#'Is he trying to warn me not to ignore my own metaphorical pit; because if so: what *is* my metaphorical pit?'

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG129 /o/

    - Overall, I’m… so, so proud of Jon since the season has begun? He’s trying! Trying so much and so hard! And it’s still the same Jon who is prone to outbursts, who can say mean things… but now, he’s also learned that his actions and his words can be destructive, that they can hurt people, that he can hurt people he cares about simply because he voiced what he felt! It’s not so much that his snappiness disappeared; it’s more that he’s now able to quickly understand that it can have consequences and wound even when he didn’t mean to?

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: No, it’s fine, I know you’ve got… whatever this is, I’m not going to question you. MARTIN: Thank you. ARCHIVIST: [SPITTING] Even if it looks like you’re doing something really stupid. [SILENCE] … Sorry. MARTIN: It’s okay. I get it. ARCHIVIST: I just– I worry. […] [SIGHS] I suppo– … I miss you.

I mean!! Look at him!! He could compulse, has decided not to, and reassures that he won’t; he still snaps, but understand when he went too far and was actually demeaning; he explains his reasoning instead of clamming up! He caught himself when spurting one of his “I suppose”s and openly admitted something meaningful instead! Yes, alright, that should be basic, but that’s still a lot of progress and very impressive for someone who regularly fails to understand people around him, has trust issues, and used to go on the offensive when feeling cornered or criticised. (Would season1!Jon have behaved this way, uh?)

I’m also so fond of the way that Jon is once again… trying to make Martin talk? Restarting the conversation when the silences stretch out, talking about Martin? It’s horribly sad, but… the aesthetic of Jon trying to reach Martin feels so satisfying at the same time…

- I’m, however, a bit tad worried about how Jon sometimes flirts with becoming a The Eye apologist. 1°) He has been casually dropping a bit of an “us vs. them” mentality, lately, and it isn’t clear if it’s pure pragmatism (because they’re chained to the Institute) or Something Deeper:

(MAG123) BASIRA: [SIGHS] Alright. Best I can understand it, Beholding, or The Eye or… whatever you want to call it, we’re one of the only powers that hasn’t actually taken a shot at our ritual. Yet. And everything out there knows it. ARCHIVIST: … No, I mean, we… we can’t be the only ones, surely? BASIRA: I don’t know. Probably not. But we made a big noise with The Unknowing and… other stuff, and… now they’ve taken notice.

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: You’re working for someone… really bad! MARTIN: Yes, I’m not an idiot, Jon, but it’s no… worse than working for something really bad, so… ARCHIVIST: At least The Eye hasn’t gone after our own. Lukas has vanished two people!

“we”, “our own” can be neutral and coming from an objective fact (the Institute is still their workplace, it’s about their colleagues!), or from a strategic point of view, or… a deeper feeling of belonging. I’m not sure. I hope that Jon is aware of what he’s saying and that it’s not the latter option ;;

2°) Jonathan “The Eye Did Nothing Wrong” Sims, DO WE TALK ABOUT IT. Elias killed Gertrude and Leitner! He allowed Sasha to die! He manipulated and chained them to the Archives! He traumatized Melanie! Jon should know that even without knowing that he also traumatized Martin (which… yeah, is only one of the things Elias has done in a long list, but in this particular case, especially horrible: Jon telling MARTIN, of all people, that The Eye ISN’T HURTING THEIR OWN…). That’s a lot of harm against its own people, even without taking into consideration the few Beholding statements that have popped up, including Albrecht’s death two episodes ago? What the heck, Jon? (Melanie would stab you again for this.)

It actually sounds like, overall, Jon is equating Peter’s actions with the Lonely, while at the same time… totally separating Elias’s from Beholding? I don’t know if it’s Jon being casually hypocritical, personally biased, or if there is something behind that (Elias not being Beholding’s Best Avatar, after all?).

- I don’t know if Martin realizes how much what he says makes it sound like he’s being coerced into avoiding everyone in exchange for Peter not harming the staff any further, and like there is no bigger plan beyond that – like Martin is just a victim with everyone else being used as hostages?

(MAG129) MARTIN: Oh… … Okay? W–well, sorry, but I’ve… I, hum… ARCHIVIST: You have to leave. Suddenly. […] Lukas has vanished two people! MARTIN: Yeah, and if it wasn’t for me, it would’ve been a lot more. [SILENCE] This isn’t helping anything. […] ARCHIVIST: If–if you do need to talk, I– MARTIN: I can’t. ARCHIVIST: No. No, o–of course. [INHALE] Listen, Martin, you should know– MARTIN: Jon– ARCHIVIST: –Daisy might be alive, Basira is– MARTIN: Stop. Stop, please, I–I shouldn’t know any of this, I… [PACKING UP] I–I–I really need to go, I–I’m…

It’s never “I’m not interested” or “I don’t want to” – it’s always how about Martin can’t by obligation. However, the way Peter presented it in MAG126, Martin’s “isolation” is not the main goal: it’s a means to an end, since Martin agreed to all of this in order to stop the New Threat that Adelard was investigating. We know this. But from an external point of view, with just the glimpses of conversations Jon has had with Martin… Jon would have many reasons to think that there is no plan, no further motive for Martin, and that Peter is simply forcing Martin to do things while threatening everyone else? That… could actually make Jon worry even deeper, if Jon ends up thinking that Martin is not even working on something, but only coerced into not having any contact with the others because Peter is messing with him?

(It’s possible, and even likely, that Peter’s agenda actually involves a lot more than what he’s told Martin: that this is also a way to separate the team that had managed to defeat Elias, and/or to give Jon a taste of the Lonely, and/or to deprive Jon of potential anchors, and/or to keep using Elias’s “learn to fly by falling” approach to force him to develop his powers in a semi-hostile territory, and/or to prevent Martin and the assistants from meddling with The Lonely’s or Beholding’s plans… But I’m still a bit hopeful that Peter didn’t completely bullshit Martin about the New Threat as a cover for other reasons – that it’s still, indeed, an actual thing that will need taking care of? Martin is wary of him, that’s good; I don’t think that he sees Peter as trustworthy, and he’s probably expecting backstabbing or a twist before the end. But there would be something… really pathetic if there was actually no New Threat and that Martin had been roped into a series of lies, without managing to achieve anything. So many things have already been pathetic in Martin’s life (his one-sided crush, the fact that he doesn’t seem to be close to a lot of people even outside of the Institute since nobody had checked on him during the Prentiss siege, the fact that he sacrificed his whole life for a mother who hates him because he physically looks like his father), it would be… very heartbreaking to add more to the list with this;;

- I’m so relieved that Martin is aware of and acknowledging Peter’s sketchiness very naturally ;; 1°) And on the subject of Beholding being no better than a Lukas: Martin is not wrong, technically? Beholding is one of the Fears – it’s not a ~good~ option either, it has never been? The fact that they used to accumulate, read/record and archive statements can’t be good on the long run if it’s serving It? Maybe even preparing The Watcher’s Crown? Martin himself used to be a bit complacent about the work in the Archives (even post-reveal in MAG092), while Tim was the one to constantly remind the others that the Institute was bad, too:

(MAG098) MARTIN: [Elias] did suggest I try to get you involved and– TIM: And I suggest that he not be a scary, magic psychopath. … Whoops! Too late. MARTIN: … Yeah. TIM: [SIGHS] Sorry. MARTIN: No, I– I get it. Heh. They’re not exactly much fun. TIM: Look, it’s not that. I… [SIGHS] This place is evil, Martin. And I think doing what It wants? Probably makes us evil. And It wants those things to be read. I mean, I’m not going to stop you, but, at the same time… MARTIN: I– I get it.

Martin never really fought or tried to escape the archival work, but he’s aware enough to point out that it’s not a Good Option vs. A New Bad Option (which would be Peter); they’re all… bad.

2°) First there was Martin’s stern “Peter.” in MAG126 that just made Peter stop trash-talking Jon, now the mention that Martin is ensuring that no more staff members get wooshed into the Lonely… Martin has an iron grip on Peter, uh.

3°) Martin feared that he could be perceived and described as “Martin Blackwood: he was always scared, then he died. The end.” BUT SERIOUSLY. If he dies (and if there is a body), put “I’m not an idiot, Jon.” on his gravestone.

(- I’m ;; still hoping that those two researchers are aliiiive and that they’ll be able to get out from the Lonely. I mean. They resisted against the shady new management and against orders from a boss who 1°) is apparently incompetent at the job since he delegates all his tasks to an assistant, 2°) was probably chosen for reasons having to do with his privileged background, 3°) didn’t allow them to see him even once since he arrived, and yet had Ideas about how to rule the place. You’re brave, researchers! Fight against the system!! You don’t deserve to die for this!!)

-When listening to MAG129’s statement, I was a bit lost and went back and forth between many guesses as to which power was at work. I was expecting a Buried one from the title, but then, discovering to the statement itself, I kept wondering if it wasn’t something else: Corruption, since there was the sense of decay and the disgust when Kulbir went to the firm’s building? Dark, with the lights slowly fading out? Lonely, since everyone seemed to have disappeared? Vast, with the sky joining in that mess? Still Buried, since the firm used awful puns that sounded very Buried? I think I was just a bit surprised to see the Buried associated with water, of all things, despite the fact that it was nothing new in (what-we-assume-to-be-)Buried statements: MAG015 (cave diving), MAG088 (with the “DIG” book found on the beach)… Which makes sense considering what drowning is about? But because of MAG051 (“High Pressure”; hi Simon), I had come to naturally associate water=ocean=Vast, which I feel a bit stupid about since it’s obviously not how The Fears work; it’s not about elements or symbols but what they do to you. Still: I had that moment of “Oh? … Oh, right!!” during MAG129. It’s… a bit more obvious when relistening, given Kulbir’s main concerns and how the world shifted around him:

(MAG129, Kulbir Shakya) “but by that point, I was already too deep in debt and there was just… no way I was going to be able to stay. […] I felt… disgust rise in my throat, the awful, humid air of the waterlogged place sitting heavy in my lungs. […] The water was warm, and after the heat of the summer’s day, I breathed in, expecting the smell of petrichor. But the scent of the rain was something else – something earthy and cloying I couldn’t quite place. […] I tried to relax, to let the rhythmic tapping of the rain lull me off to sleep, like it always had when I was a boy. But I could find no comfort in it. It sounded too much like it wanted to get in. […] I was tired, I was hungry and, without the motion of the rain, the air had become intolerably humid. Every breath I took filled my lungs with that thick, wet scent, and it felt like I could barely get enough oxygen to think. The walls of my house were slick with moisture now, and there was nowhere I could go to be dry, no way out of this oppressive, cloying damp. […] Inch by inch, foot by foot, everything was descending into the water’s embrace. It would wrap itself around me, reach down my throat and fill me with its choking darkness. There was nothing I could do.

Aaaand obviously, given the many double-entendre opportunities revolving around “crushing debts”, of course The Buried would be targeting poor people feeling ~pressured~, anxious about their situation.

(MAG129, Kulbir Shakya) “The first words did nothing to dissuade me from my assumption it was junk mail: “Drowning in debts? We can help!” in big friendly text that seemed at odds with the pseudo-respectable image the rest of it seemed to be striving for. […] At the bottom, in that same friendly typeface, it assured me: “We can help with the pressure.” I don’t know what I expected. I really don’t.”

(It feels, more and more, like Puns are a way to get More Powerful when you’re serving an evil power. Only One True Fear: Puns.) Interestingly: it was also the case for Jackson Ellis in MAG097… but his dire situation got alleviated a bit after he had moved in in Bucoda:

(MAG097, Jackson Ellis) “My parents were dirt poor themselves, and couldn’t help. […] The forest pressed in on all sides, like it did everywhere in the Pacific Northwest, I suppose, but it was an effect I was struggling to get used to. […] As it turned out my situation wasn’t quite as dreadful as I thought. I discovered the next day that my work had actually paid me a small amount. It wasn’t clear whether it was meant to be salary or severance, and I couldn’t get through to anyone who might have been able to explain it, but it was enough to ease the relentless pressure, if only a little bit.”

Was it thanks to the fact that his situation got better than Jackson wasn’t entranced by The Pit like all the other residents?

- This wasn’t the first time that people escape through a near-death (or death?) experience: Antonia Hayley (MAG051, Vast), Carter Chilcott (MAG057, Lonely) were prime examples:

(MAG051, Antonia Hayley) “I should be dead, really. It’s a weird feeling. You ever had a near-death experience? I’ve had a few – they’re not uncommon in my line of work, but this… it feels different. It’s not like I put myself in danger and managed not to die; I should be dead. Decompression sickness that severe is almost never survivable, and I should have had an embolism. The fact that I didn’t… blind luck. It’s hard to reconcile yourself with avoiding of a death you feel… should have been yours.”

(MAG057, Carter Chilcott) “[…] I began to very seriously consider the idea… that I had died, and this was hell. Given that worry, the way I finally escaped could be considered ironic: I starved myself to death. Well, not to death, I suppose, given I’m alive enough to talk to you, but close enough. […] After everything else, I had no guarantee it was even possible for me to die, but I had to try. When I finally faded from consciousness, for what I hoped was the last time, it was the greatest relief I have ever felt. … I don’t… know exactly when I realized I wasn’t dead. There were various moments I… faded back into consciousness, and I know that I felt the re-entry, very hard, but it’s difficult to pin down clear thoughts before the hospital.”

(MAG129, Kulbir Shakya) “I don’t know if you’ve ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I tried to remain calm, to think of my grandfather and his firm, stony face […] My lungs spasmed painfully, desperately trying to wring air out of the warm, rancid water that filled them. And as I felt the water embrace me, fully pressing in on all sides… I gripped the last connection I had to the world I knew. The last thing I was conscious of… was the water getting colder. I don’t… remember them fishing me out of Regent’s Canal. Or most of my treatment, to be honest. At a certain point it all blurs together. I’m alive. And that’s what matters.”

I remember that Jonny more or less said that it’s impossible to truly understand how the Fears operate, given how they’ll always escape our rationalizations – but anyway: I get the impression that when they’re going all out, they kind of trap people in a reflected reality, and when people manage to escape them, they get spat out and back into our world? We had multiple witnesses whose testimonies didn’t match the official findings of later investigations, and it’s hard to tell who is lying and who is telling the truth: is the Police twisting some information in their official records since they’re alluding to Section’d events? Are the witnesses mixing up some details because their memory is at fault? When spook happens, there often seems to be two realities: and sometimes, there is no difference between the two; sometimes… something happened in one and had other consequences in the other (I mostly remember how the guy in MAG072 got his fingers cut yet they were still on his hand when everything stopped, though he saw his fingers cut with his ring on one of them, ring that he didn’t have on “his” finger anymore).

Here, Kulbir both got to “die” (or almost? or died for real?) and to hold on to an anchor (an item symbolizing someone that he loved):

(MAG129, Kulbir Shakya) “I could feel that warm, grasping water cover my feet, my ankles, slowly working its way up my calves, but at that moment, all I could think about… was my grandfather. And how he had looked when they had given him his diagnosis, calm and solid. […] He had always endured his problems, never tried to squirm out of things he felt he had to face. I gripped the sheath in both my hands and waded to the window. Corpses floated by, slowly waving at me gently, their lifeless hands grey and bloated. I ignored them. And stepped out into the water. […] I gripped the last connection I had to the world I knew.”

Which is something we’ve mostly seen in statements dealing with the Lonely, I felt? Naomi Herne heard her dead fiancé’s voice leading her out in MAG013, and Gerry had advised Andrea Nunis to think about her mother in MAG048 (which indeed allowed her to escape the anonymous crowd).

 - Regarding Kulbir’s grandfather: I wonder if he had a tie with something that was mentioned in MAG076, amongst the reports of William W. Hay about World War 2 dug up by Melanie?

(MAG076) “what I saw in the infirmary at Amritsar. Two dozen Ghurkhas tearing each other to pieces, consumed by the terrible butchery they had inflicted. Such things are not to be dwelt on, but serve to illustrate my proposition that violence, inflicted, received or even just witnessed, can not only deal injury to the body or the mind, but to the soul itself.”

The grandfather was specifically said to be a Ghurkha and brought back his weapon from it…

(MAG129, Kulbir Shakya) “We actually got into a… blazing row over his old kukri. He had been a Gorkhali, serving in the Fifth Gurkha Rifles during the Second World War. I have… complicated feelings on his military history, of course, but… he had always been fiercely proud of it. And that old knife had been one of his most treasured possessions. I didn’t keep it polished like he had, even at… ninety years old, but it reminded me of him. I could see his calloused hands on its hilt, as he meticulously, almost mechanically, cleaned it. Humming a tune the name of which I never learned.”

(Could have been Slaughter-infused, but I’m really not sure that it was even relevant here? What mattered was apparently the emotional connection.)

- ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; So that’s what happened to Jan Kilbride in the end (take that, myself, for sometimes daring to hope that he could have still been alive). We had heard Gertrude mentioning that she had Plans revolving around him back in MAG099 (recording from September 2nd, 2007):

(MAG099) GERTRUDE: […] For the Buried, however, I do have what I believe might be quite an effective plan forming – assuming, of course, that my suspicions about Jan Kilbride are correct, and that’s something that should be easy enough to determine once he’s back on Earth. Considering what’s probably happened to him up there already, I feel almost… bad, but there’s ten years yet before I can afford a conscience.

And Melanie had read Jan’s statement in MAG106 (left on February 10th, 2008) observing that the statement ended quite abruptly, and that Jan himself had disappeared from public views or records since coming back to Earth:

(MAG106) MELANIE: […] Also I, hum… I can’t find Jan Kilbride. He definitely returned. I’ve got more than one photograph of the trio’s arrival back on Earth, Carter Chilcott being attended by medical personnel, and the other two looking tired… but alive. There are also a couple of short newspapers stories mentioning their safe return. But it seems as though Kilbride made his way over to the Institute, a few weeks after touchdown, made his statement, and then… nothing. I can’t find any sign of him. And neither can Basira or Martin. Not on Earth, at least. I really don’t want to say he vanished into thin air but… he’s vanished into something.

Did Jan live in the tunnels for a while or something? He apparently managed to totally vanish from official records, and we know from MAG097 that the Buried’s “Sunken Sky” took place (or at least attempted to) on June 17th, 2008 – in Bucoda, America:

(MAG097, Jackson Ellis) “[…] [The pit] was bigger. And the road had swelled, to encompass it. There was someone else looking at it, though. An elderly woman, face pinched and thoughtful, stood at the edge looking down. I didn’t recognise her, or the car she stood next to. She definitely wasn’t from Bucoda. Sat in the car next to her, I could see a young man who had clearly been crying. I couldn’t get over how blue his eyes were… The old woman caught my eye, and looked from me, to the pit, and back again. I thought about saying something when she gestured for me to leave. And I did. I decided that I was no part of whatever was happening. So I drove away and didn’t look back. That night, the earthquake struck that destroyed Bucoda entirely, so I guess I’ll never know what was going on.”

Given that Jon mentioned that:

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: […] But I don’t want it. I don’t want to know. … I don’t want to see. … No more than I wanted to see how Gertrude stopped The Buried and their ritual, but that came to me as well. [HUFFS] They called it “Sunken Sky”! And she calculated, correctly, that casting a void-touched body down The Pit at the right time would be enough to disrupt it. Something she found in… Jan Kilbride. … But Gertrude also realized that the body need not be alive. Or in one piece. She thought it was a mercy. It wasn’t.

(Tim’s voice from MAG086: “Regarding a… blanket. Dead friend. Monster. Regarding his unavoidable and gruesome end. How he tried to hide. He couldn’t.”)

… it was apparently a gruesome end, and the tears might indicate that Jan knew what was coming. Gosh, the way Jon mentioned that it wasn’t a mercy… He got too much information about it, uh é_è

- *cough*

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: One thing that always strikes me when I read statements like this is… the bias of survivorship. With one or two notable exceptions, the only statements the Institute receives are those where the witness has… successfully escaped whatever terrible place or being has marked them for a victim. … I wonder how many don’t make it out. How many of those shapes in the water were once just like Mr Shakya. Hm.

1°) Yeah, without even counting the survivors describing how they witnessed someone dying or disappearing, we got a few statement-givers who flirted a bit too heavily with death (Nathaniel Thorp in MAG029), or were on the verge of turning into something else (Jane Prentiss in MAG033), or should be dead (Trevor), indeed. It happens. Also, Jon could add himself on the list, maybe, since he hasn’t managed to escape the Institute.

2°) I’m still so relieved every time Jon uses keywords indicating that he’s not perceiving the events these people go through neutrally – “terrible place or being” and “victim”. We saw a few monsters/avatars torturing people like it’s a game, but it is definitely not Jon’s case, and that’s a relief…

3°) ;; And it’s indeed a sad reminder that the only stories we get are from people who managed to get out (even if some of them met a gruesome end shortly after giving their statements, as we learn through the follow-ups), and that we can’t hear about the ones who were consumed/eaten alive/killed with no surviving witnesses… (Do you sometimes think about the fact that Jon gave that role to the tape recorder, in season 1 already? That he wanted to use it to chronicle what was happening in the Archives, to not become “another goddamn mystery”, because he didn’t want to end up like Gertrude or statement-givers? I wonder if Jon still thinks of a life after him and after the assistants, by now – if he still thinks it’s possible that maybe someone, one day, could find the tapes they left behind and reconstruct what they experienced. It doesn’t seem like the tape recorders are cooperating lately, though; they come and… go, and don’t allow people to hear what was said elsewhere.)

- I’m… intrigued by the fact that, so far, all of the things that Jon has suddenly Known (the leaks through the door) were information that had not been recorded on tapes – or, more precisely, that he hasn’t got any random outburst of Knowledge about things that have been recorded. Jon hasn’t mentioned anything about knowing that Basira had visited Elias (MAG127), nor about Martin’s conversation with Peter (MAG126), and we still haven’t heard any hint about whether or not he has listened to MAG118 and MAG120’s tapes; given how he gave his condolences to Martin about his mother, it’s more likely that he indeed still hasn’t been able to access MAG118’s. Are the tape recorders and the Spooky Magical Knowledge complementary things, or… actually competing against each other? (=> Does conversations getting recorded make them unavailable for Jon’s Spooky Powers?)

- Anyway: The Tape Recorder either liked Martin again, either knew that Jon was coming, since it clicked on in the room Martin was in before Jon entered.

- Where is MAG118’s taaaaape ;___; I’m pretty sure that Jon hasn’t consulted it since:

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: I, er… I heard about your mother. MARTIN: … Yeah. ARCHIVIST: I am… so sorry. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Thank you. [INHALE] It’s… [SHAKY EXHALE] It’s better, this way. ARCHIVIST: If–if you do need to talk, I– MARTIN: I can’t. ARCHIVIST: No. No, o–of course.

I feel like Jon would have said something… more, here, if he had heard that one? Giving his condolences neutrally like this feels like he still only knows Martin’s mother from what he learned in season 2: that Martin sends letters to her, that Martin dropped out of school when he was seventeen because he had to care for her and to sustain them since she got terribly sick. (And Martin’s “It’s better, this way” makes me hate Elias even more, since… it can mean that Martin thinks that it’s better if she’s not suffering anymore? Or… that he thinks that it’s pulling him out of an unhealthy situation, since she hated him anyway and he had built so much of his life around being able to support her – sacrificing his education, having to lie to get hired somewhere, getting hired in Spooky Dangerous Institute to get a salary. If Elias hadn’t said anything, Martin might have been able to keep deluding himself into thinking that she wasn’t good with him because of the sickness, because it can make people meaner to close ones witnessing their decay…? But no, Martin Knew The Truth when she died. Did Elias know, in MAG118, that she wouldn’t be living for much longer…?)

And am I a puddle on the floor at the fact that JON TOLD MARTIN THAT HE WAS THERE IF MARTIN NEEDED TO TALK ABOUT IT? Yes, I am a puddle of whimpering feelings on the floor. It’s… something that I would have never expected Jon to say. He usually offers his presences for spooky stories, not for… emotional support.

Jon

told martin

he would be there

for emotional support

I still have trouble letting that sink in.

- And!!!

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: … What happened, Martin? [SILENCE] MARTIN: You died. ARCHIVIST: I came back. MARTIN: Yeah. [OPENS DOOR] I’m not gonna let it happen again. ARCHIVIST: … wait… Wait! W– [DOOR CLOSES] [SIGHS]

1°) Is this the first time that Jon has acknowledged (implicitly, since he rolled with the mention) that his “coma” wasn’t exactly a coma? Unless he took that “You died” as an exaggeration. So far, it had been euphemisms (“dreaming” in MAG122, “coma” in MAG123, “when I was… away” in MAG126), so! Does he know that it wasn’t a normal coma by now? Or is he still unaware of it?

2°) Martin’s answer… ;__; Not “my mother died”, not “Tim died”, uh. We did hear Martin begging for Jon in the season teaser, and it didn’t sound like it was only because of his crush – they objectively needed help and the fact that Jon wasn’t there forced them to find alternative ways to deal with what they were facing (Melanie&Basira holed themselves up in the tunnels, Melanie defended the Archives against the Flesh attack, Martin reached an agreement with Peter to help him against a new issue). The fact that Jon “died” changed things, logistically. But it also sounds so personal, in Martin’s mouth (a bit bitter?), and once again, I’m remembering how he had lost all his deepest connections at that point: Sasha, Tim, Jon, his mother… and yet, he took the decision to work for Peter, and we know from the trailer that he checked if “they” (Basira and Melanie, and probably the Institute’s staff) would be safe. Martin ;__;

(Okay, I freaked out at first with Martin’s answer, because… “I’m not gonna let it happen again.”: was he referencing Jon COMING BACK FROM THE DEAD? But it was probably about Jon ~dying~ in the first place. Or about Jon finding him a third time. I hope so?!)

- I wonder if… if the situation had been different, if it had been Tim inside of the coffin, if there had been a chance to save him, and not Daisy… Would Martin have reacted differently?

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: No. No, o–of course. [INHALE] Listen, Martin, you should know– MARTIN: Jon– ARCHIVIST: –Daisy might be alive, Basira is– MARTIN: Stop. Stop, please, I–I shouldn’t know any of this, I… [PACKING UP] I–I–I really need to go, I–I’m… ARCHIVIST: Right. … right.

Martin didn’t like her much, but Tim… Tim was another story. Maybe that would have been enough to shatter the fragile equilibrium and to make him try to help with it, even while still working with Peter.

Even outside of “what if”… It’s ironic, because Jon tried to reach out by talking about people around them – barely mentioning himself (except when it came to his feelings over Martin’s work and busy state, and the quick mention of his powers at the beginning of the exchange): “Basira is off doing… God-knows-what, and I can’t talk to Melanie.”, “I, er… I heard about your mother.”, “If–if you do need to talk, I–”, “–Daisy might be alive, Basira is–” “What happened, Martin?”. And right now… it might actually have been more effective if Jon had behaved a bit more self-centred? Breekon sneaked into the Institute and could have harmed them: meaning that Peter won’t raise a finger if they’re attacked and that they’re probably more vulnerable than Martin thought. Jon’s powers are growing, now with an additional invasive dimension, and there is the risk of his inner door opening (and of him drowning). Even Melanie’s surgery: Jon was hurt! Mentioning that would have been enough for Martin to freak out, usually!

Conveying that Jon is at risk, that Jon could become a risk, could have made Martin reevaluate his priorities? Martin’s deal with Peter is based on the assumption that Jon and the others would be safe at the end; if they’re harmed and snatched by something else beforehand… it changes the configuration a bit.

(- BUT JON CHOSE TO PRIORITISE WHAT WAS HAPPENING TO THE OTHERS!!! HE TRIED TO INFODUMP TO MARTIN WHEN HE HIMSELF IS DEPRIVED OF ANY INFORMATION, BECAUSE MELANIE DOESN’T WANT TO TALK TO HIM, BASIRA IS FORBIDDING HIM TO “KNOW” ANYTHING ABOUT WHAT SHE’S DOING, AND MARTIN REFUSES TO SHARE ABOUT HIS OWN AGENDA WITH PETER!!!

I don’t know why, but this is… one of the aspects that punch my feelings the deepest? That Jon is desperately trying to share what is happening around him, to rebuild bridges, to avoid miscommunication or leaving others in ignorance? Because he has known first-hand, since the beginning of season 4, what it is like when nobody wants to share their plans with you? Because obviously, obviously we’re heading towards a Disaster if they don’t manage to unite what they’re doing and what they’re thinking, when there is so much at stake and when they have multiple potential ends of the world to thwart?)

- MAG126 confirmed that Martin is Concealing and very much feeling; that he’s forcing himself to pretend indifference. And yet, he still slipped from that self-inflicted behaviour at the beginning? (Highlighting that Peter is not his first evil boss?) And sounded like he panicked when Jon began infodumping?

;; I would like to be able to feel GLAD that Martin is showing some determination in the path he chose; he’s clearly not fine but also firmer and… hanging on to what he planned. And it surely feels, already, that he’s barreling head first towards complete disaster. Jon and Martin feel more and more that they will compete for the role of Most Self-Sacrificing Idiot in order to protect everyone, instead of working together…

- Given Peter’s reaction after Martin had barely talked with Jon:

(MAG126) PETER: You talked to him. MARTIN: I… I, I tried not to, I–I, I didn’t mean to… PETER: You talked to him. And that’s understandable, Martin, of course it is! Please don’t think I’m upset, it’s just… not ideal. Shows how much work we still have ahead of us. […] I had hoped that all this time apart would have given you the space you needed, but… MARTIN: … You said he’d probably never wake up. PETER: And he beat the odds. Which is good. But it does make things more complicated. It doesn’t… actually change… anything. MARTIN: A–a simple “hello” isn’t going to make any difference to– PETER: We’ve been over this. The sort of power you’re going to need relies on your– MARTIN: [SULKY] Obedience. PETER: Isolation. It needs to be you, Martin. You’re the only one who could possibly balance between the two.

