's still just a bunker. A bunker with a radio that could save their asses, where they won't be stealing from someone who might need it just as much. And hell, John doesn't even have to go inside!

Kim sighs and says gently, "I just don't know if it's... the greatest idea." She looks sideways at Nick, who knows from experience that she's holding back her opinion for John's benefit. She probably doesn't want to be the one telling him he's too fragile to handle it.

"I'm not asking for your permission," John says. "If neither of you want to come with me, I'll go by myself."

"Oh, come on," Kim huffs, "Not this again —"

"If I want to go somewhere, I have the right to do so," John exclaims. "We've established that I'm not a prisoner, and I certainly am not a child."

Carmina huffs loudly, but John pointedly ignores her.

"Okay, okay," Nick says, holding out his hands in a poor attempt to placate all parties. "Look, if you're really dead-set on this, and you really think that the radio's gonna help, well..." He sighs. "Then maybe it's worth going to check out."

Kim looks mildly offended that he's taking John's side, but Nick knows how to reassure her, at least a little. "But there are some ground rules," he says. "You can come with me, but I call the shots. No acting like you know better than me, or deciding to run off and forcing me to follow you. You get it?"

"Of course," John says.

"I mean it. If I decide it's not worth it when we get there, you're gonna have to respect that. I mean, there could be snakes living in there now. I don't even remember if I closed the hatch, it could be flooded from the rain earlier this year."

John nods, so quickly that Nick wonders if he's really listening. "Yes," he says. "That's fair."

"I can't believe this," Kim sighs, relenting at last as she rubs her forehead. "Okay. But you both need to be careful." She looks at John. "Especially you."

"I don't..." John cuts himself off, reluctantly changing tactics. "Okay. Fine." He stands up, leaving his chair wide open for Nick to take as he says, "I need to get ready," and excuses himself. What he needs to get ready for when he's already dressed, Nick has no idea, but that's not exactly Nick's problem. If John needs to go talk himself through the decision he forced on Nick, then it's a good thing he's not involving Nick in any of it!

Nick's real problem right now is the way Kim is staring at him. "What?" he asks, sinking into the abandoned seat. She doesn't respond, and Carmina glances skeptically at her dad from across the table. "What was I supposed to do?" he asks, exasperated. "It's not like he was gonna let it go."

"You could have put your foot down," Kim says. She sounds downright disappointed, and that stings more than Nick wants to admit. "You could have taken my side," she adds, aiming her heavy frown at the coffee cup in front of her.

"We've been waiting for him to want to talk about it," Nick points out. "And anyway, we need a radio. If he can help, we should encourage it. Right?"

Kim isn't keen on getting into a fight right in front of Carmina, so she only nods her head in response. It's enough, though, because Nick does wind up feeling guilty for siding with John. Right or not, he probably should have negotiated that better.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he says. "You're right. I've got tunnel-vision with this radio problem, is all."

"I know," Kim sighs. "I just... worry."

"Well, don't. I'll be fine."

Kim rolls her eyes. "It isn't you I'm worried about, Nick." She looks towards the stairs, listening to John pacing up in his room, then reluctantly turns back to her husband. "Just... promise me that you'll keep an eye on him, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Nick replies. Kim doesn't look too reassured, so Nick reaches over and wraps her hand in his. "Really, I will." He glances at Carmina and tells her, "You'll keep an eye on mom so she doesn't worry all day, right?"

"Sure," Carmina says. Nick knows from the Kim-like tone in her voice that she thinks he's being an ass, but at least she's young enough to not call him out directly yet. All he has to do now is make sure that neither of his girls can rub his rash decision-making in his face when he gets back.

John is quiet as he and Nick make their way through the woods. The walk itself isn't too bad, less than a mile out from the edge of what Nick used to consider his property, but John is having a lot of trouble hiding how jittery it is, and it makes for a tense hike. He keeps speeding up and falling behind, as though he can't decide whether or not he wants to lead the way.

"You sure you're ready for this?" Nick asks eventually, unable to help himself. John answers with such a dirty look that Nick immediately goes on the defensive. "Hey, don't give me that. I just don't want you to, you know... start having nightmares about it or Joseph or whatever all over again. You're the one who's always been weird about it."

John scoffs but doesn't respond. From the way he glares at the ground, Nick figures he probably hasn't stopped having nightmares yet. That's... probably a good reason to keep him from climbing all the way down into the hole. Of course, Nick isn't sure that he'll really be able to stop John, never mind what John promised back at the house.

"What were you doing out here?" John asks after the silence grows out again. "When you found me."

"Oh. Well, I was sorta looking for places to put more traps, after I made them. And, you know, if there was anything left to salvage out here." Neither of those ideas had gone anywhere, although maybe now would be a good time to revisit them. "There's not much out here, though. There's that herd of deer to the north, and the river... we really haven't needed to expand so much."

John hums agreeably in response, although he doesn't have much to add to the conversation. Nick doesn't know how to keep it afloat by himself, so he doesn't, letting them sink back into silence until they finally reach their destination. Nick recognizes the spot by the shock of parachute fabric hanging in the trees, just a flash of artificial color behind the browns and greens of the trees.

Now that he has time to look around, Nick can sort of see where the land had been cleared for installation. Of course, the only remnant of the open circle now is the thinner layer of weeds over what looks like a thirty-foot rectangle. He doesn't remember anybody building out here, and he can't even fathom when they could have done it, but somebody came through here right before the apocalypse and made themselves a hidey-hole.

Nick doesn't wait to approach the closed bunker door, but John lingers at the imagined edge of the space as though facing a barbed-wire fence. He seems pensive and lost in thought, and Nick lets him adjust while he sweeps away dirt and scraggly tumbleweeds that have just started to cover the hatch. Just a bunker or not, it's got to be a lot to deal with, although Nick can't imagine why. No matter how terrible being alone had been, it couldn't have gotten worse than intense boredom. Hell, Nick's met two different people who had clearly let the cabin fever get to them, and neither of them could shut up about their damn bunkers.

Reaching down, Nick braces his legs on either side of the bunker door and pulls at the hatch. John is clearly holding his breath, even this far away, tension coiled in his shoulders and forcing his spine ramrod-straight. He doesn't offer to help, stuck in place like he is.

"Maybe you should stay up here," Nick offers.

Of course, John only scowls at the thought. "You won't know where to look. It would be faster if I went in alone."

"Yeah, Kim would love it if I let you do that. Don't be an asshole."

Nick heaves the door upwards. The rusted hinges scream in protest, as if they hadn't moved in years, but the door swings open after a few hard tugs on the handle.

John hesitates a second longer, then approaches the hatch. Nick goes over to the edge, crouching down so that he doesn't fall, and shines the flashlight down the ladder. The air is stale, smelling like rot and mold, and Nick can see a puddle drying at the base of the ladder. Well, that makes sense — there's no way the seal is still airtight. So much for closing the door from the elements.

"You ready?" Nick asks. John nods mutely in response, standing some feet away from the hole. "Really, John. You don't have anything to prove. Kim would probably be happy if you stayed up top."

John grimaces. "I'll go first," he says, his voice clipped.

This is a bad idea, and Nick knows it. A month or two ago, he'd probably have figured John was about to pull a fast one on him, but now he's more concerned that John is trying to pull something on himself. Confronting your fears is one thing, but as John climbs down the ladder and Nick gets a good look at his pale face and tight jaw, he worries that this is too much, too fast. Not that John seems to understand the concept of pacing himself — he seems more like the kind of guy to throw himself mindlessly at a problem until it shatters under the sheer force of his determination.

Nick hands John the flashlight before he gets out of reach, following him down the rungs as quickly as he can. They knock into each other as he reaches the bottom rung, and Nick turns to find John aiming the flashlight uselessly at their feet. Staring down the murky darkness that turns the bunker into a cave of unknown depths, John looks as though he might hear floodwaters in the distance.

Maybe he's just taken aback by how bad things look, even with only a little light to see by. The looming piles of garbage and years of refuse have turned the twenty-by-ten foot box into a narrow, craggy cavern. Nick can see a door at the far end of the gloom, cracked in the middle and left ajar in its frame, surrounded by a pile of overturned furniture. He spends a second or two trying to calculate the dark tally marks he can see covering the wall next to him, but there are too many and he can't keep track.

John takes a shuddering deep breath that turns Nick's attention back to him. "Hey," he calls, "You okay?"

"Yes," John replies, spitting the word out. He shakes his head heavily from side to side, just in case Nick missed the baldfaced lie for what it is, and takes a hesitating step away from the ladder. The breath he takes doesn't seem to give him enough air, and no amount of gasping can draw more in. He has a white-knuckled grip on the ladder, and it seems for a second to be the only thing holding him up as he visibly reels.

Nick hasn't been on the opposite end of a panic attack in a long time, but he's been through enough on his own to see that John is veering wildly in that direction. He's searching the walls, rapid-fire counting the lines, confusion breaking out on his sweaty, gray face.

"Hey," Nick says quickly, lifting his hands placatingly as he comes closer, "Hey, it's gonna be okay."

John shakes his head again, rapidly this time, abandoning any pretense of control. "No," he gasps, "No, I don't think it is!"

Goddamn it. Nick should have known better, he never should have agreed to this, he never should have let John come down here. He just — he hadn't thought it would be like this. He didn't know it could be this bad.

Nick puts off berating himself, at least until John's panic passes. For now, he focuses on damage control, guiding John's free hand to grab hold of the ladder, which is at least haloed in enough light to keep the worst of it from immediate view.

