#If it helps

[pengychan]

Mephistopheles: "of course I love all my kids. Antilia, Burning Soul, and *looks at smudged writing on hand* Haarlep"

[thebibliosphere]

Organizing some "missing moment" files so I can yeet them off my hard drive to my editors.

And oh. I forgot I wrote this:

He didn’t think Nathan would. Not without asking first. Not if Vlad said no. The thought still made something cold and queasy curdle in his stomach. Funny, said a small, derisive part of his brain that was still functioning through the haze of lust. You used to do things you didn’t want all the time if it meant someone would pay attention to you… Vlad swallowed. That was before. Before what? He peered up at Nathan, who was still inspecting the bottle, his curly brown hair falling into his eyes. Eyes that were turning blue again. Soft and kind. Vlad’s heart gave a peculiar thud. Before I knew it could be different…

[hisui-dreamer]

gone to madness

Pairing: Floyd Leech x gn!reader

Synopsis: if doing the same thing over and over was madness, then you supposed you weren't far off from insanity

Tags: friends to lovers, pining, angst with happy ending, kinda toxic relationships

Word count: 1.1k+

Notes: this was based off of my first love hehe highly recommend listening to cardigan and betty while reading this!!

Masterlist

How many times would you be willing to do the same thing, over and over, knowing it would all inevitably lead to despair?

They say madness is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results, but maybe your love for him had already driven you to the brink of insanity long ago.

Your love had sprouted early on, so much so you're not sure when exactly it happened. You just know that one day, when he came over to hang out with you just as he'd always done in the past, the butterflies fluttered in your stomach, and your heart thumped so loudly you almost thought the humans had thrown an anchor into the sea bed.

It was rather foolish of you to believe Floyd felt the same. Of course, he said he felt the same, but you're not sure how much you can rely on his statements.

Time and time again, you tried to become more than friends with him, to become the lovers in the fairytales. After all, the way you felt for him was so incredibly intense, it was the same way the mermaid princess felt when she decided to leave her home for love. You wanted to share that love with him, and for a while, he did too.

But you shouldn't have expected that much of him. Everyone in the deep sea knows how spontaneous Floyd can be—constantly tired of old hobbies, and seeking out new interests. It was surprising how long you remained in his life, but you assumed it was only because you provided him enough entertainment, but not too much attachment to be infringing.

It wasn't long before you realised a romantic relationship breached that line.

And so, the relationship quickly fell apart. The weight of heartbreak was almost unbearable, an unsettling pain in your heart that would not go away no matter how hard you tried, it was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. You can’t deny the pain gets worse every time he’s in your line of sight, yet the sight of Floyd, his face contorted in a pout as he asked, "We're still friends, right, Shrimpy?" made it impossible for you to distance yourself from him.

This happened a few times, sometimes initiated by him, sometimes by you, all started by the hope that it would work this time. but despite the heartbreak that would always come when he got tired of the relationship, you always managed to rebuild your friendship, and your connection remained steadfast.

Then came the day Floyd left for school, along with his brother and the octomer they always hang around with. You considered all of you incredibly lucky: them, lucky for being so talented in magic to enter a prestigious school, and you, finally getting some distance from Floyd. The goodbye was filled with tears and promises to keep in touch, but as the months turned into a year, the void left by his absence was undeniable. You tried to move on, but you couldn't shake the feeling that something significant was missing from your life. It was pitiful really, he was doing so well, probably thriving and making so many new friends, and there you were, still stuck in the past with your pathetic feelings.

And when he came back from school for the holidays, it was as if he had never left at all. His return was like slipping back into old habits. The two of you sat in your room chatting just like you've always done, catching up with lost time.

'I missed ya so much Shrimpy!" he giggles as he squeezes your tail, an old habit of his.

Just like clockwork, you reach over to pat his head. "I missed you too, Floyd," your lips curving into a welcoming smile.

He leans into your touch, locking eyes with a vulnerability in his expression. "Ya know, I was thinking about it a lot, but I wanna try dating again."

Your heart races, surprised that he even thought of you when he was gone, but you've been down this road before. You want nothing more but to snuggle into his arms, leaving pecks all over his face, feeling his tail wrapped securely around yours. But you also remember the sleepless nights and the heartache that followed each previous attempt to be together. You hesitate, torn between your love for him and your fear of getting hurt again.

"Floyd," your voice quivers as you quickly pull away your hand, "You know this never works out. It's... best if we just stay friends."

He bolts upright at your words, clasping both of your hands gently, staring into your eyes with a seriousness you don't recognise.

"Shrimpy... I know I hurt ya, and I can't change what I did wrong. But I've grown, I've learned, and I promise I'll ya you right. You're the only Shrimpy for me."

Your gaze weighs heavy upon him. His sincerity shone through and you want to believe him, yet the raw wounds of the past lingered vividly. "I'm not sure we can stay as friends after this time," you managed, a bitter smile flickering.