… yeah, I’m not eager to hear what Peter thought about Martin and Jon talking again this time. I hope that Peter won’t ~generously offer~ a way for Martin to be completely out of Jon’ reach ;;

At the same time: really not sure that Peter’s (official) plan is working and that Martin is doing much progress? Yeah, he had it audibly rough, sounded bitterer and drier. But he doesn’t sound hollow or indifferent? He doesn’t sound like he’s in his natural state when forcing himself to be isolated? And after this conversation, I’m not sure that Martin will be able to do any progress Lonely-wise: I mean, if he had a crush on Jon back in season 1 already, when Jon was… like that, HOW could his heart remain still with current!Jon? When Jon is trying hard to share things and moments with him, when it’s Jon who seeks him out and wants to know what is happening in Martin’s life, when Jon apologizes spontaneously, when Jon is showing that Martin not being around him is hurting him? When Jon is showing so hard that he cares about him? I hope that Martin gets to stock up on these feelings to fight off the Lonely’s influence :|

- *crawls on the floor* everything hurts and I hate it and I’m loving it at the same time hhhhh…

(MAG053) MARTIN: [SIGHS] I just worry. You needed five stitches after you “accidentally” stabbed yourself with a breadknife. If you’re still claiming that’s what happened. ARCHIVIST: I am. MARTIN: Then you’ll forgive me for worrying when you use sharp knives.

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: Even if it looks like you’re doing something really stupid. [SILENCE] … Sorry. MARTIN: It’s okay. I get it. ARCHIVIST: I just– I worry. You’re working for someone… really bad!

OOOOOOH

(MAG126) MARTIN: … It’s because he’s back, isn’t it. [SIGHS] He’s back, so now you’re going to be… around, again. Listening in. Mff. You missed him, didn’t you. … Yeah. … [VERY SHARP SQUEAL OF DISTORTION] Yeah, me too.

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: [SIGHS] I suppo– … I miss you. MARTIN: [SNORT] ARCHIVIST: I’m just… MARTIN: Lonely. ARCHIVIST: [SIGHS] Yeah.

DID THE DYNAMIC

(MAG102) MARTIN: […] Look I’m, I’m so sorry, Jon, I– Elias didn’t even tell any of us that you’d been kidnapped– ARCHIVIST: Oh. MARTIN: –I didn’t know– ARCHIVIST: Hey– MARTIN: No-one else was telling me– ARCHIVIST: Hey, hey, hey… MARTIN: And there wasn’t any— ARCHIVIST: It’s alright, it’s alright. Elias didn’t tell anyone, there was, there was no way you could have known. I-I mean, I wasn’t exactly here before. MARTIN: No, you weren’t. … But I am sure that if you could have been, you would have.

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: I, er… I heard about your mother. MARTIN: … Yeah. ARCHIVIST: I am… so sorry. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Thank you.

FLIP AROUND…

Martin used to be the one worrying for Jon!! To think about Jon when he wasn’t there!!! To feel like he had let Jon down!!!! (When he apologized in MAG040 for leaving Jon and Tim behind, too… ;;) There are many reasons for Martin to be one of Jon’s concerns, indeed: concern, because he hasn’t been there for the past months. Guilt, because Martin is the last of the original assistants left alive. Worry, because the Lukases are not known to be harmless people. Defamiliarization, because Martin used to seek his presence rather than avoid him.

But Jon also sounds so sad, trying to connect with Martin again… His voice was still dragging and a bit brooding when he introduced the statement right after – Martin’s behaviour is leaving him miserable, uh…

- Jon agreed to not try to see Melanie, and sticks to it. He also accepted to try to not Know about Basira’s errands, and… unless he’s dissimulating it from the tape recorders, it looks like it has worked so far? (He hasn’t even opened the coffin!) (Yet.)

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: I, er, I should probably… talk to h– BASIRA: You should probably stay as far away as possible. She doesn’t want to see you. ARCHIVIST: No. No, o–o–of course.

(MAG128) BASIRA: Right. [SILENCE] [INHALES] Right. Keep it safe, I’ll be gone a few days. I have some leads I need to follow up. ARCHIVIST: Sorry…?! BASIRA: You heard me. Don’t ask about them, and don’t know about them either. ARCHIVIST: I can’t exactly control that! BASIRA: Learn. […] I’ll try and be back in a week or two. Don’t think about me. ARCHIVIST: Right. BASIRA: And don’t open the coffin.

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: […] I haven’t heard from Basira, since she left on whatever secret errand, and I feel like I’m no closer to understanding any of this.

… I wonder if Jon will try to do what Martin asked of him:

(MAG129) MARTIN: Stop. Stop, please, I–I shouldn’t know any of this, I… [PACKING UP] I–I–I really need to go, I–I’m… ARCHIVIST: Right. … right. MARTIN: Please, stop finding me.

… or if, precisely, he’ll keep trying to see him. (Or if he will Know and… pretend he doesn’t.)

- Meanwhile, Jon’s powers are getting a bit out of control, uh… It’s, I think, the first time that Jon has expressed disgust at the idea of seeing/knowing things?

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: […] Or perhaps I shouldn’t wonder. [HUFFS] Even as I say it, I can feel the knowledge, pushing in my mind. Eager to find a way in. But I don’t want it. I don’t want to know. … I don’t want to see. … No more than I wanted to see how Gertrude stopped The Buried and their ritual, but that came to me as well. […] I don’t like this. I don’t like… not being sure what’s going to be in my mind. What thoughts are mine and what are from… elsewhere. Why I just know some statements are what I should be reading.

Jon’s complaint is the complete opposite of how Elias had described the Beholding folks! (MAG092: “We thrive on ceaseless watching, on knowing too much. What we face is the hidden, the uncanny, and the unknown.”) It looks like the knowledge of what happened to Jan Kilbride shook him pretty badly (it sounded… especially gruesome), and… indeed, Jon would fear losing himself with what is happening.

… So I’m really Not Impressed at him for suddenly forgetting his recriminations when he got the Knowledge of what he was supposed to understand from this statement. Is Beholding trying to appeal to Jon? Jon’s anxiousness and irritation totally disappeared right after he got the Additional Knowledge, so if it was the case… it worked. Jon, don’t be so easy!! It’s not because you’re getting the information you’d like to that it’s a good thing… ;;

- Okay, I’m probably granting too much consciousness and purpose to something that is supposedly (re)acting on instinct (“like a muscle spasming on reflex”, Jon had offered in MAG080) but.

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: […] I don’t like this. I don’t like… not being sure what’s going to be in my mind. What thoughts are mine and what are from… elsewhere. Why I just know some statements are what I should be reading. I assume this one is related to the coffin. To Daisy. … I haven’t heard from Basira, since she left on whatever secret errand, and I feel like I’m no closer to understanding any of this. … [SIGHS] I suppose if this one managed to free himself from The Buried or, to find a way out of… whatever part of Choke embraces drowning, I… [STATIC] I need an anchor.

It really sounded like Jon: i don’t know what to doooo, i have no direction, no idea… Beholding: *sends Jon towards a Relevant Statement* (●♡∀♡))ヾ☆*。 Jon: k thanks that’s a buried one, what’s the point of it then ¯\_ಠ_ಠ_/¯ Beholding: (ilu but you’re so slow, do I have to SPELL IT OUT) Σ(￣ロ￣lll) *sends static-y additional knowledge* Jon: oh– OOOOOOH.

To be fair with Jon, there were multiple things that I thought about when assuming that Jon had been directed towards this one (which was then implied to indeed be the case during his post-statement)?

* First: it’s a bit surprising that Jon is learning so much about the rituals that Gertrude managed to counter, considering Beholding’s is coming close? It’s like Jon is being given tips about how to possibly… ensure that Beholding’s won’t happen. We saw in MAG126 how Gertrude learned the location and some elements involved in the Spiral’s Great Twisting; and Jon apparently saw/felt/got first-hand knowledge about Gertrude’s reasoning, and what she did with (/to) Jan Kilbride in order to stop The Buried’s Sunken Sky ritual. I don’t know if there is a sort of intention in Jon’s outbursts of knowledge: if Beholding is simply answering Jon’s curiosity calls, or if it’s able to select what to give and hide from Jon. Giving information about Gertrude’s counter-rituals feels a bit dangerous considering how Jon’s loyalty to his patron isn’t… well, we’re still not 100% sure that Jon would be down for the Watcher’s Crown since he hasn’t specified anything in that regard (I mean, it seems obvious that Jon doesn’t want it to happen! And he’s probably remaining silent about it because it’s not safe to be a bit too openly antagonistic to your own patron in its place of power? But at the same time, Jon Made His Choice to be able to wake up, and we still don’t know what happened exactly.) On the other hand, there is… something to be said about how the two last Archivists weren’t exactly super into their own patron: Gertrude was actively working against it, Jon is maybe a bit more ambiguous (or at least passive) at the moment… is ot a Beholding thing to shoot yourself in the foot just to see what happens?!

* When I wondered about how this statement could tie in with the coffin, I thought about the rain, actually!

(MAG002, Joshua Gillespie) “It was a hard, heavy rain, the sort that falls straight down with no wind to disturb it, until everything is dark and wet. It was barely past midday, but I remember the sky was so overcast and gloomy that I had to get up to turn on the light. And that was when I heard it. […] It was almost… melodious. It sounded almost like singing, if it was muffled by twenty feet of hard-packed soil.

(MAG129, Kulbir Shakya) It started raining on the walk home. … When would you start to worry about the rain? I don’t mean about it ruining your day or wrecking an event you’re planning, but at what point does it stop being normal, and start to alarm you?

I thought it might be because reaching The Buried (or allowing The Buried to reach you) might be easier when it’s raining, or something of the sort?

* Orrr if the point might have been to tell Jon to ~dig~ into the “[Eberhart?] and Strauss” firm. (Not sure about the name, it was never mentioned before? One “Harry Eisenhard” had disappeared in MAG099’s statement, which was a Buried one, but it’s clearly not pronounced the same.)

* Or if it wasn’t something about needing to Face The Fears in order to find a way out.

* Or maybe it was Beholding telling Jon (to open the door and) to allow himself to get drowned, because it’s Inevitable anyway. (The whole anchor thing would be even more relevant given Jon’s situation! Give him reasons to care, give him safeguards able to tell him off if he slips!)

* tl;dr Can’t blame Jon for being too oblivious about what was supposed to be “the clue” in that statement, since I… didn’t bat an eye about “anchors” either – I mostly perceived them as a way to escape the Lonely specifically until now >>

- I’m!!! so happy that

(MAG099) ARCHIVIST: Is it… Why are you so insistent on keeping me around? GEORGIE: Because you’re trying to cut yourself off, and that’s… that’s really bad! Look, when’s the last time you spoke to someone who wasn’t me? ARCHIVIST: That’s… I… I–I talked to Martin a, a… a… a few weeks ago…? GEORGIE: Did you talk to him? Or did he talk to you, while you tried to find a way to escape? ARCHIVIST: I… uh… GEORGIE: Look, you’re worried. I get it. But if you really think you’re turning into something… inhuman, you need people around you. You need anchors. ARCHIVIST: All my “anchors” are just as deep in this as me. GEORGIE: Well, you still need them. ARCHIVIST: [SIGHS] Maybe you’re right. I… I’ll talk to the others. […]

Even if she’s not there, Georgie was right! “Anchor” was the word she used! ;w; (She was also the one to coin “avatar” before we learned that Gertrude also used it! Georgie is good at finding the right word when people are describing concepts!)

… Though it’s not a matter of stopping Jon from turning “inhuman” now ;; Elias had told Jon it was an irrelevant distinction back in MAG092 (“Jon, what does human even mean? I mean, really? You still bleed, you can still die. And your will is still your own, mostly. That’s more than can be said for a lot of the ‘real’ humans out there.”), Jon mentioned that he didn’t feel as heartless as he expected to with that development (MAG126: “I thought… moving away from my humanity would have made that seem more acceptable. That sort of sacrifice… but it just makes me sad…”), and it indeed feel like it’s not at the top of Jon’s fears anymore? (But he would still need anchors for this precise reason, probably ;;)

- Jonathan “I need an anchor!” Sims, why are you so relieved about that fact as if it were a helpful indication; must I remind you that

(MAG122) ARCHIVIST: Georgie, I– GEORGIE: Jon. If this really is a second chance… please, try to take it. But I don’t think that it is. ARCHIVIST: Georgie, I don’t und– GEORGIE: Take care of yourself.

nobody

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: How’s Melanie? BASIRA: How do you think? ARCHIVIST: I, er, I should probably… talk to h– BASIRA: You should probably stay as far away as possible. She doesn’t want to see you. ARCHIVIST: No. No, o–o–of course.

currently

(MAG128) BASIRA: I’ll try and be back in a week or two. Don’t think about me. ARCHIVIST: Right.

wants

(MAG129) MARTIN: Stop. Stop, please, I–I shouldn’t know any of this, I… [PACKING UP] I–I–I really need to go, I–I’m… ARCHIVIST: Right. … right. MARTIN: Please, stop finding me.

to see or talk to you. I mean. Even friggin’ Elias, of all people, doesn’t want Jon to see him (for nebulous reasons):

(MAG127) BASIRA: [SIGHS] Fine. So you won’t see him, but you’re happy for him to hear our conversations. ELIAS: He can listen all he wants, but he’s at a very delicate stage right now, and I… fear my presence would be a… a distraction. I’ve made it clear my cooperation’s contingent on his not seeing me, and my terms have been accepted thus far.

Well. To be fair, Jon didn’t present it as the Solution – it’s a lead:

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: […] I need an anchor. I… I could go in… myself, I, I could find her. And… then, I just need to get out. I need something out here. Something I can know the way back to. I, I don’t know what. But… [HUFFS] It’s a start.

I don’t know what or whom he would be choose, though? Georgie elected to leave him to his own devices at the beginning of this season; Basira has repeatedly mentioned that she doesn’t trust him; Melanie is currently healing and not fine (and she didn’t like Jon even before getting tied down to the Institute). Even worse, for Basira: Elias made it pretty clear in MAG092 that if anyone is Daisy’s anchor, it’s Basira. And Basira presented Daisy in a similar way, too:

(MAG092) ELIAS: […] Should I, or the Institute, be destroyed, you will all, unfortunately, follow suit. […] And it would not be a pleasant death. DAISY: Bullshit! ELIAS: Then shoot me. Just squeeze the trigger, and watch the only person you care about die screaming. Your last connection to humanity. Do it. BASIRA: Daisy…

(MAG117) BASIRA: […] But at least Daisy’s coming along. I mean… I know she’s… difficult. Everything they say about her, it’s true, it’s fair. But… she’s solid. She’s a fixed point. And if she’s there, I know exactly where I stand, exactly what I’m doing relative to her. She has no doubts. […] Despite everything she’s done, she’s… she’s still the best partner I ever had.

(MMMMM, Elias’s line to Daisy is very close to Kulbir’s “I gripped the last connection I had to the world I knew”, isn’t it?)

Given Daisy and Basira’s relationship, and given how Jon presented the “anchor” as something that would help you to get out, it kind of excludes right away that Basira could potentially go inside to rescue Daisy; she would need her to remain outside of it in order to find her way back to her? Though, with how Basira managed to escape The Unknowing by herself in MAG119, and how she mentioned the events in MAG128, maybe she would be able to find her own way out of this one by herself, too (is she her own anchor, after all?) – but Daisy would probably not be able to leave the coffin if they’re both inside of it.

* Regarding Jon: I wish that Martin could turn out to be his anchor, because this season is breaking my heart, but I feel like their exchange at the beginning of the episode was kind of… making it clear that it couldn’t be him, that he wouldn’t agree to it (or then, Jon would have to push for it, and maybe push too far). On the one hand, Jon has been able to find him twice (MAG124, MAG129) thanks to Spooky Powers, when Martin wasn’t expecting Jon to be able to; on the other hand… they have never been especially close – mostly because Jon isn’t especially close to anyone. They used to look a bit closer from the outside, but I felt it was mostly because Martin hadn’t given up on Jon in season 2 (unlike Tim)? Jon trusted him in season 3, Jon tried to talk to him in MAG102, Jon is currently missing him and worried for him and trying to talk and reach for him (AND I LOVE IT, OKAY), but Jon barely knows Martin and I wouldn’t say there is a deep, stable emotional connection between them at the moment? If it had to be someone, I would be leaning towards Georgie.

* (Or The Admiral, but I doubt that Jon would be willing to involve him. Though: I have trouble picturing him making Georgie come to the Institute, too… He didn’t want to involve her much, making her enter The Eye’s temple would sound very risky in that regard, especially with Peter Lukas currently running it?)

* (I keep thinking about Helen because of the doors and because LISTEN… listen…

(MAG127) BASIRA: And don’t open the coffin. ARCHIVIST: [HUMOROUS EXHALES] It is addressed to me! [SILENCE] … Yes, alright. … Alright. [CLICK.]

=> if you get inside the coffin through another door, you don’t need to open the coffin! No breaking (implicit) promises! >:D)

* There is still the possibility of Jon’s grandmother, but I didn’t get the feeling that they were especially close when Jon recalled his childhood with her in MAG081…?

* If the “anchor” is an item: there are the tape recorders, though it’s mostly them who seem to find their ways to Jon, these days. There is also the Web lighter, the status of which is currently unknown: did Jon still have it on him during the Unknowing, or had Martin borrowed it to burn statements in MAG118? What happened to it during Jon’s coma? Same as the tape recorders, though: is it the lighter that follows Jon, or Jon who is drawn to it?

(MAG111) GERRY: […] Nice lighter. You a spider freak, then? ARCHIVIST: What? Oh! Er, n–no. I–I, I never really, uh… I never really thought of it.

* Other contender: the Archives themselves, or the Institute overall?

(I regret even deeper that Basira hasn’t apparently shared with Jon her discussion with Elias, because it implied that Elias still has plans regarding Jon… so if Jon really can’t make it out alone, I wonder whether someone would bulge to save him this time, if things were to derail horrendously. If past experiences are any indication: no, nobody would help him, especially not Elias since Jon was kidnapped for a whole month outside of The Eye’s reach and he only got saved because “Michael” went to finish him, even when The Unknowing was coming up. But. Still.)

Anyway! The lighter made me think again about how it’s not exactly that, but I feel like there is a bit of “Ariadne’s thread helping you through the maze” imagery in the idea of descending into the coffin? Not exactly since it doesn’t seem to be about marking the way back but having something to go back to, but! As I said, a bit. (Fun fact apparently, web strings used by spiders when they go from one place to another can be called “Ariadne’s threads” in French. The more you know.)

- I Can’t Expect Things To Go Greatly In This Series, so: I wonder if even Jon manages to get in and to find Daisy… either she will be either far too gone already and they’ll have to confine her somewhere instead, either Jon will make a mistake resulting in her death – while Basira was working on her way to get her out of it alive. In the latter case, it would definitely cement the fracture between Basira and Jon in such a way that they would both be at fault: Jon would have tried to help but would have broken the interdiction of not opening the coffin; Basira would have wanted to save Daisy but, by refusing to share what she was doing, only nurtured Jon’s eagerness to try to fix things. So yeah. There are many ways it could go very bad, and I have had too many moments of “actually, things are only getting worse, I miss the time when they were less Worse” to hope for how the situation could improve :|

(But maybe it could not be a disaster. Maybe Jon could wait for Basira to come back before trying anything; maybe they would manage to save Daisy; maybe Basira would come back with Simon Fairchild on Elias’s recommendation because he still has a terrible sense of humour, and Jon could take example on how Gertrude stopped the Sunken Sky by throwing Simon into the coffin, neutralizing two threats at the same time. Would make him (rightfully) lose humanity points in Basira’s eyes, though.)

(- Melanie’s bullet was removed, tho!! Which is definitely an improvement, even if she’s currently a wreck.

First was Melanie, now is Daisy… even if the Mission To Rescue Daisy ends in a disaster, maybe trying to get Martin back will come after. Even though we know that Martin has an agenda.)

- If Jon does end up going down into the coffin: I wonder if we will hear him live? Or if he’ll describe what happened afterwards? …………….. or if the scene would switch to Elias describing the events for us. :||||| 

- CHEERS!! The Pit (MAG097) had teeth inside and a tongue, so we know that Buried things can bite. That leaves plenty of opportunities for Jon, who *gasps* is still missing a Buried scar, to get it from there.

The Dark also had the creature that can wreck you. The Flesh has plenty of ways to twist you a bit. As for the Lonely:

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: […] It’s… frustrating, to be honest. I finally feel myself, I feel… focused, and ready – and I find myself basically alone.

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: [SIGHS] I suppo– … I miss you. MARTIN: [SNERK] ARCHIVIST: I’m just… MARTIN: Lonely. ARCHIVIST: [SIGHS] Yeah.

Whether it’s part of Elias&Peter’s plan or a nice bonus snack for Peter: the Lonely is already affecting Jon. Slowly completing the “collection”, uh.

  MAG130’s title is already out, and MMMMMMM. Biggest plot-twist would be if The Flesh wasn’t involved, uh. (Can we have Melanie back a bit? ;w; Maybe giving a statement about how The Flesh attacked two months ago? ;w;)

[luvdsc]

too hot! hot damn!

what do you get when you mix red and blue together?

pairing :: lee taeyong x reader genre :: fluff / boyfriend au word count :: 2,121 words warnings :: a tiny paragraph about making out playlist :: cherry kisses (chungha) ⋆ daft pretty boys (bad suns) ⋆ hands on me (taeyeon) ⋆ crash my car (coin) ⋆ shy (hunny) author’s note :: to the insanely talented goddess who wrote the first nct fic i ever read nearly 3 years ago and still love to this day!!! i didn’t think i’d ever get to be friends with one of my favoritest writers on here, but here we are :’) ily els @taeyongtime​ ♡ 

“It’s hot.”

You’re draped across the old, yet still very plush couch, the kitschy pattern spread across it now fondly regarded as one of the things that transforms this dingy little place from a shoebox apartment into home. The thin spaghetti strap of your faded tie-dyed tank top from your old sorority days hangs limply off of your shoulder, threatening to fall even more when you slump over to the left. The simple drawstring shorts you have on barely cover your legs, but you contemplate tossing them off still because it’s just. So. Damn. Hot.

“It’s hot!” you whine even louder, throwing your arms up in the air before letting them flop down onto the cushions dramatically. The nearby open window only blows in a measly little breeze that does nothing except dry the sweat on your skin for a few glorious seconds before it reappears like a stubborn stain. Your boyfriend only raises an eyebrow at you from his spot on the floor, sprawled out in front of said window and using one of his Nylon magazines as a makeshift fan.

Taeyong agrees, flapping the glossy pages in front of his face desperately. “It’s too hot.”

Two days consisting of barely surviving the power outage creeps into a third, the prospect of having AC again anytime soon becoming extremely bleak. The transformer had completely blown out, and the electric company finally sent out a crew to fix it earlier this morning. The estimated restoration was initially set to noon, but it was pushed back until 3 p.m., then 6 p.m., then 10 p.m., then 5 a.m., and now the big black bolded letters spelling out “undetermined” mocks you from the screen of your phone that's already set to the lowest brightness setting to conserve battery.

To make it worse, your city was suffering a heat wave, temperatures spiking to 105 degrees Fahrenheit every single day and simmering down to 80 during the night before climbing the thermostat again. The raging thunderstorm that plagued last night only resulted in unexpected humidity, making your clothes stick to you like a second skin.

“Make it less hot,” you moan, blowing air upwards towards your forehead in an attempt to cool down in the slightest way possible.

“I can’t control the weather, babe, but I can get you a popsicle?” Taeyong sluggishly pushes himself into a sitting position to face you. The shiny magazine in his hand still flounders around until he gives up on it and tosses it aside.

You turn your head, cheek pressing into the couch cushion, as you squint at him. “We don’t have any left. We took all our food from the fridge to Doyoung’s place. I can’t believe that bastard has a gigantic generator and is flourishing in his stupid air conditioned apartment and making frozen sangrias, while his best friends are about to die from heatstroke.”

You had sent back a rather crass Snapchat back to Doyoung after he sent one earlier of his perfect, Instagram story worthy, iced alcoholic beverage. It’s honestly a miracle that he didn’t toss your beloved brown sugar boba ice cream bars out onto his pristine balcony with picture perfect potted plants to perish. That man can still hold onto a grudge even after he’s on his deathbed and descending into the fiery pits.

Taeyong stands up and slowly ambles towards the refrigerator. “I saved two popsicles in the freezer. I figured it’d stay cold enough and not melt if we ate them soon.”

“Oh my god, that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.” You struggle to push yourself up into a sitting position before finally being able to, watching your boyfriend open the freezer and pull out the last two saving graces.

“Do you want blue raspberry or cherry?”

He holds out the two icy sweets in front of you, one in each hand. You already know that he secretly wants the red one; it’s been his favorite ever since he was five and tried his very first one from the ice cream truck that still comes around his parents’ neighborhood. But you also know that he always lets you choose first and wouldn’t complain if you take that one.

You reach out and pluck the blue one from his grasp, and he smiles happily, eyes crinkling in the corners as he eagerly unwraps the cherry flavored one and shoves it in his mouth, tossing the wrapper into the nearby wicker trash basket.

He drops down onto the empty space next to you, reclining back and slouching in his seat. The two of you sit there peacefully, side by side and enjoying the cold snacks, until he wordlessly slides over, pressing the side of his arm and leg against yours.

“Move back,” you complain, shoving him over to his original position. “It’s hot, and you’re making it worse.”

“So are you calling me hot?” Taeyong wriggles his eyebrows at you before taking a bite of his popsicle, much to your horror. He moves closer to you again for the sole sake of annoying you.

“First off, I’m calling you sweaty. Secondly, did you just bite your ice cream?” You throw him a dirty look before moving over and turning to sit with your back against the arm rest, throwing your legs over his lap.

Taeyong slightly pouts at you, munching on yet another chunk of his popsicle and ignoring the way you wrinkle your nose in disdain. “What’s wrong with that? It’s melting, and I don’t want it to drip and get my hand all sticky.”

You can’t believe that you just discovered your boyfriend is a psychopath. He’s going to the same circle of hell as people who pour milk in before cereal and those who hate mint chocolate chip ice cream once he leaves this earth (He can even say hi to Doyoung as he descends to eternal damnation).

“Why didn’t you say anything about this before we started dating?” You are absolutely appalled. Horrified. Disgusted. This is the biggest relationship deal breaker you have ever come across.

“Next, you’re gonna say you hate me because I don’t like pineapple on pizza,” he says as his free hand settles on the top of your thigh, gently tapping rhythmically against it absentmindedly.

“Oh my god, you absolute heathen.” You really thought Taeyong was the perfect man of your dreams, but you unfortunately realize belatedly that even he has flaws. Some inexcusable ones, in fact. 

In the midst of your lamenting, you fail to notice melting sugar slowly trickling down until it leaves a sticky mess all over your hand. Desperately, you toss the empty popsicle stick into the nearby waste basket before licking off the remnants of your icy blue treat from your fingers.

“See? It melted all over you. I told you so,” Taeyong childishly sticks out his tongue as he waves his clean hand and empty popsicle stick around as if to emphasize his point.

“Your tongue’s red,” you say, chuckling slightly, and his eyes widen at this newfound revelation.

“Wait, stick out your tongue,” he demands as he throws away the wooden stick, and you comply with his request. He grins, delighted. “Yours is blue!”

He sticks out his tongue again, almost going cross eyed as he tries to catch a glimpse of his own. At that, your eyes zero in on his cherry stained lips, and an ingenious idea pops up in your mind as the sudden urge to kiss your boyfriend silly makes itself very known.

“Hey, wanna play a game, Yongie?” you ask slyly, and his attention immediately turns to you at the word “game,” interest piqued and eyes fixated on you.

“What kind of game?” he inquires cautiously, taking note of the mischievous glimmer in your eyes. You look like you’re up to no good, and your boyfriend wouldn’t be surprised if you have something up your metaphorical sleeve (Because nobody sane enough would be wearing something with sleeves in this weather from hell. In fact, you’re 66.6% percent certain that those fiery pits are probably cooler compared to here).

“Too hot.”

“Yes, it is,” he acknowledges, shaking his head in agreement, and you laugh, fanning yourself with your hands. “No, silly, I meant the game.” 

“It’s called ‘too hot’?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you confirm, nodding your head. The expression of skepticism on his face says it all, so you throw in your bargaining chip.

“I hid a chocolate bar in the freezer’s ice chest. The winner can have it.”

His doe eyes immediately light up at the mention of his favorite sweet, and he grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Okay, how do I play?”

“We kiss,” you start, and he’s already pulling you towards him enthusiastically, causing soft laughter to bubble up from your throat, before you swat his hands away. “Hey, hey, hey, I wasn’t done explaining it yet! There’s no touching allowed.”

“That’s no fun,” Taeyong whines, lips jutting out into a tiny pout that you want to kiss away already. “You said this is a game. Games are supposed to be fun.”

“But you’re getting kisses, and it’s already hot so it’s better this way,” you coax, and he relents with a drawn out sigh, and you quietly cheer. “Okay, ready?”

Taeyong gives you a tiny nod, and you grin before leaning in, eyes fluttering close. You gently place your lips against his, and he holds still. But then, a few seconds later, you feel his fingers barely grazing your cheek, and you immediately pull away with a frown.

“Baby, I told you that you can’t touch!”

“That rule is dumb,” he complains, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child. You frown at him, pouting until he gives in again because it’s you and he’d cross oceans and climb mountains for you.

“Okay, let’s try again,” he grumbles, glowering as he absentmindedly cards his hand through his hair, and you positively beam at him, and the sulking expression on his face softens almost instantly.

“What if we do baby steps first?” You pull your legs up onto the couch, sitting up on your knees and facing him. He fully turns to look at you, head cocked to one side.

“What do you mean?”

You lean forward and peck his cheek before moving back to your original position. “Like that. Now your turn.”

A lightbulb goes off in his head, and Taeyong leans forward and gingerly places a kiss on your forehead with an endearing smile. You inch forward and kiss his other cheek. He plants a tiny kiss to the tip of your nose, and you lean in to delicately leave a kiss on the corner of his mouth. He presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, and you do the same to the opposite side, much to his utter frustration.

This time, Taeyong chases after you when you pull away. You let out a noise of surprise as he gently tugs you forward, crashing his lips against yours and muffling your laughter, and you find yourself straddling your boyfriend. Your hands wind up tangled in his hair, while his arms lock around your waist and hold you close, game be damned.

You can taste a faint trace of cherry, causing the corners of your mouth to curl into the minutest hint of a smile before you press your mouth against his more firmly as he kisses you back eagerly until you both run out of air, pulling away breathlessly with identical smiles.

“You lost,” you tease, poking his cheek with your finger as your other hand curls around his shirt. He makes a face at you, his hands still resting on your waist, and you find that you don’t mind the warmth of them against your skin even in this ruthlessly blazing weather.

“But you’ll share the chocolate, right?” he mumbles, face still flushed and lips redder than before. He traces soft patterns against your hip as you tilt your head to the side, faking your hesitation.

