#Schrodinger pairing

[stormandforge]

When you're looking for fellow shippers and the writer responds

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN

[faroresson]

I don't NEED to draw more art of Azarias and Salvadore but at the same time if I don't it just won't exist

I SHOULD be working on revamping and actually plotting my original shit but no the way that silly Pathfinder Guy and his Schrodinger's Ex Husband has a grip on me is driving me insane

[arcane-vagabond]

Fool's Fare: Chapter Fourteen

Fool's Fare: Chapter Fourteen

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Captain Jake "Hangman" Seresin had come close to swinging from the gallows more times than he would care to admit. He's stolen, cheated, even killed. The worst thing he's ever done? Broken the heart of a woman. Having broken the heart of the woman whom Davy Jones himself had fallen for six years ago, Jake is now cursed to live as something not dead, but not alive. He's doomed to live a half-life for the rest of his existence unless he manages to obtain the treasure Davy Jones deems most valuable. The problem? He has no idea what it is, and he only had seven years to obtain it.

Content Warning: Secrets revealed, Cursing, Despair, Trickery, Magic, Loss, Schrodinger's major character death (Are they dead though? It's open ended.), Bittersweet endings. I think that's it, but please let me know if I missed something!

Word Count: ~4.1k

Series Masterlist || Moodboards || Playlist

The glowing embers of Tom’s pipe cast sharp shadows that made his already stern looking face harder. Your breath caught in your throat as shock clutched at your ribs, a pressure building in your chest.

“Tom?” You repeated, taking a hesitant step forward. “What are you doing here?”

The old man gave you a wry smile, lowering the pipe from his lips as he blew out a long puff of smoke. The tendrils curled around one another, racing towards the sky in a dance that gave you pause. How often had you watched this same man growing up? This man before you who had been like a second father, bringing you gifts from his travels and setting you on his knee as he and your father discussed things you could hardly grasp. This man who had taken care of you and Bradley when your father had died at sea, making sure the two of you never went without even when the both of you had found work to support yourselves.

“Guppy,” he murmured, blue eyes filled with sorrow. “You’re looking well.”

“Cut the shit, Tom,” snapped Bradley. You turned to look at him, reeling back from the fury in your older brother’s eyes. His jaw clenched tight as his nostrils flared, hands curled into fists as his face flushed with anger.

“Bradley,” Tom sighed, inhaling more of the tobacco.

“I don’t get it.”

You turned to look at Jake, the blond man standing there with his brow knit and eyes darting around looking for answers.

“The old man from the tavern?” He asked, looking at you for confirmation, green eyes lost as he tried to process what was happening. “I don’t understand. Where’s Davy?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Growled Bradley, sneering at the older man. “Tom is Davy. He’s been Davy Jones this entire time, and he’s never said a damn thing.”

“Would you have believed me if I had?” Tom challenged, no real heat to his tone as he stared down the younger man.

“I might have,” Bradley shot back, venom dripping from his tone. “If you had tried to warn me from signing up for this crew, I might have listened.”

“You’re a bad liar, Bradley,” Tom snorted. “Always have been. You’d have called me an old fool had I told you who I really was without proof.”

“Then why didn’t you prove it? Why did you just let me sign up? None of this had to happen!” Screamed Bradley, voice echoing off the rocky walls of the cliffs, making you flinch.

“I couldn’t very well reveal myself in front of a room full of people, boy,” Tom glared, jaw ticking as he fought to keep his temper at bay. “Not when it wouldn’t have made a difference. You had already made your decision.”

Bradley didn’t say anything, lips pressed tightly together as he continued to glare at the older man.

“Am I wrong?” Tom prodded, staring the other down. A moment of silence passed between them before Bradley hung his head.

“No,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes and fists closed. “You’re not.”

Another beat of silence passed. The waves crashed against the shoreline as gulls cried out overhead.

“You’re too much like Pete in that sense, I s’pose,” Tom grumbled with a shake of his head. Your heart clenched at the sound of your father’s name. It was true, Bradley was much like your father. So much so that sometimes you forgot the two of you weren’t related by blood.

“That stubbornness is what got him killed in the end,” he continued, turning towards the waves with a grimace.

“You don’t look like the Davy Jones I know,” Jake challenged, a hardness to his stare that equaled the disdain found in Tom’s.

“Not often someone sees what I really look like these days,” Tom sniffed, spitting out onto the sand. “Takes practiced magic to keep up appearances, and I can’t exactly go around scarin’ folks left and right when I’m on land.”

“Magic? What do you know about that?” You asked, taking a step forward. You needed to know why the magic you had encountered on your travels affected you differently from the others.

Tom turned back to look at you. “I know more than you think.”

“My whole life,” you started, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath, “I’ve known that I was different. I knew things that others shouldn’t. I knew when Papa-”

You stopped, exhaling shakily as you remembered the day you clung to your father, begging him to stay on shore. You remembered the day his heart stopped beating.

“When we encountered Thetis,” you continued after a moment, and Tom stiffened at the name. “I knew something was wrong about that isle before anything had ever happened. She sensed something different about me too. The sea serpent stopped its attack when it saw me. Like it knew that we were one in the same.”

You took another step forward, eyes pleading with the man before you.

“So help me to understand, Tom,” you begged. “What am I?”

Silence stretched out along the beach as Tom studied you.

“You’re a promise,” he answered with a heavy sigh. “Long ago, when your mother and father were young and fool’s in love, they wanted a baby. But, your mother struggled to conceive. Your father called out to me to make a deal. We had been friends for a while by that point, so he knew the price he was paying. He asked for a child for his wife and a son for himself. In exchange, he offered up himself. A soul for a soul. I managed to warp the magic so that they got you, Guppy. A daughter instead of a son. That way he could live out his days with the family he wanted, and no price would need to be payed because the deal hadn’t been fulfilled.”

He closed his eyes with a shake of his head.

“Magic is a tricky thing, though,” he continued, eyes flickering towards where Bradley stood. “It will always find a way to get what its owed.”

“What does that mean?” You prodded.

Tom sucked on his teeth, measuring his words. “Means that Pete was given the son he was promised, and the magic was free to take the soul it was promised.”

You turned back to look at Bradley, sucking in a sharp breath at the look on your brother’s face. Brown eyes stared at the old man, tears streaming down his face as his jaw went slack in disbelief.

“It’s my fault?” He asked, voice so soft you almost didn’t hear him above the waves. Tom shook his head vehemently.

“No,” he growled, a hard look in his eyes. “It’s not. Pete took you in of his own free will. Declared you his son knowing damn well what that meant for him.”

Bradley pressed his lips firmly together, eyes darting towards the ground as he hung his head. Your heart broke at the sight. Your father loved Bradley, you knew that, and you knew that somewhere inside, Bradley knew that too. You took a step back towards him, hand extended to reach for him, but something inside you told you to stop. Your hand fell back to your side, uncertainty coursing through your veins as you tried to figure out what to do. What could you do?

“Are we going to stand around here all day,” groused Tom, eyes flickering between your trio, “or do you have my payment?”

You shot a glare at Tom as Jake sucked in a breath, body growing rigid before his hands reached into his coat, digging around for the necklace. The sight of it still took your breath away, the clear crystal that seemed to shine with its own light on the darkening shore. You were so mesmerized that you almost didn’t catch Jake’s eyes flicker to you, a press of his lips as he seemed to consider something.

Your own brow furrowed. What was he waiting for? Your eyes glanced towards where the sun was rapidly descending below the horizon, and you looked back at him.

“Jake?” You whispered, snapping him from his daze. He shook his head before crossing the divide towards Tom. He stared the older man down, shoulders squared as silent communication passed between the two. You shifted on your feet uneasily, eyes flickering towards Bradley. His face was unreadable as he watched the other two men, seemingly resigned to whatever was about to happen.

Jake’s shoulders rose and fell as he let out one last breath, holding his hand out towards Tom. The chain swayed in the evening breeze, the gem shining brighter than ever now that it was so close to its original master. Tom arched a brow as he studied it, his hand slowly rising to take it from Jake. Jake let his arm fall back to his side, taking a half a step back.

“There it is,” he nodded, gesturing towards the gem that now sat in the palm of Tom’s hand. “The greatest treasure in the world.”

Tom’s eyes flickered up to consider the man before him, lips pressed firmly together as he seemed to chew over his thoughts. He raised the gem up to eye level, head tilted slightly as his gaze shifted back out towards the sea. He grunted, tossing the gem up before catching it in his hand.

“Thanks,” he sniffed, raising the gem towards Jake before pocketing it in his coat. “Been looking for this beauty for a while. Thought Thetis had gotten her mitts on it, and I can’t have that. Need it for something before I even entertain the idea of giving it back.”

“Is it over?” Jake asked, eyes shining with hope. “Is the curse broken?”

Tom’s attention turned once more to the horizon, and you followed his gaze to watch the last bit of the sun disappear below the horizon.

“No.”

Your heart stopped. You whirled around to face Tom, eyes round with horror as the older man met Jake’s eyes. Jake looked about as shocked as you felt, and you watched as he opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, searching for the words that wouldn’t come to him.