Silence enveloped the two of you, laden with unspoken emotions.

"Shrimpy," he said, his voice trembling with emotion, "I... don't really know much, and ya know I always change my mind, but I know I really really missed ya! I promise ya, this time will be different. I'll love ya more than I can express, and I'll do whatever it takes to make it up to ya and treasure ya so so much."

You look into those earnest eyes, the determination evident, and you find yourself hesitating. What if... it could work?

"Floyd," you began, your voice soft, "I want to believe you, more than anything."

He leans closer and rests his forehead against yours. "We'll take it slow, yeah. 'm all in to make things right and make sure ya never doubt my love again"

Tears well up, a mixture of emotions swirling within as you pondered his words. A glint of hope stirs, a faint spark of optimism that just maybe, you could find a way to heal the wounds of the past and start anew.

"Okay, Floyd," you whisper, a delicate smile gracing your lips. "One final chance, you silly eel."

Floyd's face lit up with a mix of elation and relief, lifting you and twirling you around. "Really? I swear, Shrimpy! This is gonna be great. I'll treasure ya, and I'll make things right every single day, forever, for the rest of our lives!"

You can only hope he'll keep his promise. They say there's always some madness in love, and the two of you have always mad. So, maybe, just maybe, you'll be alright.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

[dovewingkinnie]

how long can i get away with making the guy just some guy and the girl a otherworldly being in my stories

[totally-not-peter-parker]

I cannot remember which peter you are. I think we're friends but I have url blindness so it's anyone's guess really

That's fair, honestly

[athenaareia]

chapter 24 is out!!!

will, in a close combat situation: *losing* are these the consequences of my actions? rhea, coming up to him: not today.

[a-witch-in-endor]

Every time I write a ridiculously long post about religion, I wonder how many people who followed me for the non-MO fanfic content are hovering over the “unfollow” button 

[averagejoesolomon]

We made it, friends. Welcome to the final installment of Full Circle: 1986. It has been an absolute delight sharing this one with you. It is a downright gift to finally be able to commit this all to paper, after having been in my head for probably close to a decade now. This will probably be the last Full Circle chapter until ~November/December. I know this is longer than usual, but I've finally finished an original manuscript, and I'm going to take an honest shot at publishing it this fall. I so appreciate your patience while I follow that dream. I'll be back as soon as I can with more of Full Circle. There may be some surprises in the meantime (ahem—Listen Series 10-year anniversary), but as always, I can't wait to share what comes next. Those of you doing some math may have already realized we have a very familiar face coming in 1988 👀🍼 Until then, please enjoy. If you're new here, you can read all of Full Circle on Ao3.

Chapter Fourteen

“You’ve got to be goddamn kidding me.”

Joe Solomon can find a way to hide in just about every environment on earth. Anywhere he goes, he’s the figure at the back of the bar, the shadow at the end of the street, the ghost sitting in a blind spot security swears they don’t have. His face is never caught on camera. His name is never on any lists. If there’s darkness around, you can bet Joe’s managed to sink into it. Maybe it’s his New York roots, or old foster kid habits, or Blackthorne training he can’t quite shake, but one thing’s for sure—if Joe don’t want to be found, there’s not a soul on earth who can find him.

But something about the gray-speckled walls of Langley’s third floor draws him out, as though this place was designed to expose all the secrets it collects, starting with men like him. Of course, the hollering doesn’t help either. “Look at yourself.”

Matt turns just in time to see Joe barrel scowl-first down the hall. “Joe,” Matt says, smile wide and welcoming. “Nice to see you up and walking again.”

“Don’t start,” he barks. “You made me stay home, meanwhile you looked like this?”

Joe’s still got a slight limp to his gait, but that’s not much compared to the laundry list of fresh injuries Matt’s working with. He’s officially lost all leverage in this argument. “To be fair,” he says, trying his luck anyway, “I’ve only looked like this for the last 48 hours.”

Joe closes the distance between them, but his voice still stays at that same outraged level. “What the hell happened to you?”

This particular question can’t be answered in the lobby of Director Smith’s main office, which is almost certainly monitored by folks outside of their extremely limited task force—if not bugged by less friendly players. With one look, Matt’s able to tap into their shared shorthand and convey caution. “Details later.”

Joe catches the hint, even if he doesn’t look happy about it. He scans Matt up and down in that even, no-nonsense sort of way Joe scans everything. His voice drops to Matt’s level when he grumbles, “You just get to have all the fun, I guess.”

“If it helps,” Matt says, “I don’t remember most of it.”

“Jesus,” Joe sympathizes. “Would you at least sit down, already? It hurts just looking at you.”

The two of them usually share the same stick-straight posture, a habit leftover from their Army days that proves impossible to break. Joe’s wearing it now, softened over the years, but still there. The subtle draw of his shoulders. The top-to-bottom stacking of his spine. When Matt tries to mimic it, he comes up against the strain in his ribs and curls right back up. He hasn’t been able to pull himself upright since his third helicopter across the Alps, and Joe’s presence ain’t gonna change that, even if Joe’s always made him feel just a little bit invincible. “If I sit down,” says Matt, “I’m not gonna be able to stand back up.”