“Hmm, I don’t know, should I? I won fair and square.”

He sticks his tongue out at you. “Meanie.” 

You laugh, sliding off his lap and onto the empty seat next to him (albeit a little unwillingly, but it’s still hot as hell unfortunately, and conserving body heat together isn’t helping at all). Your boyfriend frowns, mostly because you’re no longer sitting in his lap, but partly because he doesn’t understand why you’re laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

Your grin widens, eyes sparkling like you know something he doesn’t (because you do). “Baby, your tongue’s purple.”

Taeyong turns a shade brighter than his favorite popsicle flavor.

[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: Volume 8 “Witch”

Happy Saturday, everyone! Well, it's perhaps happier provided you didn't watch today’s episode lol. Getting through these 18 minutes felt like watching an extended version of a CinemaSins vid. I heard a little 'ding!' every time something nonsensical, contradictory, or just downright stupid happened. My mind became a pinball machine. 

Which, in the interest of being fair as opposed to just snarky, only matters if you're looking for something resembling emotional depth in this show. RWBY, for all its faults, is enjoyable as a mindless spectacle. It's when you expect — or simply hope — for anything more that this very fragile house of cards comes tumbling down.

If it’s not clear already, today’s recap contains copious amounts of salt. Fair warning. 

With that disclaimer out of the way, let’s dive in. Episode nine is titled "Witch," which is fitting since many members of our group go toe-to-toe against Salem herself. The narrative issues inherent in having your heroes fighting their final boss years before the series is meant to end might have been avoided if it weren't for Oscar's ridiculous, sacrificial attack... but we'll get to that.

We open with a sweeping shot of the Atlas battle, as hundreds of dead soldiers segue into endless grimm. Hold onto that image for a bit. At the end of this carnage is, of course, the mouth of the whale. We cut to Jaune, Ren, and Yang already safely inside.

"Well," says Yang, "that was harrowing."

I'm on the fence about this choice. On the one hand, yes, it's good that RWBY knows it can skip over extraneous scenes. We have NINE characters to keep track of and develop, fourteen if you count Ozpin, Maria, Winter, Ironwood, and now Whitley. Plus villains. There simply isn't time to show every insignificant moment... but was this insignificant? Obviously finding Oscar and escaping Salem's clutches is the true hurdle of this mission, but that doesn't mean getting through an entire army of grimm is in any way a cake walk. I'd be more willing to ignore this time skip if it weren't likewise presented as such a challenge for Winter's team. They have to "clear a path" to the whale, but our trio got there unscathed and unnoticed? The obvious implication here is that Ren just masked them the whole way — supported by his aura breaking later in the episode — but it still feels like we missed an important chunk of this task.

I'm nit-picking though. As said, I’m straddling the fence on this one and, given that, I'm inclined to settle on a, "Good job, RWBY. You're keeping the writing tight," if only because I don't have much else to praise about this episode. Throw the poor, struggling show a bone lol.

Now that they're inside, they realize they haven't the slightest idea how they'll find Oscar. “Like finding a needle in a giant…whale… why did we think this was a good idea?!” Because you and your friends are idiots who no longer bother to think about a situation before throwing yourself straight into it? This isn't me being mean to Yang, she literally says as much later on. Our heroes no longer get by on intellect, strategy, and skill, but rather plot armor and a staggering number of coincidences. For example, Ren.

Yang: Wow, it sure is lucky for us that on our way to this incredibly dangerous mission Ren inexplicably developed a new part of his semblance. Now he can not only mask peoples' emotions, see the true emotions that someone is feeling, pull thoughts out of their head about what they believe about a situation, but can also track someone across long distances through their emotions alone. Even that doesn't actually help us find Oscar, we just got lucky again when, in this maze of a whale, he ran right into us!

Me: So what were you going to do if this meta-world stopped giving you the most contrived solutions in Remnant history?

Yang: Die gloriously, I guess.

What Yang actually says is, "Okay. That's new!" and they enter the literal belly of the beast wielding a shield of convenience.

Jaune is also being awkward again because remember, RWBY doesn't know when to incorporate humor and when to treat a situation seriously. He reminds Ren not to "drain [himself]," he'll help him, and it's clear the scene is hinting at their earlier fight. There's a lot to unpack there, but I want to save it for the second conversation.

For now, we cut to Oscar, curled up in his cell, repeating stories to comfort himself. Yeah that's fine. I could use a broken heart right before Valentine's Day.

“She brushed off her bumps and bruises, for nothing hurt worse than the loneliness in her chest." It's a line from The Girl Who Fell Through the World, which Ozpin recognizes given that he's "lived through" a fair number of fairy tales. He immediately asks how Oscar is holding up — because he's a caring person! — and Oscar admits that he never understood why the girl of the tale was sad upon reaching home again. Now he does: she wasn't the same person anymore. I don't think the fact that Oscar has had both a metaphorical fall — leaving his farm to 'fall' into this war — and a literal one — falling through Atlas to unlock his magic — is lost on anyone. This is a nice allusion to our themes. Yang's speech to Salem later on? That’s something else entirely. 

Storytelling done, Ozpin says he thinks "this plan to divide might have run its course” and it's time to try and find a way to leave. I'm sorry, I love my farm boy, but what plan? He didn't do anything. At least nothing that could remotely be termed an intellectual plot. Oscar convinced Ozpin to try and turn Hazel by telling him the world would end under Salem's rule and the only reason that worked is because the story decided to chuck out Hazel's entire character. You know, the one that hates Ozpin above all others, wants the world remade into a non-Academy horror show, can't understand that people make their own choices, is terrified of Salem, and has no reason to trust a prisoner he's currently torturing. Oscar's "plan" hinged on his writers erasing a great deal of work to build a new story that fits said “plan.” He didn't even get Emerald involved, she just — again, conveniently — eavesdropped outside their door at just the right moment.

To be clear, I'm not against a story being written to work in the hero's favor. Of course things are going to be convenient in a happy-ending tale. Someone manages to hold out just as long as they need to, a sword is lying just within reach, you, yes, happen to run into the one person you're desperate to find. This kind of stuff is reassuring, telling its audiences that sometimes things do work out for the best. It's enjoyable... but only provided the hero's entire success doesn't hinge on fate being shockingly kind to them. That's what RWBY has become. A world where Salem doesn't attack Mantle, Amity Tower is suddenly finished, the group can charge into any deadly situation they want to and bank on destiny twisting around itself to ensure they come out of it safely. A hero finding a convenient weapon nearby to defeat their enemy with is only reassuring after we've seen them implement a brilliant attack, struggle, nearly win, but then suddenly be faced with failure, necessitating that little push from coincidence. They earned it. The hero doesn't get to run in blindly and find a Defeat Bad Guy plot point gift wrapped for them at the first sign of trouble. They just die.

RWBY used to be a better written show because that's precisely Pyrrha's story. She charged a Maiden unprepared, without a single plan or hope for success, and she died. That's what happens in a dangerous, internally consistent world, but RWBY has since lost the second half of that formula.

I'm harping on this because this entire episode is built on that foundation of coincidence, something that shouldn't be happening at all, but especially not when you're pitting the heroes against Salem herself.

So yeah, it just gets worse from here.

Back to Oscar. Without the cane magic is the only weapon they have at their disposal, but he's reluctant to use it because every time he does, they merge more quickly. 

They... do? 

Okay, there are three major problems with this announcement:

I'm pretty sure we've only seen Oscar use magic once: creating that barrier to survive the fall through Atlas. That was the point of his near death experience, to unlock something that had previously been unavailable to him. Yet if he's only used it once, why is he so sure that it hurries the merge along? What's this "every time" business? This confusion could have easily been avoided if the show had just let Oscar use his magic this volume, tackling some other questions and gaps in the process. Let him use it to fight off the grimm in Mantle, giving him the opportunity to admit to at least Jaune, Ren, and Yang that Ozpin is back. He could have used some magic against the Hound with Ozpin's encouragement, answering the question of why he was entirely silent while the two of them got their ass beat. Give us a moment where Oscar uses his magic against Hazel, nearly escaping in the process, but is captured again at the last moment. Basically, his line makes it sound like magic has been this ongoing resource with an established downside when... it hasn’t.

Coinciding with all of the above, how is it that Oscar can suddenly use magic at will? Yeah, yeah, he unlocked it during the fall, but really? You open up the magic gates and from then on out it's as natural as breathing? This is the same issue with Ruby's silver eyes. The story gives these characters incredible powers, but never has them talking about how they work, let alone training them. They just exist, perfect in execution, as soon as the plot needs them. (See: the final shot of this episode.) At least Weiss had to practice her summoning for multiple volumes.

Finally, the question of how Oscar instinctively knows how to use magic could easily be answered with, "Well, he's kind of Ozpin now," but that would require the story to actually explain what the merge is. "We merge faster," Oscar says, but what does that mean? The Ozpin and Oscar we see in this scene are fundamentally indistinguishable from the Ozpin and Oscar who existed at his aunt's house, four whole years ago. They're still separate people, with one controlling the body and the other existing as a consciousness he can talk to. Nothing has changed. The show keeps insisting that Oscar is going through this deep and painful arc of losing himself to Ozpin... despite the fact that he has yet to lose a single bit of Oscar-ness. Has he changed? Well of course, but anyone going through these experiences is going to change. Remove the "merge" aspect and Oscar's confidence or power up is likewise indistinguishable from any of the other characters' developments. Nora is becoming more of an individual this volume. Ren is becoming more powerful in his semblance. Neither have an Ozpin to force that change, it just happens on its own. So what separates Oscar from every other character going through a formative experience? When is “I’m not the same person anymore” due to unnatural magic vs. just growing up? 

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy our boy is getting more screen time — and that the cast is actually being kind to him now — but overall his arc is objectively terrible. He bought some clothes, told Ironwood he was as bad as Salem, told Hazel how to access the Relic, and then asked him not to be a villain anymore. Somehow these things are presented as significant moments of growth while the real questions surrounding his merge go unanswered.

“Honestly, I think you’re doing just fine on your own," Ozpin tells him, but he's not. God knows our boy is trying, but this is a moment where Ozpin's self-hatred (and the story's insistence that the younger generation is intrinsically better than the older) is blinding him to the situation. Oscar has made terrible decisions lately, in as much as he's been able to decide anything at all, and now he's rejecting escaping captivity because he's terrified of a concept he doesn't even understand yet. None of that is fine. Reassurance is one thing, but painting this situation as Oscar making better choices than he would with Ozpin's input is insane. He literally just decided to keep them in Salem's clutches indefinitely because something something magic is scary, I guess. Oscar doesn't need a, 'You're better than me' speech, he needs a reality check so they don't both die. Remember back in Volume 5 when Oscar, a brave but idiotic 14 year old, insisted on fighting someone entirely out of his league and Ozpin was like,

then saved him from getting his head crushed in like a cantaloupe? We need more of that. Our teenage heroes need guidance, but because RWBY keeps insisting that every adult they encounter is corrupt or incompetent, that hasn't happened in three volumes. They're just aloud to decide things like, “Let's tell our captor the Relic's password because UwU ~trust~” and then the story bends over backwards to make that work. Instead we could, you know, let characters learn that they can be wrong. 

The snow scene was the beginning, but RWBY really went off the rails the day it let Qrow warn the group against stealing from and attacking an allied city, only for them to call him an idiot for doubting them. Now, Ozpin doesn't even get to warn Oscar about stupid decisions, he just agrees with them, reassuring and passive. Never mind the complication of whether Ozpin is even emotionally capable of providing guidance after they labeled him the worst thing to ever happen to them. 

Why does RWBY keep ruining my faves 😔

Anyway, we’ve got to stay on track. Oscar has decided to just lie there but, luckily for him, Hazel's redemption — I use that term so loosely — has begun. He drags Oscar out of his cell before we cut to Winter. 

She's leading a portion of Ironwood's army, trying to get things ready for when the bomb arrives. Neon and Flynt are a part of her team, sharing scared glances and trying to remain optimistic. It's a legitimately hard-hitting moment, striking that balance between horror and hope. Funny though, I wonder that RWBYJNOR would think of their friends fighting for evil Ironwood...

Marrow, continuing the tradition of insisting that our heroes be both adults and kids simultaneously, looks sadly at the soldiers heading into battle and goes, "But... they're just kids." I would like to remind everyone reading that Ruby is younger than them. Anyone who thinks that these teenagers shouldn't be fighting grimm — the thing they have been training to do as their professional career, during an unprecedented attack on their home — should not simultaneously be looking to the girl who is two years younger as his savior. (Something that, while not overt yet, is very much where Marrow is heading as he continually doubts the Ace Ops and looks to RWBY's group as his new, moral leaders.) I'm glad that, for once, this perspective is firmly called out. Elm arrives to tell him point blank that he needs to figure out his personal ethics later. It doesn't matter because there's an army of grimm out there and monsters aren't going to spare anyone, adult or child. Quit philosophizing and kill some already.

Back to Hazel where we get the doorway shot from our trailer. He's taken Oscar to the Relic, because of course he has. Do I really need to list how convenient this is too? Apparently, "the moment we move that thing, this place goes on high alert," but there’s no alarm for when Oscar is taken from his cell, they enter the Relic's room, or when they use it. What does a movement alert matter if someone can just waltz in and waste the last question themselves? Put some of those endless grimm in the room to guard it, Salem!

Just assume that I am, at any given point in this episode, letting out the longest sigh my lungs are physically capable of.

Emerald shows up, demonstrating both the convenience of everyone arriving when they need to, and the very real danger that Salem herself could come in and discover what they're up to. Hazel has Oscar summon Jinn, only to immediately say that “Actually, I think all my questions are answered now.”

I'm sorry, how does this answer any of Hazel's questions? His driving question was not, "Is the Relic actually a magical object capable of doing magical things?" but rather "Are you telling me the truth about Salem's plans to summon the Gods and destroy all of Remnant in her quest to finally die, thereby changing who I'm going to support in this war?" Seeing a naked, blue djinn does not answer that question. 

Hazel's "redemption" is non-existent. He — we — learned about Salem's death wish despite how that contradicts previous lore, then he trusted Ozpin despite that contradicting his entire character, now he joins the heroes because, literally, he sees Jinn floating there. It’s bad enough that Hazel goes from clear villain to sacrificial hero in a matter of in-world hours, but we don’t even get a reason for why that change occurred. 

Oh, there's also this:

So Jinn doesn't come out of her lamp unless someone intends to ask a question, but does it for Ruby because she's special, yet still reiterates that this won't happen again. Then Oscar summons her without intending to ask a question, she comes out anyway, confirms that none of them seek knowledge from her, and happily pops back inside her lamp because eh, it’s whatever.

If RWBY had any courage the three of them would be cursed now for toying with a powerful, magical object. Remember the days when Jinn was a little terrifying because it felt like she was warping her answers and we had no idea what she might do to someone who used her carelessly? When she felt like a djinn? Good times.

Or better times, at least. 

So Good Guy Hazel and Good Gal Emerald promise to get Oscar out. Never mind all the horror they caused, the people they killed, and that for Hazel, at least, this defection is coming out of nowhere. 

Anyone remember that Emerald orchestrated Penny's death? No? Just me?

As they leave it turns out Neo was camouflaged against the wall, because she was also precisely where she needed to be. Does everyone just periodically pop into the Relic room to see what’s going on? At least this time it's not working in the heroes' favor. Remember when I said it's beyond idiotic for Oscar to just hand out the Relic information to known enemies currently holding him captive and torturing him?

Yeeeeaah.

So Neo's got the Lamp. Funny how all of this could have been avoided if Ruby had just put it in the vault like she came to Atlas to do ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

We return to our trio where Jaune and Ren need to rest because their aura is giving out. Good! These guys fought a battle, fought Neo, fought more grimm, fought the Hound, traipsed through the tundra, presumably fought through more grimm to get to the whale, and have been using both their semblances to look for Oscar. It's about time their reserves started to falter.

Jaune decides to scout ahead a bit, leaving Yang and Ren to talk about nothing of importance. I mean that seriously. Remember a few days ago when I spoke about how, if the snow conversation does come back up, Ren's points would be entirely ignored for a nonsensical “I’m glad we’re friends” speech? Remember how I also spoke about how every emotional beat now is entirely generic and you could replace any character with another and not a single thing would change? Yeah. This is both those arguments in one. Nothing is said about the points Ren made. His problems with how the group has been acting lately and the very real, very deadly consequences it has had are flat out ignored. We went from

"But these aren't the kinds of decisions we should be making because we have no idea what we're doing!"

to

"Forward, no matter what!"

in a matter of hours, with precisely zero insight into how Ren went from one perspective to the exact opposite. Kind of like Hazel. Because see, RWBY doesn't write arcs, it just writes one thing until it decides to switch it up for something else, with the opposite idea presented as a “resolution” or a “twist.” Our creators writes scenes they know the fandom is begging for without considering how to get a character to that place, let alone how to get them out of it. That's all Ren's speech was, the equivalent of moral fan service. Here's a glimpse of actual character depth and a morally gray situation... now forget it ever happened because we're back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Instead of working through the laundry list of issues Ren raised, Ren instead accepts Jaune's aura help — something they've been doing since Argus — and tells Yang it's okay to be scared. These moments are meaningless and, as said, could have been between anyone in our cast. Ren could have told Nora she doesn't have to use jokes to cover up that she's scared. Jaune could have reminded Ruby that she can depend on him. Yang could have tried to keep Blake and Weiss' hopes up. This scenes ignores the individuality of the characters, like the fact that they just fought over very different world views, to instead favor any dime-a-dozen moment of support. The number of times this volume has rejected the conflict and resolution the group needs for bland, generic reassurances staggering.

Also, apparently Jaune isn't scared at all? I don't think that's as good a thing as Ren seems to think... 

Then Jaune immediately rounds the corner, terrified lol.

One of the seer grimm is on its way and he tells Ren to mask them. Apparently he had been masking them before — one of the reasons he's so tired now, trying to do two things at once — but it's only here that they go black and white again. Ren manages to keep it up for a little while, but his aura breaks before the seer passes and they're spotted.

Hark! A consequence!

That was well done. It makes sense and it adds to the stakes. We've seen the insane amount of fighting the group has done since Volume 7, we just established that they're at their breaking point, and then Ren's aura fails him right when he needs it the most. Add this to the miniscule pile of things that were well done this episode. 

Salem runs into Emerald and Hazel, the former of which is acting very suspicious when asked if he's made any headway with Oscar. The seer's alarm interrupts them though and... okay. Was I the only one who cackled during this moment? Between Salem's voice acting and the fact that she just yeets herself down the hallway, it came across as really funny to me. 

Either way, it is a bad situation. Our trio is trying to figure out what to do, to which Yang responds, "Do what we do best… charge blindly into danger!!”

Ren's aura is broken. Jaune barely has any left and it’s unlikely he could heal right now even if Ren had any aura to amplify. If Ren takes a single hit anywhere important he is dead.

Me, on my knees, surrounded by the ashes of the Hound, the last bit of serious storytelling we had: "For the love of God, the kingdom is on fire and simultaneously dying of cold. There's a grimm army decimating hundreds outside. Half their group is missing and they're wandering lost inside a devil whale, about to have the most powerful being Remnant has ever known personally try to kill them — can we please have their attitudes reflect that?"

The answer, in case you were wondering, is no.

Back to the bomb. Whatever scientists were given this task have completed it and Marrow watches as it's flown out towards the whale. "Come on, Juan" he whispers and I'm all, "Juan?" Apparently it's a callback to last volume when Marrow couldn't remember Jaune's actual name, but it took me hopping onto the RWBY wiki to remember that. 

As death via explosion inches closer, the trio runs into Hazel and Emerald. Turns out though that Hazel is really Oscar, disguised through Emerald's semblance. Nice trick! Jaune immediately drops both weapons to hug Oscar and, while that's nice and all, it's also the stupidest thing he could possible do in enemy territory. Also, Oscar has been beaten up by the Hound, tortured with magic, and likewise beaten bloody by Hazel. I was hoping for a tender hug like the one Nora gave him, not a giant squeeze for more comedy purposes. It just feels like RWBY has no idea how to manage the tone of this volume, let alone the torture of a child...

There's the obligatory, "Why should we trust you?" from Yang regarding Emerald joining the team, to which Ren responds, "Because she's scared, just like us."

That doesn't prove anything. Literally everyone is scared right now. There is a war going on. I really cannot emphasize enough how RWBY throws out Deep™ sounding lines that are, upon inspection, absolutely nonsensical. Nora reminding Penny that there are different parts to her personhood, Hazel saying that all his questions have been answered, Ren announcing that Emerald is scared... it's all worthless chatter that has no bearing on their problems: How do I keep from being hacked? How do I know you're telling the truth? How do we know you're trustworthy after you spent years trying to kill us? But of course, because it's RWBY, Ren's announcement is treated as some sort of secret truth that everyone accepts. Emerald joins up.

As they head for an exit we return to Marrow who, frankly, is getting on my last nerve. I know the fandom loves him because he's clearly leaning towards Team RWBY, but does anyone actually listen to what he says? He starts yelling at Winter for sending in the bomb because the trio might still be alive in there, despite:

Seeing for himself the hundreds of soldiers that have fallen trying to keep Atlas safe

Knowing and hearing again from Winter that the only way to stop this carnage is to take out the whale. Given more time, the whole city falls

Sadly announcing to the world that children shouldn't have to fight in a battle, rather than just joining the fray and helping to keep those kids safe

How does Marrow think those kids are going to be able to stop fighting? How does he think he'll get a city to return to? It's no wonder that he's drawn to Ruby because both characters stand around twiddling their thumbs, mourning that things are bad, and blaming others for imperfect solutions rather than doing something to make the situation better. Marrow's disgust at Winter over the bomb is precisely the same as Ruby's disgust at Ironwood over Mantle: how dare you not have a plan that results in both victory for us and zero sacrifices? They want perfection which, yes, is an admirable trait, but their problem is they refuse to do anything until that perfection appears. They’re paralyzed, a trait that’s particularly dangerous when your story insists that perfection will never appear: it’s not a fairy tale. So they just continue to get mad at others for the fact that they live in an unfair world. You want that perfect solution? Think it up yourself. Otherwise, stand aside and let those coming up with something do what they can to make things better. 

Marrow goes so far as to drag Weiss into things, trying to guilt Winter with the knowledge that she'll have to relate the death of her sister's friends back to her. Winter, because she's a badass who isn't in denial over the situation, tells him that yes, she will shoulder that responsibility. To Marrow's credit he backs off then, but man. RWBY has legitimate moral questions here — when is holding out for a few worth risking the many? — but they go about exploring it in the most frustrating way possible. I personally have no respect for the guy who wants to announce that Children In War Is Bad instead of, you know, using the power he currently has to protect those kids already neck deep in a battle. 

Because John Mulaney remains relevant:

"There shouldn't be a horse in the hospital :( "

"We're WELL PAST THAT."

Marrow is the one going, "There shouldn't be kids in a war :( We shouldn't have to kill a few to save the whole kingdom :( " and everyone around him is like, "No shit, dude! But this is the hand we were dealt! You going to help us, or what?"

Literally all of these characters could have been so much more than what they currently are.

Except Winter. She's doing great.

Now for the final scene. Our group nearly manages to escape the whale, but is incapacitated by some sort of screechy power that Salem employs. 

She contorts her body, stretching out her arms to snag Emerald, and the others have a brief, but intense skirmish. Jaune manages to block a blast of magic aimed at Ren with his shield — nice — and Yang dots Salem's face with a bunch of bombs before blowing her sky-high — double nice. Oscar shoots out some magic of his own because, yeah, I guess he can just do that now? It really feels like it came out of nowhere after eight episodes of being the punching bag. 

Of course, Salem immediately reforms. She traps the group with grimm arms that come out of the whale, interrogating Ozpin about why he bothers to keep coming back. There's a very sad answer there of, "I don't," referring to his lack of choice in reincarnating to fight her.

Yang interrupts their little tet-a-tet to throw the question back in Salem's face, calling her out on her choices. A great idea but, as always, execution: "because something bad happened to you once upon a time? No one gets a fairy tale ending."

I’m sorry, but that dialogue had me cringing. Like I said before, way too on the nose. There's keeping with the fairy tale theme, and then there's shoving the viewer's face in it. More of Oscar's musings on how he relates to the protagonists of fairy tales, blurring the lines between storytelling and reality, which in turn encourages the viewer to consider how they see themselves in the RWBY cast. Less... whatever this is.

Yang goes on to talk about how many people Salem has taken from her, which upon reflection makes a certain amount of sense if you toss in all the people who are here, but changed somehow due to Salem's influence, as well as acquaintances who died as a result of her meddling: Raven is scared off, Tai suffers as a result, Pyrrha dies, Penny dies, Yang loses her arm and her school. I think the dialogue could have been revised to reflect that better though because what Yang implies is that Salem has killed countless of her loved ones, yet what she says is, "Summer Rose. My mom." Honestly, for the few seconds this exchange was happening my thoughts weren't even on Summer. Yang calls Salem out for killing loved ones and my brain went, "Pyrrha??"

That's how little they've done with Yang and Summer. I know in the past I've argued that RWBY has a "better late than never" situation going on, that I would praise them for making the right writing choices even if they arrive years too late... but now that we're here, I find that it's a hard problem to overlook. Summer is Yang's mom? When's the last time we heard that? Volume 2? Whenever the conversation with Blake was. Since then Yang has called Raven "Mom," focused on that emotional connection (or lack thereof), was excluded from the conversation with Qrow, comforted Ruby after she was blindsided by Salem's taunt, and otherwise hasn't mentioned Summer at all. There is no foundation for this accusation except a few lines about getting cookies as a child and the fact that we're tossing references in now makes me worried that we'll indeed get a grimm!Summer reveal. Better remind the audience that she exists before the twist arrives! Honestly, as much as a part of me wants to praise RWBY for trying to get things back on track, moments like this just ring hollow now. They waited years and now it’s too late. It doesn't help that this is the episode where we shrug off Ren's speech. What will Yang's cutting admission amount to based on this trend? Probably nothing. Summer will become Yang’s mom again in another six seasons. 

Salem, obviously, doesn't care. The real Hazel arrives and she orders him to take Oscar back to his cell. Instead, he gives him his cane with a whispered, "No more Gretchens, boy."

Behold, another meaningless line. Hazel hates Ozpin for "forcing" Gretchen on a mission and "getting" her killed. The whole point of his villainy is that he doesn't understand the concept of choice and that bad things can happen to good people with no one able to prevent it. Not every loss has a responsible party attached (outside of, you know, Salem/the grimm). So what is he even demanding here? No more huntsmen schools? That's what you wanted Salem for. No more "forcing" people to fight for you? Ozpin never did that in the first place. Or is it just a strange promise that no one else will die here? RWBY seems to be under the impression that they can just name drop dead family members — Summer, Gretchen — and that's that. Emotional depth created, never mind a lack of buildup or clarity. 

Then Hazel punches Salem across the room and she releases every single hero from their bonds. See the theme of this episode: convenience. Hazel shoves a whole bunch of dust crystals into his shoulders and yells that he's doing what Gretchen would have wanted, clearly sacrificing himself so that the others can escape. The battle between him and Salem is pretty decent. I enjoyed the dust vs. magic creativity and the sheer damage Salem can take before reforming. This fight really showcases how not human she is.

It does, however, bring into question Hazel's reveal about her needing an hour to heal at the longest. I mentioned how unlikely it would be that our heroes would get the chance to "kill" her multiple times, yet here we are, just a few episodes later. They got that opportunity and... does it matter? Salem's reforming doesn't appear to slow down at all, despite her head getting obliterated at least three times, so at what point does she need longer than a few seconds to heal? If this was meant to be a potential weakness the group would eventually exploit, we needed to see it here, both for that setup and to keep it consistent with Hazel's story.

Regardless, they fight and at first it looks like a pretty straight-forward sacrifice on Hazel's part, giving the group their chance to escape. Except... Oscar.

"She'll just come after us," he tells Jaune, turning away from him to fight.

I need a list for this: 

Of course she's going to come after you. This is not some shocking revelation. At no point has anyone thought that escaping the whale is the answer to all their problems, it just creates one less problem to deal with. Namely, the problem of "Our ally is captured, being tortured, and may give up important intel to the enemy. Oh, also he's about to be blown up with a bomb." Salem coming after them doesn’t matter. What matters is making her plans as difficult as possible as you work to come up with more solutions of your own. This is just a smaller version of the Ironwood conflict: “Well, Salem will just follow Atlas into the sky so it’s useless to attempt escape, or to buy ourselves time.” It’s really not. I know I’ve used this ridiculous comparison before, but if you’re ever chased by a horror movie serial killer hell-bent on your destruction and your reaction to this problem is, “Why run? He’ll just chase us. The only possible choice is to fight him with a 99% chance of our death,” then I beg you to re-evaluate things. 

What was the point of coming to rescue Oscar if he was just going to stay behind? The whale is about to be blown up by a bomb and the trio risked their lives ten times over to get to him. If I were them I would be pissed. We went through all that to get you out and now you’re refusing to leave when we have a chance? Thanks for that. 

Same with Hazel. Not that I care about the guy, but if I was sacrificing myself for others to escape I'd be pretty annoyed at them randomly deciding not to do that.

What does Oscar even think he's going to do? Kill the immortal witch? The entire point of our series is that they can’t do that (yet). 

However, if he is able to do something significant via Ozpin's magic, why didn't Ozpin do that generations ago? Somehow I don't think a younger Ozma closer to the height of his power was in a worse position to attack Salem than a tortured, aura-less kid who unlocked his magic yesterday. The more RWBY reveals about Salem, the more I go, “Okay, but why didn’t his happen [insert any number of years] ago?” 

Did Jaune actually leave? I assume he's just grabbing an airship or something before coming back to drag Oscar away, but seriously where did he go?

There's no way I can approach this scene without throwing up my hands and going, "What? WHY?" Which is a real shame because we finally get to see a bit of what the cane does and it’s... precisely what Ozpin's magic has always done? I mean, we saw that green shield five years ago and now there's a giant white beam. Okay.

If the beam just hits Salem with Generic Magic Power then there was never anything secret about the cane, it’s just, you know, Ozpin’s weapon. If the cane does something significant to hurt her we're left with the question of why it took literal generations to use it. Nothing is making sense to me and the only way I can think to salvage this scene is if Jaune runs back in, snags Oscar like a sack of potatoes, and runs out yelling about how he's clearly suffering from a concussion because what are you trying to accomplish here?