“No?” He finally managed, his voice sounding so foreign and far away. He blinked at the old captain before rage twisted his features into something almost animalistic.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” He shouted, a vein in his neck bulging as he clenched his fists. “I brought you the greatest treasure! Handed it over to you without so much as a fight! Break the damn curse, old man!”

Tom stared at him, unmoved by his outburst. He shook his head.

“After all this time, you still haven’t figured it out,” he muttered. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Jake lurched back as if he had been physically struck, eyes wide before anger seeped back in and he let out a scream that chilled you to the bone. You had never heard someone sound so broken before. His hands clutched at his hair as he hunched over, breaths coming out in shallow gasps as his eyes searched frantically for answers. His head shot up, hands shooting out to grip at Tom’s coat, shaking him.

“Undo it, you bastard,” he growled, spittle flying from his mouth as he stared menacingly into the eyes of Davy Jones himself. “Undo it!”

“Jake,” you called out, and his head whipped around to face you. For a moment, you were almost frightened of him, but then you saw the face of the young boy who seven years prior had been punished for something that wasn’t even his fault. Tears streaming down his face, his anger crumpled around him, his hands releasing Tom as a sob ripped through him. He stumbled towards you, tripping over himself to land in the sand. You moved forward at the same time, meeting him halfway to catch him and lower him gently. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, cradling him as he clung to you. The tips of your fingers ran through his hair as you tried to soothe him, your own tears an afterthought.

“I’m sorry,” he hiccuped, pressing himself closer to you. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you told him, shaking your head. “You did everything you could, Jake, and I love you for it.”

He looked up at you, green eyes shining as you brushed the hair out of his face.

“You love me?” He asked. You realized then what you had said, and you smiled.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I do. With all my heart.”

A ghost of a smile curled on his lips as he leaned his forehead against yours. It didn’t last long before his face crumpled once more.

“I’m such an idiot,” he growled, shaking his head. “Never told the girl that I loved her, and she beat me to it. Now…”

He trailed off, but the words were plain as day. Now the two of you would be separated, torn apart and unable to find happiness with each other.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

The two of you looked up to see Tom still watching, a grimace sat firmly on his face.

“Looks like you did find the greatest treasure after all,” he grumbled. Your eyes met Jake’s, and the two of you scrambled to your feet as Jake’s face glimmered with hope.

“I found it?” He asked, another smile curling at his lips. “Does this mean the curse is lifted?”

Tom shook his head. “No.”

You looked up at him, catching the brief flicker of regret in his eyes before they hardened once more.

“What do you mean?” Jake demanded, keeping a hand on you as he stepped forward. “You just said I found it!”

“You didn’t present it to me before the deadline,” Tom shot back, gesturing towards where the sun had disappeared only minutes before. “You were too late.”

“Why are you doing this?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper. Something shone in his eyes, but it was snuffed out just as quickly as it had appeared.

“You weren’t supposed to get wrapped up in all this,” Tom told you. Rage raced through your veins as you bared your teeth at him.

“But I did!” You shouted at him. “And now I’m losing everything because you won’t change the magic!”

“I can’t,” he snapped back.

You scoffed. “Bullshit! You’ve done it once before!”

“And look at what’s happened because of it!” He spat. “The magic didn’t just take your father, Guppy! It gave two souls, and two souls it collected in return.”

You balked. He couldn’t mean…?

“Your mother,” he nodded. “Your mother’s life was forfeit to the magic all because I thought I could bend it to my will. It’s my fault they’re both gone.”

You swallowed, processing his words. The magic took what it was owed.

“What’s the magic owed this time?” You asked, eye gazing up at the old captain. “Another soul?”

Tom paused, narrowing his eyes down at you. “It’ll take magic to nullify the curse. Magic negates magic.”

“Then take me,” you told him. All eyes snapped to where you stood.

“What?” Tom grunted.

“Take me,” you repeated. “I’m a product of the magic, right? If you take me, will the curse be lifted?”

“Guppy, no,” Jake started, but you shook your head.

“If it means that you and the others will get to live a life free from suffering,” you began, sighing as you let the decision settle in your mind, “then it’s a price I will happily pay.”

“But I won’t,” he argued, grasping your arms in his hands. “I won’t let you do this.”

“It’s not a decision you get to make this time,” you told him, eyes pleading with him.

“You don’t get to make it either.”

You both turned to look at Bradley, a determined look on his face as he crossed the distance to stand in front of Tom.

“I’m a product of the magic too, right?” He asked. “Maverick only found me because he was owed a son.”

“Bradley, no,” you started, but he held a hand up to stop you.

“He took me in and cared for me like his own flesh and blood child when he didn’t have to,” he continued, offering you a gentle smile. “This is the best way I can think of to repay him.”

“Bradley,” you pleaded, “don’t do this.”

Your eyes met his, and for a moment the two of you were standing in the village again, your tiny fists balled up as you glared at the other children from the village. A group of teenage boys snickered at Bradley, taunting him with jeers and quips about his background.

“Nobody wants you, you know,” one of them sneered, a cruel smile on his lips. “You’re only around for the free labor.”

Bradley didn’t say a word, continuing to load the cart with the supplies the two of you had just purchased. You waited for him to say something, anything. He’s so quick to jab back when it’s the two of you at home, after all.

“Come on, orphan boy,” the same boy taunts, kicking at one of the small, wooden crates by Bradley’s feet, causing it to tip over. “You and I both know you’re not worth the food they waste on you.”

You saw Bradley’s jaw tick, but he continues with his task, not even looking in their direction. The boy growled in frustration, marching forward to grab Bradley by his collar, forcing him up and back against the wall. Bradley let out a grunt as his back met the wall staring the other boy down, daring him with eyes alone to make a move.

“I’m talking to you, rat,” the boy spat, eyes blazing. “Or maybe you’re too stupid to realize that. Is that it? Poor, orphan boy. You’ve not got a family to cling to, no one to protect you. You’re all alone in this world, and you always will be.”

“Stop it!” You cried, shoving at the boy, startling him enough for him to let Bradley go.

“Why should I?” He sneered down at you. “We all know it’s true.”

“It’s not true!” You hollered. “He’s got a family. He’s got me, and my mama, and my papa. He’s my brother, and we’re family!”

The boy stared down at you as you met his gaze with your fiery own. He snorted, turning to walk back towards his friends.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “Once an orphan, always an orphan.”

You glared after them, waiting until they were a ways down the street before turning your attention back to Bradley. You looked him over, checking for any bumps or scrapes, only stopping when Bradley waved you off.

“Enough,” he snapped. “Quit it.”

“Let me do this for you, Bradley,” you murmured, tears stinging your eyes as you looked at him. “Let me be your sister.”

He stared at you for a moment, the hardness in his gaze melting away as he sighed.

“Come on, Guppy,” he hummed, eyes earnest as they met yours. “Let’s get home.”

You stared at him now, the same earnest look in his eyes as he offered to take your place.

“Let me do this for you, Guppy,” he murmured, echoing your words from so long ago. “Let me be your brother one last time.”

You lurched forward, throwing yourself into his arms as you hugged him tight.

“You idiot,” you whispered, eyes squeezed tight. “You’ll always be my brother.”

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you tightly, as if he were afraid to let go. After a moment, Tom stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Bradley’s shoulder and clearing his throat.

“It’s time,” he said. Bradley released you reluctantly, taking a step back as he looked at Tom. A moment of silent communication passed between the two of them before Bradley nodded. The two men moved to walk away, but you grabbed Tom’s hand, stopping them once more.

“Will I see him again?” You asked, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “Or is this it?”

Tom studied you for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. You felt Jake come up behind you, sliding his hand into yours with a gentle squeeze, but your eyes remained fixed on Tom’s.

“Maybe one day,” the old man nodded, sniffing. “You’ll see him again.”

A zip ran up your spine, and your eyes widened as something softened in Tom’s. A hint of a smile curved on your lips as you nodded, letting him go. Tom turned back to Bradley, slapping his hand on his shoulder as he guided him down the beach.

You watched in silence until the two men disappeared into the night, and even then you waited a moment longer. You didn’t know what lay ahead of you, but you knew you wouldn’t be alone. You had a family still waiting for you back aboard the ship, and they would be anxious to hear the good and sad news.

“Guppy?” Jake prodded, uncertainty in his tone as his arm came around to hold you close. You let out a sigh, closing your eyes for a brief moment before turning to look at him, the smile carving its way back onto your face.

“Come on,” you said, tugging his hand forward. “Let’s go home.”

The waves lapped against the hull of the Hangman, the sky above shining with the light from the stars that hung above. For the first time in almost a year, the air around you was still, no sense of doom looming over your head. You inhaled deeply, letting the salty, sea air fill your lungs as you closed your eyes and basked in what had transpired in the weeks since the confrontation with Tom on the beach.