Joe’s jaw grinds. “I told you I’d get on a flight—”

Matt says, nice and easy, “And I told you I had it handled.”

“You’re never going solo on one of these things again.”

“I didn’t go solo. I had Rachel, and Rachel had a whole team.”

This ain’t much of a comfort in Joe’s book, and it shows. This is the same look Joe gives him anytime Rachel gets mentioned—and as it so happens, it’s also the same look Rachel gives him anytime Joe gets mentioned. Matt’s got no clue how the two most observant people he knows can be this blind to their own similarities. 

No doubt Joe’s got plenty to say when it comes to Rachel Cameron and her team, but he bites his tongue because good guys don’t bad-talk ladies when they’re not around to defend themselves. Instead, he keeps his frustrations broad. “It never should’ve gotten this close.”

“We’ve made some powerful enemies,” Matt says with a shrug. The movement aches, but no more than sitting, or standing, or breathing already does. “They were bound to get a couple hits on us one of these days.”

Joe gives him another surveying glance. “This is more than a couple.”

“It’s worse than it looks.”

“And they didn’t get hits on us. They got hits on you.”

Of all his hiding spots, Joe’s favorite is his own guilt. He retreats into it every chance he gets. Lingers in its shadow, sometimes for days at a time. Guilt is the thing that keeps Joe up at night and when he does finally fall asleep, guilt is the thing that brings him back to his feet, wandering down empty hotel halls well into the witching hour. Joe keeps a running list of sins in his head at all times, some small part of him always repenting for the orders he’s followed, the lies he’s told, the lives he’s taken, and a moment of weakness one Christmas Eve night when his own secrets finally became too heavy to hold all on his own. 

It’s constant, and Joe’s an old pro at finding new things to take the blame for. He’s doing it right now. Guilt that he wasn’t there to take his own beating. Guilt that Matt was.

This is all a load of hooey, according to Matt. A bunch of shame and remorse put there by the Circle of Cavan, because shame and remorse is exactly what turns Circle recruits into Circle agents. He’s said as much to Joe, but it’s never received well—doesn’t seem to help, anyway, so Matt focuses on something that will. “It’s worse than it looks,” he says again, and he meets Joe’s eyes this time. Lets the words settle how they need to for Joe to really believe it.  “Honest.”

Joe squints, assessing Matt with that sharp and attentive look he has. “Chrissake,” he finally sighs. “You lie to Soviet dignitaries with that mouth? Honestly Morgan, you’ve got a godawful tell.”

“Alright, so I’m gonna head down to the docs when we’re done here,” Matt admits. “But Joe, look at me. I’m fine. And if I’m not fine, then I’ll be fine.” Joe looks like he wants to protest and takes in a breath to do exactly that. But Matt’s in no shape for a fight right now, so he interrupts this one before it can even start. “Did you get to my safety deposit box while I was gone?”

This is a lot like asking if Joe got around to sleeping or eating while he was gone, which might be why Joe rolls his eyes. “You asked me to go,” he says, “so I went.”

“And?” Matt prompts.

Joe spots the change in subject, but Matt must look pitiful enough to let it slide. “Nothing,” he says. “No sign of a break-in—passport right where it was supposed to be.”

Matt’s heart drops into his battered gut, landing among the dread that’s been churning there for days. It takes every ounce of training he’s got to keep his face neutral, composed, when he lets out a matter-of-fact, “Huh.”

“Huh?” Joe presses. “What, huh?”

“One of my passports was in Moscow. Saw it with my own two eyes.” 

The lobby is empty around them, lined with unoccupied seats and filled with unread magazines. There’s no one to hide from. There’s not a sound to be heard. Not even the plant in the corner is alive, faded plastic leaves feeding off the fluorescents above. Even so, neither one of them risks a scene for fear that someone, somewhere is watching.

Joe’s words are quiet. Barely there. “If it wasn’t from your deposit box…”

“Someone at Langley is selling the passports they have on file,” Matt says. “And if we track them down…”

They don’t dare finish the thought aloud. They don’t have to. This has always been the endgame. The sole objective Director Smith gave them years ago, back when Joe still had an allegiance to the Circle and Matt didn’t know the name Ioseph Cavan. Find the moles, protect the agency, and save Joe’s reputation in the process. All these years, they’ve been tracking Circle agents from the outside in, working with any informant they could to get back to a source at Langley. This may be their one and only shot at an internal investigation.

But Matt’s ribs twinge against his breath, and the timing reeks of a trap. After all these years of looking, they finally reach a breakthrough on this op days after he takes a beating designed to intimidate. Maybe it’s working, because Matt’s not so sure they should follow this one.  “Conversation for another time,” he hints. “We’ll talk when we get back to the apartment.”