It doesn't help that this moment feels... final. Hazel has managed to hold Salem in place. Oscar has unlocked his cane and lands some mega hit right before Hazel passes out and looses his hold. Not only does this feel like a scene that should be at the end of the volume (we've still got five episodes), but also the end of the series. RWBY is building Salem into an unbeatable enemy by giving her more and more powers, and simultaneously eliminating the stakes by having our currently weakest character (in terms of exhaustion/injuries/aura/training) landing a shot like that. Why would you nerf Salem's threat level like that in the middle of a volume? Especially with a tool our group has had available from the start? If the cane does damage, maybe lead with that in the, “Here’s why we should stay and fight” office conversation. 

I assume that Oscar's hit will obliterate Salem to the point where both he and Hazel have time to escape, or he obliterates both of them (“Do it”) and that's somehow presented as a better choice than just running while Salem is captured, or the bomb will interrupt things somehow... but it's just so shoddily done. At the very least, if they were going to have Oscar refuse to let someone fight alone, have it be an actual friend he's staying to assist. Having Oscar refuse his own rescue to help Hazel has more than one problem attached to it. We can say what we want about RWBY's themes of forgiveness, but this guy was torturing him just a few hours ago while serving Remnant's version of the devil. Just let him sacrifice himself and move on.

And that's where we end. Oscar powering up, the cane getting all magic-y, and him shooting a crazy big blast that engulfs both Salem and Hazel. I can't believe how not excited I am about my farm boy doing something badass, but here we are.

Overall I think this episode was way worse than last week's. We absolutely had problems in "Dark," particularly when it came to the Hound and the group's blind devotion to Ruby, but at least those moments were cushioned by an otherwise decent episode. "Witch" felt like I was watching something closer to a parody of RWBY, one deliberately poking fun at the fandom's desires: erase all conflict for awkward silly times, your favorite villains are instantly good now, the heroes go toe-to-toe with the main antagonist because why not, throw a bunch of magic in there for good measure, and wrap it all up in some over the top "this isn't a fairy tale" lines. I can see the pieces of a much better episode here — Emerald sneaking Oscar out with her semblance, Neo snagging the relic, Flint and Neon, Hazel attacking Salem — but it simply didn't come together.

I know I said this last time, but I have no idea what we're going to do for another five episodes. Salem slowly reforming from bomb damage as the group tries to keep Penny from opening the vault? The grimm attack halted with the whale gone so Qrow can go after Ironwood? The longer this volume runs, the more I think it was a mistake for them to introduce Salem as a fightable antagonist now. RWBY doesn't know what to do with her besides have her inevitably fall in the final season, so until then she's left being stupid (Relic), passive (Mantle), or, likely, written out of the story temporarily so the heroes can turn their attention towards smaller conflicts and weaker foes. They literally can’t beat Salem yet, but they can’t focus on other problems when she’s around without coming across as negligent, so if you have to find ways to erase her to make room for that... what was the point of bringing her here in the first place? We could have established that Salem is bound to her realm and had her send the Hound and whale to attack Atlas. There, all the fun parts of the volume without her complicated presence. 

Well, the next five weeks will certainly be interesting, at the very least... 

Until next time 💜

[Ko-Fi]

[anika-ann]

Attached: Hurtful Words Pt.3

Type: (mini)-series,  Modern-college-professor AU… aka the wrong attachment AU ;)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 6420 + 280 (you’ll see)

Summary:  Graduation day, yay! Says no one, ever.

Except for Penny, who practically drags you to enjoy one of the most important days of your lives. You go along, just because. Hell, who knows - maybe you’ll like it in the end.

A/N: Attached: Hurtful Words is an addition that loosely followes the Attached series. You don’t necessarily need to read the mini-series as a whole, but you will understand much better.

Warnings: mentions of name calling and humiliation,swearing, some angst and lots of talking and maybe... ;)

Story masterlist

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

You had been through several phases of dealing with what happened and they came and went and came and went, one blending into another, other times changing so sharply and quickly as if you flipped a metaphorical switch.

But what stayed for the majority of the time was that you simply had no idea what should you do.

One moment, you were certain that this was a sign from above telling you to break things off with Steve, because no matter the beautiful moments you had shared, continuing the relationship was an epitome of asking for more trouble and even though you had never met a guy so close to your dream man, you wondered if it was worth it.

The next minute, you mentally yelled at yourself and called yourself a dumb ungrateful bitch, convinced that this was in fact a trial, an ordeal by fire; a test you had to pass so your relationship came out stronger from it. Your faith was rock-solid that Steve was it, because after all, he was the closest guy to your dream man that you had ever met.

Your emotions were bubbling, the order of stages of grief all messed up, a mixture of self-pity, anger, resignation, denial---shame.

And shame seemed to be a theme that stuck, because the longer you were stalling and leaving Steve’s kind supportive and pleading messages without reply, the worse you felt, ashamed to reach out now, after such a long and pointed silence. Because Steve hadn’t relented, keeping in touch and very obviously staying convinced that you two could push through; the stark contrast of your doubts and his unshakable belief was breaking both your heart and mind.

How did you even deserve him? He stood by your side, at least as much as he could… while his name was in the poem too and he was probably dealing with so much shit right now and yet he didn’t cease reaching out while you left him in a lurch and really, you must have been the worst girlfriend ever.

If you even still were a girlfriend… though Steve appeared to still consider you one and it was making you want to tear your hair out, frustrated with your own stupid overthinking ass.

Penny, bless her, was there the whole time, loyal by your side instead of drinking herself into oblivion in a celebration of her bachelor degree. She was there as well when you received a text yesterday morning, followed by longer-than-usual silence.

I know this has little chance of reaching you, but know this: say the word and I will leave you alone to the point of not going to the ceremony at all despite my presence being formally half-required. Or I’ll be there and stay away. Anything you want, anything that helps you to enjoy your special day. You deserve to celebrate such a great success and I’d hate to be the reason for you to miss out on a memory that will last a lifetime. You deserve the world, sweetheart; and if you don’t want to me to be the one who gives it to you, I’ll have to accept it. Congratulation.

The text had to be split into three separate units, but the message was clear and you had a good thorough cry at it, your shaky conviction growing firmer and earning a solid base.

He had hit a nail on the head – you had been considering not going and then definitely going and then not again, back and forth for various reasons, but mostly because of him; too excited, too hopeful and too scared to meet him.

And to think you had been once afraid of facing him after you suspected that he had read your smutty story about him… this was so much more terrifying than that and now you were biting on your lips, slightly redder due to the lipstick you had applied for the ceremony, and you glanced up to meet Penny’s narrowed eyes in the mirror.

“Don’t you bail out on me now. You promised yesterday that you’d go,” she reminded you, half-concerned, half-strict.

You sighed, knowing fully that she spoke the truth.

“I know. It’s just…”

It’s just that I haven’t replied to Steve, AGAIN, and I don’t know if he’s gonna be there. And what I am going to do if he is.

And what I’m going to do if he isn’t.

Penny charmed a supportive grin, walking to you and putting her hand on your shoulder, squeezing it in comfort until you managed to swallow your nerves for a brief second and return the smile weakly.

She squealed and pulled you to her side, a happy twinkle in her chocolate-coloured eyes.

“We did it, girl! We fucking made it to the end of bachelor studies! And we’re gonna enjoy every moment of that mummery that comes with it!”

You couldn’t but snort, amused at her exclaim, while tears burned in your eyes, a mixture of nerves, grief and happiness.

“Yeah. I guess we should.”

“That’s my girl!”

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

For all you wanted to enjoy this day with your friend since your family wouldn’t be able to make it, the first thing your eyes searched for in the crowd getting ready for the ceremony was a broad figure with blond hair, a beard and the most beautiful eyes you couldn’t but fall in love with.

Your stomach, tight from nerves and anticipation, dropped to your feet and you had to focus on keeping the tears at bay.

Steve wasn’t here.

The professors were always seated together, expected to hang out in a group – which somehow provided them safety from both students in the gowns and the few individuals who didn’t understand the dress code and arrived in jeans and sweatshirts – and you couldn’t see Steve among them. You even caught a sight of Bucky; and if Steve wasn’t with him, well, then it was clear that he decided to stay home.

Home. You had felt at home with him too, but that was over now.

What did you expect though? You ignored him for almost a week and even a guy like Steve, so amazing and understanding, would lose his patience with such inconsiderate and downright bratty attitude.

Your heart weighted a ton, heavy in your chest, pounding anxiously at the thought.

Was this how you parted ways? Just… fading away? Two lovers, two people in love – and you had realized over the past few days that Steve must have truly loved you – falling apart for the lack of communication? What a cliché.

But really, how could you have kept your hopes up that he would show up? Because it was sort of expected from the professors? Please. Because he had asked you to let him know if you didn’t want him here… and you hadn’t responded? Again? Right.

Yes, you hadn’t requested that he stayed away – then again, you hadn’t exactly begged him to come either. All that because you let yourself fall into the pit of doubts and allowed them to eat at your soul and ruin your relationship with the best man you had ever met instead of holding onto him for a dear life.

You guessed it served you right, more so now, in this very moment.

Because right now, your resolve and faith that you had been meant to be with Steve felt more solid than ever. By the laws of human nature, by its very essence, you were certain of what you wanted the moment you understood that you lost it.

A tug at your hand snapped you from your gloomy self-depreciating thoughts, your head automatically turning the direction the intrusion came from. Penny’s face came into view and she frowned as she saw you blink away tears.

“Hey! No brooding today! Today is a great win of our lives. You hear me?” she scolded you lightly, her eyes twinkling with true happiness and you gulped, nodding obediently.

“Right. Sorry. You’re right of course.”

“Damn right I am.”

You charmed a pathetic smile for her and looked at the other students in the black gowns to distract yourself from one single thought – Is it a win? Or is it the final prove of my loss?

You desperately tried to believe Pen and forced yourself to focus on the bright side, on what you were supposed to be delighted for; you finished your bachelor studies. Yay!

Yet, despite your best efforts, the ceremony and the speeches from the professors and the officials of your university, all the ‘mummery’ as Penny called it, happened in a strange haze.

Perhaps that was how everyone felt, drunk on euphoria instead? You guessed. You thought you might have smiled at some point, fuelled by a brief moment of true victory.

You stood there among other students, your eyes on the stage where Sharon Carter, a student at the top of your class, walked to the stand to give a speech.

You weren’t exactly friends with Sharon – you talked sometimes, more of a common courtesy exchanged simply because you were classmates. Still, you were mildly curious about what she had to say; she was marked a great student for a reason and she tended to have the ability to catch attention and awake something in others when she talked. An excellent choice for the speech – however, you caught yourself nervously toying with the cap of the case with your diploma, feeling fatigue of the past days catching up with you.

God, you wanted to go back to your whining and misery, not because you revelled in it, but because in the safety of your dorm room, you didn’t have to put up a front of a student excited to graduate. Not that you were any good at the pretence.

“Good morning, everyone. Mr. President, Mr. Dean, Professors… and most importantly, students. For some of us, the journey ends here – we are about to leave the not-so-safe space of the university and try our chances out there, in the open and much more dangerous world,” Carter started, a mild smile on her lips. “That said, it doesn’t mean that our school days were exactly easy.”

“Oh, you had no idea,” you mumbled under your breath, a pang in your ribcage reminding you just how harsh university space could be – not just because of the professors and their impossible tasks.

And they said high-school was the nightmare.

You noticed several people muttering under their breath too, for various reasons. For a brief moment, you felt shame – the pain others had been through could have been even worse, because illness and death had little regard for waiting for when it was more convenient. Who were you to complain?

Then again, you felt like you suffered enough too, your pain just as real as theirs.

Sharon looked around the audience and took a deep breath, her smile turning almost wistful as if she could hear your thoughts.

“While I’m up here, I would like to do something… a bit unconventional. I know this day shouldn’t be dedicated to one person and that is not what I want to do, but I have to speak up. After all, that is what history taught us – that we have to speak up. I want to talk about something everyone who stands here know – sadly, because it was perfectly wide-spread at the university.”

Whispers rose in the crowds along with your pulse skyrocketing.

Fuck. Fuck, she wouldn’t.

Right?! This was something else she was talking about, something you had missed, because you were too busy sulking.

You grabbed Penny’s hand at your side, squeezing harshly and shot her a panicked look, wordlessly pleading her to tell you this was not happening and you were just projecting, imagining this was some nightmare coming to life.

She gave you a side-eye and beckoned her chin to the stage again. Your breathing picked up, your knees feeling weak.

Oh my god, oh fucking shit this was happening.

Why the fuck Sharon wanted to open this can of worms publicly?! Did she hate you?

Granted, you weren’t paying much attention to other people’s faces, but you were hopeful that the mess was slowly dying down and people weren’t necessarily staring at you.

Now, the small circle of people around you who obviously knew where you were, glanced at you pointedly.

Hadn’t your ears been ringing and your panic rising, you might have found it weird that they were smiling at you – and not in a condescending or malicious way.

“Come on. Listen to what she has to say,” Penny whispered to your ear and you eyed her, shocked to find her smiling as well.

A terrible realization hit you like a train.

“Wait, you knew about this?” you hissed angrily, your stomach somersaulting. The actual FUCK?! “You knew she was gonna talk about that? What the hell? Why?!”

Was that why she made you come here?

“Oh honey, you have no idea what was happening these past few days, do you?  Just listen.”

Huh?! What the fuck did Penny meant by-

“I just want to remind to the people feeding bad blood that the girl I’m talking about – a smart young woman who had accepted her diploma today, one of us – she earned her degree. In fact, she probably had to work even harder, because that’s the policy, a sort of a reverse favouritism. The records of her exams are much more detailed and she was under scrutiny, she had to prove that she was nothing the self-proclaimed experts were calling her.”

As outside your body as you felt, in this surreal moment where Sharon Carter talked about your dirty laundry during your damn graduation ceremony, the word ‘whore’ still popped in your mind in angry red letters and chased tears into your eyes, the humiliation you had felt when you first spotted the poem overwhelming you again.

“She had to face every evil glare people sent her way, glares she faced for something as simple as being in love. And just so you know, I have it from a reliable source-“ she pretended to cough while saying Penny’s full name, “-her roommate, that for the long months she’s been with her favourite man, it was in fact Professor Phillips whose name she was whispering in her sleep, because we all know he’s a real hard-ass; my condolences to Professor Rogers.”

Chuckles erupted in the crowd and you felt your lips twitch involuntarily. More and more people were turning to you as their colleagues elbowed their ribs to subtly point in your direction.

You lowered your gaze, embarrassed by so much attention – a positive one, it seemed.

When the hell did that happen?

“Also, all kudos to Nelson and Murdock, who accepted our request and are now suing the hell out of the Expert One and Two, possibly Three, for defamation and possible attempted assault.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

A breathy “Wait, what?!” fell from your lips.

“They offered to do it for free, but I think that a small donation never hurt anyone. You’ll find the link on the forum dedicated to our girl. You’ll find the link to that forum in your inbox if you haven’t already.”

There was a forum dedicated to you?! To hate you or to support you? How could you… not know about that?

Probably had something to do with how you shut off the whole world… social media included. Hell, especially those.

And the people who wrote the poem and sent it to everyone on uni could actually… be sued? It was that serious? From the legal side, not yours, you were sufficiently ruined about that you had no doubt-

“Let’s clap for Nelson and Murdock as they wave at us. Thank you, gentlemen!” Sharon called out and everyone’s head turned to a pair of lawyers you couldn’t hope to see – but you really had to in the future, because what?!

However, you did reluctantly join the deafening applause the people present dedicated to them.

Seriously, what was happening?

“Why I’m saying all this… I know she’s here with us today, because she deserves it just like everyone else. I would like to invite her to stand to the very left of the crowd. Please, come on, our brave soul.”

Sharon’s eyes unmistakably found you as if she knew where you were standing the whole time – which she probably could. Because of Penny. And obviously, few others.

Penny nudged you with a grin and you gulped as several onlookers sent you encouraging smiles.

You felt your face burning with all the eyes on you, your head spinning.

Oh god, oh god-

“Go,” Penny whispered to your ear. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

I’ll like what exactly?

“Uh-huh, sure,” you mumbled but gave in, your shaky feet carrying you outside the line of chairs to your left – it was probably no coincidence that you didn’t have to cross the aisle, already standing on the left half.

Everything was planned, that you were starting to understand… but to what end?

“You see, I want her to understand that maybe two or three people in this damn school made a fuss, but there’s quite a lot of people who don’t think any less of her, of people who are in fact happy for her and Professor Rogers. Also, I want her to be easy to find for later purpose,” Sharon explained as you reluctantly approached the aforementioned spot.

For later purpose? Easy to find?

A hunch slowly crept up your back and you couldn’t decide whether you wanted it to be true or not.

What were the chances it was something else though?

Pretty big, in fact. Because you had no clue what a surreal world you had found yourself in and how, but it seemed like everything, even the most absurd thing you wouldn’t even dare to think about, came to life here.

“You know, the best thing about her story is that… it’s a story of all of us. I mean, not in such a great detail, gosh, we wish to own a heart of such fine man, but…” More laughter erupted from the crowd and you choked on the sound ripped from your throat, something between a chuckle and a sob.

Wasn’t that the truth…

”But in the end, there is no great difference. We’re standing here today, because we pushed through. We stand here today, because this is our story of love and passion – for things, for people. It’s a story of working hard and losing sleep for something that truly matters to us. It’s a story of fighting off sticks and stones and overcoming obstacles, of fighting for our future,” Sharon said ceremonially, her voice fuelled by true yet not theatrical passion. One corner of her lips rose in a sad smile as she lightly shook her head, sending her blond hair flying. “And folks, I hate to break it to you, but it ain’t always gonna be easy. But the fact that we’re here today, in these ridiculous outfits we secretly love because they are a testimony to our success… it tells me that the future might not be the worst either.”

Sharon Carter made a pregnant pause, eyes searching in the sea of faces watching her, until her gaze fell at someone near you and her lips spread in an almost cheeky smile, one you hadn’t know she was capable of.

Before you could try and see what was the cause – even if the rapid beats of your heart already seemed to know the answer – she delivered an explanation.

“Isn’t that right, Professor Rogers?”

Hushed voices and shocked exclaims reached your ears, but you couldn’t quite hear them over the pounding of your pulse in your temples.

A tall figure with broad shoulders cladded in an unfamiliar hoodie was making its way to you, the crowd parting like a sea with each step he took. Even though he did, he didn’t have to lose the hood for your benefit – you had inspected his body thoroughly on many occasions, you knew his gait, and until now, you had believed that you were aware of every hoodie he had in his closet, because you had borrowed each and every one of them at least once when staying at his place... often.

Ruffled blond hair appeared first and then everything you had eyes for was his lips, curved in a hesitant smile and the beautiful eyes, so deep you could drown in them.

Your fingertips tingled with anticipation, your chest heaving in quick shallow breaths full of anxiety.

The expression on Steve’s face was unreadable – and yet, just seeing his face after the series of unfortunate events, was enough to chase tears into your eyes and for your feet to twitch with the unstoppable urge to run to him.

It was only the fear of his reaction that prevented you from making the tinniest move.

A pointed clearing of a throat sounded through the microphone, but you couldn’t tell if it worked on people, if they turned their attention to the person on the stage or kept watching your reunion. Reunion with Steve – who naturally hogged all your attention and as he approached you, his presence assaulting nearly all of your senses.

A sight for your sore teary eyes.

The barely audible yet deafening whisper of your name.

His natural scent mixed with his cologne and the detergent he used – even standing two feet away, you would swear you could smell it, perhaps a mirage created by your wishful memories.

The ghost of his skin and hair tickled your fingers as you had been running your hands through his hair and beard and roamed his body so often that you could practically feel it even now.

Half of the things you sensed must have been a figment of your imagination; yet, they felt very real, as did the rapid staccato of your heart hammering in your ribcage, the butterflies both pleasant and unpleasant occupying your stomach.

“Now, let the lovebirds figure it out and listen up, people…”

“Hi,” he greeted you softly, a single caress of his voice encouraging the flipping of metaphorical wings in your stomach.

“Hi,” you replied automatically, unable to think about anything better to say.

What were you supposed to say?

You had already made your peace with him not coming… to a point. You forgone all hope; so now you were desperately unprepared for him showing up, all casual-looking in jeans and a hoodie and so damn gorgeous as always.

An attempt at a smile graced his lips, his hand rising to the back of his neck in his typically bashful gesture as he self-consciously looked around.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea they would make such a fuss. I just followed the instructions and showed up-“

You heart sank to your gut; your body, warming up in his presence alone as he was your personal sun, suddenly felt cold with the metaphorical bucket of icy water his words provided.

He came here because someone told him to – someone who planned this stunt, this ridiculous and utterly stupid show. What was next? Were you supposed to kiss for the audience?

The same nausea you remembered feeling when seeing the poem hit you all over again; Steve didn’t want to be here.

He wasn’t here for you, he wasn’t here because he wanted to set things right.

The pain erupting in your chest was shocking and burned like a flame fed on gasoline. You truly were over and his words-

“No, wait, that came out wrong!” he hurried, crossing the short distance between you in three long steps and you would have taken a step back, hadn’t your feet rooted into the ground. “I came… I’m here because I wanted to see you. I missed you, sweetheart.”

Tears rolled freely down your face, the endearment sending a shiver down your spine, the admission sparking a warm light within you again.

You met his gaze, your knees shaking slightly in weakness, threatening to give out as you feared what exactly you would see in his eyes.

You could melt right there when you were met with the same softness he always observed you with, a blue-green sea of wonder and love, tainted with reluctance and regret.

You pressed your lips together in effort to stop your jaw from quivering.

Regret you were more than familiar with; conflict, sorrow, self-pity, anger, resignation, shame… those were the other emotions which you guessed he could read on your face.

His brows furrowed and he closed his eyes, shaking his head.

“I’m not here to guilt trip you. Actually-“ Steve started again and finally, as his hand disappeared in the front pocket of the hoodie, you found your voice, interrupting him.

“I missed you too,” you sobbed, covering your mouth as soon as the pathetic sound left your lips.

Steve’s own lips parted in awe, his gaze somewhat lighting up with a new hearty emotion.

But once you started talking, finally, finally speaking up, the dam broke and the waterfall of words couldn’t be stopped.

“And I’m sorry, Steve, I’m so sorry for shutting you off like that, you didn’t deserve that and you were probably in a small personal hell too, I don’t even know if your job was affected and how are doing and it’s not right, I wasn’t supposed to ignore all your calls and texts, I was supposed to-“

“-reach out when you’re ready,” he finished for you, completely differently than you had intended.

It shut you up effectively.

“Look… I understand. It was tough and it still is and if you want this to be the last time we ever talk-- then it will,” he rasped, his voice breaking towards the end of the sentence, your heart squeezing painfully at both the premise and at hearing him hurting.

God, how much he must have been hurting for the past few days and now he was talking about understanding you and forgiving you for ghosting him and still offering you an out and--- Jesus fucking Christ, you were going to drown in your own tears.

And Steve reached into that damn pocket again and even if you had no idea what was there, you had a hunch it was some kind of a gift – either a parting gift or something for your graduation and you simply couldn’t--- you didn’t care for some materialistic shit right now-

You just needed to feel him again.

Taking one single step at a lightning speed, you let the diploma case fall to the ground and threw your arms around Steve’s neck, burying your face in his chest, drawing a surprised huff from him.

A box dug into your stomach, the content of the front pocket, but you didn’t give a fuck.

Not when Steve’s arms sneaked around your waist and shoulder with no hesitation, engulfing you, his nose burying into your hair—and cursing when the cap got in his way.

You chuckled madly into his hoodie, your fingers clutching the fabric when his daring lips awkwardly found a way to your temple.

You felt like you were touched by an angel, delighted laughter that shook both of your entangled bodies ripping from your throat along with a sob.

“Shit, Steve, I’m so sorry, I missed you so much, please forgive me, please, please, please-“

“No way. Nothing to forgive-“

“Like hell it isn’t-“

“It hurt, but I get it. I truly do,” he whispered frantically, his hands moving to push you away just enough to frame your damp face with his big warm palms. “You just needed time to process what happened.”

You nodded and then lowered your gaze in shame – because you were incredibly embarrassed for your further cowardice, sobbing like a stupid five-year-old. “And then I—I was scared that you wouldn’t care anymore- that it was too late-“

God, now when you said it out loud, it sounded even more pathetic, but that was now, in his arms, when everything made so much more sense-

He shook his head, causing you to look up again just in time to see the flash of hurt in his brilliant irises disappearing. With a brief smile passing his lips, he held your face more firmly in attempt to maintain eye contact.

“No. It would take a whole lot more for me to stop caring and there still would be no guarantee it would work,” he promised, gaze so intense that you couldn’t but believe him, no matter how unreal his words sounded. “You are not what they called you and you are mine, as long as you want, because I love you. Okay? I love you, because yeah, I still think you’re really freaking amazing.”

You chuckled at his choice of words, your heart bursting with their message. The heavy burden resting upon your shoulders dropped at last – and you felt as light as a feather, bound to the man staring into your eyes as if they were the last thing he wanted to see should he turn blind the next second.

He still loved you. Steve still loved you and both your heart and mind were enamoured of him, overwhelmed with his declaration.

You were not good with your words – in fact, in that moment, you were certain you forgot all the words in English language and in every other language you had ever tried to learn too.

There was only one language left to use then; the universal one that could fit thousands of words into one single second.

You let go of Steve’s hoodie, grabbed his face instead and pulled, rising to your tiptoes in hope to reach his lips with yours.

Luckily for you, he got the message before you could pathetically kiss only the patch of skin under his chin and allowed you to move him as much as you wanted.

And by Gods, did you want, finally adding the fifth sense into the play. Taste. You missed how he tasted and how his beard scratched against your sensitive skin-

Your tears spiked your kiss with salt, but neither of your cared as you pushed through the seam of his lips, letting him know what you desired before passing on the lead to him, an open-mouthed kiss full of desire, longing and raw emotions causing you to forget all about your surroundings until a low wolf-whistle sounded on your right, bringing you back to reality.

You parted involuntarily, foreheads resting against each other, warm tears still rolling down your cheeks, but now getting lost in your content smiles.

“I love you, Steve. I love you and if you love me too, then we belong together and whoever thinks otherwise can shove their opinion where the sun doesn’t shine,” you echoed his words from almost a year ago, words that stuck with you, because they were true.

You and Steve, you were the ones who mattered. These were your lives, your relationship, and you had done nothing wrong.

Because you loved each other.

Steve’s mouth caught yours for a short moment, nothing but a nip at your lips – a silent agreement followed by a warm smile, mirroring your own.

“Will you let me give you a little something now?” he whispered, sounding slightly amused as that would be the third attempt that day and the urge to slap his arm for being cheeky felt like a surge of pure life into your veins. The familiarity made your heart sing.

You glanced up at him, retreating and eyed him from head to toe in an appreciative and yet teasing matter. “Haven’t you already? How do I unwrap you, mister?”

Steve chuckled and pulled out a rectangular box, holding it out for you.

“Here. Congratulation to your bachelor degree. And know that if you don’t like it, we can always pick something else.”

You were only human – and curiosity might have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back and the curiosity was killing you now as well. You bit down on your lip, not quite succeeding at masking your excited smile; even if you weren’t exactly deserving of a gift from Steve at the moment, which he would probably argue with, you couldn’t deny that you were touched by the gesture and who were you kidding, you did enjoy receiving a gift. And it was your graduation ceremony, you deserved to celebrate in every way imaginable.

You carefully took the box from Steve, tender fingers caressing the bow stuck on top. Hesitating only a second, enjoying the brief intoxicating anticipation, you lifted the lid.

Your breath got stuck in your throat as you revealed the necklace.

The chain, probably silver, was very delicate, carrying a simply decorated heart with a winding line in the middle, as if the heart was broken. Despite the symbolism, you couldn’t but revel at its beauty.

“Steve,” you breathed out shakily, unable to tear your gaze away from the jewellery, tears, dried at last, threatening to escape your eyes again. “This is… so beautiful. So much-“

You lifted your gaze, only to meet his twinkling eyes. “You like it?”

You nearly choked at the absurdity of the question. Liked it?

“Steve, it’s—like it? It’s breath-taking. You shouldn’t have- that’s-” Shit, this must have been so expensive- but you had seen it now and you loved it and you didn’t want to part with ever.  “-but I absolutely want to keep it now.”

Steve chuckled lightly at your antics, but you took no offence since you were being a bit greedy.

You reached out to brush the pendant with the softest of touches – and sucked a breath in fright when it fell apart, causing you to realize for the first time that the heart could be divided in two, each part having its own loop on the chain.

“Oh,” you let out in surprise, your mind racing. Now that definitely was symbolic. Not a broken heart. Two parts of one heart. “That’s… does this mean one half is for you?”

As you asked the question to make sure, you looked up to Steve’s face, only to find a blush creeping up his neck.

“Uhm… I mean-“

“That’s so cute! And cheesy. So sweet though! I guess we do fit…” you mused, a goofy smile from the swirl of emotions today a testimony of how mushy the lovely and meaningful gift turned you. Steve’s blush deepened, but a delighted smile spread on his lips, eyes soft, so you assumed he was simply happy you liked it. “And we do complete each other.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Steve whispered, clasping your free hand in his, caressing tenderly before bringing it to his lips and dropping a barely-there kiss on its back.

“Would you wear it?” you queried, slightly nervous. “One of the halves I mean.”

It might have been his idea, but did you read him correctly?

“If that’s what you want. Give me your half and keep mine,” he offered, one corner of his lips higher in a cheeky and yet tender smile.

“You got a deal, Stevie. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it, sweetheart. I was going to give you a key to the apartment officially, kneel on one knee and all that-“

“WHAT?!”

He wanted to do what?!

“-to ask you if you want to move in permanently, but I understand that we’ve been through a lot, you’ve been through a lot, so while the offer stands, I don’t want you to feel pressured or-“

Oh really? Then why did he even tell you about it?

Your heart felt like beating its way out of your chest, the widest grin spreading on your lips. Staring at Steve as he was stuttering, you couldn’t decide whether he was nervous about asking, trying his luck, or was teasing you, knowing all too well what you were about to say.

Oh god, your head was spinning, again-

“Yes!” you blurted out before you could think twice, shocking the stammering mess of Steve into silence.

“Really?!” he shot back in awe, his lips left parted in genuine surprise – and his expression was pure relief.