You and Jake had arrived back aboard the Hangman, cheers and revelry already sounding as the crew slowly realized that their curse had been lifted. Bob had helped you aboard, Jake’s hands on your waist to steady you as you crossed over from the lifeboat.

“What happened?” The bespectacled man asked, a smile on his face as he greeted you. “You were gone for so long!”

You did your best to match his smile, but even you knew it looked more like a grimace. Bob’s face fell as he watched Jake cross over to the deck, eyes searching for the third member of your party.

“Where’s Bradley?”

Your heart clenched at the sound of his name, and you hung your head. Tears stung the back of your eyes, and you shook your head.

“I think it’s best we head inside,” Nat murmured, resting a hand on your shoulder as she guided you back towards the cabins, the others close behind. Both Jake and you did your best to recount what had happened on the beach, and a drink was poured for Bradley and his sacrifice.

Most of the crew left the employment of the Hangman soon after, and the ship operated with a skeleton crew until new crew members were found. Javy and Nat chose to stay behind in Port Royal, Javy eager to set up a trading company of his own, and Nat eager to stay with him. You bid your friends farewell, promising to visit often before the rest of your crew departed.

“Can’t sleep?”

You jumped, turning to see Jake making his way towards where you sat at the bow of the ship. You scowled at him, earning a chuckle. You watched as he climbed up, sitting down next to you with a grunt.

“I suppose I couldn’t,” you replied to him finally, looking back up at the stars.

“You’ve been through a lot,” he conceded, “I’d be surprised if you could sleep after everything.”

“I’m not scared or anything,” you told him. “No nightmares. I’m just…wondering what comes next.”

“Another adventure already?” He teased. “I figured you’d have had your fill by now.”

You hummed, but didn’t reply. Instead, you shifted closer, pressing your thigh against his while resting your head on his shoulder. Jake let out a contented hum of his own as he wrapped his arm around you.

You had had your peek at the mysteries and pasts that lay beneath the surface of the ocean below, and they had terrified you. You had weathered every storm your travels had put in your way, and you had come out the better for it.

You’d be a fool to think otherwise.

A/N: And that's it. That's the end. Wow, what a ride, huh? An end of an era. I'm certainly not emotional about this at all. Nope.

Let me know if you guys want to do something to celebrate!

As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I no longer do taglists, so if you would like to be notified on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @arcanevagabond-library ) and turn on post notifications! You can find me and my works on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond. Until next time!

[puckishpuppeteer]

Love how both Hannibal (Hannigram) and Arcane (Jayvik) pulled off Schrodinger's Finale and they both did it so well.

This is even more amazing if you think about how they did it it completely different shows with completely different themes, in completely different ways and yet, the love is the same.

In both of those pairs, they are the only person who could understand their partner. The only ones who ever tried.

[serve-cunt]

28 or 34 for Lando and Oscar? If it compels you 🦭

feeling for each other in the dark!! compelling...

lando/oscar scene under the cut..

“Oscar.” 

Oscar answered quietly, “I’m here.” They hadn’t been told to stay quiet, but it felt strange to talk at a normal volume. 

“This is fucking— stupid.” 

Oscar didn’t answer. He felt the same. But what could they do? 

“Can you, like, say something? So I know you’re still here.” 

Oscar smiled. “Where would I go?” he asked. “Even if we weren’t locked in, I couldn’t find the door. I can’t see anything.” 

There was a moment of silence, and when Lando spoke again there was a hint of panic in his voice. “We’re locked in?” 

Oscar backtracked hastily. “Er, probably not. I just mean—if we weren’t contractually locked in.” 

Another moment of silence, but when Lando spoke again he sounded a little calmer. “Mate, I never signed any contract that said they could Pavlov’s Dog me.”

Oscar frowned, then laughed. “You’re thinking of the cat. Schrodinger’s.”

“Whatever. How long d’you think we’ll be in here?” 

“Dunno.” 

There was a shifting noise, like Lando was moving around. Oscar put out a wary hand to stop them from colliding. Faintly, he could hear the sound of the Las Vegas grandstands—a roar of applause, dulled by the layers of plastic and plywood between it and his own ears. He hoped the roar meant the first pair of drivers had been revealed: Valtteri and Zhou, released from their own black box. 

“Downside to being first in the constructor standings,” Oscar mused. “They’ll open our box last.” 

“Wish you’d driven a little slower, mate.” 

“Likewise.” 

“Likewise,” Lando mimicked. Oscar glared in his general direction. 

For a few moments they were quiet, listening to the crowd. Somebody was on a mic, shouting over the noise, but Oscar couldn't quite make out the words. Then Lando said, timidly: “Can you, er. Can you—like—move a little closer.” 

Oscar hesitated, then took a small step to the side. “You alright?” 

“Yep,” Lando said, but his voice was strained. “You think they gave us enough oxygen?” 

“I don’t think the boxes are airtight.”

“Yeah, well, I just feel like I can’t breathe? A little?”

Oscar turned, and took another small step. He could feel Lando close by, the warmth of him. They were wearing identical team kit, and it really wasn’t enough; the desert night was freezing, and nobody had thought to put a space heater in the boxes. Or maybe that was a fire hazard. 

“Are you claustrophobic?” 

“No,” Lando said. “I just don't trust Las Vegas to pull this fucked up magic trick off without killing somebody in the process.”

“You can breathe,” Oscar said. “If I can breathe, you can breathe.” 

“Maybe you’re taking up all the oxygen, though,” Lando said. Oscar realized how close they were standing: he could feel the puff of air from Lando’s plosives. “Maybe they didn’t calculate right for two people.” 

There was a second roar, a little louder this time. Williams. Alex and Franco were probably waving to the crowd, blinking in the glare of the Las Vegas neon. Oscar didn’t like how much time there had been between the two waves of applause. They weren’t opening the boxes very quickly, then. 

He tried to think of something to say to get Lando’s mind off the oxygen situation. “Is Martin here this weekend?”

“Stop trying to distract me,” Lando snapped.

Oscar, chagrined, went silent. They stood still for a few moments. Oscar wondered if the rabbitty thump he could hear, very very faintly, was Lando’s heartbeat. 

“Yeah,” Lando said, finally. “He's here. And Max and P, too.” 

“Nice,” Oscar said, relieved. “What are you doing after the race?”

“Dunno,” Lando said. He drew a shallow breath. “Club or something. Maybe just leave.”

“Cool.” There was a thump on the box, which rattled it. Lando drew in another breath, this one quick and sharp. Nothing else happened, or rocked the box, but Lando’s breathing was still fast and shallow. 

Oscar made an executive decision: he reached out blindly for where he assumed Lando’s arm would be. 

Lando yelped.

“Sorry! Sorry, it's me. Obviously.”

“I know that,” Lando snapped. “Just wasn't— expecting it.” He didn't pull away. “What is it?”

“Just making sure we don't bump into each other,” Oscar lied. He ran his hand down Lando’s arm, found his wrist. He wrapped a hand around it, finding Lando’s pulse point. 

“What are you doing?” Lando asked. He sounded wary, nervous.

“Sorry, just— stay still, yeah?” Lando’s pulse was fast, and getting faster. “I’m just making sure I know where you are. I don't want to ram my head into yours if I move.”

“Right.” Lando didn't seem terribly convinced. 

“I know what Lewis had for lunch,” Oscar said. 

“What?” Lando asked, after a long moment. 

“He had a big bowl of coleslaw. With beans on the side. I guess it was the vegan option.”

“Oh.. kay?”

“So,” Oscar said, and waited for Lando to think about it. “George is trapped in a box with him. For at least fifteen minutes.”

It took Lando a few seconds. Then he cackled. “Oh, nasty.”

“Right.” 

“God, poor George.”

“Do you think he’ll say anything?”

“George?” Lando scoffed. “He’ll probably apologize. ‘Oh, sorry Lewis, I’m sure that was me…’”

Oscar grinned. He could feel Lando’s pulse slowing under his thumb. “If you're worried about anybody not surviving this, it should be George. He's being fumigated.” 

Lando cackled again, louder. “Do you think the Grand Prix has insurance for accidentally gassing a driver?” 

“They will after tonight.” 

“Ah, George. Well, he had a good run.” 

“RIP,” Oscar said, solemnly. “Died the way he lived.” 

“Usually it was Alex though…”

By then they were both laughing, and Lando’s pulse had steadied. When they quieted, he still hadn’t pulled away. A third cheer went up finally: this one was probably for Yuki and Liam, third from the bottom in the constructor’s standings. Oscar hoped Liam was enjoying these moments while he had the chance. 

After a moment Oscar shivered, the cold seeping in through his flimsy windbreaker. Lando moved a little closer. “Thanks,” he said. 

“For what?” 

“Just—being the calm one, I guess.” 

Oscar smiled. His own pulse had picked up, rather than slowed. Lando’s wrist was warm in his hand. “No problem.”