And Joe doesn’t miss a trick. “There’s more?”

When it comes to the Circle, there’s always more. No one knows that better than Joe Solomon. “There’s no such thing as coincidence, right?” 

Joe nods. “Right.”

“Let’s just say,” Matt cautions, “I don’t think it’s a coincidence I was there.”

Matt keeps this theory vague on purpose, trusting Joe to decode the rest.  There’s a glint in his eyes as he runs the numbers and plays out every hypothetical. Joe may not have been in Moscow, but that doesn’t mean he can’t piece together what happened. “Jesus,” he spits, realization playing out in his features. “You think Rachel set you up?”

Well. That sure ain’t the conclusion Matt expected him to make. “What? No. God, no,” Matt sputters. They don’t have time to walk back the math on this particular miscalculation, so Matt cuts to the chase before Joe can go any further down that path. “But Joe, listen. I think Catherine might have.”

This has Joe running a whole new set of numbers through his head, pulling the corners of his mouth into a hard, stoic frown. “No,” he says, definite. “Not a chance. You’re sure it wasn’t Rachel—?”

“Morning, Joe.”

With timing too perfect to be accidental, Rachel chooses this moment to round the corner and join their conversation. She has a cup of vending machine coffee in each hand, steam still rising from the slim notches in each plastic cap. As she sips from one, she holds the other out to Matt, and he’s been awake for too many consecutive hours to decline. It ain’t Joe’s coffee, but it’ll do.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” she says, and Matt has to hand it to her—she’s got this way of making something perfectly pleasant sound like utter devastation. “I heard you’ve been indisposed as of late.”

Joe’s answering glance is aimed directly at Matt, a scathing pout from someone who ain't above using his highly specialized skill set on a girl, just as long as his best friend gives him permission first.

Matt replies with his own warning look and a placating, “Play nice.” To keep the game fair, he turns to Rachel too. “Both of you.”

“What the hell is she doing here?” Joe asks.

Matt throws a thumb in her direction. “Talk to Rachel, when you’re talking to Rachel.”

“Alright.” His eyes flash to her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Rachel takes another sip of her coffee, entirely unruffled. “A pleasure, as always, Joe.”

Joe crosses his arms over his chest. Settles into a wider stance. “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not at my friendliest,” he says. “It’s just that I gave Matt to you in pretty good shape, and you didn’t exactly return him in pristine condition.”

“All things considered, I’d say he’s in pretty excellent condition, actually.” She’s the cool and collected counter to Joe’s stinging emotion. “Despite your best efforts to put him in the ground.”

Joe huffs, a bull seeing red. “Excuse me?”

Matt physically steps between the two of them. “Alright,” he says. “A little civility, please. I’ll remind you both that there are plenty of things I need your help with, but getting myself into trouble ain’t one of them. If you wanna be mad at someone, you can be mad at me.”

They both look ready to follow through on that offer, so Matt holds out his hands in either direction. Before they can speak he says, “But you can’t be mad at me yet—I’m injured, remember? So, so very injured.”

Joe rolls his eyes and spits out a, “Chrissake,” at the same time Rachel says, “Oh honestly, Matthew.” The two of them seem to find some tentative common ground in their shared annoyance, temporarily refraining from any further bickering. That’s fine. Matt can be a common enemy for now. Maybe it’ll remind them that what they’ve actually got is a common friend. There may be hope for them yet.

He lowers his hands slowly, trying not to disturb the peace. “Rachel’s here on orders from the Director,” he explains, “on account of how she’s recently learned some new information.”

Joe deciphers this in a matter of seconds. “You told her?”

“What I could,” Matt confirms. “It was the only way to get her out of Moscow.”

For all his grumbling, Joe knows the same thing every spy knows—that Moscow is a desperate place in a desperate time, always calling for desperate measures. He won’t begrudge any decisions made within the city’s borders, because he knows firsthand how Moscow can wring a fella out and force him to find alliances in the damnedest places. 

So rather than holler any more than he already has, he turns to Rachel. Looks at her with a deadly serious intensity. “Then he must have told you that you’ve raised some flags?”

Rachel matches his gaze. “He did.”

“That these are dangerous people?”

“He said that too.”

Joe glaces at Matt, then lands back on Rachel one more time. He looks like he wants to hide, but instead he holds strong. “He told you that if you keep looking for them, they’re going to find you first?”

Guilt for pulling Matt into all this. Guilt for pulling in Rachel by proxy.

Rachel’s chin is in its usual place, high and strong. “I’m not afraid of making a few more enemies.”

“I’m not saying it to scare you,” Joe insists. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth, and because you’re smart enough to walk away while you still can.”

Joe Solomon can hide anywhere in the world, but there are some people not even he can hide from, even if he’s spent most of his adult life trying to do exactly that. His words lack all the signs of their usual squabbles, replaced by a man who has been running for as long as he can remember, and wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

Rachel Cameron is not his worst enemy, but she knows their rivalry well enough to understand this must be important, if Joe’s decided to put it aside for now. She surrenders her own fight, just temporarily, and grants him a nod. “I’ll do what the agency asks of me,” she says. Then, with some consideration.  “What’s best for Matt. And I suppose, by association, that means I’ll do what’s best for you, too.”