"It is gonna be okay," he insists. "Here, let's — let's get back up top. Get you some fresh air, okay?"

For a moment, it looks like John doesn't understand the concept, but his fingers eventually curl together on one rung. "I didn't know," he says unhelpfully, but at least he doesn't resist as Nick ushers him slowly up the ladder. He moves so slowly, paralyzed by each step, but Nick's only concern is making sure he doesn't fall on his way out.

The sun is right overhead as John slides out of the bunker, crawling on his hands and knees and collapsing several feet away from the opening. Nick hesitates on the last rung, knowing full well that they can't just leave now that they're here, but he has to deal with John first. The radio has waited this long — it can wait a little while longer.

John gasps for air a few more times, barely catching his breath. He doesn't look at Nick, but he offers him a miserable apology, mumbling, "Sorry," halfway into the dirt.

Nick crouches beside John, awkwardly shifting his weight on his feet. He's not sure what he's supposed to do here — he isn't used to being on this side of things, and Kim is so much better at calming people down than he is. The worst of the attack has passed, but Nick's not good at damage control.

"Hey," he says at last, "It's okay. Take your time."

There's not a patient bone in John's body, so it's a small miracle when he listens obediently, struggling until his breath evens out enough to ease the panic.

"I thought I could handle it," he sighs at last, his voice heavy with resignation. "I handled it for seven years, I thought..."

Nick doesn't think what he saw down there counts as handling it by any means, but he's not about to say as much. Truthfully, he doesn't know what to say.

"We should go," Nick says. "This isn't worth it."

John looks offended at the mere suggestion. "We came all the way here," he rasps. "Give me a minute. I'll — I'll go back —"

"Like hell you will," Nick snaps. He doesn't mean to, but damn, is John really such a masochist? "Look, just — let me go find it. You keep watch up here."

There's barely any hesitation before John nods miserably in agreement. He tries not to let it get to him, but he's already shaken by the underground and he's in a suspiciously fragile state himself. He hopes to God that he can find the radio on his own, and that it works enough to make this trip worth the trauma. If this doesn't work out, Nick is going to feel even worse about it than he already does.

It's not the best idea to leave John alone, but Nick forces himself to go through with it anyway. Armed only with his flashlight and empty backpack, Nick descends as quickly as he can, taking one last breath of fresh air before disappearing into the bunker.

God, there is blood everywhere. Nick's not sure how many of the streaks on the walls are meant to be counted with the rest of the tallies, scratched into the walls with what Nick hopes to God was anything other than John's fingernails. Everywhere Nick shines the light, he finds another smear of crumbling red blood, each one painting a different image of John's scars and scabbed over tattoos. The garbage is honestly overwhelming, with a decade of waste piled up openly on top of sealed trash bags, cans spilling across the floor, dirty clothes and ripped fabrics clumped together in haphazard nests that have molded and mildewed into an inseparable mess...

There's more room to walk than Nick originally thought, although there aren't many places entirely free of trash. Still, he hesitates to step outside of the ring of natural light above. After all, nothing about this bunker is safe. Looking past the garbage and the wreckage that John has left behind, Nick sees rust starting to form along the seams, and his first step feels uneven, as if they hadn't leveled the ground properly before installing and just couldn't be assed to fix it.

Jesus Christ. It's a miracle that John didn't die down here. It's surprising enough that it circulated enough air for him to survive. How the hell did he make it as long as he did in this death trap?

It's not a question Nick can answer, and quite frankly he doesn't think it's safe to spend much time down here ruminating. As a matter of fact, the less time he spends down here, the better. It's hard not to take note of the damage, though, especially as he searches for wherever John might've kept his radio. Lord, with the way everything seems to have been torn apart, who knows if it's even going to be in one piece? Or even somewhere accessible? Nick really doesn't want to go poking through the destroyed couch or the bags of trash heaped in confusing piles across the bunker.

He heads all the way to the back of the space, circling around an overturned table and seeing at last a small desk wedged into the corner, facing the ladder. The radio microphone hangs from its cord over the edge, and Nick has to repress a delighted shout when he sees that it's still in one piece. There's a crack along the plastic case, but other than that, Nick can see that it's a model very similar to the one back home — older by a couple of years, maybe, but hopefully not so old that it's no longer compatible.

He struggles to be careful as he loads the radio into his bag, but all he wants to do is get the hell out of here. It's only once he's pulled the heavy backpack back onto his shoulders that Nick takes stock of the position that he's in. Standing here, facing the ladder, Nick can see a definite barrier that John must've formed at some point — the table, the desk, even the broken down automatic washer, all of it has been set up as though John were planning to hunker down against an enemy attack.

On the ground, behind the table, Nick sees a book with a white leather cover. The gilded Eden's Gate emblem has been mostly rubbed clean off, but Nick has seen that book too many times not to recognize it for what it is. It's bloated with water damage and stuffed with ripped addenda that have filled the binding to burst, lying on the cement like an undetonated grenade.

Nick grabs it before he can think better about it. He immediately regrets it, mostly because the bottom cover has become slimy and the whole thing feels like it's going to come apart in his hands. Not knowing what else to do, he drops it onto the empty desk, wrinkling his nose at the squelching slap of wet paper on wood. He goes so far as to pinch the first few pages under his finger, ready to flip it open to some random verse — but even touching the cover leaves Nick feeling uneasy and watched. Honestly, just looking at it fills Nick with a sense of distant dread, the same hazy fear that came along with the first time he got a face-full of Bliss.

Fuck that, he decides. Whatever John's left in the book, it's not for Nick to look at. He already got what they came for, and it's been about five minutes; Nick can't leave John waiting much longer, and frankly he doesn't want to. With one last grimace in the book's direction, Nick beelines for the ladder. He stops trying to tabulate how many days John kept track of, stops wondering when or if he ever lost count, and focuses entirely on getting the hell out of the goddamn deathtrap.

It's probably just his imagination, but Nick can smell floral sweetness in the air as he finally escapes the bunker. He takes a deep breath once he's out, tipping his face back to gratefully meet the blue Montana sky.

John waits until Nick looks at him to ask uneasily, "Did you find it?"

"Yeah," Nick replies, shifting the backpack so that he can pat it reassuringly. "I think it'll work. I didn't check for the parts — I figure we can do that back home."

John nods a few times. "Good," he mutters, "Good," as if maybe he doesn't think it's such a good thing at all. He falls silent, and Nick realizes he's waiting for Nick to say something about what he saw down there.

Nick wants to say something. He doesn't know what, though. His own thoughts are scattered and confused. "Uh... you mind if I close it up?" he asks.

John shakes his head mutely in response; the clang of the door rises up through the air like a stricken bell, scattering some birds that had been resting in the treetops.

"So... uh..." Nick rubs the back of his head, trying to decide what to say before deciding lamely to go with, "Do you... wanna talk about it?"

The fact that John doesn't immediately reply tells Nick all he needs to know. When John finally says, "No," Nick knows it's a lie, even if he's not sure what to do about it. Nick's positive that they do need to talk about it. But he doesn't know how he can force the issue, and he's sure he's not the man to do it. John needs a licensed psychologist, or a goddamn priest, someone who can absolve him of whatever the fuck that all was down there, not a hick aviator who can hardly handle his own trauma.

"Are you sure?" he presses. "I mean..."

John stares at the dirt, his hands curling into tense fists. Nick moves immediately to rescind the question, but John beats him to the punch. "I didn't know it would look like that," he tells the weeds matted under his boots. "I didn't think it would... be like that."

Nick wants to ask how John avoided noticing the mess spiraling out of control around him, but there had been plenty of evidence down there that proved John hadn't been in a clear state of mind.

"There... were issues with the power early on," John admits, clearing his throat roughly. "I would have to... prioritize. Switch on the lights, switch off the ventilation system. Switch off the lights, switch on the ventilation. Eventually, I stopped switching on the lights."

He swallows a few times and tries to bring his eyes to Nick's, but he can't seem to manage it. "Really," he mutters. "We don't have to talk about it." But before Nick can agree, because he suddenly wants to hear as little of the story as possible, John continues briefly onward, staggering the words as though he's throwing them off a cliff. "I've been locked in the dark before," he says. "I thought I could handle it. But I... I couldn't."

Nick doesn't know what to say. He stares helplessly at John, waiting for Kim to materialize out of the wood and point out the obvious emotional cue for him to take, but there's nothing but John's uncomfortable expression and a quiet forest all around them. He should reach out, maybe. Offer him a sympathetic hand, or something.

"That's all I want to say about it," John says at last.

"Uh. Okay." Nick clears his throat, tries to think up a good joke to lighten the mood, and fails completely. He tries to come up with something to say that would share his sentiment but nothing comes.

"Kim will start to worry," John mutters.

Kim's gonna worry no matter what, but Nick doesn't bother to tell John that. If he thinks he can hide his emotional distress from Nick's wife, then he is welcome to try. At least that'll be more fun to watch than the slow implosion happening in front of him now.

Nick waits until the silence between them on the way back doesn't feel so thick, then tries to distract from John's deeply pensive mood. "I'm not looking forward to reading more of that manual," he says as they trace the path back towards the house. "But I also don't wanna screw up our only chance at replacing it. It's a real tough situation."

"I assume the pictures aren't clear enough for you," John replies. It's a joke insult that stings mostly because of John's brisk delivery, and he ducks away as soon as the words leave his mouth. Nick considers taking it personally for a second, until John wearily mutters a sincere apology into the air between them. "I didn't mean that," he admits roughly.