[zorosdimples]

cw: mourning, angst, and hurt/comfort. sweet ino takuma. in the same vein as this post. dedicated to @schrodingers-romy mwah mwah <3

it’s fucked up.

days bled into weeks, weeks seeped into months, and you’re still neck deep in the tides of mourning. along with the love of your life died your future, your hope. the once cosy apartment you shared with kento is a shell of a home—a painful memory of what could have been.

you’re curled in a ball on your sofa, the spot where he always settled at the end of a grueling day: tie discarded, collar unbuttoned, belt removed, scotch in hand. his clothes still hang in the closet (your therapist says it’s okay to take your time with his belongings, so you do). you’re swimming in his old, faded grey sweatshirt, along with a pair of pajama pants you bought him for his last birthday.

takuma is kneeling on the floor in front of you, beanie tossed aside, running a calloused palm up and down your forearm. you bemoaned your appearance when he showed up at the door with your favorite takeout, but he can’t help but think of how beautiful you are, even with swollen eyes and bitten lips and tears for another man—his mentor—glistening like dewdrops on your cheeks.

i’m fucked up.

“i’m s-sorry it always ends up like this,” you croak, a wry chuckle fluttering past your lips, dying almost instantly. you flash him a pathetic smile and use the sweatshirt cuff to swipe at your dripping nose. “go, takuma. you’ve done enough for me already. you should have fun instead of listening to me cry.”

the young man simply shakes his head, umber eyes filled with a bone-deep warmth—a hearty soup on a snowy day. “i want to stay.” please don’t make me leave. he squeezes your hand. “you don’t have to be alone right now.” all i can think about is you.

for the first time all evening, you grace takuma with a genuine smile, its radiance piercing his heart and flooding his bloodstream. he feels lightheaded as he sits next to you on the couch, like his chest might explode when you snuggle into his side. he wants nothing more that to kiss the tears from your face and swallow your sorrow and carry it as his own. but he’ll wait—he’ll always wait for you.

i’m sorry, nanami. but i think i’m in love.

[veliseraptor]

🍄🍄🍄 :3

⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

both Pete and Vegas have separation anxiety. for Vegas it's about the anxiety that Pete is going to leave and not come back and he gets really frustrated with himself about it because it's a problem and he needs to be chill about Pete going off to do other things that aren't just about him (tall order).

meanwhile, for Pete it's about Vegas dying when he's not looking. after all, he's already almost failed to keep him alive once and it would be too easy for him to actually fail at it a second time. if he's not looking at Vegas then Vegas is a little bit Schrodinger's Vegas.

anyway this means they're both very weird about it when they're not in the same place and get substantially more comfortable when they are. Vegas thinks that this is a problem more than Pete does; as far as Pete is concerned Vegas thinks a lot of things are a problem that don't have to be, but that's also Pete's coping mechanism and he'll be damned if anyone gets to take it away from him.

[tertiaryapocalypse]

my piece for the disabledstuck zine, which you can check out here!! it looks really cool all together ^_^

[id: an illustration of john, jade, rose, dave, and davesprite sitting together, in what is presumably a living room. behind them are a variety of posters displaying theirs and the alpha kid's interests, including, from left to right: a picture of kamina from gurren lagann, a national treasure poster, a signed & elaborately framed drawing of sweet bro and hella jeff hugging, a squiddles poster which has been drawn on top of to look like the beta kids, an image of schrodinger with cat ears and whiskers drawn on in pink, a framed photo of sigmund freud, a poster for the movie contact, a photo of obama with red hearts drawn all over it, a wizard print, a poster for bbc sherlock, a print for problem sleuth, a horse calendar with orange annotations on the image and every day crossed out in red up until the 26th of july, a printed image of jigsaw, and a printed image of lil nas x. behind all of the other posters and images is a large photo of neyteri. the wall is a light bluish grey, and the floor is hardwood. june and dave sit on a light green couch with a floral pattern. davesprite is an orange sprite who is slightly glowing. he has similar features as dave, though wing wears his hair in short locks and has a septum piercing. he has gauges and a black beaded bracelet. wing leans on the top of the couch with his arms crossed and wings tail floating behind him, looking over at dave with a lazy expression as dave talks. dave is a blasian person with medium dark skin, short curly hair, which is bleached blond, braces, and aviator shades. she wears a dark red hoodie, dark grey skinny jeans, and a similarly red beanie, as well as green socks with dinosaur bones patterned on. he has a star of david pin and a system flag pin. he leans on the couch and has one leg crossed over the other. john grins, seemingly laughing at dave. she's a chinese-brazilian boy with lighter skin, square rimmed glasses, some stubble, and long straight dark hair in a ponytail. she has his ears pierced and wears a trans necklace, as well as his typical tee shirt and a pair of grey cargo shorts. she leans against the arm of the couch. rose and jade both sit on the floor with their backs to the couch. rose is knitting a pink scarf, listening to their conversation while making an amused expression. it's a blasian girl with curly lavendar hair. she has dark makeup on, and wears a black t-shirt with a purple pleated skirt and black socks. she wears compression gloves and black earrings shaped like the star of david. jade leans on it's knee, sleeping peacefully. jade is a chinese-brazilian person with long wavy dark hair, streaked with white. they have white dog ears and a tail, though said tail is hidden. they habe rounded glasses and wear a dark green cargo skirt and dave's shirt. dave, rose, and davesprite have rounded chins, wide, flat noses, and full lips, while june and jade have slightly more angular chins, hooked noses, and thinner lips. john and dave both have canes leaning against the couch. june's is green and has an offset handle, and daves is a red folding cane. end id.]

[lazywitchling]

The Three-but-actually-Six Card Spread

I vote that we call this one Schrodinger's Spread, because I don't know whether I'm gonna draw three or six until I've already pulled the cards.

So, I used to try to do the usual three card spread. You know the one. Every tarot book lists it as Past Present Future, unless you have a quirky deck, and then they've probably rebranded it as something else. You can find lists of three card spreads with different questions to ask. IT'S A WHOLE THING. There's like. a whole three-card-spread industry or something. But anyway: it always confused me.

I am absolutely not a tarot expert. I put down three cards, and then I can stare at it for an hour going "I have no idea what this means." The standard guidebook keywords float through my head, but I wasn't sure how to make an actual READ out of that.

I started following @unhelpfultarot, who is anything but unhelpful. Seeing the daily two card pull and the way that the two cards are connected into (usually) a single sentence made the lightbulb come on. "Oh THAT'S how you do it!" So I started just reading two cards at a time, but as a single unit, like Lenormand. And once I got a handle on that, I started adding the third card back in. Then I'd have two pairs of cards to read! 1>2 and 2>3.

Well, at some point, I was like "Hey what happens if I put a card down below those three, and used that as a sort of connection-between-them card?"

So now it looks like this:

1 2 3 4 5

Where "4" is not its own answer, it's just what connects 1 and 2. The same thing for 5: it just connects 2 and 3 without being its own answer.

WELL, then I'm looking at that, and I said "Hey, now I've generated another pair, so I can lay down ANOTHER card to connect those two!

1 2 3 4 5 6

"Hey, Jes? That's... that's a six card spread..."

Shhhhhhhhh. Who asked you.

"Crow did."

Hush, imaginary reader.

Anyway, so now what I've got is the original read, the three most important cards, 1 2 3. And btw, this whole thing is usually to answer ONE SINGLE QUESTION, because-- actually, @windvexer explains it better than I can here. (HEY. YOU. DON'T SKIP THAT LINK, ACTUALLY CLICK IT, THANK YOU.)

So what I have now is one question that is answered by a sentence (1-2-3), with two cards that don't tell me NEW information but that tell me what each pair is saying to each other (4 and 5), with a final one that's sort of a TL;DR card (6).

"Jes. That is a six card spread."

CORRECT, and as @upthewitchypunx and others have said, if I were charging money for this, yes absolutely this is a six card spread, and you're not getting it for 50% off.

BUT HERE'S HOW THE WHOLE THING HAPPENS IN A REAL WORLD SCENARIO

I pick up my tarot deck. I think "I'm going to do a three card reading." I pull three cards, lay them down, read. If they make sense, cool, I put them away and move on.

If I get confused though, then it's upside-down pyramid time, and I'll lay down the other three. This either results in "Ohhhhhh okay, THAT'S what it's saying," or I confuse myself EVEN more (which is very easy to do).

In that case, it's still living in my head as a three-card-spread, because that's the important part that I'm actually reading. But if I set out to pull the inverted pyramid from the get-go, then it's a six-card-spread.

This is where I'm legally obliged to put PREMEDITATED in all caps for @friend-crow

My joking answer, which wasn't FULLY a joke, is that nothing I do is premeditated. I don't MEAN for there to be six cards, but here they are now, and I've got more important questions than "is this still a three-card-spread or is it now a six-card-spread?"

At that point it's like the tarot equivalent of "Is a hot dog a sandwich" and would just trip me up when I'm just trying to eat a hot dog. The answer is "WHO CARES! I got things to do."

(@asksecularwitch 'cause you also had thinky thoughts about all this, and I wanted you to see the upside down pyramid!)