Sometimes Matt forgets that Joe is older than Rachel, by just under two years. In damn near every aspect of espionage and beyond, the two are evenly matched. But right then, Joe’s experience weighs down his every feature and makes him look horribly, achingly old. When it comes to understanding the toll the Circle can take on a person’s soul, few people know more than Joe.

“Do whatever you want,” he says, letting his head fall into a shameful shake. “But just know, as soon as you walk in those doors, you aren’t making decisions for yourself. You’re making them for Abby and your dad. For any friends you have back in Baltimore. For any future family you might want to have someday. Because once these people find out you’re onto them, they won't just stop at you.”

The best way to send Rachel into an uneasy spiral is to dig up her sense of helplessness. It’s something Matt’s only just started to learn, but something Joe seems to have known for a while now, given how easily he leverages her own fears against her. There’s some irony to the idea that a manipulation technique Joe learned in the Circle is the only thing keeping Rachel out of it.

She glances at Matt, but it’s quick. Like she can’t quite help herself. It’s gone before Matt can decide what it means, hidden behind another sip of coffee. “Fine,” she says, bored as she wipes the corner of her lip with her thumb. “Anything else?”

Joe starts to answer one way or the other, but he doesn’t get the chance. They’re interrupted by a petite woman in a pencil skirt, emerging from the office at their backs. She peers over horn-rimmed glasses as she says, “The Director will see you now.”

Best not to keep the boss waiting.

Rachel straightens her shoulders and starts to turn, leading the pack. “Ladies first,” she reminds them both, looking distinctly Abby-like as she shoots a carefree smile over her shoulder.

Matt starts to follow, the way he always follows her lead, but Joe hooks a hand around his arm instead, keeping Matt planted in place. He waits until Rachel is out of earshot and then, in the most covert voice Matt’s ever heard from him, asks, “Are you sleeping with Rachel Cameron?”

Spy training or not, Matt feels a flush crawl up his neck, as fresh flashes catch along his breath. Rachel’s cool hand on his hot chest. Rachel’s moan in his mouth. “Am I—?” he sputters. “Am I sleeping with—?”

But Joe’s just got this look on his face. Cover blown. 

So Matt drops the act. They’ve talked about matters of national security with less urgency when he asks, “How did you know?”

Joe points to the coffee cup in Matt’s hand. “You hate vending machine coffee,” he says. “Which I know, because every time you drink it, you bitch and moan about how my coffee is better.”

“Your coffee is better,” Matt contests.

“And yet, you’re drinking hers,” Joe says. “And the only way you’d ever drink that shit is if you were—”

“Yeah.”

“So you are.”

“Yeah.”

“About time.”

This is so wildly off-base from the response Matt expects that he has to do a double-take. Make sure he heard right. “Wait,” he says. “What’s that supposed to—?”

“Are you boys coming, or what?”

Rachel pops her head around the doorway and Matt resists the completely unspylike urge to throw both hands over Joe’s mouth. “Yep,” he says. “Be right there.”

She retreats back to the office, and Matt turns back toward Joe. “Not a word.”

Joe holds up both hands in faux innocence. “My lips are sealed,” he says, but he’s biting back a grin, and Matt knows he hasn’t heard the last of this. “Now let’s get this over with. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can watch the Royals game.”

Matt really is having a hard time deciding how to feel about Joe, right this moment. “You taped the Royals game for me?”

Joe shrugs. “‘Course I taped the Royals game for you.”

But Matt forgives easy, and Joe’s easy to forgive anyway. “Joe Solomon,” he says, with a grin of his own. “Did you miss me?”

“Alright,” Joe drones. “Get in there, or I’m gonna tell you the scores.”

Matt does as he’s told, because it’s Joe telling him to do it. Plus, the woman with the glasses is tapping her heel in their direction. Even though Matt regularly squares up against arms dealers and armed guards, he's still not willing to tick off the Langley secretaries.

They file into the familiar beige and black office, ready to give their usual debrief and sort out which details should be committed to paper and which should be left to rot in the wind. This process is routine enough that it’s practically scripted, and Matt feels a certain sense of comfort in the repetition, even with Rachel’s presence. In fact, some part of him is relieved for her to finally see all this. To finally understand a part of his life that’s been kept from her for so long.

But the moment he enters the room, he realizes that Rachel ain’t the office’s only new addition.

Director Smith is tucked behind his desk, just like always, shuffling through a stack of paper that never seems to get any smaller, no matter how many times they visit. Like always, his black jacket hangs on the back of his chair and his tie is loose at the collar. He’s filled out the mustache he started growing a few years back, in an attempt to look more like Tom Selleck. He looks mostly the same as he always has, except where age and stress make him look a little more weary.