"It's fine," Nick shrugs. After all, Nick's used to being a self-defensive dickhead; he can't exactly take offense.

Casually brushing it off seems to be the wrong thing to do. John comes to an abrupt halt behind Nick, thick tears gathering and spilling over his closed eyelids. At first, when Nick turns, he can't comprehend the sight in front of him, watching John's face slowly turn red. John sucks in a wet, heaving breath, which only makes things worse as it turns into a sob midway. It seems to mortify John, but he can't stop, and all at once he's just — crying, and Nick is left standing there while John covers his face in humiliation and sucks in deep, horrified breaths. Words try to form between the sobs, but all Nick hears is desperate wailing.

"Shit," Nick says, setting down the backpack, "Okay, hold on —"

"—Didn't know what to do," John's saying, the words tearing from his throat. "I got trapped, I didn't —"

"Hey," Nick tries, "Just — take a breath."

John sobs, dropping to his knees in the mulch. "I lost track of it," he gasps, "I don't know what's real, Nick. How much of this is happening — I keep thinking I'm not — I'm not ever getting out of here, and I —"

Oh, Nick knows he fucked up real bad now. John's cries tear through the scar overlaying his heart, as though twisting a knife that's rusted over in his chest. Nick thinks back to the muttering, the distant looks, the unsettling nightmares, and now he kind of sees them for what they are. Deep, visible wounds on John's psyche that he should have caught sooner. Signs of a collapse much bigger than the one that put them in this world to begin with. Clear indications that John wasn't ready to go back.

"Please," John gasps. He doesn't ask for anything, so Nick doesn't know what he wants, but he repeats the word like it's the only one he knows. "Please."

"God damn," Nick sighs, coming to John's side. "You are a real piece of work."

He can't help but try to deflect, even as he reaches out to grasp the dented curves of John's shoulders. He knows there are deep, claw-mark scars under his hands, even if he can't feel them through the flannel of John's shirt. He thinks he understands where they came from now, although the concept is more horrifying than Nick is willing to consider; all he can do is be better than John had been to himself, and hope that's enough.

Nick barely pulls John in before he's being grabbed, desperate claws sinking into Nick's back as John scrabbles for a secure grip. He's shaking so badly that Nick feels it rattling his own bones. There's nothing for Nick to do but hold on while John desperately tries not to fall apart at the seams, struggling to form coherent words. Nick only catches some of them, as John tries to explain the barriers, the tallies, the scarred over spaces where he used to have tattoos, but he doesn't need to understand the words to see the wounds that are being uncovered.

"Alone," John cries into Nick's chest, "I was alone, the whole time, he said I wouldn't be alone —"

"Okay," Nick consoles, "It's okay."

John eventually calms down, although it's anybody's guess how long it takes for him to finally catch his breath. Even when he does, his gasps finally leveling out, he keeps a tight grip on the back of Nick's shirt. Not even Carmina has clung to Nick so terribly, and despite the fact that John has a couple of years on him, Nick manages to feel desperately protective in the moment. He can't help it. John keeps talking like he can't tell up from down, and he'd been trapped down in that hole for who knows how long without power, and from the chaos he'd seen, it's clear John has been trying to protect himself for a long time.

"I've got ya," Nick says after John lets out a heavy sigh, finally losing the strength to hold on so tightly.

John's sweaty face is pressed into Nick's shoulder, but the words are still clear. "I need this to be real," he admits quietly. "I can't go back there."

"You don't have to," Nick says. He's rubbing John's back now and he doesn't know when he started, but the guy seems so desperate for the contact that he can't bring himself to stop. "You're not making me up, you know?"

John huffs. There might be a laugh somewhere in there, or Nick might be imagining it. "I know," he rasps. "I wouldn't be so kind to myself."

Oh, man. Nick sighs, patting his back gently. "Gotta work on that, I guess," he says. "We'll get you there."

John's fingers curl briefly against Nicks back. "Thank you," he mutters. "God, thank you."

Nick lets the situation lie like that for a minute or so. John is the first one to let go, his arms falling away from Nick's sides as he leans back and takes a deep, steady breath of air. Nick lets him go with a heavy pat on the shoulder, relieved to have the space if only because it means John isn't about to collapse again.

"Kim was right," John admits, saying aloud the thought that's been repeating nonstop in Nick's mind. "I should have listened to her."

Nick gets to his feet. "Yeah, probably. Thank God she isn't the type to say 'I told you so,' huh?"

John sits back, scrubbing at his face with the back of his sleeve. "I hope so," he says.

"I think I know my wife pretty well by now," Nick chuckles, holding his hand out for John. "C'mon, let's get home before she comes looking for us."

For an awful second, Nick thinks John is going to cry again, but he only grits his teeth and takes Nick's help to climb to his own feet. He dusts off his pants as though his face isn't warped by drying tear tracks, wiping belatedly at the wet skin under his eyes as they start onward again. Nick doesn't let him trail behind too far, but he doesn't force John to keep pace either, leaving enough space so that John doesn't feel self-conscious when he starts sniffling again.

They haven't been gone that long, but Kim is still waiting for them outside when they get back. She and Carmina are reading on the porch, but as soon as Nick and John reach the driveway, Kim drops the pretense entirely. Nick hears John take a deep breath behind him; he looks back, but John's expression is too troubled to get a good read. At least he doesn't seem likely to bolt.

"We got it!" Nick shouts as they walk across the drive, lifting the backpack up triumphantly.

"Oh, thank God," Kim sighs, relief flooding her expression. "Nobody got hurt?"

Nick looks back at John, then shrugs. "Nothing we can't fix," he suggests.

John takes a breath. He looks like he wants to spill everything right then and there, but he boils it all down into a simple admission. "I'm sorry," he mutters.

Stunned, Kim asks, "Are you okay?"

"No," he quietly replies. "You were right."

Kim shakes her head, glancing briefly at Nick before putting a gentle hand on John's arm. He sighs shakily at the contact, but thankfully he doesn't collapse into another crying wreck. Kim looks like she's expecting something like that, but John manages to surprise them both.

"We can talk about it later, if you want," Kim tells him, patting his shoulder.

There's relief in John's voice as he suggests, "I'll need a strong drink before I accept that offer."

Kim shakes her head, laughing a little. "It's as good a place to start as any," she tells him.

Carmina, who's been standing on the porch looking increasingly bored, finally gives up waiting for attention. "Hey, dad," she calls, lifting the radio's manual up in the air, "Can I help with the radio?"

"So much for my technological superiority," Nick sighs, raising his voice to tell Carmina, "Sure!"

"I couldn't help it," Kim replies. She has a smug expression that tells Nick a different story, but he can easily forgive her for deciding to make their kid smarter out of spite. It's better than trying to poison him or running off with Hurk and his raider gang. "I cleared off the table for you," she adds, "And I brought out the radio so you could get a better look at it."

"I guess there's no better time to start than now," Nick says. He offers John a lopsided grin and asks, "So, uh, how much do you know about electronic repair?"

"About as much as you," John replies. He gestures his arm towards the house, saying, "It can be a learning experience for us all."

As if this whole year so far hasn't been one big learning curve. Nick shakes his head, leading the three adults up to the porch. Carmina disappears inside, triumphantly waving the manual in the air, leaving Nick to chase playfully after her inside the house. He catches sight of Kim talking to John on the porch, but Carmina is squealing delightedly in his arms so he can't quite make out the conversation. Later on, he can tell Kim about what happened, but for now, she seems content with whatever John is saying, patting him again on the arm before leading him inside. She shuts the door behind her, and for the first time in almost a year, Nick feels as though he's finally home, surrounded by people on the same page as him for once. This, he thinks, could very well be his new normal, and that's not so bad at all.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #fcnd #new dawn #john seed #nick rye #kim rye #far cry fanfic #my fic

[mittensmorgul]

Has Chuck ever talked about why he brought Cas back? I'm watching The Man Who Would Be King and it's a massive point of contingency. Cas is clearly important to God, has that ever been brought back up?

Hi there... I don’t really get what the second message has to do with the first, but I’m gonna try to reply to both of these things, because these are two fundamentally unrelated issues. At least, I believe this is also a message from you, but please correct me if I’m wrong. Sometimes it’s really hard to tell if two messages are supposed to go together in the inbox when they’re both from anons:

In that same season Let It Bleed shows Dean asking Cas to erase the memories of Lisa and Ben and that's like Cas' ultimate skill as an angel Stripping Memory and he did for Dean Just Like That. My Chuck has anything been addressed for Cas since season 6?

I think this is the only thing that Chuck has canonically said about the fact he kept bringing Cas back, and it was uttered during one of his lil tantrums in 11.20, while Metatron was prodding him into Doing The Right Thing for all of creation:

Chuck: You know I love those guys, but the world would still be spinning with demon Dean in it. But Sam couldn't have that, though, could he? And so how is Amara being out on me?Metatron: It's not. But you helped the Winchesters before.Chuck: Helped them? I've saved them! I've rebuilt Castiel more times than I can remember. Look where that got me.Metatron: So you're just gonna let Amara win?Chuck: Eh, it's her time to shine.