“Yes. If you mean it – and God help you if you don’t-“ And you were serious, if he was messing with you now— he wouldn’t, right? Steve wouldn’t joke about such important topic, about your life together.

“Of course I mean it-”

You squealed, closing the box you had nearly dropped in shock and hugged Steve as tight as you could, causing him to huff for the second time that day. Oh you were never letting go of him!

The crowd you entirely forgot about cheered and you jumped away from Steve as if burned, horrified that they had been following your reconciliation and displays of love this whole time-

And then you noticed the graduation caps in the air, a tradition celebrating the success of your year. You grinned at the image, catching Steve’s gaze.

“Go on,” he encouraged you, mirroring your grin when you reached for the square cap, swinging and sending it high in the air.

A yelp escaped you as you found yourself in the air as well in a blink of an eye, nestled in Steve’s arms as he laughed madly, pure delight shining from his eyes; and love. So much love.

You barely caught the cap, not really caring for it when in the arms of your man. You dropped a kiss to his lips, earning one in return and a few more, as you couldn’t get enough for each other after such a long time apart and so much unnecessary heartbreak.

You rested your foreheads against each other, tender meetings of lips, brushes of noses-

Steve winced and hissed in pain, causing you to withdraw and frown as you studied his face.

“Sorry, just… my nose…” he mumbled, seemingly embarrassed, “...tender.”

“From…?” you questioned, absolutely baffled. Steve sighed, but just one glare from you told him that you were not letting it go. You didn’t want him in any pain – you both lived through more enough of it in the past few days.

“Bucky punched me.”

“What?!” you blurted out, shocked to the core, and you braced yourself on Steve’s shoulders, your gaze automatically flickering through the crowd to find the culprit.

Why the heck would Bucky-

“Long story, tell you later,” Steve promised with a peck to your lips, signalling that the conversation was over. For now.

You had better things to do after all. So you only smiled in agreement – you couldn’t seem to stop smiling for some reason.

Wonder what that could be? Maybe because it finally feels like today is a win?

“I’m sure you will.”

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦- Bonus: -◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

It was the day after her own graduation when the blond was sitting on a park bench, light summer dress with cherry blossoms gently swirling around her knees, absentmindedly swiping through the apps on her phone, looking up every now and then to smile at the image of families enjoying the weather and freedom of summer.

She merely paused in her idly actions when the redhead woman she was waiting for seated herself next to her on the other end, sliding an envelope with a promised reward her way.

“As promised,” the redhead said disinterestedly, barely on a lower volume than a normal conversation would be and tugged a loose strand of her hair behind her sunglasses. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

The blond smiled softly, reaching for the envelope and subtly hid it in her purse. “Same. It was rather fun, actually.”

This time, a smile broke on the redhead’s lips as well, cocky, satisfied, but by any means false.

“Well, I heard you’re staying for your master’s. You contact Danvers if you want any more of that fun, da?”

“You better count on that, Rushman.”

“It’s Romanoff, actually,” the redhead smirked, side-eyeing the blond as she rose to her feet again, ready to go where her orders would take her. She spent one more glance at the other woman though; she had carried out her task perfectly, in a way that seem very natural. She’d make a good addition to their growing team and since Natasha was anything but unpolite… “Looking forward to working with you in the future, Carter.”

Sharon Carter felt a surge of pride and couldn’t but return the courtesy before the woman would walk away from her life for god knew how long.

“Feeling’s mutual.”

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Attached masterlist

Attached: Words Lost in Translation 

S.R.masterlist

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Thank you for reading ♥ We’re over 40k into the series, so thank you if you stuck around :-*

Lemme know your thoughts?

You might have noticed a to-be link for another addition to the Attached series called Words Lost in Translation. It’s more of an idea in my head, very little of the actual story written, but it will hopefully involve a bit jealousy… and smut. Just FYI.

Stay happy and safe!

[incoherentbabblings]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Young Justice - All Media Types, Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake Characters: Stephanie Brown, Tim Drake, Cassie Sandsmark, Kon-El | Conner Kent Additional Tags: Missing Scene, Kissing, Romance, Established Relationship, Tim Drake is Drake (DCU), Stephanie Brown is Spoiler, Minor Canonical Character(s), Fluff and Humor, Light Angst Summary:

Expanded scene for Young Justice (2019) #15. Tim and Steph finally get to reunite after the team’s reality hopping adventure, and whilst Tim is keen for Stephanie to be (re)introduced to his friends, Stephanie isn’t sure she belongs.

Tim watched as people piled up the big green monsters into one giant pile of unconsciousness. He was standing on top of his pickup truck; the one Stephanie had apparently driven halfway across America without even a scratch to come meet up with him.

Tim watched as she very awkwardly extracted herself from a conversation with Jackson and Derek, not sure what to say or do, and made a beeline towards Tim. He tried to control his expression as she did so. He wasn’t disappointed in her, but he had hoped she would be able to feel comfortable enough around a bunch of strangers to strike up a friendly conversation or two. At the same time, he understood. Afterall, they hadn’t really gotten their reunion yet. At least, not the one that Steph had teased about wanting.

Tim could see her slight nervousness in the way she held her shoulders as she looked up at him, face hidden under her black mask and purple hood.

“We done? No more bad guys to punch?”

Two days they’d said. Two days and they would find each other.

They’d known it was a promise neither could keep, and things had very understandably gotten out of hand, but still, Tim felt like he had disappointed her.

“We’re done.”

He reached down, tugging her up onto the roof of the truck. She didn’t need the help, but he wanted to see how readily she took his arm.

She did so immediately, without hesitation, a light laugh bubbling out as she was heaved upwards. Stephanie was deceptively light, or maybe Tim was deceptively strong. Regardless, he tugged up until she was able to twist onto the roof on her butt. She then pulled herself up to standing to be level with Tim.

She was smiling under her face cover.

“Can I take off my mask, do you think? Do you trust them all?”

“Yes,” he replied immediately. “They’re our friends Steph.”

His heart broke a little that she didn’t quite understand it yet. It was a bit of a white lie, but Tim saw no reason why it could not be the truth. They had left Gotham for many reasons, altered timelines being one of many, but another was simply the desire to go new places, meet new people, and have a life outside of the damn Bat for two weeks.

Finding his friends again, finding that safe space... He wanted Steph to find her own place within it. He had mentioned it to Cassie, Kon and Bart on the rare quiet moment during their interdimensional travels. He didn’t want there to be a hard line between his life in Gotham and life with them. He didn’t see the need. Not anymore.

Needless to say that the three of them took his thoughts very well. Yes, the four of them were finally reunited. Enough with the melodrama; be grateful that they could spend time together once more and stretch it out and milk that time for all it was worth. Remember how easily it was taken away?

Besides, it couldn’t do Steph any harm to have friends too, right? Admittedly she was a bit rough around the edges, as socially awkward as she was genuinely kind, but then again it wasn’t like the team were exactly behaving at peak social norms either. Bart alone was surely testament to that, right?

Steph was ignorant to Tim’s musings and continued their conversation.

“Good. Because,” she sang, pulling down her hood and her full-face mask off. “I need to give you that proper greeting, remember? Can’t wait any longer.”

Tim exhaled at the sight of her smile and long blonde hair, but it collapsed when she leaned in, eyes half shut.

“Wait,” he said, jerking back a little.

“What?” Stephanie asked, voice quiet and sad. Worried at the rejection, she put her hands up to rest on his chest. He flinched as she did so, and she felt like crying. “Oh no… Something happened didn’t it? Is it those memories you got back? Was I horrible in them? Because I’m really sorry if I was. I’m a different person now. Literally or metaphorically I dunno but…Or is it something that happened whilst you were away?”

She spoke with such sincerity despite the farcical nature of the statements, that Tim felt the need to put her out of her misery. He grasped her wrists and then intertwined their fingers when she raised her palm from his chest. He squeezed tight, and he saw her tremble.

“It’s not you. I didn’t keep my promise.”

“What?” Her voice shifted from upset at herself to the situation.

“You needed me. We said two days. And I tried but-but…”

Stephanie pouted at being denied affection for such a trivial reason as – as far as she saw it – losing track of time. Tim was punishing himself in that silly head of his, and by extension, it also felt so to Stephanie. She took a deep breath and mellowed out her tone.

“Stuff happens,” she responded firmly. She was not interested in a debate or Tim’s proclivity for self-flagellation. “I know you didn’t deliberately leave me hanging, so why would I resent it? Impulse mentioned reality hopping…”

Her look became worried as she drew the wrong conclusion. The confidence fled her as quickly as it had come. “Was it bad? Trauma? Where did you go? Is that where you got this outfit from because ooft honey –”

“You gave it to me.”

Stephanie paused, then tugged Tim’s hands round to hold her waist.

“I did what?” she scrunched up her eyes and face cutely, shaking her head like she was trying really hard to remember giving Tim a brown superhero suit without a cape and a yellow bat on the belt buckle. “Is it another missing memory? Because it’s so unfair that you have yours and mine are still wibbly wobbly. I’m actually a little peeved about it to be honest.”

“This costume. It was… we were…”

Like she was speaking to a toddler, she squeezed tight and said, “Start at the start. What happened after you got to Metropolis?”

Tim told her.

It was an oddly long story, and yet simultaneously brief. It was chaotic and frantic, and yet the affection with which Tim relayed the adventure with his friends made her chest warm. When he reached the misdirection of Earth Three, Stephanie’s patient and attentive expression turned a little distraught. She didn’t mind having the title of Batwoman, she didn’t mind being a good guy in a world of not good guys, but there was just the fact that…

“But you said everyone on Earth Three was evil? A flip of this earth’s morality.”

“I thought so. But you weren’t. You were good there too.”

This only served to further confuse Stephanie.

“But… but…but!” she gulped in a large pocket of air. “But that would mean this me is evil! Right? Am I evil? All this time we’ve been worrying about crazy bat you –”

“Ouch.”

“—But what if it’s me? You could have stayed and helped her right? But you didn’t. And she gave you that costume as what? A present? Something to remember her by? Oh, that’s romantic and sad. But what if this means that I’m the ticking time bomb? You could have stayed and made a huge difference, right? You could have… turned that whole place upside down and made it better for everyone. From the sounds of it, I’m sure not evil me would have been down to clown... Which, great. Now I’m gonna spend my days thinking that me getting the wrong Starbucks order is going to be my start of darkness or something equally stupid. Your friends will think I’m a lunatic...”

Her eyes darted backwards, looking at the team, chatting and oblivious. Superboy was sitting off to the side, quietly watching as everyone wrapped up their work, Wondergirl and Arrowette were catching up, whilst Impulse spoke to Jinny and Naomi. Stephanie felt abruptly ashamed and as a result shifted, almost trying to hide herself behind Tim.

With a firmness and certainty that reflected Stephanie when she had rebuked his earlier guilt, Tim pressed her cheeks together to make her face scrunch up in a pout

“You… are not evil. You never will be if I have any say in the matter. Think you’re about the least capable of it in Gotham, if not in the world. You pulled me back last month from the brink of being a monster. I’d say I’d do the same for you, but I’ll never have to. You’re not stained by the dark.”

She blinked owlishly. Tim was not often that grand and romantic (though he could be histrionic), so it made her blush to be spoken of so highly. Still, her nagging concern, an uncomfortable tightness in the pit of her belly, remained.

“You could have stayed there,” she insisted. She was holding onto the fact that Tim had returned wearing a costume and a name which had been gifted to him on another earth. A name from his alternate self and a costume from an alternate her. There was something to be dissected there right? What would a psychologist make of that tangle of identity and interpersonal relationships?

He had returned from an earth where motives were selfish, and heroes were rare. He had returned wearing a name that was simultaneously his and yet not, wearing a costume that was not hers to grant. Tim wanted more than anything to make a difference. That world was ripe for his ambition.

Tim did not even seem concerned at such a concept. For once, it seemed he had not even given the matter much thought.

“Sure. Maybe I could have stayed. She would have been happy if I had. That Stephanie didn’t have anyone to help her. She…I think she was very lonely.”

Steph sighed shakily, and Tim held her closer. He knocked his forehead against hers, and her grip went up to cradle his face. They kissed, and Tim heard and felt Stephanie’s right foot pop up.

Finally granted the kiss she had been craving for hours, Tim swallowed the sound of her whimper. Not even remotely ashamed of who could be watching, Stephanie deepened the kiss and moved closer, curving her body against Tim as she tugged at his neck, encouraging him to make it harder.

It had been too long, and Stephanie was sure she was developing a complex regarding Tim, like if she took her eyes off him for three seconds he would – for the third time in a year – be zipped off to another dimension. It was almost funny how much the two of them could apparently not stay joint at the hip as they desired, and Stephanie suspected she may have started developing some bizarre attachment disorder as a result.

Although, it was worth it for moments when they kissed like this. When Tim allowed himself to feel like a seventeen-year-old. Kissing felt good. Kissing Stephanie felt great. She always tasted of cinnamon gum and liked to hold his cheek and tug his hair and she made cute squeaks when he –

No, he couldn’t get too carried away.

Tim ended the kiss with a most content sigh, like his worries had been laid to rest forever (which was false and a lie, but he indulged in it for now), and kept his eyes shut.

“I came back,” he whispered, keeping his forehead on hers and missing how Stephanie looked a little cross eyed from the kiss. “Because I had to get home to you. I promised, even if I couldn’t keep to two days. I had to come home.”

“To me,” Stephanie breathed. Looking at him reverently, she cradled his chin and kissed him again.

“To you,” Tim confirmed. “I missed you, Steph.”

She tugged him closer, making him rest his forehead against her shoulder as she buried a hand in his hair.

“Missed you too, boy wonder.”

They embraced for a moment too long, then Tim pulled back a little to speak into her ear.

“Come on. I’ll introduce you to everyone. Properly. I’m sure Bart did a rush job of it. They already know you, which isn’t fair. You should get to know them again.”

He very distinctly felt her tremble. Fighting monsters, fine. Facing her dad down, fine. Meeting her boyfriend’s friends? Terrifying.

Tim hopped down off the truck, but held out his arms, fully intent on catching her. Stephanie looked around once more. It seemed Wondergirl and Naomi were wandering over to the truck, so she swallowed her fear. She leapt off the car, straight into Tim’s arms. He caught her easily and spun her around twice, making her laugh sharply, until using the momentum he flung her up and off. She landed on her feet with a delighted shriek, and it was with that smile on her face that Cassie reached them.

To Stephanie’s surprise and delight, she was enveloped in a warm hug.

“It’s so nice to see you again. Both of you,” Cassie said. Chin resting on Stephanie’s caped shoulder, Cassie saw Tim’s look of relief and gratitude. “You guys will stick around a bit?” she insisted, raising her eyebrows in a gentle chide.

Stephanie choked on her reply, not sure how to react. Behind her, Tim grimaced. Why was she so reluctant around his friends? Was it because she didn’t want to know them, or because she didn’t feel she had the right too?

“I… I want to,” she said, Tim watching her struggle. “But-but my dad…”

Stephanie looked over her shoulder at Tim for guidance, and Cassie broke out the hug. Seeing Stephanie’s hand reach back, Tim took it tightly. He could see in her face no disdain or dislike, just insecurity and the realisation that she didn’t know how best to say her father was a pressing issue without seeming like a haughty holier than thou girlfriend.

Paradoxically, Tim relaxed. That angle was much easier to deal with. It simply was that Stephanie was nervous, and unsure of what her place was in the team. They had their memories of each other back. She held no such memories. She felt locked out, and undeserving.

How to make her understand…

“We have one loose end to tie up at our end,” Tim explained. Playing with Steph’s fingers, he had a sudden thought as a solution. “After though, how about the fact that we’re gonna need to see if the place in Rhode Island is still standing? The team should be able to use it again.”

“Huh?”

Cassie chuckled at Steph's confusion, and smiled broadly at the thought of returning to Mount Justice.

“You’ll love it Spoiler. Better than living out the back of a truck, believe me.”

Stephanie seemed bemused, like she had just suspected Cassie of mocking her but also not hearing any genuine insult in the dig at her current living circumstances.

Cassie wasn’t mocking her. She didn’t have a passive aggressive bone in her body and was not capable of being underhand. She was only trying to gently tease, as a friend would do.

Not that Stephanie knew that, but still, Tim’s heart stuttered for her.

Tim kissed Stephanie’s cheek and explained, “It was Young Justice’s home away from home. There’s a whole headquarters up there. An old Justice League site.”

“We appropriated it,” Cassie said. Her eyes were patient and encouraging. Stephanie, meanwhile, still did not understand.

“That’s cool,” she said politely. Tim sighed good naturedly, exasperated at her obtuseness.

“Stephie,” Tim moaned as she burned red from the pet name in front of his friends. He jerked his head at Conner, begging his direct nature to intercede.

“Whu—”

Endlessly patient, Tim stated, “It’s gonna be your home away from home too. If you want it to be. It can be all of ours again.”

She could not reply, as she was then embraced in a bear hug courtesy of Superboy. Cassie smirked, then called for the others to come gather. Tim held onto Stephanie’s fingers, and watched carefully what Conner did and spoke. Tim had seen that melancholy look from earlier as Conner had watched the team.

Tim knew Conner was feeling a little out of place, but he was grateful that he had put it aside to help Tim and welcome Stephanie. Hidden to Stephanie, he mouthed a thank you in Conner’s direction, who responded by wiggling his head in smug satisfaction.

Stephanie remained oblivious, her only thought as she endured the hug was at the blatant display of strength and control that the clone displayed. She grunted when he squeezed the bear hug tighter but found herself smiling all the same. There was only genuine joy and laughter in Conner’s voice as he teased.

“Hey, we finally got the lovebirds in the same room again, huh? It’s been a while, Spoiler, even if Tim says you don’t remember.”

When he set her down, she returned to Tim, holding his hand still. She didn’t understand why Superboy saying such a thing made the pit of nerves in her gut settle, but the warmth that bloomed in her chest made her smile until her cheeks hurt.

“I’m sorry I don’t. Remember, that is.”

Conner shrugged, “Hey, we’re still young. Gotta lifetime to fix that. Or make new memories. Or both.”

Tim’s hand snuck round her waist, and he pressed his cheek to her temple.

“We’ll deal with your dad. Then we’ll go home?”

“Home?” Stephanie asked.

“Second home,” he quantified.

Looking at the friendly faces surrounding the pair of them, Stephanie smiled awkwardly and nodded.

A home away from home sounded…nice.

[aflyingcontradiction]

The Magnus Archives Relisten: Episode 97 - We All Ignore the Pit

I never got the full story on why the paper closed down so quickly. - Statement of Jackson Ellis

I can't tell you exactly why I get this impression, but this entire intro story of Jackson losing the job he didn't even have yet and finding himself stranded, then renting a room with some rando feels like it's out of some other genre entirely, like what should follow is either a grim novel about the shortcomings of American society or a light-hearted romance or buddy comedy-esque romp but most DEFINITELY not a horror story about a mysterious pit. Not that I'm complaining, I just found the surprising use of tropes interesting.

It may have just been my imagination, but whenever they saw me, it seemed like they paused for just a moment, staring at me, before they continued on their way.

This is supposed to add to the eerie atmosphere of the story - and it does - but to be honest, this is exactly the type of behaviour I would expect as a newcomer to a town so small that everyone could easily know each other.

There was someone else looking at it, though. An elderly woman, face pinched and thoughtful, stood at the edge looking down. I didn’t recognise her, or the car she stood next to. She definitely wasn’t from Bucoda. Sat in the car next to her, I could see a young man who had clearly been crying.

Ah, hey there Gertrude! And the poor fucker in the car is Jan Kilbride who probably knows he's about to die. How did she get him to cooperate? Is this a "gun to the head" sort of situation? At any rate, he doesn't exactly seem to be volunteering to be the sacrifice to stop the Buried's ritual...

Is he trying to warn me not to ignore my own metaphorical pit, because if so, what is my metaphorical pit? - Jon

Sorry but the phrase "What is my metaphorical pit" is just straight-up funny. (And also a phrase that could easily come out of a conversation between my partner and me, followed by 'Well, that's a weird phrase out of context').

Jon: Right. Right. Keep saying it’s not meant to trip whenever one bulb goes, but “No, John, I don’t want to bother the landlord.”

Jeez, Jon, don't act like "I don't want to bother a person who has the power to make my life highly unpleasant with something that can be as easily ignored as the fuse tripping when a light bulb blows" is an unreasonable preference...

Nikola: You don’t want to do that. (...) I mean, you can if you really want to, but you’re not going to like it. Sometimes not being able to see something is actually quite a good thing.

Oh, Nikola Orsinov is so DELIGHTFULLY creepy, I love it.

Jon: You, um… You killed Gregor Orsinov? Nikola: Yep! He got really boring, and I’m a monster.

Had I mentioned that Nikola is a delight? Because Nikola is a fucking delight.

Nikola: I don’t even have a voicebox. I had to borrow this one.

Borrow. Right. That's not a reasonable definition of the word 'borrow' you're using there, Nikola, dear. And then that's followed immediately by...

Nikola: Don’t turn on the light.

Yeah, no, you have a point, turning on the light would be a BAD idea.

Nikola: After you attacked poor Sarah, I thought it was about time we had a good old chat. Face to no face! Eye to… well.

Eye to Stranger? ... Also every line of Nikola's in this episode is basically quote-worthy.

My impression of this episode

Most of this episode reminded me strongly of spooky stories I would read as a kid, somehow. Perhaps the combination of the newcomer protagonist and the creepy thing that nobody else acknowledges. As such, this statement didn't really affect me all that much, even though the Buried can be pretty damn affecting (Lost Johns' Cave being an example of that or anything happening in the coffin, for instance). To be honest, the part of this statement that gets me most is that very end bit featuring Gertrude and Jan, the fear he must have felt, likely knowing what was about to happen to him - for the sake of the greater good, maybe, but that's not much of a comfort, is it? (Of course, on my first run I didn't know any of that.) And then, of course, we meet Nikola who is, as I may have mentioned, a fucking delight. SHE IS SO EXCEPTIONALLY CREEPY AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH!

[hellowkatey]

angstpril day 10: don't look back

[ part 1 ] [ AO3 ]

Unfinished Business (pt. 2)

It didn't take much convincing at all to get the council to knight Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon holds the lightsaber in his hand, and it feels heavier than normal. Maybe it's his weakened state since Naboo, or maybe seeing his padawan kneeling before him, trying his hardest not to smile, is causing him to want to let this moment stretch out as long as he can. His moments are numbered, and this is one he wants to remember.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," Qui-Gon says, igniting his lightsaber and lowering it to the shoulder of the boy he watched grow into a man. His face is illuminated in the darkened council chambers by the lightsabers of the council, who granted him this exception to knight his own padawan. Yoda stands beside him, and Qui-Gon taps into the calmness of his presence to get him through this moment. "By the right of the council; by the will of the Force; I dub thee," and he flicks his wrist, the delicate movement taking the braid off in a single hiss. "Jedi Knight of the Republic."

Qui-Gon watches the braid fall to the floor, and a polite smile spreads across Obi-Wan's face as he rises. There is cheering from the council, and Qui-Gon deactivates his lightsaber.

He lets Obi-Wan get whisked away by the crowd of his friends. The post-knighting celebration is always an exciting one and one that with any hope, Obi-Wan will not remember entirely the following day. (Mace made damn sure of that at Qui-Gon's own knighting. He still can't even think about cinnamon shots without feeling queasy).

He looks at his padawan-- former padawan who beams in his direction, his braid held tightly in his fingers. Pride blooms in Qui-Gon’s chest. The boy he raised from his youth now stands among his friends, some lacking their braids and others who are soon due. Their arms wrap around him and words of congratulations fill the air, and Qui-Gon has to resist the urge to run up to them and tell them how right they are. How Obi-Wan stepped up against a foe even he couldn’t defeat, and now he even inquired about taking on Anakin as his padawan in a few years if Qui-Gon is still feeling the effects of his injuries. He raised an excellent Jedi, true and good, but he must make sure Obi-Wan knows how good he is before Qui-Gon accepts his demise.

But will there even be time for that?

The question constantly lingers in his mind. He can feel the eyes of his council members who know the deal he made. He's been their constant study ever since he explained what had happened in that chamber. It feels like they're afraid to blink around him-- that one moment he'll be living and the next the Force will take him before their eyes. Had Qui-Gon known he would become a captive animal he would have succumbed to his rightful fate weeks ago.

A joke, he projects into the Force. Only a joke.

Maybe he will disappear in an instant-- it certainly feels that way sometimes. Ever since Naboo, he is at the very peak of a metaphorical mountain. Solid ground is virtually non-existent at this point, with only the treacherous cliffside around him if he wavers from his upright stance. He is posted up at the very edge of his Life Force. Yes, he can stand here almost comfortably, but even mountains weather over time. Soon he will have to fall and accept his entry into the Cosmic Force.

"They grow up so fast," the sardonic voice of his friend says, with a hand resting on his shoulder. He looks to Mace Windu who may be the only member of the council who isn't obsessed with his current existence. Or at least he hides it better.

"Indeed. One day I'm pulling him out of a fire beetle pit and the next he's besting a Sith in a duel."

"A testament to your lineage. With hope, your maverick ways weren't hereditary."

Qui-Gon chuckles. "If anything, it skips a generation."

"Then I'm not giving Kenobi any say in his padawan choice."

"Much like Yoda did for me then?"

Mace clears his throat, straightening up. Yes, maverick ways certainly skip a generation in this lineage. Yoda may be the worst of all, somehow even getting the Force on his side to do his bidding.

"The creche master sent a comm during the ceremony," the Master of the Order changes the subject ever so subtly. Qui-Gon perks up, looking at his friend.

"Is it--"

"It's Skywalker, yes."

Qui-Gon glances over at Obi-Wan, still in the midst of collecting praises.

"If Obi-Wan asks, I am stepping out for just a moment."

Windu nods, and Qui-Gon moves quietly away from the party.

The walk to the creche feels longer than normal. Perhaps it is his new philosophy to savor the moment he has left in his home. Walks through the temple are different now that he knows they are the last he will take. He looks at every art piece, glances into every room. Though he isn't spending as much time sightseeing, it still feels long.

His focus lies on Anakin now.

Qui-Gon is a hypocrite. He so often took the time to lecture about not reflecting on the past, and now here he is, wishing he could have done so many things differently. One such choice is how he dealt with young Anakin.

Impulsive is a word used on numerous occasions to describe him through his knighthood. Usually, he ignores such critiques since they so often come from senators with no concept of what it means to be a Jedi and know the Force... but this time they may have a point. At the time it felt like the right thing to do. Anakin was a slave with untapped potential and the answer to a prophecy he's been studying for years. He's undoubtedly the Chosen One who will save them from the darkness. But maybe if he'd just waited...

He strides into the dormitories to find Master Rose, Anakin's creche master, waiting patiently for him.

"Master Jinn," she says, her lips pressed together. "They're happening again."

He sighs. "Can I see him?"

She nods, stepping out of the way. The dormitories are just as he remembers from his own childhood. Rows of beds, little privacy, and always a little musty from the older younglings that aren't keen on hygiene yet. It's empty at this time of day-- Anakin has been granted additional rest hours because of the nightmares he's been having ever since his arrival at the Temple. A recommendation from his mind healer. The boy sits on the edge of his bed, arms wrapped around himself as though he's cold or simulating a hug. He only looks up at Qui-Gon when he approaches and sits next to him, his eyes rimmed red and nose running.

"Was it her again?" Qui-Gon asks softly, wrapping an arm around the boy. He leans into his side, sniffling in the process.

"Yes, Master Jinn."

"The same as the others?"

He feels the nod. Anakin has told him of his nightmares before. His mother, Shmi, sitting in the window staring out to the horizon. He calls for her, but she doesn't turn around. So he runs at her, only to be held back. The creche master would wake up to him screaming for her in the night. Pleading her to look at him. If his dream progresses enough, she does turn around, but she doesn't know him. Doesn't remember him. And then he screams louder-- but in despair.

"The mind healer told me it's because I'm attached," he looks up, his eyes a bright blue from crying. "Master Jinn, how can I not be attached to my mom?"

The question pangs in Qui-Gon's chest because truthfully, he doesn't know the answer to that question. Biological family is not something he's ever known or really put much thought into. The Jedi have always been his family, but not quite in the way that Anakin feels for his mother.

This is where his regret comes. He didn't consider the fallout of Anakin's attachment. Obi-Wan tried to warn him but he admittedly wasn't in the market for advice at that time. As much as he's trying to make things right by having the boy see a mind healer to cope with the change, he isn't sure the boy will ever figure out how to overcome his attachment. It worries him. He knows it worries the council. Obi-Wan has come around on the idea, but with the condition that he works with the healers.

"What is it you fear, Anakin?"

His face scrunched up. "What do you mean?"

"What do you fear."

"You said Jedi aren't supposed to fear."

Qui-Gon smiles. "You are a Jedi in training, young one. And Jedi do fear, they just know how to deal with it. How to release it and not let it affect their connection to the Force."

"Because fear is the dark side, right?"

"You learn quickly. Fear is not inherently the dark side, but it can lead to it. Now tell me, what is making you afraid?"

The boy takes a deep breath. "What if she... forgets about me?" As he speaks, his voice cracks. "What if she is hurt or needs help, and I... can't help her? I shouldn't have-- I shouldn't have left her all alone."

The tears come now, hot and fast. And stars, the Force... when Anakin cries just feels like it's crying with him.

Qui-Gon has learned that sometimes tears just need to flow. For the young, it is a necessary release. He lets Anakin have his moment, lets him collapse into his lap, and ball his robes in his little fists. Qui-Gon just sends calm sentiments through the Force, even though it feels like he's holding an umbrella to a gale. When his sobs turned to sniffles, Qui-Gon ruffles his fingers through the floppy blond strands of his hair. His dry heaving and hiccups shift to controlled breaths, and then the Jedi Master speaks.

"Now how do you feel?"

Anakin sniffles, sitting up again next to Qui-Gon. "A little... better."

"Your mind healer has told you to release your emotions, right? This--" He sets his hand lightly on the boy's chest. "--feeling you have. A weight off your shoulders, and your emotions calm. This is the feeling you are looking for."

"So I have to... cry when I meditate?"

The master smiles. "With much practice, you will find you can release any negative emotions with just your strength of mind. To be a Jedi is to be in control of these emotions. To think and act with a clear mind. Now tell me young one, these dreams. Your mother. Now that you have released your anxieties, what is it telling you?"