[charles-leclerc-official]

charlos is a perfect love hate relationship. they are also a very very good looking pair

I like to think of them as being in Schrodinger's divorce, not married, not yet divorced but a secret third thing (unresolved sexual tension that doesn't get solved with sex)

It's about the paradoxes.

[theactualsunshinechild]

Just accidentally rolled around my faves in my head a little too much and came up with a new funny little rare pair to be strangely invested in.

Hear me out: I need to put Aventurine and Sampo in a room together.

Scam Artist x Salesman kind of relationship where they're both constantly running a low key con/sales pitch on the other over any and every little thing and they both know it, but it's more fun and challenging that way.

Also I need Sampo to cheat at cards and drive Aventurine insane with it.

Aventurine wants to talk this loser into a loan and Sampo pickpockets his sunglasses and tries to sell them back to him. Aventurine does, in fact, buy them back, knowing full well what he's doing, all to get a foot in the door.

Aventurine doesn't make losing bets and Sampo always gets away scot free, so it's Schrodinger's Win.

A cat and mouse chase with two cats.

Do you see my vision here?

[olreid]

riverdale is.. schrodinger's show? ??

lol re tags on this post i assume? this is actually alfie @hypokeimena's phrase #alfiepilled and literally just means that he does not watch the show but does watch us watch the show and so always at any time any plot point or series of events is possible because riverdale exists in a state of totipotency right up until the moment of viewing the footage to see what actually happened which again he crucially never does.

HOWEVER i have adopted this phrase into my own riverdale lexicon because i think it helps to get at something which is usually kind of difficult to articulate about riverdale's method. riverdale, more than your typical tv program, IS a show where anything can happen, and that quality has not changed or diminished over the course of its run. typically, in tv, as you build out the world and the characters, you become better able to predict what will happen next; the window of probable events grows smaller, even if only slightly. people pair off, foreclosing other relationships; they pick a career, choosing one life over other possible lives they might have lived. even shocking plot twists are operating under a set of basic rules that govern how the setting and the genre operate such that the overarching parameters of what is possible in the world don't change. but not so in riverdale! it's not committed to the sanctity of its own canon, which frees the team up to create a show that reminds me more of a collage; different narrative pieces get swapped around to see what kinds of meanings they might produce with very little preciousness about continuity or canonicity compared to other programs. different storylines are repeated by filtering them through new genres to see what emerges. season 7's premise is a perfect example of this!

the other thing about riverdale that makes it schrodinger's show to me is that it is always operating on multiple registers of reality simultaneously, so that any number of things might be happening at once depending on how you're reading it. for example, in the season 3 g&g plot, many episodes are framed by games of g&g that precisely mirror real-world events going on concurrently in town, e.g. jughead accurately describing archie's prison break as it's happening even though he's not physically there. maybe this is just an extradiegetic narrative device; maybe particular characters are omniscient or psychic in some way; maybe the game itself has powers that allow it to shape the world or the story; maybe riverdale itself only has a certain number of pre-set stories that it can tell. the list could go on. the point is that all of these are equally likely; riverdale does not privilege realism or groundedness, really the opposite, but neither does it often confirm for certain that something supernatural is happening. rather, the viewer is left to interpret for themselves; to choose between these options if they want, or perhaps instead to hold them all simultaneously. indeed, riverdale never forces you to pick, to narrow it down; in riverdale, more than any other show i've ever watched, you can have everything you want, and you can have it all at once, because there is no definitive reality, which means everything is pretty much equally (un)real. the cw is pioneering quantum television and we're here to witness it! what a time to be alive!!!

[canarydarity]

(mooooooooooore DL rancher angst. because what else am I good for </3 /j)

No matter how you looked at it, the knock was startlingly out of place; it was late, late enough that a truce-like state should have fallen over the players, late enough that no one would want to risk running into more mobs than they could handle; it was peaceful, they hadn’t accrued more than a single pair of red names so far, and he didn’t think they’d given Ren and Bigb a reason to come after them—at least, not more than anyone else had; it was also them, all season people had been coming and going from the ranch as they pleased, not an ounce of courtesy in sight. If someone really wanted to come in, they woulda just done it. 

So, all in all…a knock?

Tango was already up and halfway across the room by the time his brain had synthesized these as the reasons why. 

Behind him, Jimmy called a wobbly and worried “Tangooo?” 

“Just,” Tango threw a hand backward towards the bed in hopes of staving off Jimmy’s shadow until he figured out what was going on. “Stay there, for a second.” 

Like some cut-off had been reached, the second he was close enough to wrap his hand around the handle all haste had vanished—the feeling of urgency holding a negative association with his proximity to the door. He’d had the nerve to get up, to get himself there, but getting his hand to turn and push was an entirely different thing. 

The door not yet having been opened, the possibility of what was waiting for him on the other side yawned and stretched towards endless. In a way, not knowing but speculating was worse than just opening the damn thing and facing the one singular scenario that was, but that was why he struggled to do it. Schrodinger’s danger—this was stupid; Tango opened the door. 

No one was there. 

He blinked in the face of its emptiness for a moment. Of all the situations he had considered, absolutely zero of them included opening the door to nothing. The one definite thing a knock spoke to was the presence of someone—something. So, what, they risked the middle of the night in peace times to come to the ranch they all loved barging into anyway to ding-dong ditch? That seemed, like, a gazillion times more unlikely.  

Tango moved to shut the door, trying to shake off the adrenaline, the too-familiar feeling of someone else being a step ahead of him and bemused by it. He ducked to turn back to Jimmy, play the brave one, laugh it off in hopes Jimmy would follow, and then, he saw: just a glint in the corner of his eye, something small and shiny on the doorstep. 

A golden apple. 

Tango stared at it the way you’d stare at a car crash you hadn’t the chance to get out of the way of in time, the look a doctor had in their eye when they announced your prognosis was bad, abysmal, terminal. It was the brightest thing for yards—a glowing, unignorable fixed point; the kind of bright that in tree frogs usually indicated poisonous, the kind of glowy cartoonists made chemicals when they wanted you to know falling in would reduce you to bones. And it just sat there. 

“Tango,” behind him, the bed creaked. “What is it?” 

Urgency returned, and, with renewed purpose, Tango moved once more. Fear flooded his senses again—it hadn’t really gotten very far to begin with—but this time it was of a different breed, born from someplace else. He tried to both square himself in the doorway, block the view out, and regain nonchalance, affecting some sort of behavior that would convince Jimmy to just leave things be. “Nothing, don—”

But Jimmy was already behind him, and Tango wasn’t tall enough to obstruct his line of sight. 

“Oh.”

And it sort of felt like Tango had failed. Failed what he didn’t know but by the stone in his stomach he knew that he had. He tracked the feeling all the way down his throat and through his middle, getting hooked and snagging on his organs as it went, pulling them with it until he was completely out of alignment, rearranged all wrong; the moment where you opened a test booklet and realized you didn’t know a single answer. 

He shook his head, an aborted no becoming no more than a breath that passed his lips at just the right angle to whistle or whine. He bent down and picked up the apple, and, no sooner than he stood again, lobbed it down the hill towards the ravine in some effort to rectify even a modicum of his uselessness. The apple thunked hard into the dewy late-night grass, probably rolled somewhere out of the way; he didn’t know, he couldn't see it anymore—he’d have to grab it and dispose of it at some point, but he could do that in the morning. He had other things to attend to. 

Tango shut the door and turned to assess the damage. 

Jimmy’s arms were goosebumped where they were exposed—just his white undershirt left on to sleep in—and his head was tilted down, the top of it visible to Tango more than anything else, his hair not mused enough yet to be called bedhead though it was certainly a start. Tango took a step towards him, crowded him just a little, placed one of his hands on Jimmy’s waist, skin warmth bleeding through the thin cotton, and the other on the junction where his shoulder met his neck. Jimmy stayed looking down. 

Tango couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say. 

After a few seconds, Jimmy sniffled, pulled up one of his hands and ran it across his nose, mushed it into his cheek. 

“Hey,” he ventured softly, in the absence of any other thought. Jimmy only glanced up slightly. “Let's…go back to bed, yeah?”

If it hadn’t already been clear that all chances of sleep had been banished by the panic of a late-night knock, it was by the way they both responded to that statement by sitting on the side of the bed rather than lying back down. A haze had fallen over the room, a trance-like state prompting them to move in the way they thought they should, in the way it seemed they were being directed; their actions pre-determined, someone else's hand on the joystick. Robotically, they maneuvered onto the bed side-by-side, silence still reigning, eye contact (from one party) still vehemently denied.  

And it just…wasn’t fair. The way there was no period of wondering between the discovery and the understanding, the way Tango didn’t see the apple and question why it was there, but rather knew, innately, what was being poked, prodded at. He hadn’t stopped to doubt, he hadn’t been confused, and maybe that’s what was the most upsetting—not the presence of the apple alone, but the way the person who left it was confident its message would be interpreted without fail. The way Tango was complicit by letting it.