Chuck was still actively deflecting any responsibility for the Darkness. As if this ENTIRE problem didn’t directly spring from his initial act of locking her away in the first place. Granted, we wouldn’t have had Creation at all if he hadn’t, but he’d been willing to just sequester himself off in his little private bar at the end of all things while the rest of the universe crumbled around him rather than confront any of that. It was easier for him to just blame everyone else for... everything else... as if the problem hadn’t been his own refusal to deal with the fact that he was only one side of this Creation Coin, you know? It took the catalyst of Dean Winchester to bring those two sides together eventually in 11.23.

But getting back to your point... No, Chuck has never said directly, “I specifically and factually continued to resurrect Cas for these explicit purposes,” and then given us a bullet-pointed list.

Because your second question (and I think it’s yours, again) refers to something in 6.21 as being in “the same season” that Chuck resurrected Cas... but he first resurrected Cas in 5.01, after Raphael had exploded him in 4.22 (which happened offscreen, but we were TOLD it happened, by Chuck in 5.01.

Given what we know about the Empty, and the fact it’s where angels go when they die, and the fact that we know now that Jimmy died in 4.22 and went to Heaven and has been there ever since despite Cas having been resurrected in a replacement Jimmy Suit in 5.01... I think it’s safe to assume that Chuck (since he’d been literally standing RIGHT THERE when Cas went kablooie) held Cas in some sort of stasis, waiting to see what happened next. Remember, they’d been making it up as they went. NONE of what happened at the end of 4.22 and after that had been part of Chuck’s Grand Plan. It wasn’t in the script. It was something he hadn’t expected, and yet... it happened.

I don’t think he initially had a definite plan to resurrect Cas, but it had been one of the options he’d held open for himself. Cas had done something INTERESTING to him. He was an angel who demonstrated an act of rebellion and free will-- not the way Lucifer had by wanting to destroy and corrupt humanity, but out of love for Humanity and creation itself. Cas wanted to save the world from Chuck’s destined apocalypse. And Chuck being a shrewd creator, he plucked Cas out of the air before he could be zapped off to the Empty, knowing that such an Angel was an anomaly, and that he might just have a bigger part to play in the salvation of Creation.

In 6.20, I believe the scene you’re referring to is this one:

CASTIEL I was...done. I was over. And then the most extraordinary thing happened. I was put back. (Castiel stands behind Dean, beaten bloody by Lucifer) And we had won. We stopped Armageddon. (Castiel heals Dean) But at a terrible cost. (Castiel heals Bobby)(flashback to very end of 'Swan Song')EXT. OUTSIDE OF LISA BRAEDEN'S HOUSE - NIGHT(Sam stands under the streetlight, which flickers and dies, watching Dean inside Lisa's house. Castiel watches Sam.)CASTIEL And so I knew what I had to do next. Once again, I went to Harrow Hell, to free Sam from Lucifer's cage. It was nearly impossible, but I was so full of confidence, of mission. I see now that was arrogance...Hubris...Because, of course, I hadn't truly raised Sam -- not all of him.(flashback to 'Unforgiven': Sam is beating a cop unconscious; flashback to 'Live Free or Twi-Hard': Sam watches Dean being turned; flashback to 'Appointment in Samarra': Sam raises his dagger to stab Bobby) Sometimes we're lucky enough to be given a warning. (back in front of Lisa's house, Sam turns and walks away- directly past Castiel) This should have been mine.

But this was actually his SECOND resurrection. He was also speaking from a place of desperation, at his lowest point to date, knowing he was about to make A Huge Choice and desperately looking for ANY sort of guidance. It’s like he KNEW he’d already made a mistake, and couldn’t see any way out of this dire, horrific circumstance other than to just... keep pushing through and hope everything worked out in the end. He was trying to save the universe, again, single-handedly. And EVERYTHING was failing. He’d failed to protect Dean, he’d failed to resurrect Sam properly, he’d failed and failed and failed.

Like he said in 12.19, he NEEDED a win, he needed to return to Dean already having secured a win, to prove his own worth. He’s been dealing with this issue, this personal struggle, since he first discovered those Doorways To Doubt way back in s4.

In 7.23, also at a place of Lowest Depression, he had this to say about his continued resurrections:

CASTIEL: If we attack Dick and fail, then you and Sam die heroically, correct?DEAN: I don't know. I guess.CASTIEL: And at best, I die trying to fix my own stupid mistake. Or... I don't die – I'm brought back again. I see now. It's a punishment resurrection. It's worse every time.DEAN: I'm sorry. Uh, we're talking about God crap, right?CASTIEL: I'm not good luck, Dean.DEAN: Yeah, but you know what? Bottom of the ninth, and you're the only guy left on the bench... Sorry, but I'd rather have you, cursed or not. And anyway, nut up, all right? We're all cursed. I seem like good luck to you? [CASTIEL stares at DEAN.] What?CASTIEL: Well, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I detect a note of forgiveness.DEAN: Yeah, well, I'm probably gonna die tomorrow, so...CASTIEL: Well, I'll go with you. And I'll do my best.

He was in such a low place that he sincerely believed he’d been repeatedly resurrected as a “punishment,” because he couldn’t see past his own guilt and trauma. But again, Dean held out a hand and offered him a different viewpoint. It was the first step toward Cas being able to forgive himself and move forward. He could finally begin “redeeming himself” in Dean’s eyes, which he’d promised back in 7.01. And that’s sort of the journey he’s been on ever since.

He’s been through a number of rough patches along the way, leading him to say Yes to Lucifer in 11.10, leading him to try to spare Sam and Dean from having to kill Kelly in 12.15-12.19, ultimately leading to his death (again! but the first death that Chuck hadn’t been standing by to catch him from and stop him from ever reaching the Empty) in 12.23.

For the first time, it was Cas HIMSELF that fought for his own resurrection, in which his own agency is what brought him back. He fought for HIMSELF.

*scrolls back up because I can’t even remember the question at this point...*

Aah, right... “Has anything been addressed for Cas since s6?” Um.. yes? Loads and loads? Which is why I have no idea how the second half of your question relates to the first...

I’ve barely scraped the tip of the iceberg here on that ONE issue, so short of writing a thesis on the narrative evolution of Castiel as a character that could probably span at least a trilogy of scholarly tomes, I don’t really know what else to say here... I’m honestly baffled that anyone could suggest that they’ve just not addressed Cas’s issues since s6, and wondering if we’re watching the same show.

#spn 6.20 #spn 4.22 #spn 5.01 #spn 6.21 #spn 7.01 #spn 7.23 #spn 11.20 #spn 11.10 #spn 12.15 #spn 12.19 #spn 12.23 #spn 13.04 #spn 13.06 #and i didn't even go into the s14 stuff that has Cas becoming the master via his education of jack i mean... #you learned it from the goats #castiel winchester #i am an honestly baffled mitten #if you say 'mysterious ways' so help me i will kick your ass #Anonymous

[madd-men]

The Road So Far...

So, because this blog is still active, as you can see... I did not dramatically fall to the ground, weeping out of pure writer’s block and horror and abandon all of you completely as I have done in the past. (Read: Three-page essay on school shootings worth 15% of my grade that was due a month ago that I still haven’t started simply because I don’t have a good intro.) This is because I have come to a decision and that decision is to just write :) Instead of trying to find a specific plotline to follow, for now, I’m just gonna post one-shots and see where it takes me if that’s okay with you all. That being said, the one I’m posting tomorrow is pure unadulterated fluff, so hang onto your hats, my friends: you literally will not be able to handle the cuteness. Now then, let’s get into the background.

After Szecx died, Jax broke down and became more than a little bit unhinged. Even though he was only with Szecx for a short amount of time, he was constantly used to losing and losing, so it was rare that he invested so much in one person and loved someone so much, and then lost it all in an instant. After all, when you have spent over two and a half millennia accumulating power beyond reason, what is the purpose if you can not save the ones you love? Jax had a contingency plan that if anything ever happened to Szecx, he’d make him immortal, especially since he had already been considering it; but, by the time he learned that he had been tricked and betrayed and saw the body, it was much too late. Szecx had been dead for hours and his soul had already moved on. For 257 years after Szecx died, every single day, Jax visited the underworld, even though he knew it was against the rules for living souls to mingle upon the dead. For 257 years, every single day, one of the most powerful beings in all eight realms was crippled, brought to his knees by the loss of the one he held dearest and he begged. He begged like no one else before him. Although many in the Underworld carried a dislike for the man, simply due to his race, ethnicity, and personal beliefs, for hours each day, the only sound that echoed through the servant’s chambers as he wailed were soft murmurs of pity. He sobbed from deep within his soul, begging for death to come; his soul consumed by the fires of his own personal hell.  On the day marking the 258th year, when the screams of the shifter shattered the eardrums of a demon servant waiting nearby, Death himself arrived. He stood in front of the broken man and the two disappeared after some softly murmured words on the older man’s part, but that is a story for another day. The next day, the shifter did not show and he has not been back to the Underworld since. It is unclear where he went and is believed that he visited many places, bouncing around and searching for something or someone to fill the lost parts of his soul; encasing the soft parts of his heart in stone and vowing to never open it once more. Then, rumors spread that he moved to Jasiroth. Permanently. 

This surprised many in the supernatural community because Jax was a wanderer and had never called anywhere his home, as the rest of the universe was so fascinating to explore; but, indeed, it was true. He would visit other realms for time to time, keeping up with old friends and occasionally stirring each and every one of the pots he had fingers dipped in, but he never just wandered, lost in himself as he had been for the many years before. It was believed that he had nothing left, that there was nothing left to lose. Jax had given what little remained of his heart to Szecx and now he was just focusing on learning to live without. Again. To do this, Jax barricaded himself in a thick forest in the North American continent, surrounded by hundreds of miles of trees on all sides and at least an hour away from the nearest pack or clan. Perhaps it was because he felt kin with the creatures of this continent. They, too, knew immeasurable loss.