The man across from him is unfamiliar—at least, Matt thinks he is. But a second glance triggers some deep down certainty that they’ve met before, somewhere, sometime, when Matt was least expecting him. 

The Director looks up at them all. Smiles. “Ah, welcome home, boys,” he says, in his easy Virginian accent. “And Ms. Cameron. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

“Likewise, sir,” Rachel replies, always the perfect lady.

“How is your sister?” he wonders. “Bored to tears, I suppose.”

“And healing up just fine,” she says. “Which, I keep reminding her, is the important part.”

“Yes, well, as soon as she’s ready to go again, we’ll be happy to have her,” he says. “Send my best to her—and to your father, while you’re at it.”

“Will do, sir.”

The mystery man turns to face them head-on, and Matt gets that feeling again. It’s the eyes that strike him first, dark in a way that makes them look endless. Something about the cut of his jaw, the angle of his nose, the furrow of his brow. It all sends a surge of hot familiarity through Matt’s veins, landing like metal in his mouth.

“I’m eager to hear about your latest findings,” Smith goes on. “But first, I suppose you’ve all noticed we’re not alone.”

It’s the start of an introduction and the mystery man stands to meet it, buttoning the front of his jacket as he goes. His movements strike more familiarity into Matt, resonating at a single frequency in his bones.

“Trusting that you’re all able to keep a secret until the news is made official,” says Smith, with some humor, “I’d like to introduce you to the new Director of Operations for the CIA—Mr. Max Edwards.”

Max Edwards’ dark eyes settle onto Matt, holding a hand out to shake. Matt takes it with a flinch, hand still sore from fighting off memories he can’t remember. “Nice to meet you,” says Max, in low southern drawl just barely above a whisper. “Alexander has told me great things about this task force.”

Max moves on to the next hand, and it’s Joe who has the wherewithal to ask, “New, sir?”

Director Smith stands to join the rest of the room, rounding his desk and leaning against its front. “I’ve been called up the ranks, Mr. Solomon,” he says, arms crossing casually across his chest. “Come autumn, I will be serving as the Deputy Director of the CIA.”

“Congratulations,” says Rachel, sincerely.

“That’s great,” Matt mutters, distracted.

Leave it to Joe to ask, “What does that mean for—?”

Director Smith holds up a hand, already well ahead of Joe and not afraid to show it. “We will, of course, have some details to work out. Rest assured we will have time to do so, though I’d prefer not to speak in great detail with Ms. Cameron present.” He turns to Rachel. “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Rachel replies. Her gaze meets Joe’s, one final debate between the two of them. She must let him win, because she turns back to Smith and says, “As I understand it, my involvement is better left at need-to-know.”

Matt should be relieved. He should be thankful that something Joe said got through to her. That she isn't pushing for more. That she won’t be the Circle’s next target, and that she won’t have to spend a lifetime in this fight. But he’s just too caught up in the way Max walks. In the way he speaks, and moves, and looks.

Smith nods in her direction. “Unfortunately, I believe that’s a wise decision,” he says. “While your skills would be more than welcome, I’m certain I don’t have to share that the consequences could be quite dire.”

“No sir,” Rachel agrees. “That’s been made clear.”

“Then we will save our discussion for another time,” he concludes.  “Until then, the only thing you three need to know is that I will no longer serve as your primary contact on this case. I simply won’t have the time. But I do still hope to stay involved, which is why I wanted to ensure I had someone I trusted in this position.”

All three of them turn to study Max, the man to be trusted. He stands tall. Confident. Certain that he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

“Mr. Edwards will train at my side in the coming months, learning the ins-and-outs of our objectives here,” says Director Smith. “Boys, you’ll be asked to pursue new leads as they come in—no different than before. Ms. Cameron, we’ll work closely with you on your upcoming reports to ensure we commit the correct details to paper. This is among my top priorities as I transition, and Max has expressed similar dedication.”

This all feels so critical and immediate. Matt wishes he could focus, but his brain is caught on repeat, trying to fill the Max Edwards sized hole in his head.

Max clears his throat. “Everything alright, son?” he asks Matt. “You look shaken.”

The set of his shoulders. The crease in his forehead. “I’m sorry sir, it’s just—” he starts, but he hesitates, worried he’ll sound foolish. The whole room watches him, waiting for an answer he ain’t sure about. “I can’t shake the feeling we’ve met before.”

A small sigh rises and falls in Max’s broad chest, something close to a laugh, although Matt can’t imagine this man ever laughing. Max glances toward Director Smith, who grants a permissive node, and Max holds his hands out, putting himself on full display. “You caught me,” he says, simply.  “You have seen me before. At the Bolshoi Theatre.”

With the Bolshoi as a background, Matt’s brain handily fills in the rest of the memory. A bag of passports in his hands, Townsend’s voice at his back, and a mysterious man looking up at him from the ground floor. That must be it. “You spotted us,” Matt remembers. “In the balcony. Before we ran.”