It was the fact that he hadn’t opened the door to a trap or an ambush, but to a taunt; the apple not left behind as some sort of distraction, someone waiting to break in the back while they looked out the front, but as something else entirely, something completely unrelated to the game and its progression. There were no hidden motives, no ulterior plans—only the sadistic amusement that came with throwing a rock into a pond just to see the fish scatter. It didn’t put whoever did it ahead, it didn’t force them to fall any more behind. It just was, and it was cruel. 

Jimmy was still silently staring at the opposing wall, the both of them not even bothering to pretend they weren’t dwelling, and the more Tango sat in the discomfort that had fallen over the ranch, the more he thought, the angrier he got. He couldn’t just be here anymore and not do a single fucking thing about it. He leaned nearly entirely off the bed in his reach for his shoes, shoved his feet into them without precision or care about their security, and was up, diverting on his way towards the door to scrunch the fabric of his vest and pull it off the back of the chair it rested on, before turning on his heel and then he was off—

He was stopped with a hand gripping his forearm in its passing by, came to with Jimmy shouting “Tango!” for what he knew likely wasn’t the first time. 

Tango looked. Jimmy hadn’t gotten off the bed, but he’d leaned forward to latch onto Tango and stop his campaign, his eyebrows raised in misery, his lips downturned in upset. He wasn’t looking away, just around; his eyes landing on the wall behind where Tango was standing, on the door that had remained quiet since they’d shut it again, on Tango’s chest, or his hand around Tango’s arm. It was the closest Tango had gotten to eye contact in minutes. 

“What are you gonna walk around in the dark ‘til you find who put that there?”

Yes, if he had to—if that’s what it took. But before he could even begin to open his mouth, Jimmy pled, “Tango…” like he hadn’t really been asking, like he’d been hoping saying it would confirm Tango knew that idea was nonsense, not that Tango had been meaning to try regardless. It begged for common sense, it betrayed its wish to concede. 

Tango let out all the air he’d reserved for his returning argument as a heavy breath, almost a sigh, a huff. Its frustration was clear. He knew he wasn’t going to find them, he knew there was no conclusion to be had, he knew the joke had already hit and the moment had already ended. He knew that. But he also knew that complacency wasn’t the answer, and that Jimmy deserved to be fought for. 

He could’ve gone out anyway, walked around until the sun started coming up and all the mobs turned to ash—hell, he could’ve knocked on goddamn doors, inspired the same kind of fear in everyone else that a late night interruption in a game like this did them, and then demanded answers, no more Mr. nice guy. At least that way, he wouldn’t have had to lay back down, to have the conversation he hadn’t stopped thinking about since. 

But Jimmy said, “Can we just go back to bed? Please?” And knew it was a request that couldn’t be denied, knew the power in this interaction that being the victim afforded him, and knew how to play his cards to get Tango to fold. 

Tango took his shoes off, again, kicked them out of the way of the bed, gestured behind Jimmy with the hand that wasn’t being detained. Jimmy scooted backward on the bed, Tango’s forearm still in hand like the moment he let go Tango would dash immediately out the door, or dematerialize entirely, maybe; or even…run down the hill in search of something shimmering gold, and find himself unable to resist just one sweet bite. Tango followed him, nudged his shoulder until he complied and laid back down, allowing Tango to pull him closer as he did too. 

Jimmy still didn’t look at him. They were nearly eye to eye, only one pillow to share between them both, face to face in the dark; their foreheads leaning against one another, shifting away only to find each other again after any and all movement. 

Tango watched the sentence form on Jimmy's lips, watched his face rearrange throughout the composing of the question, the stringing of the words in a line, packaging them to be delivered. He swallowed as he awaited its transmission. 

“If it weren’t against the rules, would you…?”

And Tango said, “It is against the rules,” before that could get any further. The wrong answer. He knew immediately after he said it that it was, and he’d kick himself for it if he could any feasibly at all without getting Jimmy in the crossfire. He knew better than to give a non-answer, but he hadn’t been responding to the actual question, his first thought only stop—a futile hope he could head off Jimmy’s negative feedback loop by undermining it at its core. Another failure on his part. 

Jimmy closed his eyes, shook his head, “But if it weren’t—”

“No.” 

Tango placed one of his hands on Jimmy’s cheek, tilted his head back up towards his, but Jimmy’s eyes remained trained down. “No,” he repeated—he insisted. He didn’t need the eye contact to know Jimmy didn’t believe him. 

He leaned up and kissed Jimmy on the forehead, slid his hand from his cheek to the back of his neck and held him closer, but neither of them fell asleep for a while.

[i-just-want-to-destroy]

Thank you for walking study in demonology! Reading it brought me all the way back to the 2019 bnha era. Even tho im a chronic fandom hopper, every once in a while i got pulled back to the bnha fandom like a clinging abused ex gf, cause i feel like no other fandom has given me the same feels as bnha on ao3. It's probably partly because of bnha being a perfect sandbox for ficwriters, but damn you bnha writers are really sth else.

Your work is such an exquisite, heartfelt love letter to the fanfiction medium in general, and the bnha fandom in particular. I hope your pillow is always cool and your socks always come out of the washing machine in pairs.

What's your favourite part about the fic?

hi thanks so much for this ask! super appreciate the kind words :) i agree wholeheartedly i wldnt have started writing my bnha fics if not for the amazing fics ive read from this fandom.

short answer: my favorite part is the process.

super long answer:

(spoilers below fair warning)

demonology has been a learning process for me and also a very strange experience.

ive always been more of an improv writer where i dont really know where a story is going when i write it. with demonology being the way it is, you can surmise that its been a really crazy ride.

ive mentioned this before but it started as an idea of deku being just your typical satanic style exorcist, and as it is a crack fic, i did write it — at the beginning — purposefully to be nonsensical. all the made up “significant” stuff like affinity, authority, even the importance of names and all that — i didnt know what they mean and i didnt care either, i was just making them say whatever that sounded ominous and ridiculous. (often this is for the sake of comedic timing. it is crack after all.)

some comments say the fic didnt make sense, and i agree bc it didnt to me either. but then it DID start to make sense to me. whenever i started to write a new chapter id read back to whatever bullshit i did the previous chap and only then i understood what the hell the characters r talking about. if you look back to the earlier chapters there’d be a lot of foreshadowings, but they werent written to be foreshadowings at the time. its kind of foreshadowing in reverse, bc i only knew what they meant after i wrote them. i didnt know i was writing a meta multiverse time travel fic, but since i did, i had to commit and go crazy.

(in retrospect i think it rly did begin with hitoshi and that cat in ch 3. i didnt even know hitoshi was the “main character” until that chapter. i didnt know that cat was schrodingers cat until i wrote ch 8.)

so u can see how crazy, nonsensical and haphazard the entire writing process of this fic is, which in return gives birth to a crazy, nonsensical and haphazard fic. until its not nonsensical anymore. somehow, there actually is a clear logic in the mechanics of the universe. the cats are schrodinger cats, the demons are maxwell demons, entropies are plotlines which are often riddled with plotholes, the hell is production hell, to be in heaven is to be canonized — and lorem ipsum is the empty blank slate state of the universe. authority actually is authority. the fic gave meaning to itself by the end of it all.

comments ask if i waited for bnha to end — i didnt. bnha ending actually fucked a past version of ch 8, now scrapped. but then it actually … made a better version? and made more sense? its weird.

i did know about some things that were going to happen though. since the first time i had izuku do the “you believe [object] exist,” i always knew i wanted it to be turned back to him (“midoriya izuku doesnt exist”). after i wrote ch 6 i also knew i wanted them to “go back to the beginning” with izuku’s “fall” on the rooftop. but i didnt know until i wrote it that hitoshi was going to choose to fall, too. i know im the author but him choosing that shocked me and i found it moving.

if i had written this “properly”, if i had planned it all with better structuring and better pacing and emotional beats and all that — this might have turned out to be a better written story, in another world. as it is right now there are a lot of flaws that it has. but it wldnt have been the same fic. if not for this fuckass writing process, it wld never have reached the form it takes as of now.

and although it was a very difficult road, i can say wholeheartedly that this strange process has been my favorite part. im doubtful ill ever experience a writing process like this again. the story kept surprising me. a part of why i wanted to finish it was because i wanted to know how it ended too—bc i wldnt know until i wrote it.

of course, at the end of it all, none of us know what their ending is. in the end the story still didnt share its secrets with me and i really really love it for it.

haha this is so long sorry i guess this fic really means a lot to me after all. but yes, thats my answer.

i would also like to thank every reader and commenter once again bc i can honestly say without the feedback and support, this would not have been finished either, or become the way that it is. man. fanfictions, huh?

[shootybangbang]

The Upsides of Property Damage [Part 4/5]

Authored by @verai-marcel and @shootybangbang

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Mature

[Content Advisory]: light D/S undertones

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

[Author's Note]: Thank you guys so, so much for your patience, and so sorry for the delay! Most of chapter 5 has been completed and should be out soon. If you want to be notified when that comes out, go ahead and leave a comment down below and I'll make a taglist or something.