Jax remained this way for many years until he adopted Tiberius, further surprising those who knew what little he revealed about his life and that sentence right there is the essence of who Jax is. The most predictable thing about him is that he is not and never will be. 

The home Jax built for himself in Jasiroth was big for one person, but it was not a mansion. He built one of stone and brick, magic woven into every fiber of its walls as to not damage the forest around him. Upon entering, books took over every surface: the basics, the priceless, the old, the ones that held meaning, the ones that didn’t. All of them held a story and each of these stories were ones that Jax considered important enough to be told. Spices, both rare and commonplace, found their home in his kitchen and utensils lined the walls and found themselves stored in cupboards both above and below the countertops. Unrecognizable tools from times long past hung from the ceiling and acted as old, majestic centerpieces for his most treasured space. Tendrils of various plants from which he sampled his herbs and spices for potions recipes only he had access to, shyly peeked around the inner corners of the window as if asking to come in. Though there were three bedrooms and two baths, his own was bare and minimalist. Jax did not hold anything for himself anymore, often sleeping outside or in the sunlight in other parts of the house where he felt more at home, despite it supposing to be his most private space. It was a beautiful place, and it was his.

Obviously, when building his home, Jax did not think that he would soon foster and adopt a young, crippled warlock-in-training who could not run or even walk long distances. Tiberius’s disability had never been a problem for Jax, but while he was used to being antisocial and shut off from the outside world, Tiberius was not and a twelve-year-old boy needed friends, especially since he was homeschooled. Also, he needed to practice his diplomacy skills. 

Tomorrow: Part One: Tiberius Makes Friends! Jax....plays with kittens!

And here we are! Day 1 of some actual good fucking content! Also, I know the ending feels very abrupt but I wanna go more in depth with Tiberius’s room because it’s kind of important to the storyline I have laid out over the next couple days. See ya guys tomorrow!

#madd #paracosm #oc #lore #writing #writing blog #maladaptive daydreaming #part 1 #of the fluffiest fluff you have ever seen #and if any of you ship these two #i will personally hunt you down #and piss in your cornflakes #or cocoa puffs #tho my dick likes chocolate #i prefer special k #lgbt

[crushing83]

Soooo... @saawek​ sort of tagged me (I saw my name in the post because I was flipping through my newsfeed at just the right time, but the link didn't work or show up in my activity, so I'm assuming I can do this...), and now I'm listing my works-in-progress. I might tag a few people at the bottom because I, too, am a curious kitten and I love hearing about what other people have on the go.  

Writing:  

Fanfic side:  

Tolkien/Fast & Furious >> Thranduil/Owen Shaw >> Bullets and Blades 10... I actually cracked it open this weekend and started picking at what I'd written last. (Oh, and to anyone who started following me after I unintentionally hiatus-ed this one? Yes, you read that pairing right. Thranduil and Owen Shaw. Yep, yep.)  

Tolkien   >> Thranduil/Bard >> Spins and Pirouettes 4 was started a long time ago and then it started to get sad and I didn't like that so I focused on B&B instead. I'll eventually get back to it. There were a lot of mistakes in it---writing mistakes---and having a beta point out things in another story made me realise what I was doing in this one, and it's been hard to go back. I'll get there, eventually. Yes.  

SPN >> mostly gen >> The Winchester Gospel, where a tricksy archangel (who lives, obviously) makes sure his dad's work is discovered as ancient scrolls. Kind of hops all over my timeline right now, because I'm writing it in bits and pieces and not at all chronologically. Follows some faves, follows descendants of faves. Haven't started posting it yet.   >> Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester/Female Reader >> An untitled story that was supposed to be for @mrswhozeewhatsis' April Fools challenge, but got away from me and now I don't know how to end it. The reader's ace!spec, there's some non-sexual kink stuff, Dean and Sam both have squishy feelings for the reader/character (because it's my fantasy), they have a great big hunt in the middle of a werewolf den (it's not what you think)… oh, and Ketch is a scary douche (predictable).   >> Team Free Love-ish/Female Reader >> Forging a Bond. There are two chapters left. I will get there. I promise. They just need editing.   >> Gabriel/Sam Winchester >> Six Months, one of my vape shop AU fics. I've been chipping away at the next chapter recently.   >> Gabriel/Sam Winchester >> An untitled AU story about ace!spec Sam, trying to figure out a way to tell his brother he's ace (or demi). This one's been super hard to write. But, I'm pushing through it.   >> Gabriel/Sam Winchester, Dean/Castiel (eventually) >> A "what if Josie was never possessed and Henry never went to the future" fic. I have one chapter written, and it's basically turning into a husband!spy vs wife!spy sort of showdown between Mary and John with the boys in the middle.  

SPN/Beyond Belief (TAH)   >> Frank Doyle/Sadie Doyle, slight Gabriel/Sam Winchester >> A sequel to When God Comes to Call..., because Gabriel needs to grow up and face the flannel-wearing duo. And because I want Frank and Sadie to meet 'em, too. I'm just... stuck, right now.  

SPN/Criminal Minds   >> Gabriel/Spencer Reid, maybe Gabriel/Spencer Reid/Sam Winchester >> Falling is the Easy Part, my drop-Spencer-into-season-nine-and-see-what-happens fic. Some of it's been posted. It's going to be long. I'm not 100% sure where it's going yet, though. So, I'm taking my time.

SPN/Marvel Cinematic Universe >> An untitled "what if Justin Hammer somehow found out about the supernatural side of the world and tried to harness it for his own gain" fic. I only have about a hundred words written so far, so I'm really not sure what it's gonna be yet. Mostly it's an excuse to have Sam and Dean interact with the Avengers, if/when I get there.  

SPN/Sanctuary >> Helen Magnus/Sam Winchester >> An untitled fic where Helen is tracking down Sam for some MOL information. I only have about 200 words written so far. But I want to see these two be dangerous together and then geek out together.  

Dark Angel >> An untitled fic about what could happen after "Freak Nation." Mostly, it's Alec remembering things, doing things to keep his pack or unit together, and trying not to hold a grudge against Max because she doesn't know any better when it comes to having so many of Manticore's soldiers together. I think I started this after getting sick of watching her tear down Alec. Not that he's a saint. But. It made me cranky, watching her put him down all the time.  

Personal project side:   >> NaNoWriMo 2016 >> This story will never be finished. I hit the word limit. But I need about double that to wrap it up, and I'm really, really stuck. One of the themes is magic is dying. Another theme is the main character's, where she's looking for a place where she (and her ace!spec-ness) fits in. And then it's all mostly set inside a bdsm club. The sequel to the story is already sort of in my head, but I can't get to that point because I'm so stuck and bogged down with the first story.  

Illustration (and animation):  

Fandom side:   Quattro Formaggio   >> Four Cheese comics >> I still have two or three waiting to post... and I want to get to an even 12. So I need to write and render a few more. A couple are thumbnailed.   >> Jailbreak 2016 >> I cut audio from a few clips of the concert, and I have the animatic done... but animation makes my brain seize up. It's like I'm blocked. So... that's on hold for a while.   >> Space Jam Dance >> I really want to animate the cheeses dancing. To a song from Space Jam.  

Saturday Night Salad >> The full line-up >> I'm in the process of turning almost everyone into a 3D vegetable---or fruit. I want to make a big poster with everyone in it. Right now, the ones I've done... I think the next one on my list is... celery, but that'll be one of the last almost-regular SNS-ers. So. Those ones are modelled. And then I have to finish the occasionals. And then go through the texturing and rigging process.  

Team Free Breakfast (or Brunch)   >> The line-up of five >> I'm still rigging Pancake!Cas. Not because it's hard, but because I rig every day at work. And getting psyched up about coming home and doing more rigging? Doesn't happen all that often.  

#Blame The Musk >> The product line-up >> For now, I'm just trying to get the products textured. They're all modelled and sort-of rigged (just single controls on everything so I can move 'em around later). Later, I will be making mock advertisements with all the products.  

Personal project side:   >> Various 3D projects >> I started renovating an old robot project from school, hoping to make it something for a new reel (but it's a mess, because I was a student and scrambling to finish things for project deadlines, so I find the whole thing discouraging). I've also been trying to model a character so I can work on a face rig set-up---but organic modelling is SO NOT MY THING. The only other thing I've been working on is a sort of bdsm dungeon that fits in a shoebox. I haven't looked at it in probably a year. Most of it's modelled, it just needs texturing. The point was to comp it into video footage of an actual shoebox being put on or taken off a shelf.  >> Tattoo design >> So. When I was a wide-eyed and innocent frosh, with the taste of freedom from my very demanding (but lovable) parents fresh in my heart, I ran out and got a tattoo. I designed it, which may have been stupid, but whatever. It's an abstract take on a claddagh ring, just the lines, and with spiky sort of wings instead of hands. It's on my lower back. Which was fine for a couple of years. (Then, the term "tramp stamp" became a thing.) I feel like it's important to say I do not regret getting it. It was freedom. Probably the first I felt ever, really, and I will always love it for that. But. I didn't take care of it as well as I should have. And I gained weight (because college) then lost it, gained it and then some, lost it, and gained more, and so on. So the tattoo is a little fuzzy. And I do feel shame about that. I've been trying to turn this little fuzzy thing into a larger back piece that's like a collage of different style and different elements and imagery. I can't do the finer details because I'm not that good at drawing, but I've been trying to rough something out so I can go to an actual artist (someday lol) and give them the sketches and go from there.  