To Matt’s credit, Max didn’t look at all like himself in Moscow, done up in a disguise that relied on dark facial hair and heavy Russian garb. That must be why Matt couldn’t identify him on sight. “You were not too hard to spot, I’m afraid.”

This sounds like it could be a joke, but Matt’s not sure, so he replies in earnest, just in case. “Yes, well,” he says. “Moscow has a way of bringing out unexpected circumstances.”

“I’d like to hear more, when we have time,” says Max. “Learn how we can do better in the future.”

“Yessir.”

When Max Edwards smiles, a chill runs down Matt’s spine, and it must be left over from Moscow. From that feeling of having eyes on his back, and not trusting a single step he takes. It always takes a few days to shake off the Soviet Union and this is no exception. 

Matt meets Max’s eyes once more, and he's got this strange urge to hide. Slip into a crowd, the way he always does. Let the world dissolve at his back, then come up for air once its safe again.

But Max already found him once, back on a balcony in the the Bolshoi. Who's to say it couldn't happen again? Matt may be a natural Pavement Artist, but Max seems like the type who can see straight through anything. “Gentlemen,” Max says, clasping his hands together. “I think this is the start of a beautiful partnership.”

[sunset-peril]

The Wolfbred Chronicles - The "Lost" Tribe - Part One - Moonlight, Markings and Musings

“You're… Wolfbred?” Zelda couldn't help herself but laugh. 

Her bodyguard looked up at her. His face looked like he wasn't sure whether he was offended or very, very confused by her laughter. 

“No, no… Father hates Wolfbred. He said he'd never knight another one. You're a personal bodyguard knight, Link. Father would never.” 

Urbosa watched as the small, previously-assumed-to-be-Hylian man just looked at Zelda with a completely blank stare. The moon was on his head, painting his eyebrows white along with the mythical swirl of a wolf long gone that was shimmering on his forehead. She pressed on her temple as she tried to recall how her dearest friend interacted with these creatures, and how she determined that they were Wolfbred. Eventually, she bent down to his level and pointed firmly at his hand. “Give, Link, give.” 

Almost instantly, Link offered up his hand. 

“Wow! How did you do that? I've never seen the Tiny Princess get more than a black stare.” 

“Wolfbred were a passion project of my dearest friend. I remember she gave them orders in a particular format. Simple orders in a simple format. I also remember something that could prove… particularly challenging in our future here with Link.”

“But what's with the hand, Urbosa?” Revali tipped his beak from her. “Did you just want to order the guy around?”

“The Queen told me a Wolfbred could be identified by the wrist. I needed his hand to check his wrist to see if he is truly Wolfbred, like I believe he is.” Urbosa retrieved her scimitar. “Catch, Link, catch.” She gently tossed the blade, handle outwards, to Link. A soldier like himself should catch it no problem. 

And he did catch it… at first. His hand grasped the handle, but he dropped the blade when he turned it over. 

Urbosa snatched his hand back, he leaned away from her.

“Okay, so the so-called hero is clumsy, what does that tell us?”

“He's not clumsy. He's Wolfbred.” She held up his hand. “See?” 

“What in the-?” Revali muttered. “Those are some messed up thumbs. No wonder he couldn't hold onto your dumb sword.”

Urbosa bit her tongue. “His thumb is set back, partially on the wrist here.” Link yanked on his hand, she spoke soft. “Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you, Link.”

“Is that all, Urbosa? I fail to see how a simple mutation of the wrist was enough for exile.”

“No, of course. That's just a unique trait of the Wolfbred. He's got the marks on his face too.”

“But… he looks so much like a Hylian.” Zelda wanted to touch his markings, but Link kept pulling his head away when she reached out. “I'd expect him to have fur, or a tail at least.” 

“But of course! They're supposed to be super soldiers. Part of their charm was that you couldn't identify them from afar, which meant enemy armies couldn't target them as easily. Once upon a time, the Hyruliean army was primarily Wolfbred.” She sighed. “We Gerudo were nearly ravaged by the Wolfbred of those days.”

“Oh boy, wolf in the name and descended from war crimes? Wouldn't be surprised if he was Rinkū's son.” 

Link turned his head to Revali after hearing that name. 

“R-Rinkū's… son? His father is named Ordon!”

Link whipped his head back to Zelda. 

“Ah, Tiny Princess. Revali's not talking about a literal son. More like a descendant. A great warhound from ancient times. He was basically the pet of an ancient queen. When she was killed in battle, he… kinda went on a rampage. Goron, Rito, Zora, Hylian… but especially the Gerudo. He and his pack of warhounds slaughtered without mercy… much like this Calamity Ganon is planning to do now.” 