--------

The maintenance request form states: [Please give a brief description of the problem.]

for the past few days i've been so fixated on fucking the maintenance man that i've been having difficulty accomplishing basic tasks because every time i try to concentrate on anything even remotely meaningful all i can think about is him saying "maybe you just enjoy my company" and if this keeps up i'm fairly certain that i'm going to actually get fired from my job so clearly i need to either get laid or get evicted

This statement makes you look certifiably insane. It’s not even a request– it’s a confession . Sending this would be tantamount to seating yourself beside the grated window of a church booth and asking its captive priest whether he’d prefer you spit or swallow.

More importantly, it also exceeds the text box’s 250 character limit. You rapidly tap the delete key until the entire obscene paragraph disappears. Then you try again. 

broken cabinet.

Hmm. Lacks an element of genuine contrition.

broken cabinet. sorry. :’(

[Your service request has been logged. Please allow up to one standard business day for a response.]

You glance at the time displayed on the microwave’s grease-spattered screen. 4:36PM. Morgan’s probably already packed up for the day– and taking normal operating hours into account, the earliest he could possibly show up tomorrow would be 9AM… which gives you at least sixteen hours to emotionally prepare yourself to confront him.

Morosely, you drag yourself out of your kitchen chair to pour yourself a glass of sparkling water. So this is what I’ve sunk to . Using service requests as a means of personal summons for the hot repairman. Pathetic. Shameful. And 100% necessary for the preservation of your sanity.

How many times have you pictured it now? Morgan, cornering you against the wall and wrapping his hand around your jaw… Or maybe , he’d rumble, caressing your lower lip with his thumb. You just enjoy my company . Then he’d fuck you silly, of course, in a series of lurid positions that grow increasingly obscene with each imagining.

And how many times have you pictured its inverse? Morgan, backing away in response to your hypothetical advance, his face contorted with faint disgust as he asks, “You know I was just joking, right?” Following which you’d get written up for sexual harassment by the leasing office and put on… housing probation, or something.

Being humiliated, you can handle. Albeit not very well— but you’re usually able to stay at least semi-functional. The same goes for flirtation. It’s this hopeless vacillation between the two possibilities that drives you out of your mind. Schrodinger’s boner: simultaneously fucked and unfucked. And like that quantum superposition, you’ve been plunged into a private hell of uncertainty until your reality can settle definitively on one or the other.

This has been predictably bad for your job performance. Earlier today, you’d accidentally deleted two entire spreadsheets of data whilst lost in competing visions of fornication and abject rejection, and then constructed a pivot table so incomprehensible that one of your colleagues had personally reached out to ask whether you’d recently experienced head trauma. 

God. At this point, you really have no choice but to put the question to him directly. Plain and simple. Just a quick “are you hitting on me” and it’ll all be–

Your thoughts are interrupted by an urgent knock at the door. 

Huh. Looks like Defying Your Blue Collar Dom is getting delivered a day early? It’s unusual for Amazon to leave packages at your doorstep instead of in the lobby, but it does happen, so…

…Oh.

It’s Morgan. What the fuck.

“But you were supposed to come tomorrow ,” you blurt, eyes wide with panic.

“That so?” Morgan asks, one eyebrow raised. He glances sidelong to the empty hallway, and shifts his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. With a shrug, he squares up his shoulders and turns back towards the stairwell. “Later, then.”

Shit. This is all going wrong. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that I– I, uh…I’m… ”

He allows your stammer to run its course into awkward silence. Then the corner of his mouth angles upwards in a sly smile and he asks, “Or d’you need a minute to put away anything else your ‘friend’ mighta left out? I can wait.”

Somewhere in the realm of missed quips, there probably exists a clever response to this. Somewhere that is decidedly not here. “No,” you reply in a small, pained voice. “She, uh– she hasn’t been around, so… y’know…”

The sentence unspools like loose yarn. Jesus Christ, this is stupid.

“You alright?” Morgan asks, frowning down at you from where he stands. “You ain’t normally this incoherent.”

His comment implies that you’ve been operating thus far on an existing, baseline level of incoherence. Biting back the urge to query exactly what that looks like, you reply with a clipped, terse, “I’m fine.”

As you lead him towards your kitchen, you nearly trip over the half-packed suitcase parked beside the door. At this, Morgan again voices his concern. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this on edge before. Something botherin’ you?”

Yes , you think to yourself. My libido.

“Or is it some one that’s botherin’ you?”

He says the words with such a darkly implicative undertone that you actually turn around to stare at him, disarmed by the sudden shift. The warmth in his eyes has gone out like a blown candle. “Is it one of the other maintenance men?” he asks, and the whisper of lethality in his countenance surfaces so quickly that it speaks to a kind of practiced efficiency. 

A mingled thrill of fear and intrigue runs up your spine, and you swallow hard.

“If one of ‘em’s harassin’ you— if anyone’s harassin’ you…” he says these words with slow deliberation, while curling his free hand into a fist, thumb tucked over his folded fingers in that characteristic manner of boxers and street brawlers alike, and god if he were anyone else you’d likely be shrinking against the wall in terror right now. “Then you come tell me. And I’ll handle it.”

You have a sneaking suspicion that his method of conflict resolution involves grievous bodily injury. “Nobody’s bothering me,” you reply. Then, because he still looks vaguely homicidal, you follow up quickly with, “Just had an off day.”

This placates him somewhat. The tension diminishes like a rope going slack, and you realize with a hot pang of humiliation that your underwear is slick with arousal.

It’s not until he’s crouched in front of your broken cabinet, which stands ajar with its wooden door peaked at a 45 degree angle, that you finally work up the nerve to confront him. “So. Morgan.” You lean against the edge of your kitchen countertop like the faux marble might offer you emotional support. “There’s, uh. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

He’s sorting through his tool kit and doesn’t lift his head. Picks through an array of silver chiseled pieces so deftly that you can’t help but wonder what else those hands might be clever at. “Yeah?’ he asks, selecting a screwdriver head. He slips it into the drill chuck, twisting it tight.

“Are you, um…”

Fuck. You can’t say it. Your mouth literally refuses to shape itself to the words. Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Are you thirsty? You want some seltzer?”

Morgan blinks, then turns to you looking predictably baffled. “That’s… what you’ve been wantin’ to ask me? Whether or not I’m thirsty?”

“Yes,” you reply weakly.

For once, it’s him who’s been caught off guard. “I– uh. Sure, I guess.”

He takes his drill and begins to remove the damaged hinge. Taking the door leaf and flipping it this way and that, he examines the damage.

The crack of aluminum when you pull back the can’s metal tab and the responding fizz of compressed air sounds a little like a rebuke. Scathingly, it hisses: what the hell are you doing?

I have no idea , you admit, pouring the can of sparkling water into a clean glass. You pass it over to Morgan after he presses the trigger on the drill twice and sets it on the countertop. He gulps down an absent mouthful, then immediately stands up to spit it in your sink.

Oh. He hates it.

Your voice is thin as a reed. “I guess you’re not a fan of sparkling grapefruit, huh?”

“It’s…” With the duty-bound reluctance of a dog given a loathed order, he takes another, tentative sip, and forces himself to swallow. “It’s fine.”

It is clearly not fine. “Do you, uh. Do you want a beer?”

“What, you encouragin’ me to drink on the job?”

You open the fridge. Good god, you might as well partake too. It’s not like you’re in any state to get any work done, stuck as you are in this miserable limbo . “In any case, I’m gonna have one. And I’m still on the clock.”

“Alright.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “So long as you’re complicit, why not?”

You end up downing half a bottle of 8% oatmeal stout in about three sips, then stand around blankly waiting for the roil of anxiety to abate. You’d attempt the precarious endeavor of small talk were it not for the fact that the only thing you can think of right now is “grapefruit”. Not the concept of grapefruit. Just the word “grapefruit”. This must be how computers feel when they spit out the same, continuous error message.

Mercifully, he intervenes. “You goin’ on vacation somewhere? Saw that suitcase by your door.”

“Catsitting,” you say.

“’…s’cuse me?”

“Catsitting. Like… babysitting. But for a cat,” you explain. “My friend’s going to Vegas the day after tomorrow, and her cat has anxiety.”

“Cats can get anxiety?”

“This cat takes cat Xanax . His name is Sebastian, and he’s the most neurotic animal I’ve ever met.” 

Morgan asks, “Yourself included?”

You make a noise that bears no resemblance to any word in the English language.

He chuckles. “Well, go on, tell me how neurotic he is.”

Thank fucking christ, the alcohol is finally beginning to course its way through your blood. Your tongue loosens enough to tell him how poor Sebastian had spent nearly an entire day curled up under your friend’s bed the first time you’d tried to take care of him, how you’d ended up driving to the grocery on a Sunday morning to scour the shelves for the most pungent can of sardines they had in stock, and how only then , with the room saturated in fish fumes, had the cat finally dragged itself out of the boxspring to nose curiously at your offering.

Morgan laughs. A good sign, you think. “That’s nothin’,” he says, and describes to you his boss’ cat: a purebred white Persian appropriately dubbed “The Count”, so thoroughly spoiled that she won’t eat the same meal twice in a row.