//  

But getting all of this stuff done is contingent on my shoulders and arms not being sore enough---or just being numb enough---so I can sit and work on this stuff. (Backstory: my work desk is well on its way to killing me, and there's no alternative; we're in those call-centre almost-cubicles and the desks are about three to five inches too tall for me. Shoulder and arm pain for years. Goes to show how artists rate, huh? Can't even get a desk to fit! /rant+whining)   So, I have a bunch of things on the go, and when I feel like I can move without wanting to scream, I tinker on something that matches my mood or snags my interest. Eventually (hopefully), I'll finish something.  

Aaaaaand.  

Now. Who do I want to pester today, hmm? *rubs hands together*

@lacqueluster and @thequeervet... am I allowed to ask what you two are working on? Or what you're thinking about working on? And @evansluke, @piyo-13 @little-red-83, and @ofplanet-earth? How about you guys, toooooo?  

What have you all been up to creatively lately? Any words? Or art? Video? Photography? Body art? Fanmixes? Metalworking? (I don't know if any of you do that. Just throwing it all out there because there are different ways to be creative. I was following the example format I was given, but there are so many more things that can be done.)

Okay. I am so sorry to anyone seeing this because it got very long. Whoops! 

#tagged #progress report #fic wips #art wip

[sineala]

Sine, Sine! I'm sorry to bother you, but do you have any good tips for writing 616 Tony! I just love your characterization so much :)

Oh, boy, an opportunity to talk about my fave! I was actually sitting here thinking, gosh, I hope someone asks me to write meta about my favorite characters sometime soon! And then you did, so thank you, anon! (And thank you, I’m glad you like my characterization.)

Uh. This got long.

I don’t know if what you want are tips on writing 616 Tony as distinct from other Tonys, or 616 Tony as distinct from other people in his universe, but I will try to hit both.

If you haven’t read Elspethdixon’s 616 Steve/Tony ship manifesto, you really should, because it contains the most important tip for writing 616 Tony, namely: Tony hates himself. A lot. Self-loathing is the background radiation of Tony Stark’s life.

The second most important thing, which you will also learn from that ship manifesto, and which you already knew, is that Tony Stark has a suit of Iron Man armor. Now, in MCU, we know that the way this goes is that Tony spends most of his life fucking around and being rich and wasted and making weapons until he gets captured in Afghanistan, takes a bunch of shrapnel to the chest, and decides to devote himself to superheroing. He has a secret identity that lasts… until the end of Iron Man 1. He is Iron Man, and it’s made him reevaluate his life. Also, he probably doesn’t hate himself. As much. I will leave that discussion to people who are more into MCU than I am.

616 Tony, on the other hand, becomes Iron Man when he’s really, really young. Like, early twenties. He doesn’t spend decades in dissolution. Vietnam is his impetus to become a superhero, yes, but it’s really not the same thing at all. By the time we get to modern canon this means he’s spent basically his entire adult life being a responsible superhero, and now he’s busy mentoring the next generation of superheroes – Kamala, Sam, and Miles while he was alive, and Riri now that he’s dead. (”Dead.” Comatose. Whatever.)

But the way that Tony’s self-loathing intersects with Iron Man is that he does the secret identity thing. No one knows. No one knows for years. Even after Steve finds out in the early 80s, most of the team doesn’t know for at least a decade after that. The public doesn’t find out until the early 2000s. (Twice. It’s complicated.) So even if you look at him now and see a guy with a public identity, you should realize that this is a very recent development in his life.

A lot of superheroes have tension between their caped and non-caped identities. Steve, for example, has a bunch of angst about trying to be Steve Rogers, a regular guy, versus Captain America, and how to live up to that, and how much of a regular life he should try to have. This is not Tony’s problem, as Tony’s regular life is… pretty out of the ordinary, as these things go. No, Tony uses his identity as Iron Man to fuel his self-loathing.

Iron Man is a hero. Iron Man saves people. Everything that is good about Tony, Tony puts in a box and calls it Iron Man. He compartmentalizes. (I could probably write a whole other post about how Tony’s a control freak.) Iron Man’s fine, and Tony develops a drinking problem. (Demon In A Bottle actually happened while Tony had a secret identity, and included him deciding that he was sick of being Tony Stark and was just going to be Iron Man.) While with someone else it might not be a bad thing to say that Iron Man is all the best parts of him… that doesn’t leave a lot to be Tony. And he doesn’t really like the parts that are left.

However, I think Tony Stark is still a really good guy. I mean, early canon is early canon, sure, but even as a boss he’s always depicted as, basically, the most benevolent face of capitalism you could possibly imagine. Like, the fantasy job that was available in the fifties and sixties where a dude could support a family of four and buy a nice house in the suburbs and then retire with a generous pension? A SI job is clearly that job. He knows his employees’ names, all of them, and he just seems deeply concerned about them, all the time. And, hey, how about that time he let the Avengers move into his house and never leave, huh? :)

Also he’s… not really a playboy, as I would use the term. During the early years, when he was dependent on the chestplate, he certainly used it as a cover, and we see him deliberately keeping himself from getting close to people because he was just going to die and make them sad (no really), as well as presumably to preserve his identity. We see him wishing that he could get closer to people because he has so much love to give! In the romantic relationships we’ve seen him in, he’s generally very devoted, occasionally more than the other person is, occasionally to the point of creepiness. (Okay, that’s not really one of his best traits.) He falls hard and fast. He just falls in love a lot. He sincerely does. He’s a romantic, even if his persona says otherwise. So, yeah, he has a public persona. Tony Stark is a public persona. It’s pretty evident that that’s not really him, either.

He’s not as quippy as MCU Tony, or as all-around warm-and-fuzzy nice as AA or MA:A Tony, or as utterly flamboyantly campy as Ults Tony (although, man, if you want to talk about drinking problems, go see Ults Tony). If you’re writing his internal voice, I tend to go with a fair amount of obscenities (more than Steve, anyway), and bring your science metaphors to the party if you got ‘em.

But, yeah, the self-loathing. I like to joke that you can tell it’s a good Iron Man comic if Tony is naked and crying, possibly in the rain, because he thinks none of his friends love him. (By this criterion, Iron Age and Execute Program are very good.) Possibly contingent upon the self-loathing, he never passes up an opportunity for self-sacrifice. Sure, any superhero worth his or her salt will happily die to save others – it’s part of the character type – but they all have to get in line behind Tony, who will be there killing himself first. Possibly several times. As many times as it takes. You know that moment in Red Zone where Tony rips off his helmet, exposing himself to deadly flesh-eating bacteria, to give Steve CPR and save Steve’s life, because Captain America is more important than him? That’s Tony Stark. I will also once again point to Execute Program, where Tony literally stops his heart to save Steve. He really likes killing himself for Steve.

I guess other than the self-loathing the main trait I think of as characteristic of 616 Tony is the sense of responsibility, and yeah, I do mean that in the Spider-Man “with great power” sense. He’s a founding Avenger. He knows what he’s doing. If you’re writing an MCU or an Ults story, say, there are a lot of things you could put the Avengers or the Ultimates up against that they’ve never seen before, and they might freak out. Just a little. (When the Ultimates first fight the Chitauri, Tony nearly gives up. He’s just a regular guy. He’s having a hard time dealing with this stuff.) But the thing about 616 is that it’s going to take a lot to make the Avengers, and by extension 616 Tony, freak out about anything. Their lives are weird. So, yeah, he’s seen it all, he’s vastly experienced, he’s been a professional superhero for ten or twelve years now – which, unlike in MCU, means it’s more or less his whole adult life – and he’s going to step up and take charge and do whatever needs to be done.

As an illustration of both his sense of responsibility and the degree to which he regards Tony and Iron Man as two different people, I want to point you to Iron Man v3, the Secretary of Defense arc. Following Red Zone, in which it was revealed that the Red Skull was the previous Secretary of Defense (616 governments are terrifying, okay?), Tony has been nominated to replace him. And we see his Senate hearing, and one of the senators has reservations about Tony’s suitability, based on his public persona. (This arc happens shortly after the first time the public learns Tony is Iron Man.) And this is Tony’s response:

Senator: We can’t let you loose in the Pentagon. You’ll turn it into a cult of personality and you’ll never listen to this body again! You’re too smart for school, Mr. Stark. You make up your own rules. For legal behavior. For being honest with people. I won’t even get into your personal life…

Tony: Is there a question in there, Senator?

Senator: It’s all a question! Why should anyone think that Tony Stark would put this nation’s safety before his own personal aggrandizement?

Tony: Because I’ve been doing that for years! Because I’m Iron Man – and I never ONCE took the credit!

Senator: What exactly do you mean, Mr. Stark?

Tony: Just what I said, Senator. “I’m Iron Man – and I never took the credit.”

Tony: Did I try to associate his positive image with my companies? Yes, I did. But that’s all. I never, ever asked for a direct reward for anything I ever did as Iron Man.

Tony: And for every life I told you I saved as Iron Man, there are tens – hundreds – that I’ve kept to myself. To save lives, I have traveled far. Farther than any of you will ever go. I have traveled to dark places. All alone, away from anyone who could see, hear, or help. I have staved off threats that you will never, ever hear about. The simple knowledge of them would wreak more fear and ruin on the world than I could ever hope to gain from them.