The boy looks up at him, eyes wide and bright from the residual tears. Anakin's lip quivers, but he bites the inside of his lip.

"Don't look back. She told me not to look back."

He nods. Qui-Gon remembers the moment vividly, Shmi's jaw set but face soft when Anakin looked at her. He could see her strength, her desire for Anakin to have a life better than his current one, but also her love for her son. When Anakin didn't turn around, Qui-Gon did. Shmi stared back, a smile still on her face and a nod in his direction. A promise--I will be okay-- and a request-- take care of him for me.

"Yes. Don't look back, look forward. If you learn the ways of the Jedi, learn to regulate your emotions, and become the great knight I feel you could be, then you will be making her proud. You are living the life that your mother wanted for you. I know you can feel that."

"I can feel it," he says softly. "I just... don't know if I should believe it."

"Trust in the Force, Ani. You've done it naturally all your life, and now it's time you learn to hone it. And don't look back."

"Look forward," Anakin finishes for him, pushing off the bed and standing. "I'll try, Master Jinn."

Do or do not, there is no try, his grandmaster's voice automatically replies in his mind. Qui-Gon walks with Anakin back out to see his creche master, who will take him to his next mind healing session.

And then he's alone walking back to the council chambers. When he's alone, he is aware of the ticking chrono constantly ringing in his ears. It grows louder with every day he awakes, every additional moment he strongarms his way through. Maybe Qui-Gon would wonder what this world would look like had he perished in that chamber, but he need not wonder.

It's what he hasn't yet told a soul, and it weighs on him. When he held on for dear life to that final thread of life, he saw a future clad in darkness. Light and dark clashing in a heated fury of heartbreak and loss. It was cold, laced with pain and treachery he could hardly comprehend. This was a future of suffering, and he has woken in a cold sweat every night since he felt it.

If he died in that chamber, the galaxy would suffer. He tries to tell himself what Shmi told her son-- don't look back-- but the very idea of such a shatterpoint over his existence is horrifying. He can't help it. But it's given him a reason to do what he can to fix this mess he has created. To prevent that pit of despair he could feel in the shadow of his former padawan's future. To preserve the light that shines so brightly within a boy who had every reason to live in darkness. Don't look back-- Force, but what if he had died? What if he was too slow, too weak to keep himself from going into that light?

He stops outside the council chambers, sitting on the bench and breathing deeply. The sounds of celebration still rage in the next room, and from here Qui-Gon can feel Obi-Wan and the gratification that has made his Force presence feel like a raging bonfire. It's warm, inviting, and feels as though it could burn for an eternity.

So much to tell him. So much to share. His learning as a padawan may have stopped, but now his future as a great Jedi knight lies before him. But he clutches his chest, feeling like his breath has been stolen from his lungs. The hallway seems to spin, and Qui-Gon knows he is teetering over the edge of that cliffside. So much to share. So much to do. But the Force has waited long enough.

[the-l-spacer]

Summary: When Lloyd falls sick, leaving the August Sky Repertory without a narrator, David Adams, a college student taking theatre on the side, gets thrust into the limelight.

Written for Day 1 of Shaperaverse Prompt Week!

David arrives late for rehearsal. It’s not his fault really, what with the rain slowing traffic to a crawl, and how he lives further from the August Sky Repertory Theatre than the rest of the group, and of course the bus is always late…

... is how he’s rationalising sleeping way, way in when Lloyd inevitably rakes him over the metaphorical coals for his tardiness. The company’s irritable stage manager detested when things didn’t go exactly according to plan, with lateness being a particularly egregious sin in his books. David thanks the stars that today’s rehearsal is only student-run, so he won’t have to deal with all that, on top of their director, William’s, trademark ‘I’m-not-mad-I’m-disappointed’ side glance that sometimes cut deeper than the worst of Lloyd’s tirades.

So when David barrels through the main entrance, sneakers squeaking on the polished marble floors, runs up the stairs to the auditorium on the building’s second floor, he’s fully prepared a barrage of apologetic excuses and half-truths. And when he pushes past the double doors, an ‘I’m so, so sorry' is on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill from his mouth.

And then he realises that Lloyd is, quite inexplicably, absent from their rehearsal.

His footsteps slow, and he proceeds at a steady trot downward, past rows of velvet-covered seats, to where Jill and Michael are, eating pizza with their legs dangling over the lip of the stage, spilling crumbs into the orchestra pit (something Lloyd and William would grow white hairs over, if they were actually there to begin with).

“Yo, Davey!” Michael waves. He scoots over two paper cups of soda, and pats the now-empty spot next to him. Taking his cue, David boosts himself up on the stage, plucking a slice of pizza from Jill’s hands.

“Hey. Sorry ‘m late.” He shoves half the pizza into his mouth, ignoring Jill’s protests.

“Damn, David, this your first meal of the day?” Michael balks, wordlessly passing a new pizza slice over to Jill, who accepts it with a huff.

“Yeah, actually.” David finishes off the crust, wipes greasy fingers off on his jeans. “Stayed up too late last night rushing a submission, so I overslept. No time for breakfast. I thought Lloyd would be ready and waiting to chew me out though. Where is he?”

As if on cue, Asha emerges from left wing, pacing the stage and chattering anxiously on her phone. “And you’re sure you’re getting enough water? Did you take a panadol? I could get some soup delivered to you.” Noticing David for the first time, she mouths a silent, Lloyd’s sick.

“You’re joking.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to David.

“What?” He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “He’s never sick. Don’t you guys ever notice he’s at rehearsal, like, always? He’s never late, never forgets to bring his script, and he never falls sick. it’s like he’s some sort of automaton. A weird theatre-obsessed automaton who runs on.. uhh..”

“Salt,” Jill offers, “and spite.”

“Yeah, that.” David holds out his hand to Asha, currently glaring daggers at him and Jill. “Can I talk to him? Just, you know, to be sure? And to wish him well and all.”

Sighing, Asha says a final “Take care, okay?” to the person on the other side of the phone, and passes it over to David’s outstretched hand.

“Lloyd?”

The voice coming through the Huawei’s tinny speaker is barely recognisable, raspy and low. “David. You’re late for rehearsal. You know-“ a series of hacking coughs interrupts whatever Lloyd (because it was, most unmistakably, Lloyd) was trying to say.

“Hey, hey, save it, yeah?” David’s own voice is threaded through with concern, but he can’t help a slight smile from crossing his face. Even when sick, Lloyd still can’t resist trying to lecture him. That sanctimonious idiot. “You’ll have plenty of time to yell at me once you’re better.”

A tiny chuckle. “That’s a.. all the incentive I need.” He clears his throat once, then twice. “Anyhow, I expect you all to continue rehearsal as normal. I’ve put Asha in charge. Just.. run through Janissary again, David, you’re taking over as Narrator, try to memorise your blocking, a-“

“-excuse me, what?!?”

“- I said, memorise y.. your blocking, and-“

“- no, no, the other thing. You want me to play the Narrator?!??”

“I don’t misspeak, David. There’s no one else to fill in for me, and we all know I narrate terribly.”

“B.. but Michael could, or I could call in his understudy. And who’s gonna work on lighting? I thought that was my job!”

“I-“ another coughing fit, “-I’ve arranged for Kate to take over the lighting, just for today. She should be arriving soon.” As if to anticipate the further protests forming in David’s mind, he continues. “You auditioned into this theatre program to sing and act, just like the rest of us. You can’t expect to keep hiding backstage and playing background roles. It’s time for you to step u-“ Lloyd’s voice gives out entirely, and Asha snatches the phone from David’s limp grasp.

“You’ve lost your phone privileges,” she says smoothly. Then, turning away from David, spluttering and panicking, she addresses the sick stage manager (and friend!) on the other end of the line. “Lloyd, stop trying to talk on a hoarse throat or I’m going to chuck Brija’s spear at you again. We’ve got this handled. Just sleep someplace cool, keep a cold compress someplace handy. We’ll all come over to visit you once we’re done for the day — nonono, don’t say anything — we will come in and take care of you, because gods know your dad’s not gonna do it, so hush. Go to sleep, and rest well.. Love you too.”

With that, she flicks her phone shut, pockets it, and turns toward the rest of the group, all staring silently at her. She colours a little, tucking a stray curl self-consciously behind her ear. “What?”

“He said ‘love you’?” Michael grins, forming air quotes around the words. “That boy is havin' a fever.”

Jill smacks his arm. “Don’t be an asshole. We know Asha’s more of his mom than anything, not... you know...” She and Asha shoot meaningful glances at David, who, for the record, looks entirely perplexed. Jill mentally sighs. David would come to terms with his crush on Lloyd eventually (or at least, she hopes so, the energy between the two of them is entirely too weird and awkward otherwise).

“Yeah, call me a mom all you like, we all know you’re planning on visiting him after rehearsal too. I just took the liberty of saying we’re all going to spare him having to argue with us individually. Speaking of.” She pulls her long, dark hair into a ponytail, the universal code for let’s get down to business, and claps her hands together. “Shall we begin rehearsing? Kate? Kate!”

The dark, silent theatre is filled with an electrical hum, as row by row, lights spark to life, growing brighter and brighter as they warm up. The control booth at the back of the theatre illuminates, revealing Kate, a freshman and the newest member of New Albion University’s theatre program, clad in a pair of headphones half the size of her face, waving at the group below.

“Sorry, sorry!” Her voice, mic’d up to the theatre’s speakers, bounces eerily around the room. “You guys seemed to be distracted, so I zoned out. Are we ready to start?”

Scowling, David asks, “Was she there the whole time? Was anyone gonna tell me I got replaced as lighting tech by the freshie?”

“Might want to cut the snark there, buddy,” Kate’s amplified voice warns.

“What she said. Also, take this as a valuable learning experience,” Asha says. “You do a good Vizier, but it’s about time you tried a bigger role.”

“And even if it ends horribly, it's fine, since this is just today’s arrangement!” Jill pipes up.

David groans. “Not helping.”

Michael claps him on the shoulder. “Heyyy, you’ll be fine, Davey. Just read through the script and remember where to stand. You got this, man.”

Nodding, David fishes out his Janissary script, and flings his satchel bag toward the seats, where it lands lopsided on the front row.

“Places, everyone! Jill and Michael, clear the trash from the stage!” Asha calls out. “David, stand here.” She ushers him gently to where a faint ‘x’ is taped, downstage right.

A chill runs up his spine. He isn’t hidden upstage, or holed up in the control booth, he’s here, standing at the August Sky Repertory Theatre’s unofficial ‘sweet spot’, a space on stage where even the softest voice can cut right through the cavernous auditorium, clear as crystal. A space reserved for soloists, for the most important characters to have their moment in the spotlight. For anyone but him.

Experimentally, he clears his throat, and almost winces when the sound travels through the vast performance space, silencing the others where they are standing.

“Are you ready, David?”

He turns to look at Asha. “I don’t think I’ll ever be, but I guess we gotta start sometime.” He clears his throat again, rocking nervously on the balls of his feet. “Okay. Act 1, Scene 1.”

The house lights dim, and narrow to spotlight David. He feels their warmth, looks out across the rows of empty seats.

There’s something special, about the moment just before the start of a performance. As one, the world comes to a standstill, and holds its breath in waiting. In the silence, David is all too aware of the thump, thump, thumping of his heart, the rustling of pages as sweaty hands flip his script open, to where the narrator’s lines lie, clean and unannotated. Tabula rasa, a blank slate, leaving only possibility.

The air crackles with anticipation, so thick he can barely breathe, and he can feel the others’ eyes upon him, watching, waiting for him to shatter that tension like glass.

This tale not all will attend, his first line reads.

He takes a breath, back straightening of its own accord. Addressing the invisible audience, he opens his mouth, and begins his performance.

[archival-disaster]

"Is he trying to warn me not to ignore my own metaphorical pit, because if so, what is my metaphorical pit?"

Jon, regarding Elias sending him statement #0090303

Absolutely superb you 'tired of my vague and omniscient boss' archivist

[toonqueen]

Duckvember 2020

--Game--

Just some OC stuff. Move along. Nothing to read here. NO BETA and NO WRITING GOOD DESCS JUST GOING WHERE THIS ENERGY DRINK IS TAKING ME.

PG-13 for the violence. Murder mentions. I’m sure there is a curse word. Fun on a bun stuff.

P.S. IT WAS BETAed THANK YOU @cataradical ALSO THANK YOU FOR THE ONE PART I WAS STUCK AT nnnngh

-------

“Now that I’ve got your attention, let's play a little game,” the canine antagonist’s voice drifted from the speakers, followed by loud, maniacal cackling. There was no sight of him, but the room wasn’t empty.

Faustina curtly stood up from the ground where she had fallen deep into the pit. She was less concerned about the menacing, dangerous voice as she was her clothes getting dirty. Although she was angry, it was more at her sister than this weirdo who’d trapped them here.

“‘Mr. Canis is so nice in the Nega-verse. I just wanted to see if his gas station was anything like the one in the Middle-verse. Your version, he’s such a kind old man, so… what if he’s an absolute grump here? How funny would that be… teehee.’” Faustina repeated words said to her earlier in a mocking tone. She looked around the room as she brushed off her skirt; a small cell with a single glass wall. “Yes, what a great adventure, /sis/,” Faustina growled, pounding on the glass angrily, “find out our good friend /here/ is a serial killer. /Fun times/.”

Faustina glanced up, spotting a TV screen mounted above the glass. Playing was footage of her sister, Felicity, hurrying down a hallway, surrounded by large, halved circular saw blades whirring in and out and along the walls. Faustina’s dark-haired twin was swiftly moving, twisting, dancing around them.

“/I am not a killer/!” the voice shrieked from the speakers, offended, disgusted, “I am merely a tool that creates the puzzles. It is Fate that decides who lives and who dies, not me.”

“Oh, /boy/. This is going to be a /hoot/ then. Fate. With this gal. /Wow/. Why not run me through your death maze too?” Faustina stifled her giggling.

“Because you are going to be the prize for when--or if--she gets through my CORRIDOR OF KARMA and the PRECIPICE OF SERENDIPITY,” the villain bellowed, causing the speakers to glitch a little.

Faustina had completely lost it, cackling until her stomach hurt and she doubled forward, banging a fist against the glass wall. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, her face sore from smiling so much. “Oh, you sad, poor little--if you /only knew/ her! Oh, man, where’s my phone?” She managed to collect herself, wiping away tears and sniffing a few times. A moment to gigglesnort before deep breath. “I’m going to have to record your reaction for later, Mister I Let Fate Decide, but I’m sure as soon as she gets through your stupid game, you’ll change your tune. I bet you made it so everyone loses no matter how hard they try, right? You’re gonna be so butthurt when you realize she’s gonna get through all that.” Unable to restrain herself any longer, Faustina started laughing and snorting again, arms thrown around her belly.

“Laugh now, fool. I hope you see her get torn apart. Behold! She just now entered the GAUNTLET OF THE GILDED-- wait, where did she go?” the canine gasped and choked.

Faustina looked back up at the TV as it started flipping through channels, all showing different chambers and mazes of torture and misery. Every single one of them… empty. Just as another channel turned on, Faustina heard a light shuffling coming from the ceiling above her head.

A second later, a panel on the ceiling right outside the cell room fell to the ground. Felicity climbed out until she was standing, face to face, with her sister on the opposite side of the glass.

Faustina huffed, hands on her hips. “About time. That took you a little longer than I thought,” Faustina complained to her “hero”.

“I would have gotten here sooner, but I felt obligated to read the name plaques he put up in each room. Masquerade of Misfortune was my favorite,” Felicity replied as she placed her hands on where the glass wall met a metal wall.

“How-- /How did you get in here!/ The vents don’t--don’t even lead here!” the voice hissed and snarled from the speakers.

“Well, they do now,” Faustina said on behalf of her sister. Felicity ignored them, tugging and prying along the strip of metal before peeling it loose. A line of bolts popped free.

“No matter! That was cheating! You’ve forfeited the game, and now you will see your sister suffer a gruesome fate,” the voice guffawed sinisterly. Liquid started pouring from the cell’s ceiling, right next to Faustina.

The trapped twin sniffed, and instantly knew what it was. “Gasoline? Really? Gonna set me on fire, huh? This is just getting more and more hilarious. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea. We need to do this every week. Man, if this jerk only /knew/,” she chuckled, casually pressing a hand up against the nozzle and stopping the flow of gasoline.

“Now, Felicity, was it? How ironic your name means “fortune”. Maybe you’ll be lucky by persuading me to let your sister live. Get on your knees, and /beg/ for her life,” their captor ordered, his tone much more disturbing and ruthless.

Felicity gave him the cold shoulder. “Heat would expand the glass, and then you can crawl out through this seam,” she explained to Faustina. “The bolts are out. You’ll be fine.”

“Are you not listening to me?” the voice raged. “You need to convince me to free your sister! I decide her fate!”

“Cool, cool, all right, hellfire. Got it.” Faustina put her fingers in front of her and started to move them like she was playing with an invisible cat’s cradle string. 

“Do you not /understand/, you simpletons? All I have to do is throw a lit match and your sist-- /What in the fuc--/!” the voice changed from commanding to panicked when Faustina herself burst into flames. The fire had started from her own hands, and spread across her body. Flames rolled down her skirt, thick and magma-like, setting the fuel at her feet on fire. There was an immediate rushing blow of black smoke.

Felicity backed away from the hole so Faustina and her fire could do the rest. The escaping duck showed no pain from the flames. She just shrugged and climbed out. The speakers crackled but no voice.

“/Coward/!” Faustina yelled as she got out of the cell, rolling back the glass with the heat. “Why didn’t I think of this?”

“We are underneath a gas station. Might want to tone down the fire,” Felicity suggested. She looked up at where the fuel was still dripping. A few options on what to do rolled around in her mind. “Why is this bothering me more than any other villain we fought?”

“I dunno. More the peeps we beat up tend to rob banks or fight other heroes, so, uh,” Faustina said, the flames disappearing in wisps of black smoke until not even a spark was left. The entire cell floor was covered in flames still. Despite having been set on fire, not a single part of Faustina’s body, even her clothes, had been burned or harmed. However, there was black smudging along the hem of her skirt. “... You’re gonna get my dry cleaning bill.”

“Yeah, we’ve never had to fight a killer that's been taking out… defenseless people,” Felicity mumbled, still watching the dripping gasoline. 

Faustina noticed the change in her sister’s tone. “Look, I can be a reverse conscience, bein’ all for tearing this guy apart. Is that what you want to do?” Faustina leaned in close to her twin, twinkle-eyed. “Really, I’d like to have that family bonding girls’ night /finally/.” 

“No...” Felicity replied quietly. Another moment’s pause, then she asked, “Can you resurrect the bodies in the freezer?”

“Yes,” Faustina said without hesitation. 

Felicity opened the nearest door, finding it to be a closet with the usual cleaning supplies. She handed Faustina a push broom. Not exactly what she hoped for but it would work. 

“I’ll go after him. You get the victims out of here,” Felicity said as she pointed to the hole in the ceiling that Faustina had originally fallen from.

The blonde witch gave a nod and got on the broom, flying out the available exit. Felicity took a ladder from the closet, used it to climb up into a different opening.

-------

Mr. Canis, a mild-mannered gas station owner with a shotgun in hand, was now running out of his business as fast as his legs could carry him.

Well, not that mild mannered, since he would often trap a lone 3 AM traveler or two, and force them to play his sadistic death games he held below the gas station. “A sacrifice to Fate during the bewitching hour” is what he called it. And two tired women on a road trip were just the perfect meals to feed the beast.

Metaphorical beasts. Not monsters like these two were. 

Mr. Canis had made a mistake. He had seen the warning signs! …Though, could the blonde filling the super size one liter soda cup with nothing but nacho cheese really count as a warning sign? After all, she did put a fifty dollar bill on the counter and said to charge her as much as he needed for extra cheese. This weird girl who he’d now just seen catch on fire and come out completely unscathed without any show or sign of pain.

Mr. Canis wasn’t going to stick around to see what the witch’s equally oddball sister could do. 

To think an hour ago his biggest concern was she might be a cop. The way she had just... inspected things on the shelves so tentatively. Actually stood there at the counter for a moment, reading the back of a bag of chips. And then, when he was ringing her up, she just smiled at him like she knew him. Asked how his day was with a strangely large amount of curiosity. 

Mr. Canis assumed the woman must know him--better yet, know what he did. Knew about the puzzles, the games. Knew about the sacrifices he had made to Fate. He could see it in her eyes.

There was a rattling of metal coming from right behind him. He ran across the small parking lot, toward the grass of the surrounding woods. He heard the rattle again. Like a horror movie, he just had to check, see the source of the sound--

The canine’s feet were back on the pavement. The rattling came from the steel door to the room containing all the fuel tanks. There was faint knocking from within--specifically one tank with a small “door” locked up. Mr. Canis laughed despite his fear; one of these so-called “powerful” women were now trapped by a simple metal lock on a rusty old door.

He stopped laughing when the lock broke after another couple knocks. Seemingly with no force either. With one more push, Felicity climbed out of the tank, drenched. Instead of the strong scent of gasoline, she was soaked in cola. 

Mr. Canis was all the more confused when harmless brown soda could be seen (and smelled) in the fuel tank, instead of the gasoline that would be more harmful for this girl to swim in. He was frozen, flabbergasted. How could the hoses for the syrup to the soda fountains even be out here? They must have been diluting the fuel he was using for the traps.

When Mr. Canis snapped out of his daze, he found the black-haired duck glaring back at him in silence. If looks could kill, he’d be dead and buried.

Felicity had been excited to meet the Prime-verse counterpart of the Nega-verse gas station owner she was friends with. She had expected a grumpy version of the man that ran her favorite Nega-verse stop. Maybe throw out loitering teens instead of offering them free day-old donuts. It was going to be amusing. Be fun.

Not deadly.

Mr. Canis fired a shot at her, and it missed. Missed even at point blank. Sure, she had tilted her torso just slightly left, but it should have still hit something! Mr. Canis wasn’t an amateur when it came to firearms. 

Felicity abruptly grabbed the gun. One hand around the top of the barrel, and the other farther down the shaft. Mr. Canis' finger was still curled around the trigger, and he fired another shot. In an instant, she bent and raised the barrel so the shot went into the air.

Felicity gained leverage and let one hand go of the gun. Her free one grabbed under the canine’s arm. Mr. Canis was on his back in a flash when the smaller duck flipped him onto the ground.

Felicity held the gun now, aimed expertly at her would-be attacker. “Get up. Get inside the gas station.” 

“Look, this is all a misunderstanding. Obviously you have the blessed fortune to get through my maze of fate. You and your sister are free to go! Isn’t that wonderful? Go ahead and be on your way!” Mr. Canis was desperate; poor excuses, he knew, but he tried. Maybe the girl would be so in shock by what happened she would just leave? 

Felicity was silent, and still glaring. In that moment, Mr. Canis wished she was more talkative like the blonde. He reluctantly got up, and headed into the gas station. Felicity followed, keeping the gun pointed at his back. 

“I take it you two are going to tie me up and call the cops to come get me?” he chuckled, like he’d forgotten all about the insanity of the last ten or so minutes.

That peace did not last long. Faustina was sitting on the checkout counter. Three other women were in the station as well. Very familiar women. Awake, moving, but still cold from the freezer. Glassy eyed, they actually did not look fully alive. Just alive enough. 

“Are there more? Because those woods back there look very iffy,” Faustina questioned, as casually as someone would when looking for their lost keys. She sat in her billowy dress, legs crossed and hands resting on one bent knee. She smirked wide when the murderer was too  shocked to reply. “What? Nothing to say? What would you like to do, dearest sister?”

“We let him choose his fate,” Felicity finally spoke up. There was a glimmer in Faustina’s eye. She had never seen Felicity prone to actual violence. This was a treat. Though, she gave a disheartened pout when her sister just had to ruin it with all the lawful goody-two-shoes stuff. “We’re calling the cops, and you better sit still and stay here while we all wait for them to arrive.”

“Those three… How are they… what is… going on?” the panic returned to Mr. Canis’s voice. The same panic when he watched Faustina burst into flames as if it were nothing but a change of clothes. 

“Idiot. You have the worst luck ever. You literally, /literally/ put someone cursed by Fortuna in your fate maze, and someone blessed by demons in your fire trap. How dumb. What a /moron/. /Absolute tool!/” Faustina complained and scowled.

“I’m sure your mood’ll improve soon enough,” Felicity said, eyes rolling. She waved a hand and turned away. “I’m stepping out to call the cops. I’ve got the gun on me, but I’m sure you can handle him if he tries anything funny.”

Faustina grinned, watching her sister leave. “No problemo!” She turned her grin, now more feral, to Mr. Canis as she cracked her knuckles. “So, hey, a couple of your ‘former customers’ wanna file some complaints about your little side business here. I recommend you take them very seriously.”

Mr. Canis whimpered, looking between Faustina and the three women lumbering closer. “Are you… are you going to kill me?” he gulped.

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to leave it to fate. Ladies, if you get rid of him before sunrise, the spell will resurrect you. The more pain you put him through, the better the rezz,” Faustina said and grinned before turning to leave the room. She shut the door on the horrified, high-pitched shrieking and crying.

Felicity stood outside, arms crossed, like she had just caught a child eating all the cookies from the jar. 

“What? You prefer I don’t rezz them?”

“I’m pretty sure you can just transfer his life force into them without the--” Felicity’s words were interrupted by a blood curdling scream. 

“Yes, but where’s the fun in that? Karma’s a bitch, after all.”

------

Lawd the baddies in the Saw movies piss me off would love monster girls to beat the shit out of them. HUZZAH.

[sparrow-flies-south]

Remus’s Guide To Mending Friendships (For Fun And Profit) [4/?]

Fandom: Sanders Sides Rating: Teen Pairings: Deceit & Virgil, Deceit & Virgil & Remus, Remus & Roman Warnings: Disturbing imagery (it’s Remus’s POV), imagined character death Summary: When he realises that Deceit misses Virgil, Remus decides that the best way to cheer him up is to persuade Virgil to come back to the dark side. Too bad Virgil hasn’t wanted anything to do with them since he left.

Part One   Part Two   Part Three   Part Five  AO3

Step Four: Encourage Open And Honest Communication

Deceit could pick up on a lie like a cadaver dog scenting a rotting corpse. Trying to trick him into doing something was a fool’s errand. He was also familiar enough with Remus’s antics to know not to investigate any doors that might suddenly appear in front of him.

(Virgil had clearly gone soft on the light side. His reaction to a strange door appearing had been to walk right up to investigate it. It was as if he wanted to be shoved inside.)

No, when dealing with Deceit, it was best to be direct.

“Go through that door,” Remus said, as soon as Deceit stepped out of his room.

“Absolutely not,” Deceit replied immediately.

Remus pouted. “Why not?”

Deceit sighed and rubbed his temples. “Does it lead to a cave with a monster?” he asked. “Or do you have someone else tied up? Logan, perhaps.”

“Why would I wanted to kidnap Logan?” Remus asked.

Deceit stared him down.

“Fine!” Remus threw his hands up in the air. “I’m trying to lock you in a closet. To help you.”

Deceit blinked. “That… is exactly what I expected your plan to be. Is the closet a metaphor?”

“No.”

“Does it contain a bottomless pit? A portal to a hell dimension?”

“No and no.”

“Is this a coup?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re paranoid?”

“Remus.”

“If I tell you what’s in there, you’ll say no,” Remus complained.

“Which means I should say no regardless.”

Remus groaned. “I’ll pay you to go in there.”

“Currency has no real values other than what we assign it,” Deceit said. “The only reason a piece of paper is worth, say, $100 is because everyone agrees it does.”

“No money then,” Remus said, because he knew Deceit could go on a rant for hours if allowed to. “There must be something you want.”

Deceit considered. “Leave my stuff alone for two months.”

“One month!”

Deceit made a show of opening his door.

“Two months, yeesh. Can I trap you in a small confined space now?”

Deceit sighed, but stepped up to the door. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

“Maybe at first, but then you’ll love it.”

Remus flung open the door, and threw Deceit inside before locking it again.

The closet wasn’t really in the corridor. It existed in a pocket of the imagination, but Remus could summon the door wherever he wanted. He kept the door up so he could listen in.

The doorknob jiggled, and Deceit sighed. “What exactly is the point of this?”

“What are you doing here?” Virgil said from further in the closet.

Someone started banging on the door.

“Remus!” Deceit shouted. “Let us out of here?”

Over the noise, Remus was only just able to hear Virgil say, “Wait, you’re not behind this?”

“Why yes, Virgil, I woke up this morning with the urge to trap myself in a small space with someone who hates my guts.”

Well, Deceit wasn’t being very optimistic. Still, it gave Virgil the chance to tell Deceit the truth.

“The door won’t budge,” Virgil said. “I already tried.”

“Remus!” Deceit shouted.

“He’s probably not even listening.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Deceit snapped.

Virgil didn’t respond. The banging continued.

Remus had hoped they’d be talking to each other by now, not ignoring each other. He sat on the floor. This was going to take a while.

“Deceit, stop!” Virgil cried out, after a few minutes of banging had passed.

“What?” Deceit snarled.

“Your hands.” Virgil sounded closer, like he was right next to the door.

“Oh,” Deceit said quietly.

There was a moment of silence, and then Virgil said gruffly, “Whatever. Break your knuckles if you want, I don’t care.”

Silence.

“Virgil,” Deceit began, and then stopped. “What if I told you I might know a way out?”

“I’d wonder why you didn’t mention it before.”

“Because I enjoy slamming my fists in to a door, of course. But I’m just thrilled about what my idea entails.”

“God, I forgot how annoying you are,” Virgil muttered. “Fine, what’s your plan?”

“It’s simple. We do what Remus wants us to do. He must have put us in here for a reason, after all.”

“Remus could want anything,” Virgil pointed out. “That doesn’t help us much.”

“And as someone who lives with him, I certain have no idea what he could possibly want.” Deceit sighed. “He wants us to… talk to each other.” He sounded as if each word pained him to say.

“Just tell me what he really wants, asshole,” Virgil snapped.

“Unfortunately, I’m telling the complete truth.”

Well, at least they were talking, even if it wasn’t from a desire to confess how they truly felt.

“Fuck that,” Virgil said.

Or not.

“Of course,” Deceit replied. “Your grudge against me is far more important than us getting out of here.”

Remus could practically smell Virgil’s glare. “Grudge? You lied to me, you manipulated me, and when I stopped putting up with your shit, you kicked me out. It’s more than just a grudge.”