“We… Gerudo have since come to forgive. His queen is believed to have been slaughtered by Ganon, who is believed to have once been Gerudo. If we will not stand to have Ganon's actions associated with our people… then we should not do the same to the descendants of Rinkū. However, I know not all of Hyrule feels the same way. My dearest friend risked her reputation to free the Wolfbred from exile…” 

“It is said that the queen's sole female relative was the only one who could command them to stop. The king himself found his orders on deaf ears. Probably why your father dumped him off on you. He has the Sword, so we have to keep him around, but hey, the female Royal will keep him in line.”

Zelda's face exuded fear, disgust and anger. 

Urbosa bent down to her. “Don't listen to Revali. Hyrule is known for its bloody history. This is simply his. But of course, if Gerudo and Hylia's own can commit atrocities and not be remembered by them, then Link here shouldn't either. He's a sweet boy. I assure you, his fear of you greatly outweighs your fear of him.” 

“You… said there was a complication with him?”

“Ah, yes. You see, because the Wolfbred were exiled for so long… ah, this might be easier to show you.” Urbosa looked towards Link. “Link, there's a carriage with horses near the stable. It will hurt if you get hit.” 

Link turned his head at his name, but didn't respond to the rest of the sentence. 

“Urbosa, where are you going with this nonsense?”

Urbosa held her hand up to silence the bird. “Link,  there's a hit with stable near the hurt. It will horses if you get carriage.”

Link continued to stare at her, staying perfectly still and emotionless. 

“As you can see, little bird, Revali, Daruk… plain and simple, it doesn't matter if I speak coherently to him. Link can't speak Hylian.” 

~~~~

Hyrule's Final Stand Masterlist

[hersurvival]

My thumb joint hurts at the top so now I have to kill everyone /j I don't have to kill my ocs off but it's bringing me much needed respite

I really feel for you, anon. Do what you gotta do to get through the pain and suffering. If some OCs have to die, you have my blessing to kill them off. Make it agonizing, make it pointless, make it infuriating.

[transhuman-priestess]

Robot girl calling in sick to work bc her cat chewed through her charging cable the night before and she’s at 36%

[knightofspades]

. birthday danji

everyone i've talked to about d doesn't like him and so i am not fond of him either (is that weird? idk)

he still gets a drawing in one form or another ig

[oneirataxia-girl]

based on vibes

[tex-now]

I knwo . There's nothing inhe3rently wrong with it. But just. The Guilt.

WHY? /gen

[seyaryminamoto]

What is Seethus actually? What's his backstory?

Hmm, I don't really think we'll get into it in-story, so I guess I'll say some things about that over here, since you asked...

The out-of-world backstory for Seethus is basically that one of my long-time collaborators (hell, the very person who gave me the original idea for Gladiator) suggested this OC for me to use, as an interesting potential ally for Ozai to rely on. I jumped on it, not only because it was an interesting concept, but also because... Ozai needs more allies, haha. It's kind of sad that I basically had nothing to go on based on canon alone. That his most reliable military officer in the show is his fourteen-year-old daughter doesn't bode well for his rule and militaristic campaign, does it? :'D So yeah, the idea of a bodyguard for Ozai, of a sort, came in handy perfectly for my needs.

In the original concept, Seethus had a rather tragic backstory where he had been raised in a very toxic/abusive household. He would have found ancient ruins with old symbols or so (kinda like the Sun Warriors) that allowed him to attempt an interpretation of firebending that went beyond common firebending. I can't remember right now if it was in the original outline or not for this to be lightbending all along, but I think it was? Anyway, the point is it didn't really work out as intended, something about the recipe kinda backfired, so to speak... and Seethus ended up in a rather twisted sort of "undead" circumstance where his otherworldly powers are also a disease that is killing him, much as he can use it to his benefit in combat or stealth missions.

That's as much as I can say about his origin story, to a fault. As I continued to write him, I concluded that Seethus did indeed attempt lightbending (I kind of used the Head Sage to convey those theories/explanations), but it didn't work out for him. Kind of like how lightning is supposed to take a toll on the bender if it backfires, lightbending, as I conceived it, took a rather steep one in his case. Basically, the misfire twisted the nature of his very energy, his chi, and corrupted it without outright killing him. It's as if the putrid stuff Azula was ailed by, after the Spear's essence infected her, could become her weapon...?

In Seethus's case, he lives off a very delicate and dangerous life-death balance, where too much life, too much humanity, would cause the corruption inside him to consume his remaining life-force and kill him. Too little life, and he'd die anyway since his life-energy would stop flowing and the corruption would spread and seize him completely. The main thing that makes him dangerous is the fact that he can bend this corruption, whereas Azula never did/tried, as her situation was a loooot milder than his.

So, Seethus is human, not a spirit. It's entirely possible to say that some spirit caused his bending misfire and corrupted his energy when he attempted to lightbend, of course, but I don't really have a full-blown answer for this because... I figured a lot of his appeal as a character was precisely about not having absolute, precise explanations as to who and what he is. Personally, this is how I envision him and the root from which I write him, but you're free to headcanon whatever you'd like about who he is, and where he came from, seeing as I'm not really going to go in-depth about those things in the story :'D