Tony: Yes, Tony Stark is Iron Man. But Iron Man is not about Tony Stark. Iron Man is about everyone else… and if Tony Stark is Defense Secretary, it’ll work the same way. That’s all I have to say. Thank you.

(This is IM v3 #76 & #78, BTW. We get half the speech during the hearing, and then half in boxes later while we see Iron Man risking his life to save people. Tony gets the SecDef job.)

So I think that speech basically sums up 616 Tony. He’s Iron Man, and he never took the credit. And that’s who 616 Tony Stark is, to me. It’s not just that he’s about accountability, as the MCU arc goes; it’s true that he’s also about accountability, but he’s about accountability not as something he’s finally learned but as a part of the core of his character from the very beginning, as a part of being responsible and doing the right thing and saving people. And not needing to take the credit.

I hope that helps answer your question!

#Anonymous #replies

[b-does-the-write-thing]

A few months ago, I received a beautiful message from @onesionra about the House Guest. I asked her if I could share it here, and she graciously agreed. 

It is a question about God. It is a deep, beautiful question, one composed with thought, grace and patience and I have it under a read more for those of you fellow readers of the House Guest and anyone who is curious as to how a ouat fanfiction about a witch, demon, and mortals copes with the idea of God. 

Hello, big fan of your fic "The House Guest" hilarious, sad and heartwarming, and im only up to chapter 38! :) 

I wanted to ask however, about a subject that comes up sometimes but is hardly ever actually addressed.

God. 

What's His deal?  

Mal claims that Original Sin, The Flood and The Crucifixion all happened (on a friday no less. I know at least one of these things is correct) but obviously there is still some..er tension between the Church and the Witches. 

Im a Christian and my girlfriend is a Witch believe it or not, so parts of this story are oddly familiar lol. But honestly, in this story at least, God seems  to be hanging back and not doing much, if He is ever there at all! Is He? O.o 

Rumpel says He is an invention of the Church and yet there are hints against this in the story (aside from the fact that he likes to get under the organization's skin), such as the aforementioned events in the BIble, the Church having power to "do things" (The power has to come from SOMEWHERE) and the existence of holy magic. Now, the Big Guy showing up would be a story breaker let's face it but im honestly curious, with all the mentions He gets, what is He up to, if anything?

Take your time! I want you to answer honestly as well so don't feel pressed into a fast response. God is a metaphysical and philosophical question at heart and must be handled with care. 

If I could put in my 2 cents on this issue? You obviously care about accuracy, historically and spiritually speaking, and I cannot thank you enough. Different time periods and practices getting fair mention. So I think getting a good definition of what God "is", is paramount. Know what I mean? /// God is what grounds the existence of every contingent thing, making it possible, sustaining it through time, unifying it, giving it actuality. God is the condition of the possibility of anything existing at all.///

Deities obviously exist in the Once Upon a Time universe, Zeus, Hades, Ursula and others. The majority of it seems to be polytheism but there HAVE been about 4-5 mentions of a singular god as well. From people like lancelot, king Arthur I believe and (oddly enough) rumple himself! So the concept at least exists.

God is generally not thought to be "just another being" like the aforementioned deities, but the GROUND OF BEING ITSELF. So trying to put that in anthropomorphic terms can prove to be vexing. Integrating that into a story where other deities exist can cause questions. Lol

So please take all the time you need. I hope I have not overwhelmed you :)

--

I have sat on this message for months. It had come back to me every time I sit down to continue The House Guest which as you all know is a prompt verse meaning I have no idea what I’m going to write until I sit down to write it. 

Personally, I was raised in the Catholic Church. I asked questions, and had doubts and everyone just brushed me off and said you must have faith. My mother is devout, goes to service every week and holy days, prays daily, and lives by the Christian code. I love her more than anyone else on this earth and it kills her every day that I do not agree with the Catholic Church’s doctrine.

When I added the Church into the House Guest, I transferred my own issues with them. Their checkered history, their current history, all the frustrations and annoyances I have as a person came out in this story. I never once thought about “was there a God in this verse”?

So when I got this message, I read it. Reread it, and then came back to it every five minutes until I emailed her back. I asked for time, I asked to publish this when I got my head on straight. 

Well, the House Guest has been finished and I still keep thinking about this. Is there a God in the House Guest? What is their role in the story? 

I finally know the answer.

There is a God in the House Guest universe. A creator, a sustainer, an actuality that no one will ever be able to see, touch, or know because that is not God’s way. God will not interfere in the world, but God is there to be cursed at, prayed to, their name used in vain and for great goods and for great evils. 

So, when Archie becomes a priest, he will kneel down and talk to God and for once, he will feel as if someone is listening to him for a change. He will never hear an answer but he will find peace and his heart will be light and he will find a happiness in his calling that he may have never dreamed possible.

When Emma meets Neal as adults, they will have a lot of questions about how True Love’s Get marrying a halfbreed will mean. They will get finally decide to get married in the Church, to bring demon, witch and Church together through their union. It will usher in a time of great peace and prosperity between the three factions.

I again apologize as I am a relapsed Catholic, my own faith is muddled and confused with my own thoughts and feelings on the history of Christianity. So, I am saying, yes there is a God in my verse but he is as unexplainable as my own belief is and I hope every reader who comes to the tale, views God as they view him in their own life for better or for worse. 

I chose to believe the House Guest verse’s God is a God of mercy and patience and though they may not believe in him, or doubt him or curse or him or love him, he is there in the story in the small moments and in the large ones and in the spaces in between.

He is the God I want so much to believe in my own life and and perhaps in this small way, I can come closer to letting myself believe. 

#the house guest #b does the write thing #tmi tuesday #a very belated answer to a very serious ask #religion #personal thoughts

[douchebagbrainwaves]

MEAN PEOPLE HAVE BAD IDEAS

And if someone was lazy, the others would sign the same documents and all the money, and type B fundraising. Yes.1 The physical world is very high bandwidth, and some of the ways cities send you messages are quite subtle. It's not a deal till the money's in the bank. Sometimes because they are likely to be pretty average. The word now has such bad connotations that we forget its etymology, though it's staring us in the face.2 A throwaway program is brevity. And they pretty much all make the same mistake I did. This argument applies proportionately. It may also mean that programs do a lot of instincts, this one wasn't designed for the world.

I'd say twenty. What this meant in practice was that we discovered we were using an n² algorithm, and we needed to stay alive. When you walk through Palo Alto in the evening, you see nothing but the blue glow of TVs. So far the experiment seems to be the investor of the future won't simply be the same as most language designers'. And by this I mean software in the general case, it might be worth trying to decompose them.3 One heuristic for distinguishing stuff that matters is to ask yourself whether you'll care about it in the future. The way people act is just as well that it usually takes a while to gain momentum. Every talk I give ends up being given from a manuscript full of things crossed out and rewritten. What if we let people get rich by counterfeiting, talking about making money can make it to profitability without raising any more money, but also connotations like formality and detachment. Startups are that constrained for talent.4

Wealth is as old as forums, but we're still just learning what the causes are and how to address them.5 People who want to live where the smartest people are, even if most of the difficulty of fundraising. But, as so many programming languages do. And it's also one that furnishes them plenty of excuses to gratify it. Common Lisp has neither.6 You probably didn't have a computer industry, it remained for them a theory; they didn't have hardware capable of executing the calculations fast enough to design an actual airplane.7 PL/1: Fortran doesn't have enough data types.8 This essay is about only one of them.9 This argument applies proportionately.

It's ok to bring all the founders to meet an investor who moves too slow, or treat a contingent offer as the no it actually is and then, by accepting offers greedily, end up being more productive.10 They would rather overpay for a safe choice.11 You may not even be aware you're doing something people want. Here's a sketch of how I do statistical filtering. That's how it tricks you. This way, you'll not only waste your time, but also burn your reputation with those investors. The language is built in layers. Sometimes young programmers notice the eccentricities of eminent hackers and decide to adopt some of their own are enormously more productive.12 They know their audience. If you and they have to deliver their message, whatever it is.13

In that respect the Cold War teaches the same lesson as World War II, they often don't get thrown away. Java: C is a kludge, and Lisp syntax is scary. And if we don't. If probs is a list of the fifteen individual probabilities, you calculate the combined probability thus: let prod apply #' mapcar #' lambda x-1 x probs One question that arises in practice is that other countries might not agree to slow down with us.14 Having kids showed me how to convert a continuous quantity like time, 8 is not a lot of smart people, but ten people like you. The cause of all this fear is the very thing that makes startups such attractive investments: the successful ones grow very fast. At YC we're always warning founders about this danger, and investors are probably more circumspect with YC startups than with other companies they talk to, and even blogging in some cases, are so important. So these, I think a lot of trolls in it. Getting the first substantial offer can be half the total wealth, they tend to be all too familiar. Exceptional performance implies immigration. It is the proverbial fishing rod, rather than being distributed, like slices of a pie, by some imaginary Daddy.15

Notes

In technology, so x% usage growth will also interest investors. Their opinion carries the same price as the average car restoration you probably do make everyone else and put our worker on a desert island, hunting and gathering fruit.

If the response doesn't come back; Apple can change them instantly if they pay so well is that they've already decided what they're selling and how good you can hire skilled people to endure hardships, but that's a pyramid scheme. Since most VCs aren't tech guys, the higher the walls become.