“You could have come back at any time,” Deceit responded. “You were just too busy with your new friends.”

“Because they care about me! They don’t see me as some – some pawn to manipulate.”

Deceit laughed. “Of course. They’ve always had your back. Always seen the best in you.”

“Maybe they would have, if you hadn’t gotten into my head. Made me think I had to be an asshole to everyone.”

“It must be very convenient to have someone to cast the villain. Makes it a lot easier to ignore your own mistakes.”

Remus shifted uncomfortably. This wasn’t going according to plan.

“I know I made mistakes. But when I decided to change, you tried to stop me.”

“Because you shouldn’t have had to change! You were strong. If the others didn’t listen to you, if Thomas didn’t listen to you, you made them listen. Now look at you.”

“Why does it matter how strong I am!”

Remus pulled the closet door open. Deceit and Virgil were standing so close to each other they were nearly touching, both glaring. Deceits hands were clenched, and there were spots of red on the knuckles of his gloves. Neither seemed to have noticed Remus.

“If you had left for power,” Deceit said, his voice like still waters, “I could understand it. Respect it even. Instead you threw away everything, left your family behind, for what? The love of people who only care about you if you play by their rules?”

Virgil took a step back, his body coiled as if he were about to spring. He tightened his jaw, and when he spoke, he didn’t look away from Deceit. “You’re not my family. You never were.”

Silence seemed to fill the room. Virgil glanced at Remus, and then sunk out.

Deceit stood still, breathing heavily. Then he turned to look at Remus, his face like ice.

“Happy now?” He asked.

Remus shook his head. “Dee, I-“

“I told you to leave Virgil alone,” he snarled. “What good did you think could possibly come from this? Or did you just do it to torment us?”

“I wanted to help.”

Deceit laughed. “How could someone like you help? You break everything you touch, and you thought, what, that you could make everything better?”

“I thought if you talked – talking was supposed to fix things.”

“Well, we talked!” Deceit said, spreading his arms wide as if he were addressing an audience, and not just Remus. “Have you gotten the message yet? Or are you too stupid to figure it out?”

“That’s not fair,” Remus protested. His eyes burned, why did his eyes burn? “You didn’t even try.”

“What’s the point? Even if he did think about coming back, he’d change his mind the moment he spoke to you.”

Remus stared, unable to say anything. Deceit was lying, he had to be lying. He’d never said anything about him scaring Virgil off before.

“Did you really think that he enjoyed spending time with you? What could you possibly have to offer, your charming personality? He was terrified of you. He probably attached himself to the light sides so fast just so he could get away from you.”

“That’s not true,” Remus said, though it came out weak.

Deceit smiled. “Of course not. Everyone just loves hanging around you, don’t they?”

Remus’s hands clenched into fists. “I wish I’d let the lion eat you,” he said, and vanished into the imagination.

His face felt damp with tears. As if Deceit didn’t already think he was stupid, he just had to go and breakdown. Of course Remus spent so much time with Deceit, he couldn’t even handle the truth, had to have the embodiment of lies tell him.

Something growled. A monster approached out of the darkness, circling him. Remus hadn’t realised he’d summoned one.

He let the creature lunge, but didn’t give it the chance to sink its teeth into his flesh. He brought his mace down quickly on the monsters head, crushing its skull, and the flung the body away.

It didn’t make him feel any better. He summoned another.

That one didn’t make him feel any better either.

[alchemist-shizun]

So close feels so afar

Inspired by this post by @draw-your-perfect-world

Word Count: 2,777

Taglist: @ragingdumpsterfiremess

Characters: Roman, Deceit, Remus, Patton (briefly), Logan (briefly), Thomas (briefly) and Virgil

Pairing(s): Let’s say if you squint in one way it could be Roceit, if you squint in another way it could be Prinxiety, but it can all be interpreted as platonic

Warning(s): (Characters are all sympathetic), negative thinking, self-deprecation, self-doubt, swearing (once)

Summary: Thomas is having trouble with his content, it’s gone on for so long that the sides themselves are starting to overwork so much they get overly stressed. Roman has a thought. A bad myriad of thoughts. 

A/N: Before you read, let me warn you that this is written in second person from Roman’s point of view. Soooo, two angsty Roman fics in a row huh? I feel the need to write one in which he only gets all the cuddles and gets appreciated aah pardon me for breaking your hearts, but the opportunity was too good to be passed up. Hope you enjoy!

✾

❝ My heart is twisted, heavy, wrong.It's like it knows I don't belong.

The world is big, lovely to be.And yet, there is no place for me. ❞

It wasn't the first time for you, was it?

« I don't know, guys ... I think we should just discard this whole video. »

The heavy feeling on your chest as you realized that, in the long run, your contribution didn't matter anyway, that your motivation was starting to fade away, letting the hopelessness take its place instead.

That everything you did or tried to do didn't matter or was useless, in any case.

You tried to speak, and god all those eyes on you, the attention you once sought now felt like the unbearable weight of a thousand people's judgment. You felt uneasy in front of the four people you knew and that knew you best.

When Thomas sighed and looked away, no longer paying attention to your words, you began to stagger as you tried to rescue the pieces of your confidence that had started to inevitably break and fall into the pit of your chest, pushing and pulling you towards the heavy void.

Your voice died down and your argument lost its meaning along with its importance.

« Great. This was a complete and utter failure. » Logan sank down faster than any other day. You wondered what had happened to his problem-solving nature and his constant willingness to help in critic situations.

You believed he was ... better at this than you. In fact, you had no idea why you even bothered to give your own input on the topic.

Well, there was always this urge to prove yourself in the eyes of Thomas you'd been having for quite a while, maybe even too long, so much that you grew accustomed to it.

Maybe the problem with that was that, unlike Logan, you felt. You thought that was what was wrong with you all along.

Sure, Patton felt too, but he had dealt with that for such a long time that he knew how to handle it and how to still be reasonable through his thinking process.

Virgil, despite having to manage some of the worst feelings, was also cautious thanks to them, analyzing every possible outcome.

And you? You had your passion. Sure, that was a big part for Thomas's interests, but beyond that?

You felt.

You felt ... like something wasn't right.

Because when Logan disappeared, leaving a somewhat irritated expression as the last image of him, you blamed yourself.

When Virgil shrank in his hoodie and shook his head before sinking down, you blamed yourself.

And when Patton excused himself with a pained look on his face, you blamed yourself yet again.

You grimaced and ignored the knot forming in your throat.

« I'm sorry. » an apology that felt as useful as your ability to solve the situation that same day.

The blaming didn't stop when you sank down before you could hear Thomas's response.

Did you even want to hear it?

You traced the little drawings you had carved on your door years earlier, refusing to get into a room that seemed so foreign; did "Creativity" even fit you anymore? You couldn't remember the last time someone didn't shoot down one of your unreachable ideas.

Like a thunder in the middle of a quiet evening, a memory appeared on your mind and flashed before your eyes: it had happened little after Virgil had fully joined your part of the mindscape. You had agreed that, in any circumstance and for any issue, you would've been there for each other. Always.

You went to Logan first: as we already mentioned before, problem-solving, right? Wrong. Or, at least, in that particular moment.

You were met with a terribly stressed logical side, that you were pretty sure was trying very hard to keep the "logical" part as he paced around his room almost literally shaking with nervousness.

« Not a good time, Roman. » was all you heard when you opened his door with caution. Before you could justify your visit, he excused himself and went back to look like the same messy state his room was in.

Patton was your second choice, but how much of an appropriate idea could it possibly be, when you saw him lying on his bed feeling even worse than you? Your selfless nature rushed over your body and you ended up comforting him instead of trying to open up on your own feelings.

Why did it always have to end up like this? Why couldn't you just talk for once? Patton would have returned all the favors you gave him, you were sure, then why was it so difficult to admit you felt sick of yourself?

You closed the door of his room behind yourself, your heartbeat increasing. You were almost there. But you just couldn't find it in yourself to worsen Patton's already precarious condition with useless musings that would have only broken his heart.

No, you were completely wrong. There was nothing to be concerned about, the only problem was Thomas's enormous lack of content and you had to shove away whatever problem you had.

Now didn't that feel absolutely horrible to think that, Roman? There was no escaping it.

While trying to understand why you were doing this to yourself, you came across Virgil's door.

Your hand hovered over the handle. One twist and it would've been it.

You backed away and decided against it. If Logan and Patton were already feeling horrendous, who knows what you might have encountered.

You looked to your left and your eyes met the dark sides' rooms.

And you wondered, just for a split second, you reflected on that thing. Something you were so afraid to name but that came into your mind so often you almost believed it.

It had started in the imagination, when Remus playfully once insulted you and you hadn't found the will to deny anything.

Then, while by yourself, you started being more critical of your own ideas and works, you sat for hours with a blank stare coming up with nothing but blatant banalities.

Eventually, you slipped up. That one game night, when you agreed when someone called you an idiot. You knew they didn't mean it, but you still felt like you needed to point out that yes, you thought that too, deeply and every single painful moment of your existence.

It was the way Virgil called that. 

Self-deprecating.

He said it was his job and Patton insisted both of you should have stopped saying terrible things about yourselves.

Neither of you did.

That term stuck with you and you weren't able not to wonder if perhaps there was a possibility you could identify with it.

And when the other came, right then, with you staring at the dark sides aisle, that feeling of wrongness increased to the point you couldn't bear staying in the "light" sides corridor anymore.

In a matter of seconds you rushed over to the door of their common room.

When he opened up, expression neutral but just that slight bit surprised, Deceit raised his eyebrows. « Well? » 

« Self-doubt. » there it was. 

« What? » 

« There's been a mistake. » you tried again, you couldn't follow your breathing pace anymore. « We need to switch places. »

« Switch- I'm not following you. »

« I am self-doubt.»

« Huh? »

« You're self preservance. »

« I'm flattered and all by this enchanting game of words, but I really think you should get some rest. Did Remus hit your head again? I told him to refrain from that. »

You shook your head visibly and a heavy sensation rose in your chest. Your shaky hands gently pushed him back and you let yourself into the room. « You don't understand. »

Your eyes searched for one thing only. One person only.

Remus had propped himself up on his elbows, previously lying on the couch in the, you believed, most normal position you had ever seen him.

You approached him, all the eyes were on you just like moments before, and you were sure you were also metaphorically reconnecting with his dark nature. Or was it really dark? Didn't you make that up?

While Remus's face showed veiled concern, you sat on the floor in front of the armrest. He sat up and looked down on your bleak self, an eyebrow slightly raised.

With your chin buried in your crossed arms on the armrest, you felt the urge to break down to anyone that would just finally, finally and simply listen.

And you didn't even know where to start.

« You were right. » Deceit cautiously came close as you spoke. You noticed him, with the corner of your eye, take a seat on a chair next to you, leaning toward the scene. « I'm just like you. Not worlds apart, nowhere on opposite spectrums. »

Remus shook his head. « What are you talking about? » he whispered, more like a reprimand than a question.

You couldn't help but insist, your eyes started to burn and you realized you were blinking back tears. « You know what I mean. »

Oh, but when did anyone, actually? So gone and lost, so miserable you refrained from ever believing in the others' understanding.

« It just took me longer to come to terms with it. Too long. And now I've messed it up because it's too late to fix this, to fix me. »

« Ro- »

« No! » you buried your face in your arms, nose pressing on soft material. Deep inside, you knew you did that only to suppress the fact that you were on the verge of crying, of showing yourself weak and incapable to get back up on your own. « I am not Creativity! » but you knew hiding it didn't have a meaning anymore.

Your head shot back up and you stared at your brother with a tear-stained face. « You are. More than me. »

« You're saying I should replace you? » Remus's voice sounded offended. No, almost ... hurt.

You nodded, holding your breath to refrain the flood of seemingly nonsensical words from flowing out of your mouth. Or, at least, you tried to do that.

« It's that- » you shuddered. « I haven't been productive in forever, and you're always here having different ideas every single day. »

« My ideas are- »

« It's obvious you're better at this than I am. » you looked down and allowed one terrible thought in your mind. You believed, clouded by your own insecurities, that maybe he should have taken your place. « I should just stay here with you. »

« Don't say that. » Remus got up, his voice a mixture of mortification and annoyance. As he made his way to his room, you couldn't have known how the thought actually completed his sentence. Don't get my hopes up.

You slumped back from the armrest and lowered your head so that you couldn't notice Deceit finally standing in front of you and offering you a hand to get back on your feet.

You looked up.

« I know everyone tells you to be wary of me, but can you trust me this once at least? »

You took his hand.

In a matter of seconds, both of you were sitting on the couch, trying to sort out the thoughts that were piling up in your head.

« I don't think I belong with them. » Deceit had asked you to give voice to your troubles. « I've been the least useful and now Thomas is barely creating content or having ideas. I should be the confident one, I should be comforting him while all I do is ditch everything that comes to my mind. »

« And how does that make you feel? »

« Worthless. » you immediately blurted out. « Futile. Stupid. A waste of space. » the words kept coming in an overflowing self-deprecating chaos. « And the others see it, too. »

Deceit gave you a questioning look and you immediately felt like you said something wrong. « You haven't confronted them about this? »

« It's unimportant. It's simply a fact. They're all too stressed over the issue Thomas is having. »

« They're? You're not including yourself, why? »

« How can I be stressed over something when I'm doing nothing for it? »

The look came again, but this time you felt like he was trying to scan your soul by solely staring in your eyes. You didn't know how much time had passed before he spoke again, but you could have sworn that, for a moment, nothing else around you existed.

« Roman, have you ever thought that you feeling this way might be the cause of Thomas not being productive? »

This time, the confused expression landed on your face. How could that be? No, definitely not. That was not the case. He probably meant that they should get rid of him since he was causing so much trouble, he-

« You've already seen how our behaviour can affect him drastically. If you feel like that, you might be preventing yourself from using your powers fully, thinking it's useless to even try, and thus you're limiting yourself. »

« ... And in doing so I'm limiting Thomas. »

Deceit nodded with the same energy of a person that finally got their point across, the relief and satisfaction of someone that was able to make their interlocutor understand an important topic after hundreds of tries at explaining.

« You are a terrible liar, and I can't believe they haven't realized this yet, but I can't also change the fact that you're an astounding actor. » he sighed, but that line left a sad smile on your lips.

« I'm a man of multiple talents. »

« Also, you don't have to belong anywhere, Roman. Having you here, on a rough time for Thomas, though, I don't believe it would be ideal. » his gaze had fallen to the floor before his voice turned lower. « We're all trying to look out for him, you know. »

That was when your look turned softer and you understood. You started wondering things that weren't meant to be brought up just yet, but that might have been troubling him for a while.

As you were looking for the right thing to say, Deceit gestured for you to follow him to the door he then opened as soon as he was close enough. Out of it, the corridor to the others' and your own rooms.

« Go and tell them. You might spare us some more agonizing days before they figure it out on their own. »

One step out of the room, and you didn't even get the chance to thank him. The door closed behind yourself so quickly you almost believed you had dreamt the entire conversation.

With no time to process it all at once, another figure poke out of a door and pulled you into yet another dialogue.

« Ro? » Virgil rubbed at his eyes sleepily. « What are you doing over there? » there was no accusing undertone, just genuine curiosity. Then again, it might have been the sleepiness, you told yourself.

You approached him. « Just venting. »

« To Deceit? » still no complaining.

« He seemed to be the only one available. »

Virgil nodded, then you could have sworn you had seen a faint nostalgic smile curve his lips. « Good choice. »

« Huh- »

« Why didn't you come to me, again? »

« You were sleeping. »

His mouth, this time, twisted into something more somber. « Roman,» he called, lifting up his gaze. « When I said you could come to me when you needed it, I meant I could make an exception on executing you if you were to wake me up. »

And you didn't know if it was for Deceit's comfort earlier, for Virgil's softer voice or for the general hopefulness you finally regained after seeing a flicker of light coming from the end of the tunnel of your insecurities, but you found yourself with your arms wrapped around his chest.

« Oof- alright. » he patted your shoulders a couple of times. « Come on, big guy, let's get the others. I woke up from a three-hour nap and apparently all my problems haven't been solved by some kind of deity yet, so I think we deserve a fucking break. »

You allowed yourself to smile and, this time, you meant it.

« We truly do. »

[acelikesturtles]

“Crushed”

Prompt: #2 (Childhood Best Friends AU)

Warnings: Mention/Experience of Childhood Bullying, Angsty

Word Count: 2,201

A/N: This is from this ask game that I posted a while back and just now was able to fully get around to. This is a little more angsty than it is fluffy at first, but the end result is kinda cuddly and fluffy if you ask me lol. I obviously took quite a few creative liberties with the interpretation (because this is an AU prompt) and the set up was rather heavily inspired from the vibe/aesthetics from the now abandoned fanfiction I wrote back in 2013/14. It was nice to be able to get back into that headset again, I miss that fanfiction a lot actually. That may be why it took me so long to get this finished? Reminded me a lot of what once was and it was healthy to be able to reflect on some of those old creative notions and get some of that out.

The moment Mikey stepped onto his balcony and into the crisp, early summer air, a gust of cool wind hit his lightly freckled cheeks and carried the smell of freshly roasted marshmallows, smoke, and melting chocolate through the breeze. As of only a few hours ago it was officially summer vacation. For Mikey, seeing his three best friends gathered around a small propane fire pit pelting marshmallows at each other gave him a sense of zen that his mother would not be able to sympathize with given the mess and the ruckus unfolding on their balcony that the landlord would surely complain about the next morning.

“Ow! Raph that could’ve cracked my lenses!”

Donnie frowned and removed his glasses to wipe the powder and mess from the right lens with the sleeve of his dark grey hoodie. In an act of childish revenge and in solidarity for the quietest of the group, Leo grabbed a handful of marshmallows out of the bag in front of them and threw them at Raph, only for the quarterback to catch a few sugary bullets in his mouth instead of allowing them all to go to waste on the concrete beneath them.

“Nice try, fearless.” Raph laughed through a half-chewed mouthful of marshmallows.

Mikey sat down on the remaining patio chair, the squeaky green one that he usually reserved for Leo just to annoy him, and began snapping graham crackers over his paper plate while Leo handed squares of chocolate out.

"How was your last day, Raph?" Leo asked, dropping the chocolate square onto Raph’s paper plate. Raph was too busy trying to finish the unintentional 'Chubby Bunny Challenge' he had started. With one clearly painful swallow which almost provoked the turtle to tears followed by a couple hard fist pounds on his plastron, he cleared his throat before giving an unceremonious shrug of his shoulders.

"It was alright. Mrs. Barkley wanted us to write a letter to our future selves er somethin' stupid like that. Kinda lame if you ask me."

"Hey, I thought that was fun, dude, don't ruin the vibes!" Mikey pouted. Even though Raph and Mikey happened to share the same teacher, that didn’t mean that their experience in her class was at all similar to one another. This was in part because Mikey was often pulled for extra assistance and missed some of the in-class instruction. This didn’t annoy him most of the time since he was typically pulled during math class and numbers never failed to make him exceptionally sleepy. "Did you even write anything?" He asked, swatting at a mosquito that had landed on his thigh.

"Yeah sure," Raph waved his hand at him nonchalantly, then leaned back in his patio chair so far that he almost tipped himself over. "Nothin special, just words, you know."

Leo clucked his tongue and shook his head. He was smirking. Leonardo carefully skewered a marshmallow and held it over the gas flame before looking back up at Raph. He had leaned forward in his chair again and was digging in the marshmallow bag for the biggest, puffiest marshmallow that he could find. "Yeah, and what are you gonna do when your mom wants to see it?" Leo asked in a challenging tone.

"Who said she's gonna?" Raph countered back as he stabbed his marshmallow rather aggressively onto his skewer.

While Raph and Leo continued yet again to engage in a pointless discussion about the value of doing busy work, respecting elders and all the other boring stuff that Leo learned from his dad’s dojo, Donnie and Mikey were left to fend for themselves with their friends' arguing voices serving as a backdrop like it usually did. Mikey looked up at Don’s particularly well adapted technique for marshmallow roasting and did his best to try to subtly imitate it. By slowly rotating the skewer in his hands, Donnie would undoubtedly get an even roast on his marshmallow and the perfect, ASMR-inducing crunch when he placed his graham cracker on top. Don had been noticeably quiet for the most part, focused on cleaning his glasses after Raph’s earlier ambush. At first Mikey didn’t think much of his quiet demeanor since, at times, this was normal for him; sitting back and listening to everyone else was more mutually beneficial than blabbing on and on about what he did in his gifted extension classes, especially since the only details and stories that Mikey and Raph found interesting included local “hottie-of-a-teacher” Ms. Carlton.

What made this period of quiet different was how glazed over Donnie’s eyes seemed coupled with an unusually tired expression for a day that was supposed to be nothing but fun with friends. There was some sort of tension bearing weight on Don’s shoulders that Mikey wanted to relieve, even if it meant just being a comfort.

“Hey Don, how was your day?” Mikey asked, breaking the turtle from his trance. Donnie blinked a couple of times before pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up a little on the bridge of his nose with his index finger. He made a face, one that expressed some combination of anxiety and unspoken discomfort over being confronted, then tried to shrug it off.

“It was alright. We didn’t do anything like what you or Raph did.” He said. A light smile tugged at the corners of his lips but it still seemed more tired than it did genuine.

"Course not," Raph chimed in. He had broken away from one pointless discussion for long enough to insert himself into another to escape from Major Lieutenant Leo’s endless lectures. "You probably made like, a rocket ship or somethin'. The USS Nerd-Brain, right?” He joked and nudged him with an elbow playfully.

“No, that was last month's project. Today was just final project presentations, everybody had to do one.”

“That’s what you made the solar energy converter thingy for.” Leo acknowledged.

Donnie resisted the urge to correct his terminology and nodded. “Yep, I got the best grade.”

“Then why do you look so uncomfortable talking about it?” Mikey asked. It was the obvious question that had likely been on Raph and Leo’s minds too now that he had drawn attention to it, but Mikey was apparently the only one with the balls to bring it up so nonchalantly as if it wasn’t going to trigger Donnie to metaphorically slink back into his shell and never come back out again.

A silence fell over the group only punctuated by honking horns and distant ambulance sirens. All eyes had turned towards Donnie who was now fully thrust under the spotlight. He swallowed. After about ten seconds with no response from him other than the appearance of the slightest red tint on his cheeks, he cleared his throat and removed his marshmallow from the flame and set it onto his graham cracker.

“It was Grant. You probably don’t know him, he-” He froze in the middle of a thought and sighed through his nose in defeat. “We...got into an argument.”

“Why?” Raph asked, scrunching his nose up in disgust. “Do I gotta hit this kid?”

Don snorted. “No, I handled it myself. Sort of...ish.”

“Sort of? Donnie, what exactly happened?” Leo frowned.

At first he wanted to dodge the question but he knew that the more he put off answering, the more poking and prodding at the subject matter would result. He closed his eyes, scrunching them up really tight while gripping and lightly massaging his nose right beneath the bridge for his glasses. With his other hand, Donnie grabbed his now completed s'more and took a single bite, feeling that sweet, sugary relief wash over him that had notably been absent before.

"I was presenting my project and there was this girl—is this girl, Lucy," He corrected himself. "You probably also don't know her but, she's kinda pretty and—"

“Woah woah, how pretty we talking?” Mikey butted in. His investment in this story had suddenly peaked. “On a scale of “cute” to “total babe”, how would you rank her?”

“Brunette?” Raph guessed. “Not a brunette, okay. Redhead? Blonde?”

“Totally a blonde.” Mikey snorted and gestured towards Donnie’s face, which despite his best efforts was still managing to grow redder by the second from embarrassment. “Am I right or am I right? She’s a blonde, isn’t she?”

Donnie brought himself back into the focus of his own conversation rather than answering what felt like a silly question given his circumstances. "Listen, I'm not her type."

"Says who?" Asked Raph.

"Says Grant, who told me I'm on his turf." Donnie grumbled under his breath.

"What, he knows what she's thinking?" Raph snorted.

“No, but-”

“Then go for it!” Mikey cheered.

“You don’t-”

“Grant isn’t the boss of you Donnie, you should talk to her.” Leo joined in.

There was a faint ringing in Donnie’s head that grew louder and louder the more he listened to their voices merge into one, all chanting for him to do what he felt like he just couldn’t, drowning out his words amidst a sea of voices that were louder and prouder than his was. It was only a matter of time before the feeling of being ignored became too much, and he had had enough. “Don’t you understand?” Donnie snapped. “Grant doesn’t want me on his “turf” because I’m a mutant!” He took a deep breath in, then slowly released it through his nose, to try and calm down. “She probably thinks I’m a freak.”

Everyone paused and yet again another quiet came over them. Mikey’s eyes drifted down towards the concrete beneath their feet, mind busy with thoughts that he had always kept in the back of his mind that were now plaguing him again. He never liked to think about the fact that their status as mutants hindered their ability to find friends or someday fall in love, but Donnie was saying it too. If the smartest one in their little posse was falling prey to the same cycle of thoughts that he often had before falling asleep at night, what did that mean about the validity of those thoughts?

“Do you know that for sure?” Leo asked, breaking the silence with a calm and collected tone that was so characteristic for his zen demeanor.

Don shook his head. “But Grant does. So do his friends, I mean look at me--look at us.”

“So, we’re mutants,” Leo sighed and pulled his marshmallow from the gas flame. It was perfectly toasted to an even golden brown on all sides and oozed out the sides of his s’more when he put another graham cracker on top. “I don’t believe we’re freaks though.”

Raph gave Leo a look, then laughed. “How do you figure?”

“Well, my dad always says that we can create our own truth,” Leo explained, earning an eye roll from Raphael who again seemed caught in a never ending cycle of lectures that Leo picked up from his dad. “So even if Grant thinks that we’re freaks...we have the final say on whether or not we feel that’s true.”

“Yeah, and what if this Lucy chick thinks that he’s a freak too? No offense, Donnie.” Raph said, patting Don on the shoulder in consolation. “You can’t just make that not true, genius.”

“No, that’s not the point,” Leo countered, then turned to Donnie. “What Grant says doesn’t matter because he doesn’t control how we think about ourselves or what you think is true. You do.”

Donnie blinked once. Twice. He looked down at the concrete again and shuffled his feet around beneath him, feeling a little silly that he had wasted his last day of 8th grade feeling gloomy and sad while looking at Lucy with wistful eyes that felt they had no chance on earth of ever meeting hers in a way that wasn’t just as friends. Was what Grant said actually the truth, or was he just allowing it to be the truth like Leo was suggesting? Would it be easier to stay away from Lucy and let Grant take his swing at her then risk a lifetime of heartache if he was rejected by her for being what he was?

Without warning, two arms wrapped around his slumped over shoulders and he looked up from the ground to see that Mikey had gotten up from his squeaky chair and was fully latched onto Donnie’s side.

“Its okay bro, I think you’re pretty awesome.” Mikey mumbled into Donnie’s shoulder.

“Me too, for the record.” Raph joined in, giving Donnie a playfully affectionate punch on the opposite arm.

A sigh escaped through Donnie’s nostrils chased down by a genuine smile. It was a gradual process, but he was beginning to feel a little better. Maybe Lucy did think that he was a freak like Grant had told him, or maybe Grant was just making it all up. His chances weren’t completely gone yet, and he had the whole summer ahead of him to have fun and forget about people like Grant and focus on more important things like science camp, gifted extension applications for the next semester, and then...maybe working up the balls to say something to Lucy.

Yeah, maybe that was what he would do.

[welllpthisishappening]

Pace of Play

She can’t believe she’s never noticed it before. Because, honestly, Emma can’t even come up with a number to try and calculate how often she’s watched Killian step into the batters box. And that’s the thing. He never really steps out, either. It's a weird approach, but that could be the subheadline for their lives at this point and she’s mostly concerned with the power behind that swing. 

—-

Word Count: Like 3.4K Rating: Teen, but with kissing!  AN: This is solely for and because of @distant-rose​ who deserves every bit of baseball fic I have ever written and all the good things in any known universe. And speaking of universes. This is set in that Yankees one where Emma and Killian secretly date because David also plays for the Red Sox. If you’re so inclined to read more:

Batting a Thousand (the original one) || Puppy Love (the one where they get a puppy) || The One Where They Elope || The One Where Killian and David Take the Rivalry Too Far

Let’s go Yankees. 

—

“Is it weird that he does that?”

Emma makes a noise — barely more than a passing acknowledgement, eyes never leaving the field because Killian is up to bat and she’d lost feeling in her left foot at some point. She’s twisted at an awkward angle, legs draped over the suite seats in front of her, but she absolutely, positively cannot move.

On pain of death.

Or baseball superstition.

They’ve got to win this game. They can’t go down by two in the series. Not with the way they’ve been hitting and they need to hit better and Emma genuinely cannot remember the last time she took a deep breath.

She fiddles with the ring on her left hand.

And the ring hanging around her neck. It’s some sort of weird pattern, the weight of Mary Margaret’s gaze boring into the back of her head and David had started pacing at some point in the fourth inning.

“He’s swinging half a second too late,” David announces, which only leads to Emma nearly strangling herself. Mary Margaret has to lean over to untangle her fingers.

“Thank you, player not currently competing in the postseason,” Emma mutters.

“Ah, that’s mean.”

“And,” Mary Margaret adds, “it’s not like David would be hitting in this series anyway. Plus—“

“Mary Margaret, if you tell me that David could really add something to the Yankees starting rotation right now, I may actually scream,” Emma warns. Elsa moves her hand over her mouth.

Her laugh is still very loud.

“Ok, that’s not what I was going to say at all—it’s not, seriously stop glaring at the field, it’s freaking me out.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but she’s definitely glaring at the field and she cannot fathom a world where this game doesn’t end with a win and the season doesn’t end with another title and they got married, in the middle of the season, in secret. There are rules about happily ever after.

And sports emotions.

He’s definitely swinging half a second too late.

“See,” David mutters.

Emma grits her teeth. “I am not in the mood for I told you so, right now.”

“I mean, I didn’t say that.”

“Technically,” Elsa amends. She’s stood up as well, a hand pushing on David’s chest when he threatens to wear out the carpet in the suite. “And is no one going to answer my question? Because I know I know nothing about this painfully long sport—“

“—It is the sixth inning,” Emma interrupts.

“We’ve been here for hours, seriously. How often can you change pitchers?”

“Bring it up to Rob Manfred,” David says. Elsa swats at his shoulder that time. “Three-batter minimum for relievers. No more specialists. Pace of play.”