You snort at the image of a prissy little fluff ball turning her nose at a gourmet cat meal.

“Though it’s funny, I never took you for a cat person,” he says.

“No?”

“Figured you’d prefer snails.”

“Look, snails… snails are…” This is a sentence you started with absolutely no knowledge of how it should end. “I like snails,” you say lamely.

“Oh yeah? Think I remember somethin’ else that you like.” He puts his hand around his jaw and pretends to look thoughtful. “What was that book called again? Somethin’ about… bein’ punished by blue collar doms?”

“I’m sure that my friend who left her book on blue collar doms here very much enjoys them, if that’s what you’re referencing.”

He merely chuckles indulgently as he continues to fix the cabinet. You watch his muscles flex under his shirt as he drills new holes into the wood and sets the new hinge in place. As he works the power tool with a soft grunt, you find yourself idly wondering if he’d make the same sound as he drills you —

“Y’know,” he comments, stepping back as he tests the alignment of the door. “I’m actually kind of impressed. This is the most work I’ve ever had to do for a single apartment, barring natural disasters.”

“Wow. Comparing a girl to a natural disaster. Are you this charming with all the tenants, Mr Morgan?”

“You gonna be jealous if I say ‘yes’?”

The alcohol makes you honest. “Extremely.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” He grabs the edge of the kitchen counter and hauls himself back to his feet. “If this is the amount of property damage you cause normally, then I’d hate to see you angry.”

He takes another step forward. You take a step back reflexively, but find yourself pressed against the wall. He leans his forearm against the drywall and he’s close enough now that you can smell sweat and machine oil. Your heart beats hard in your chest. 

For once you’re lost for words. No quip comes to mind, for your brain is emitting sparks. “I, uh– I’m not–”

“You’re not what, exactly?” 

“I don’t know,” you say weakly.

He raises his hand to your jaw, tips your chin up with two fingers. “The answer’s ‘no’, by the way,” he says quietly. “It’s just you.”

Morgan looks like he’s going to kiss you. The expression on his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it, all his gruffness melted away. You tentatively tug at the fabric of his jumpsuit and stand on your toes to–

But he puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down. “Goddamn,” he says, frowning. “You’re really red.”

Huh. What.

“Listen, I ain’t one for takin’ advantage of drunks, even if they got themselves into this mess.” He picks you up as if you weigh nothing at all and sets you down on the couch. “Now, I’m goin’ to get you some water, and yer goin’ to sit here and sober up while I finish this cabinet. Alright?”

“I’m not even that drunk,” you protest loudly.

“Yer about the color of a fire hydrant right now.”

When you press the back of your hand to your cheeks and forehead, your skin feels feverish. Begrudgingly, you sink down into your couch cushions and cross your arms.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, patting your head affectionately.

***

You slouch on your friend’s comfy couch with Sebastian sitting regally in your lap as if you were his loyal subject.

“Hey Sebastian, I think I did something really stupid.”

Sebastian stretches and yawns. 

“I hit on the maintenance man.”

He meows. It sounds almost disapproving. Even the cat is judging you. 

“It gets worse.” You loll your chin downwards until it touches your chest. “I was sloppy drunk.”

Sebastian tilts his head at you and blinks.

“Okay, one bottle drunk.”

He sniffs haughtily.

“Right? Pathetic, I know.” You move to pick up Sebastian, but he begins to arch his back and you stop, leaning back against the cushions again. He relaxes and maintains his regal position.

“Well, maybe YouTube will keep my mind off him for the next two days…”

***

You return from your friend’s place, having used her cat and your friend’s YouTube Premium as your therapy sessions. You feel better about things now, and life should return to normal. Right?

The washer’s inner mechanism gives a promising rattle as it swallows your last six quarters. There’s a low rumble of moving parts, the click of something slotting into place— and then silence. The drum of the machine sits sedately in place. Your dirty clothes sit inside in a quiet, unsoaked heap.

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter under your breath. 

You try out a couple different methods: Turn the knobs to various settings without success. Jiggle the handle to try and unlock the washer door. Yell at the machine, call it a worthless piece of shit.

But where discourse fails, violence often prevails. It’s a lesson that has offered a decent measure of success in your dealings with vending machines, keurigs, and lawnmowers. So it’s not merely anger that guides you to kick the washer. No, this is… this is a strategic use of force.

The first kick yields no results. The second kick produces an interesting sputter. Perhaps , you reason, a more precise method is needed here . You raise your fist.

Before you can punch the machine, someone grabs you by the wrist.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Morgan asks, exasperated.

“Laundry,” you answer matter-of-factly.

“What part of laundry involves fightin’ inanimate objects?”

“The part where I get this piece of shit to finally work.” You attempt to give the washer a last parting shot out of pure anti-machine sentiment with your other hand.

Before you can continue to perform percussive maintenance, he grabs your other wrist too.

You tug on both your arms, but he is ridiculously solid; it’s like trying to break free of handcuffs.

Of course my mind goes there.

Looking up at him, he’s realizing at the same time as you of how suggestive this looks. His eyes widen a bit, and you take that as a look of surprise and embarrassment. Yet neither of you moves for a full minute.

“Well,” you say finally. “Are you gonna let me go? Or are you gonna make me submit?”

His eyes narrow for a moment before a smirk slowly grows on his face. “Sounds like that’s what you want.”

He pulls you away from the machine and instead pushes you up against the closest wall. You can feel the heat of his body through the thin linen of your sundress. He traps your wrists against the cold surface and presses his whole body against yours. 

“Mr Morgan—”

“It’s Arthur,” he interrupts. “Call me Arthur.”

You whisper his name, beckoning. His expression darkens ever so slightly as his desire for you manifests in a slight twitch of his lips, a crinkling of his brow.

Then he kisses you hard, his tongue lashing against yours before lightly nipping your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and his pupils are blown out with desire.

Letting go of your wrists, he reaches for the hem of your sundress and hikes it up, his calloused hands stroking upwards from your thighs to your hips. He shifts his knee between your legs and nudges them apart before grinding against you. You can feel how hard he is, how big he is, and you moan softly. Burying his head between your neck and shoulder, he begins to suck on the delicate skin there—

The door creaks open. Mrs. Smith, the septuagenarian from down the hall, walks into the doorway with a hamper of laundry in her arms, then pauses when she sees the two of you.

For a second, everyone stands tense and still as participants in a shootout.

“Well,” Mrs. Smith says mildly. She doesn’t look surprised or scandalized. If anything, she looks mildly entertained. “I can see you two are busy. I’ll come back in an hour or so—”

“No! It’s fine,” you say before laughing nervously. You yank your skirt back down. Arthur immediately releases you and begins intensely inspecting the washing machine. “I was actually just leaving. This, uh, this machine’s broken.”

Morgan’s face is red as he makes a noise of confirmation and nods.

“That certainly seemed a novel means of repair,” Mrs. Smith says. The smile on her face is benign, but knowing.

“Anyway!” You pick up your empty laundry basket. “I really must get back. I have a…that is, I… I think I left my oven on.”

You barrel out the door, nearly knocking Mrs. Smith over in your escape. You run down three flights of stairs and into your apartment, slamming the door shut. Marching to your couch, you put a pillow over your face and scream .

***

Watching her leave, Arthur stands in shock at first, then glances over at Mrs. Smith and turns himself towards one of the washing machines, examining it with great focus.

A soft chuckle reaches his ears and he turns his head to look at the old lady, steadily pulling out one piece of laundry at a time from another machine. Under the pretense of examining all the machines, he notes that she also slowly and methodically loads the dryer.

“You should just go after her,” she says quietly, throwing a pair of large pink underpants into the dryer. “She’s a nice one, that girl.”

Arthur can only mutter, “I got work to do.”

“Come now, we both know that’s a lie.”

He sighs. It’s bad enough that John is on his case, but now 705 is giving him grief. 

“Do you like her?”

He’s silent. He does not want to be having this conversation.

“Because a girl as pretty as her…”

“I know, I know,” Arthur grumbles. “I’m goin’.”

As he walks past her, Mrs. Smith grins knowingly.

[species-dysphoria-culture-is]

species dysphoria culture is having more than one sona, and simultaneously being all four of them in a flux. sometimes i want to stretch my big feathered wings before i remember that wait, this form doesnt have those. 1, theyre dragon wings, 2, the meatsuit has none of this stuff. so now i want to stretch schrodingers feathery-dragon wings but theyre not physically there to start with. argh.

like nobody is stopping me from changing them, or hell, even have two different pairs if i wanted to, but modifying my "base" designs themselves just feels wrong. thats me, thats my true forms! so i can summon the feathery wings just fine on a good day, but those are not my own. its a temporary addition.

i wouldnt say it gets to the point of being dysphoric about my sonas species (imagine species dysphoria squared oh void) but its mildly annoying to have to manifest certain specific trait combinations sometimes on top of having a human body. especially when android and organic stuff gets mixed up, thats not very fun...

sorry for the long wall, it got really specific very fast,,,

.