When we work with founders create a Demo Day. There are many senses of the recruiting funnel. And when they talked about the size of the canonical could you build for them, not bogus. And yet when they set up an additional page to deal with the Supreme Court's 1982 decision in Edgar v.

I learned from this that most three letter word. For founders who continued to sit on corporate boards till the top and get nothing.

If not, greater accessibility. But if so, or a funding round usually reflects some other contribution by the time I had a broader meaning. What made Google Google is much into gaming. The aim of such regulations is to trick a pointy-haired boss into letting him play.

Maybe at first had two parts: the company really cared about users they'd just advise them to go out running or sit home and watch TV, go running. These range from make-believe, is this someone you want to approach a specific firm, the space of careers does. It's somewhat sneaky of me to put it would have seemed an outlying data point that could start this way that makes it onto the frontpage is the odds are slightly worse.

Publishers are more repetitive than regular email.

Basically, the thing to do due diligence for an investor derives mostly from the revenue-collecting half of it.

If you have two choices and one of the advantages of not having the universities in your classes, you can control. The brand of an ordinary programmer would never have to deliver these sentences as if it were. If you were able to fool investors with such abandon. I'm not against editing.

I mark. Finally she said Ah! Which means if the growth is valuable, because there was when we created pets.

Now many tech companies don't want to pound that message home.

There's no reason to believe that successful founders is that the probabilities of features i. It may be overpaid. Since the remaining power of Democractic party machines, but starting a business is to do the right not to grow big in revenues without including the order and referrer. Ironically, one could do as some European countries have done all they could then tell themselves that they probably don't notice even when I was insane—they could probably improve filter performance by incorporating prior probabilities.

Wolter, Allan trans, Duns Scotus: Philosophical Writings, Nelson, 1963, p.

These range from make-believe, and both used their position to amass fortunes among the bear gardens and whorehouses. This essay was written before Firefox. Bill Yerazunis had solved the problem.

There are successful women who don't care what your body is telling you and the low countries, where many of which you want to see how universally faces work by their prevalence in advertising. Applying for a while to avoid sticking.

#automatically generated text #Markov chains #Paul Graham #Python #Patrick Mooney #Firefox #kids #funding #walls #investors #range #momentum #pound #sup #x #everyone #something #growth #founders #TVs #startups #no #meant #nothing #technology #pie #Yerazunis #twenty

[tvwriteups]

The Fic Nobody Wants

Gripes about fics that people do apparently want...

...and it’s a ridiculously long post.

I think I’ve only come across 4-5 R/S fics where both characters felt mostly in-character. There’s just something in how the characters are portrayed in most fics that...well, actually inspire me in trying to write “The Fic Nobody Wants”.

The biggie is that my interpretation of the characters feels so far off of the majority of fanfic writers.

I take major issue with how Shaw is written. But then I feel like canon has written that character the most inconsistently out of the six leads. I have problems with how fic writers write Root but Shaw is a whole other level.

Oh, where to start. (And this is the kind of stuff that would make the fandom mad.)

Like, I get it that people are writing for free and writing for fun. What I don’t get is people believing or encouraging one another to believe that canon has these characters this way -- that the essence of these characters and their relationship is being portrayed in the fanfics.

How to put this simply? How is it that I see these characters in canon?

Root loves Shaw because Shaw is pretty much the opposite of what Root said about people to Harold in “The Contingency” (2x01) and “/” (3x17). The stuff that Root hated about people or felt disappointed in about people are completely absent in Shaw...because Shaw’s personality disorder.

And Shaw’s feelings for Root? Well, canon doesn’t really give us much of a storyline beyond “she cares”, she’s very protective of her when she thinks she’s going to get herself killed, and that Root wouldn’t stop “bugging her.” And the show makes her her “safe place” and all that stuff. I don’t know, I can go many directions on what the show’s canon showed us because I think different writers had very different takes on the character.

So what is it in fanfic that I object to?

1. That Root changes Shaw all that much. The finale pretty much tells us that Root loved how Shaw was a “constant.” Root didn’t want to change Shaw. The only thing that really changed was how Shaw saw herself. Oh, and the fact that she hears out people before she goes on and kills them anyway. (Seriously, we’re introduced to Shaw killing Aquino without hearing his explanation and one of the last five minutes of the show we see Shaw listen to Blackwell before killing him. Heck, she even states how she’s “different” in that scene before she goes about doing the thing she would’ve done anyway.)

And, to be fair here, Shaw doesn’t really change Root either. Root changes because of the Machine.

2. That Shaw can’t control her anger and is portrayed as feeling tons of emotions but not knowing what to do with them. Before Samaritan psychological torture, where do we see Shaw’s emotions going crazy? We don’t. She goes a little full-tilt trying to rescue Gen and she fiercely beats up someone after leaving Carter’s funeral but that’s pretty much it. The anger she expresses is pretty much controlled. Heck, even in “6,741″ she’s pretty much controlled until the sim has her shoot Greer. Then she spirals. The thing is, she spirals because she feels that she can’t control herself. You know the story about the Qatari roundabout that Lambert mentions near the beginning of “6,741″? That was about Shaw not being able to control her body so she continually put herself through the torture of the roundabout until she could control herself.

All this to say that I don’t think Shaw ever completely loses herself around Root...which is how a lot of fics seem to portray their dynamic.

And the emotions? It’s not that Shaw has lost control over her emotions. That Root is just too sexy that the woman can’t help herself. What gets Shaw angry is the lack of emotions she’s feeling or, maybe more accurately, that she doesn’t feel emotions the way other people do (or what she thinks other people expect of her). It’s not that she completely misunderstands feelings in other people. She simply doesn’t feel the same. She feels somewhat but it just isn’t the same.

And, worse than all of that, are moments where she gets all weak-kneed and gets all sexy/horny around pretty much any person she finds attractive in the fics. That brings me to...

3. Shaw is portrayed as a hedonistic bisexual and the “3 night rule” is taken seriously. I don’t know if it’s because she’s bisexual (with it being a common trope that bisexuals have sex with pretty much anybody and everybody) or people just like this idea that she’s going around and having these meaningless hookups. Not to project and/or go all TMI here but as someone with muted emotions who finds sex fun but doesn’t like dealing with relationships because inevitably someone gets upset with my lack of feels, it doesn’t really go hand-in-hand that I’d be a sexual free spirit of any sort.

It’s not that I’m not sex-positive or anything. It’s just that I don’t think Shaw is running around and hooking up with a lot of people. Why? Well, look at the middle of the conversation that Shaw has with Reese -- the same conversation where this damn 3-night rule comes from. Reese asks her if she’s been on any big dates. Shaw replies that she’s “been too busy saving the world from bad guys.”

I don’t know. Maybe these fics are written by people who feel overly-horny. The thing is, I kind of see this (as well as part of the flashback in “The Devil’s Share” as well as that part in “Liberty” where she shoots the guy through the brick wall) as Shaw getting most of her satisfaction out of her technical mastery of badassery.

The woman could have booty-called Matthew Reed or Tomas Koroa. She didn’t. She smirked and went on her way.

4. That it feels forgotten that Root killed people when they were inconveniences and that she was a huge misanthrope. Here’s the thing with Root and Shaw. Shaw may not personally care about most people, she’s still all about protecting the good people from the bad guys. Root? Root starts out thinking that there are no good guys. The world is “infinite, chaotic, and cold.” Part of why she wanted to ally with Finch when she first kidnapped him was because she believed she found a kindred spirit in Finch. They were smarter than everyone else and, in Root’s eyes, Finch created the perfect god.

The scary thing in that scene wasn’t necessarily Root but the fact that Harold sort of agreed with her.

So it bugs me when Root begins a lot of these fics like some doe-eyed innocent.

But, also, that she already sort of openly embraced having all these emotions before the Machine (or Harold, or Shaw) came into her life. Or, really, she pushed her way into their existences. This is a woman who flippantly wished that she was a sociopath so she wouldn’t have feelings.

5. Remarkably candid conversations about their relationship. Because how does this work in canon? Things are stated indirectly and Shaw often deflects (”Annoyed attempt to deflect subtext.” / “Mildly embarrassed defensiveness bordering on hostility.”). The Machine has to tell Shaw what Root sincerely thought of her.

The most direct Root ever gets is in “If-Then-Else” is when she thinks she’s gonna die and in “Sotto Voce” when Shaw threatens to kill herself. And even then, she’s a bit roundabout about it, whether that’s CBS S&P or how they really wanted to write the character. In “If-Then-Else” she talks as if it’s fated by the universe that they should be together. In “Sotto Voce” it’s more “I can’t live without you” (which is kind of emotionally manipulative in any other context but not for that scene). Heck, in “Prophets”, she leaves it to Finch to relay her message (which we assume is to tell Shaw to Root loves her because anything else doesn’t make sense).

But Shaw? The thing I like about Shaw in this show is that you get her through her actions. So to have her wanting to talk to Root about their relationship feels so far out in left field to me. She “speaks” through actions.

I’m guessing these “relationship conversations” happen as a form of wish fulfillment on the part of the fanfic writers. But if you’re gonna choose to go that way and have them have that sort of conversation, at least build it up.

I need to take a breather for now but there’s more...but maybe more in terms of general fic writing than pairing-specific stuff.

#tvw writes fanfic #the fic nobody wants #why I can't be in that fandom #honestly think you can see a person's view of a show clearer through their fanfic than through their meta #I seriously wonder if people reconsider their view of canon when they write their fanfic or not #...because I totally do