“Should that mean something to me?”

Emma mumbles a curse under her breath, ignoring the growing ache that’s circling around her knee and, somehow, the side of her hip. Killian rocks back on his heels in the box, hardly unbending his knees, even when he swings the bat in front of him, and Emma is dimly aware that Elsa is still talking. She’s not listening. She’s staring. Watching, really. Intently.

“Em, seriously are you listening to your brother and whatever tongues he’s started speaking in?”

“Nah, not at all.”

Elsa clicks her tongue in reproach. It doesn’t matter — Killian’s already digging his toes into the dirt again, quick taps of the bat on the front and back of the plate and—

“Seriously, why does no one else bat like this?”

Emma may growl. Although she’s not sure if that’s because Killian’s just fouled off a ball in the dirt or because Elsa isn’t making any sense, but it really may just be because of the pins and needles stretching into her calf and she snaps her jaw no less than a dozen times.

They’re pumping the live broadcast into the suite — more words Emma hasn’t really been paying attention to, what with the swirling nerves in the pit of her stomach and her heart’s apparent determination to linger in the very center of her throat.

“You know that’s not true,” Mary Margaret mumbles, finally getting Emma to pull her gaze away from home plate.

“What?”

“You cannot have an even count. That’s not how numbers work.”

Elsa sighs. “If you guys are going to keep not making sense, then I’m going to leave. Also, I totally saw Emma and Killian making out before the start of the game.”

David sounds like he’s dying.

“Oh my God,” Emma sighs. “We are married.”

She enunciates every letter of each word — as if that will make them more official or remind the world that she deserves good things and drama-free wins and, maybe, a few home runs over the short right field porch with impressive exit velocity.

“An even count does not make sense,” Mary Margaret repeats, as if they simply hadn’t heard her before. Maybe Emma can find another suite to watch the rest of the game in.

It probably wouldn’t be that hard.

Everyone at the Stadium knows her now, quick smiles whenever she’s downstairs and the security guy at Gate 4 has started waving at her, a muttered Mrs. Jones that never fails to make her heart clench and do several metaphorical somersaults in quick succession.

Killian hits a fly ball over the third base line.

And Emma slumps further into her seat. Her knee does not appreciate it at all.

“How does an even count not make sense, babe?” David asks, all placating and somehow even more married than Emma keeps reminding him that she also is.

“People say even counts on, you know, 1-1 or 2-2, but that doesn’t make sense. A 2-2 count still has more room for balls than strikes. Ergo—“

“—Oh good word,” Elsa laughs.

Mary Margaret winks. Emma’s never really noticed how high Killian’s elbow gets when he settles into his stance. He doesn’t move the bat that much, but Emma swears she can’t practically taste the energy on her tongue, which is either the most disgusting or most romantic thing she’s ever thought and—

Killian fouls another ball off.

“Battling,” David mumbles. She definitely growls that time. It hurts her throat.

He grins.

And Killian never actually steps out of the box — even when the Houston pitcher moves off the rubber, glancing at the inside of his hat for brand-new signs. David’s mumbling something that sounds like I hate when I have to do that, but Emma’s started to realize what Elsa meant.

She’s right.

Killian Jones does not bat like anyone else on the Yankees roster. Maybe even the entire MLB.

That sounds a little dramatic, though. Emma can’t get that dramatic until they win the pennant.

They’re totally going to win the pennant.

He lines his feet up again, the side of his cleat nearly brushing the back of the box, which only makes it obvious how far apart his legs move, that same distinct bend to his knees and a ridiculously high elbow and he kicks his foot out slightly when he swings.

Emma knows. As soon as the ball cracks off the bat.

She jumps up — somehow, without also managing to dislocate several joints at the same time — the ring around her neck flying up and nearly smacking her in the nose. And Emma isn’t sure what noise she makes per se, but it leaves Elsa giggling and Mary Margaret casting furtive glances at David and neither one of those matter when the ball keeps going.

Going, going, gone.

Directly into right center field.

Emma’s jumping, which probably isn’t great considering she can’t really feel any part of her left leg anymore, but Killian’s jogging around he bases and she can see his mouth move, David’s continued stream of commentary echoing between her ears.

“It’s honestly offensive how easy his swing is,” he grumbles. “Where does he even get that kind of power?”

“The making out,” Elsa responds, like it’s obvious. Emma almost chokes on her tongue.

Killian’s rounding third — a quick glance into the Astros dugout and a smile that might be half the reason Emma keeps toying with the ring on her left hand. Possibly like sixty-seven percent. Batting a thousand, or whatever.

She’s too excited to remember appropriate baseball cliches.

He glances up when he steps on home, and she knows he can’t actually see into the team suite, but it’s still exceptionally nice to think about and her heart does half a dozen front flips at that.

And there’s more game — pitches that Emma is certain raise her blood pressure and swings and misses and it’s still a save situation, so she starts pacing at some point too, but then they’re playing New York, New York and Killian’s answering questions on a post-game report and Emma’s standing in the tunnel downstairs and she absolute, positively runs.

It’s impossibly dramatic.

Especially in Game Four.

She hears Killian’s laugh before she actually looks at his face, arms around her waist and her face buried in the curve of his shoulder. He tightens his hold, only one of her feet staying on the ground.

Emma kisses wherever she can reach, which isn’t really saying much what with the awkward angle of her neck, but Killian doesn’t seem to mind, dragging his own lips over the side of her jaw.

Someone whistles.

It’s definitely Will.

“Should hit more home runs,” Killian mumbles, and it’s testament to postseason adrenaline that he doesn’t drop her when Emma starts to laugh as well.

Will might be gagging now.

Emma hums. “Something you might want to take into consideration.”

“That so?”

“I mean—I could not jump you post if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“No, no, I never once said that. Did you yell very loudly, Swan?”

“I think you’re fishing for compliments.”

“Absolutely.”

She might giggle. It’s absurd. She can’t get over the angle of his elbow when he bats. “God, that’s so stupid.”

“It’s strange, I’m not getting that compliment vibe anymore, love.”

“I yelled very loudly, scandalized my brother and I’ve got a question for you.”

Killian leans back, head nearly colliding with a wall covered in blue and white paint and the team name in enormous letters. As if they aren’t all constantly aware of where they are. History, or something. “About?”

“Well, Elsa actually brought it up, but—“

“—Jones,” a voice calls from the clubhouse, and Killian groans far louder than he should. Emma isn’t sure if that’s because of the voice or the only slightly accidental way she rolls her hips against him.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters.

“You’ve still got media.”

“I’m going to shower first.”

“They’ve got deadlines, babe.”

“I’m going to shower first,” Killian repeats. “Then I will answer questions, get ice, get a car and—“ He trails a finger up the back of her spine, making Emma twist in his hold while her teeth find her lower lip. Her breath hitches. And that smile is as different from the one he flashed in-game as it is possible for one smile to be, not quite triumphant, but maybe a little determined and she assumes she moves first.

If only because he’s still smiling when her mouth crashes into his.

Killian pulls her tighter against his chest, backing up even more so he’s got something to rest his weight on and neither one of them acknowledges the now very-clearly annoyed clubhouse voice. He tilts his head instead, mouth opening against Emma’s and tongue swiping across the lip she’d been toying with.

His hand works its way under her shirt, the same number he’d been wearing and Emma arches into the touch almost immediately. It leave hers hips canted up again, a move that is not even remotely appropriate for the bowels of Yankee Stadium, and she can only imagine that George Steinbrenner is getting dangerously close to rising from his grave and chastising them for conduct detrimental to the team.

Emma’s arms shift, fingers pushing into Killian’s hair and that only gets him to groan again, but then she’s ghosting over the side of a clean-shaven face and he has to shave every morning.

Her heart is in almost perpetuate state of upheaval.

It’s the best goddamn thing in the world.

“I’ve got to go, love,” Killian murmurs, mostly into her mouth. Also nice. Better than nice. She’s going to look up the projected distance of that home run in the Uber home.

“I really yelled ridiculously loud.”

“I’ve got no doubt. I’ll see you at home, ok?”

Emma nods — a few more quick and slightly stolen kisses, which is an almost appropriate baseball joke. Kind of. No one really steals bases anymore.

And she’s got every intention of waiting up. She does. She’s got plans and questions about batting stances, but the corner of the couch is surprisingly comfortable and the sudden lack of postseason adrenaline rushing through her leaves her questionably exhausted with eyes that refuse to watch another loop of SportsCenter.

Emma jolts up when she hears the front door close, a lock clicking behind him and one side of Killian’s mouth tugs up when he walks into the room.

She’s still wearing her shirt.

And not much else.

“That seems like cheating,” he says softly, crouching in front of the couch. She’s thinking about his knees again.

“All hail the conquering hero or whatever.”

“Is this my welcoming committee, then?”

“Something like that,” Emma laughs, pushing up and Killian moves between her legs as soon as her feet find their way back to the floor. “Did you scandalize any journalists?”

“Nah, that’s not really my game.”

“Just hitting home runs.”

“Made the Top Ten.”

“No shit.”

Killian chuckles, nosing at Emma’s cheek. “You’ve got ESPN on, Swan. Did you not see?”

“I mean I saw the real thing, so—“

“—Ah, yeah, that is true. You can’t be very comfortable.”

“It’s going ok.”

“That so?”

She nods again — suddenly finding it difficult to respond when his eyes do that impossibly blue thing, dark with something close to want, and he can’t seem to decide where to look. His gaze snaps from hers down to the ring that’s fallen back over her shirt and the one on her hand and at some point in the last few months, he’s started brushing his thumb underneath it with an almost alarming regularity. Like, for good luck or something.

Baseball players are the weirdest.

“What did you want to ask me before?”

“Hmm?”

“You said you had a question,” Killian says. “What about?”

“Oh, oh, yeah—your elbow.”

He blinks. It’s an oddly satisfying response, and Killian nearly falls over when Emma stands up, gaze shifting again to the distinct lack of pants she’s got on. She can see the tip of his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.

“Like I said, El brought it up—“

“—I’d really you rather didn’t talk about Elsa when there’s so much of your leg on display.”

“Leg, singular?”

“Swan.”

She sticks her tongue out, but that only leads to an even bluer blue and she’s got to stop thinking about the way his knees bend. Maybe she’s the weird one. “Ok, ok, just—why do you bat like you do?”

“Are we on the record?”

“I mean no— because obviously I know how you bat—do not look at me like that.” He smirks, pulling his lips behind his teeth and sitting down. It’s ridiculous, his legs pulled up against his chest and his chin resting on an upturned palm. “I could probably reenact your stance in my sleep.”

“That so?”

“I will kick you.”

“I’ve got to play tomorrow,” Killian counters. “Something about prime agility at the hot corner.”

“You don’t ever come out of the batters box.”

“And?”

“And what? That’s super weird. I mean—other guys call time like twenty-six times and—“

“—No ump is letting anyone call time twenty-six times.”

She rolls her eyes, but Killian appears to have been counting on that and Emma has started bobbing on the balls of her feet. “Take my exaggerated point for what it is. All I’m saying is, you never leave the box. Other guys do. Every single pitch. They take practice swings or they refit their gloves and—“

“—I don’t always wear gloves.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous.”

“Where did my elbow fit into this, exactly?”

“It’s so high up when you bat,” Emma exclaims. The projected distance of that home run was four-hundred and twenty-six feet. Eventually she will blame this tirade on that.

Killian nods, tapping his fingers on the side of Emma’s ankle until she stills. “Yeah, that’s a whole thing. It’s, uh—well, the elbow is high, so I’ve got more momentum when I swing. Physics and all that. Helps with your hips too. And the wide stance.”

“So you can stay behind the ball.”

“And you acted like you didn’t know why I did it.”

“Nah,” Emma objects, “I get why you’re doing it. I just—well, El was talking about you staying in the box and—“

“—Mind games.”

“Wait, what?”

“Mind games,” Killian repeats with a shrug. “You’re right. Almost every other batter moves around between pitches, but when I first started playing there wasn’t a ton of time to do that. I—well, Liam used to toss me batting practice and it was always kind of in between everything else we were doing and so I never thought about stepping out of the box because I was cutting into my own practice time.”

Emma presses her lips together, something different than the usual gymnastics taking place in her stomach. It’s a little softer, quieter and even more comfortable. Like their couch. But in a way that sounds nicer than that.

“And now,” Killian continues, “it drives opposing pitchers insane. Your brother, especially. He hates when I don’t step out. Because then he’s got to get back into his windup quicker.”

“You’re toying with them.”

“A little. Pace of play, you know.”

Emma laughs, absent-mindedly moving her hands like she’s swinging an invisible bat over her head. It’s admittedly a little weird as far as flirting goes, but she figures the playoffs afford for these kind of moments. And Killian doesn’t move quickly when he stands, Emma’s eyes lingering on his mouth longer than they probably should, just steps into her space and twists her against his chest and—

“Lift your elbow up a bit, love.”

“This is a cliche.”

“We’re not actually on a field, I think that sets us apart.”

She scoffs, twisting her hips. That time is on purpose. Killian groans, head dropping to her shoulder so he can nip at the bit of skin there. “You were the one who said you could reenact my stance in your sleep,” he points out.

“Well, it’s distinct.”

Killian hums, and there’s this absolutely delightful thrum in Emma’s veins — wide awake and ready to flirt. She kicks her feet out, one then the other, like she’s tapping her toes with the bat. She pushes down the visor of an invisible helmet, squaring up to a home plate that isn’t there, rocks her weight from side to side.

“I can’t believe you remembered the visor thing,” Killian mutters. “You know, Swan, I think you might be stalking me.”

“Don’t act like you’re not into it.”

“Your elbow is still too low.”

“Does this not hurt your shoulder?”

“You get used to it.” Emma grumbles, but lifts her elbow up anyway, an angle her normal, human body is not used to bending at. “Now,” Killian mutters, dropping his mouth just behind her ear, “kick your front leg out, snap your hips forward and—“

Emma swings.

Which is only a little absurd, considering they’re standing in their living room and she’s definitely heard this start to SportsCenter three times already, but they won and that’s got to count for something.

Several things.

Everything.

“Straight shot into the bleachers,” Killian says.

“Right or left?”

“Batters choice.”

“I always think it’s more impressive when you can pull one.”

He spins her — that same look from before growing more pronounced and still just as attractive as ever. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Agreed,” Killian nods, and Emma isn’t really sure how they ever get into their bedroom, but there’s probably a postseason excuses and home runs and her shirt spends most of the night in the hallway.

Emma picks it up the next morning, coffee already brewing and the SportsCenter theme obvious and she lets her legs drape over Killian’s when they both watch the number one play.

[sweetbitterpdf]

Hello!! Can you write a protective Eliot and sad or sick lucas? Please!! Sory for my english, i love you and your writing!!

hello (first) anon!! please don’t feel like you have to apologize for your english, you conveyed your request loud and clear!! i’ve been doing some thinking about both of these prompts, and my ideas for them are quite similar— so i’d like to combine them in one prompt fill, if that’s alright!

thank you both for sending these in!! 💖

protective Eliott / sad Lucas & angst/fluff prompt list 19. “Just breathe, okay?” and  22. “Don’t be scared, I’m right here.” 

content warning for panic attacks

a quick note: in this prompt-fill i’m not trying to depict an all-encompassing experience of panic attacks, nor an all-encompassing solution to deal with them. this is largely based on my own experiences with them, and i’m by no means a professional when it comes to panic disorders. if you don’t feel comfortable reading about panic attacks, i understand completely! take care of yourself first.

—

Lucas is still a bit hesitant about asking to come over to his place. He loves to tease him— affectionately, of course— for being so polite about it. He loves to send him a reassuring message, loves to press a kiss into his hair and tell him that he doesn’t have to ask, that my home is your home, too.

So when he gets a text from Lucas reading ‘are you home right now’, he’s immediately concerned. He sends a quick ‘yeah, why?’ 

When Lucas responds ‘i need to see you i’m coming over now’, he knows with a drop in the pit of his stomach that something is wrong.

‘of course,’ he replies, ‘i’ll unlock the door, just come right in when you get here’. Minutes later he hears the door open, and he smiles out of instinct. But his face falls when he sees the anxiety, the fear in Lucas’ entire body.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and Lucas stares at him. His breathing is heavy— did he run here?— but then it gets heavier, and heavier, and oh.

Eliott knows what’s going on here. He’s never been the helper for a panic attack— only ever the helped— but he knows what’s going on here.

He’s on his feet in a second.

“Lucas, hey,” He says as he stands in front of Lucas. He takes Lucas’ head in his hands as gently as he can, leaving plenty of room for Lucas to pull away if he sees fit. “Look at me.” He rubs his thumb lightly along the skin of Lucas’ cheek. “You’re having a panic attack.” He says as evenly as possible, even though his heart breaks when he sees the frantic tears that have started to roll down his boyfriend’s cheeks. “You’re safe, I promise. I won’t let anything hurt you.” Lucas closes his eyes for a moment, then reaches his hand up to cover his own. Eliott thinks for a moment that he’s going to pull his hand off, but Lucas just leaves it there. They stand like that for a few minutes, and then Lucas’ eyes are open again. His breathing has started to even out— still shallow, still gasping, but not quite as much as before.

“Here, let’s breathe together. As deep as you can. In,” Eliott is breathing a bit exaggeratedly, but he reasons with himself that it’s for Lucas, he reasons with himself that he would do anything. “And out. Good, keep going. In… And out.” Lucas nods at him, and he warms when he realizes that Lucas is responding to him now. 

It takes another short while for Lucas’ breathing to even out to a near-regular pace, and Eliott presses their foreheads together, and he melts at the small smile on Lucas’ face when he pulls back.

“You okay now?” He asks, and Lucas nods.

“I think so. I’m sorry.” Lucas says quietly. Eliott kisses him before he can say anything more.

“Hey,” He coos, cradling Lucas’ face as he pulls back. “There’s nothing to apologize for. You help me through when things get bad, right?” He’s ready to list off every single time that Lucas has helped him. You saved me, he wants to say. You’ve saved me more than once. “I want to do the same for you, too. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I do, but… Not now. I’m tired, can we sleep?”

“Of course.” He takes Lucas’ hand in his, leading him to his bed. They settle down quickly, and Lucas is snoring softly in no time.

And if Eliott lays awake while Lucas sleeps soundly, ensuring that nothing else happens to him— Lucas doesn’t have to know.

“It was about my dad.” Lucas says softly, his eyes blinking open. Eliott wasn’t even sure he was awake. 

“Hm?”

“Me freaking out.” Lucas turns to look at him, his eyes serious but soft. “It was because of my dad.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” He takes Lucas’ hand, presses a kiss to his forehead.

“No, I do.” Lucas’ response is almost immediate, and he presses a kiss of his own against Eliott’s temple. “If it’s you, then I want to.”

“Okay.” He tries to ignore the way his heart pounds against his ribcage— if it’s you, then I want to— “Don’t feel like you have to tell me everything all at once, though.”

Lucas’ eyebrows furrow. 

“He just… He always knows how to get in my head.” He can hear the frustration, wants to wrap Lucas in his arms and never let anything affect him like this ever again. “No matter what I say, no matter what I do. Even if I ignore him, he still knows how to hit me where it hurts.”

“Hit you?”

“No, not like that!” Lucas bolts upright, holding Eliott’s face in his hands. “I mean, metaphorically. He’s never hit me. Or my mom— that wasn’t good wording, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” He says, trying to hide the fact that he was planning a murder in his head for a brief moment.

“You know how he pays my rent for me, right?” Eliott nods. “Well, he’s made it this sort of… deal, now. I have to see him once every two weeks. He has this new girlfriend, and I— it seems to be more to please her, than to actually salvage the relationship we never really had.” Eliott sits up, too. He rubs Lucas’ back reassuringly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about them sooner—”

“Hey, nothing to apologize for, remember?” Lucas smiles again as they hug. “You tell me stuff like this when— if— you’re ready. Don’t feel obligated.”

“Right.” They pull apart after a long moment, and then Lucas continues. “Well they’ve always been… mostly tolerable. A couple of hours, twice a week. Painful, but doable. But I saw him today, and it was just the two of us. I tried to keep things surface-level, to restrict myself to small talk but he caught me. Told me off for not actually telling him things. I said there wasn’t anything new to tell. He said that was bullshit. He asked about you, and said—” He immediately goes on high alert— if he wasn’t on high alert before. “And he said that he was surprised we were still together.” 

“Fuck him.” He doesn’t get to say that, he shouldn’t get to say anything, he doesn’t deserve to spend time in your presence.

“I know, I know. He said that ‘we Lallemant men never stay tied down for long,’ I asked him what that meant. And he said—” Lucas stops and takes a deep breath. Eliott can hear the way his voice starts to quiver. He knows that it often precedes tears. “That we fall out of love easier than we fall in it. Brought up my mom. Brought up the fact that it wasn’t his fault, since she was crazy.” It brings Eliott back to the first and only moment Lucas ever broke his heart— I don’t need crazy people in my life— when he was hiding and hurting. They’ve come so far since then, and this conversation is proof. He realizes that just because Lucas has grown out of reacting in such a way doesn’t mean that everyone has. “And then I said that I was nothing like him, that I wouldn’t let myself become anything like him. He said that…” Eliott cups Lucas’ cheek with one hand, swipes at the first tear that falls with his thumb. “He said I already am.” Lucas looks so scared, he’s never seen him look this afraid before, of anything. “I’m not, am I?”

“No. Lucas, no.” He holds Lucas’ face in both of his hands, makes sure that he’s paying attention. “You’re not, you never will be.” He presses feather-light kisses all over Lucas’ face to send his points home. “You’re the nicest person I know. The way you care about others, and the way you make it seem so easy, it’s one of my favourite things about you.” And it is. If he had to list every single thing he loved about Lucas, they would be here until the sun sets, then rises, then sets again. “You fall in love with everything, with music, with science, with sports, though I will never see why.” Lucas laughs, just a little, more a breath than anything else. “You love me, and you don’t have any plans on stopping soon, do you?” They’ve had conversations like this a couple of times already, when one of them feels insecure. You love me, and I love you, right? 

He’ll remind Lucas for the rest of time if he has to.

“No.”

“Good, because I don’t, either.” And he means it, god does he mean it. “You’re nothing like him, I promise you, okay?”

“Okay. I believe you.”

“And hey, next time? In two weeks when you have to go see your father again, could I— if it doesn’t make you feel weird— could I come with you?” Lucas looks at him in shock, and Eliott gets nervous. Was that a stupid question? He knows that Lucas can handle himself, that he shouldn’t assume he needs his help and he’s ready to take his question back and—

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, please.” Lucas’ expression has changed completely— the adoration is so plain on his face that Eliott blushes under his gaze. “It would be weird, he always makes things weird. But things are easier with you.” And then they’re kissing, short and sweet and perfect. “You make me feel strong.”

It’s moments like these when love hits Eliott like a freight train. When he realizes that he gets to be vulnerable, gets to be completely and utterly himself around the boy that he loves, and that he gets to see Lucas do the same. He throws himself on top of Lucas tackling him down to the bed once more, pressing kisses all over his face.

“You make me feel strong, too.” He says, soft against Lucas’ neck.

—

The next two weeks pass without much notice. Eliott’s never met Lucas’ father— not properly— and he tries to quell his nerves, laces their fingers tightly together to stop his hands from shaking.

He looks at Lucas, sees the way his whole body tenses as he looks at the restaurant where they’re to meet him. He smiles down at him, squeezes his hand just a little tighter.

“Don’t be scared, I’m right here.” When Lucas takes a deep, steadying breath, he takes one too. He presses a kiss into his hair as they enter.

[twistedrunes]

Fire In The Belly

Prompt:  (anon) May I request something with Thomas Shelby's gf coming late and tipsy without telling him just bc she wants him to feel what she feels most of the time, angst ?

A/N: I found myself feeling soft for Tommy writing this one (I know! A miracle!) so I give you angst with some fluff. I hope you enjoy it and would love to hear what you think. (1400 words)

Warnings: Language, allusions to violence, angry words and drinking. 

pic @aranoburns - here

The house is dark and still, slipping your shoes off at the front door you tiptoe up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky third and fifth treads. There’s no light from any of the upstairs rooms. You wonder if Tommy’s out and this whole evening has been in vain. What’s the point of staying out half the night to show Tommy what it’s like to sit at home waiting, not knowing what’s going on, when he hadn’t even been home to notice. You pause outside the door listening. Your heart sinks, he’s not home.

Maybe Lizzie was right. You wince as the memory of her words sting hot on your cheeks, words that had driven you from the office and out on the town with Ada and Jessie. Determined to give Tommy a taste of his own medicine you’d stayed out drinking and laughing until the early morning. Fighting through the fondness in your heart and the warmth between your legs that alcohol always brought to you when you thought of him. You wanted to make a point and were willing to make yourself uncomfortable to do so.

At the top of the stairs, another thought hits you, what if Tommy is out looking for you? Your heart soars at the thought before rapidly falling through the pit of your stomach. Tommy stands in the window, back to you shadow spanning the room, nearly reaching the door. You freeze. There’s a light tinkle of metal on metal, and the click of his pocket watch opening, Tommy’s head drops to look at the face. Without turning his body, he looks at you over his shoulder. You can’t see his face in the darkness until he drags on his cigarette, the red hue highlighting the angles of his face. Tommy turns back to the window without a word.

The silence stretches out between you, Tommy remains at the window, back to you, his only movement bringing the cigarette to his lips. You remain in the open doorway watching him, the fire in your belly from earlier in the evening returns.

“Say something!” Your outburst explodes into the space between you.

Tommy remains impassive, smoke rising from his cigarette in a thin stream towards the ceiling.

“Really? Tommy? You have nothing to say?”

Tommy’s body turns towards you slightly as he grinds his cigarette out in the ashtray. “What do you want me to say?” He asks calmly.

“It’s not about what I want you to say; it’s about what you want to say.” You yell.

“There’s nothing to say,” Tommy says, turning to face you and leaning back against the window sill.

“Nothing?!” You cry throwing your shoes at him. He slides to the left a little, and they miss. “Really?” Your voice rises. “After three years you have nothing to say? After years of me waiting, sitting by the phone, watching out the window, listening to the hours tick by, waiting for you to come home. Saying nothing about the blood, the bruises, the hour or your suspiciously crumpled clothes. I go out one night, one night I get drunk and have a good time with my friends, and you fucking want to end it?” You’re screaming now, crossing the room towards him angrily. “Fuck you, Tommy. Fuck off to your rescued whore and fucking stay there.”

You’re face to face with him now, his face shows no anger in return, it’s infuriating, and you have to stop yourself from slapping him. “Did you even notice I wasn’t home? Did you even care? Did you wonder where I was? Did you even consider what might have happened to me? Did you worry at all?” Your voice is wavering, you close your eyes to focus on the anger and bring it back to the surface. “All the shit I’ve put up with Tommy, and you want to end it like this? Fuck you!” You spin on your heel intending to storm off.

Tommy catches your arm, preventing your dramatic exit, turning you back to face him, before taking your shoulders in his hands. “I’m not going to fight with you sweetheart,” he says kissing your forehead gently. You bristle and struggle against him. He holds you in place and pulls you closer. “’Look at you, ‘ey all ready for a fight, you must have a belly full of rum.” His voice is warm and gently teasing.

“Don’t patronise me,” You growl, pushing your hands firmly against this chest and stepping back. “Don’t fucking, patronise me.” You repeat glaring up at him.

Tommy laughs quietly, as his hands slide down your arms and take yours “You were definitely out with Jessie and Ada weren’t you?”

“How do you know I wasn’t out with some man?” You shoot back, trying to get him to respond.

“And listening to Lizzie’s shitty gossip and lies,” he continues, eyebrow rising questioningly “yeah?” You look away. “Right, let’s sort this out then shall we?” He says leading you to the bed and sitting down. He tugs your hand gently encouraging you to do the same.

You drop down on the bed, eyes rolling and expression bored. “Fine.”

“Right, so do you want to start this again?” He asks.

“Just say what you have to say and let me get out of here.” You say defiantly, hoping you sound tougher than you feel.

“There’s nothing to say because there’s nothing to say. Of course, I would have worried if I’d come home and you weren’t here.” Tommy says, brushing his thumb over your cheek. Before you can respond, he carries on. “I wasn’t worried, because when I got to the office, late,” he concedes, stroking the backs of his knuckles over your hair. Your head drops slightly, and he opens his palm cupping your cheek. “Polly told me what Lizzie said, told me that you had left with Ada. So I knew where you were, and who you were with and I knew you were safe.” He shuffles closer and tips your chin, his nose brushing against yours before he presses his lips to yours. “So I knew.”

You shrink down into yourself, embarrassed. Tommy’s calmness quenching the fire in your belly. “I just wanted you to know what it feels like.” You admit meekly. “You don’t understand what it’s like, sitting at home, waiting.”

“Come ‘ere,” Tommy says, pulling you into his lap as he shuffles back against the headboard. He holds you against him, smoothing your hair and caressing your hip. “I do know. I worry about you, all of you, all the time. I know you worry, I know you get scared. Do you think I like being late home? Coming home to you is one of my favourite parts of my day.” He says pressing his forehead to yours, meeting your eye. “Everything I do is so I can come home to you.” He says, kissing you again. You nod, head bowed and tucked under his chin. Tommy’s arms wrap around your waist. “What are you doing listening to fuckin’ Lizzie for ‘ey?”

You shrug, “She’s always trying to keep me in the dark about where you are, and she’s so fucking smug that she knows things I don’t.”

Tommy sighs “You just have to ignore her, be the bigger person.”

“She makes that very difficult,” You sigh.

You can feel Tommy’s smile against your cheek.  “I’ll talk to her.”

“Everyone knows she wants you.” You mumble churlishly.

“I don’t want her. You’re all I want. You’re everything I need.” Tommy says taking your chin in his hand. He kisses you, hard and insistently, eye’s holding yours. The last of your anger and frustration melts away, and Tommy slides you off his lap, laying you back on the mattress and positioning himself above you. He kisses your forehead, following it quickly with a kiss to your nose and then cheeks and then everywhere else until you giggle. “There she is, my beautiful girl,” Tommy says happily.

You take his face in your hands and pull his mouth to yours kissing him hard. You’re both breathless when you break apart. The soft smile passing between you a sign everything is okay between you again. “What’s your favourite part of the day?” you ask, stroking your fingers over his cheek.

“I told you,” Tommy says kissing your palm.

“No, you said coming home was one of your favourite parts of the day. So what’s your favourite?”

“This one.”

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