#and the way it gives you such a visceral picture in snippets of what life looks like for a bunch of people

[edge-oftheworld]

community experts around the world take note, ashton irwin has channeled his alter ego psychology (honours) student to demonstrate the ultimate strategy for community engagement on important issues using the low budget technology of Instagram—

[elvensorceress]

I had too many feelings after yesterday’s episode. So, here. Have an angsty snippet of angst. 

Everything Is Fine

It’s not the loss of light that bothers him, or even the whole station living on top of each other for days on end. It’s the unending heat. Constantly sticky, constantly sweating, constantly too much. But he wants to set a good example for his newfound probie protégé, so he does what he does best. He wears a smile and keeps track of what he can control and shows the world that he’s fine. 

Everything is fine. 

Except that nothing is. 

The blackout, the power outages, the zoo escapees, the sad food, the lack of his own cellphone — that he can handle. All things considered, they’re nothing really. Especially after last year. It’ll be over eventually. Those aren’t the things that keep gnawing at his insides and flooding him with worry and visions of a hospital ICU. 

Every time he closes his eyes. Eddie is pale, intubated, unconscious, fighting for his life. 

What if his heart is broken? What if the extreme hypovolemic shock and blood loss and trauma to his body weakened his heart? What if there’s residual damage? What if he had some kind of underlying condition that was aggravated when he nearly died four months ago? What if he suffers an attack or his heart starts failing and they can’t get him to a hospital this time? 

There is no chance in any sort of hell that Buck will just drop it and move on. 

He knows Eddie’s been carefully avoiding him the past few days. Not enough to be obvious. Not enough to make it seem like it’s anything out of the ordinary. To anyone else that is.  He still smiles when they’re near each other and sits beside Buck when they eat like they always do.

He’s just not talking. About anything more than work. 

And after something clearly happened when his girlfriend stopped by with salad and Christopher, Buck is done. He’s done. It’s not okay. He’s not ready to be a single parent. He’s not ready to watch Eddie crash and slip away from them. Everything around them is sweltering, suffocating, and he can’t bear to watch Eddie stop breathing. 

So, no. He’s not going to give up. Ever. 

He’s also not sure what to do with the revelation that Eddie is having panic attacks so intense and visceral that 1) he has to see a cardiologist and 2) are over the thought of his long term relationship becoming serious. 

Eddie and Ana are supposed to be great. They’re supposed to be doing well together. Eddie is supposed to be happy. He has to be because if he’s not then all of this is so much worse than Buck ever could have imagined. 

He’d been working on his relationship with his parents. He’d upgraded himself, turned a page, started a new phase. He’d been thinking about the future he wanted. 

Dr. Copeland told him to make a list — they could be goals, they could be dreams, it didn’t matter how far-fetched or ridiculous they seemed. She told him it was good to figure out what he wants his life to be and what he wants out of it. It would help him take steps toward those things. 

He knew it wasn’t possible. He knew it was a future he could never have. But it was a dream that existed, okay? 

When he looks at the smile on Christopher’s face, when he thinks of the way Christopher turns to him for help, when he feels the way Christopher hugs him and melts because he’s safe and loved and happy when Buck holds him. 

When he thinks of his own safe person, of reassurance, of compatibility, of comfort, of happiness, there’s no one he can picture but Eddie.

He can’t imagine a future without them. He doesn’t want a life without them. 

But he can only have so much. He knows that. It’s fine. Everything is. He just filled his nights off with an endless string of first dates that went nowhere instead of playing video games and watching movies and cooking dinner with his favorite people. 

He didn’t think about being replaced. He’s not a Diaz and never will be. He wouldn’t be missed. He had plenty of things to do on his own. If a lot of them turned out to be listening to Albert talk about the people he’d met while out clubbing and the ones he’d kissed or wanted to kiss, it was Buck’s fault for asking what he was up to. 

His loft was so quiet without roommates. Too quiet. When Albert was gone. When everyone was gone. 

But it was supposed to be worth it. Because Eddie was supposed to be happy. 

How the fuck can he stay with someone, knowing she is probably in love with him by now, when he knows he’s not in love with her? When he knows the thought of being with her and having a future together is something that literally, physically hurts him? 

How can it be enough? How can he live through giving up time with Chris? Time with Eddie? If this is what he gave that up for?

He stepped back. He made room because Eddie wanted someone and should have someone, and Buck knows there’s nothing on the future list for the two of them as anything more than what they already are. 

And that’s fine. He can live with that, too. As long as they still have each other in some way, as long as Eddie is alive, as long as Christopher is still somewhat his, Buck can accept it. 

But not like this. Not when Eddie is miserable and hurting himself and hurting someone who probably loves him. It’s not fair to any of them. 

“I have been Ana,” he says before he can ever rein in depth and layers of unrequited love. Maybe it’s not fair, but neither is holding on while you have one foot out the door or your whole entire self on another continent. 

Abby let him love her. She knew Buck loved her, wanted her, wanted to be with her. If she’d asked, he might have even followed her. But she didn’t ask and didn’t want him in return. Didn’t even tell him. In the end, he’d fallen in love with a ghost. A shadow. She confessed she wasn’t herself with him, and he wanted to say he didn’t know and couldn’t feel it. But he could. 

He’s not sure anymore if he’s ever known what it’s like to be loved by someone in that way. 

It hurts worse than the truth. The uncertainty, the knowing but having no confirmation, the suspicion and doubt. It breeds insecurity and jealousy and he already lacks in the department of self worth. 

If Eddie asked, there’s no question, no limit to what he’d give.

But he won’t ask. He wants to stick it out and hurt every single one of them. 

So, Buck leaves him to contemplate while he goes outside in the roasting sun. It’s too much. Too much heat and not enough relief. Too much always, always pulsing in his chest. The air smells and tastes even more toxic. Metallic, noxious pollution hovering within everything. 

It’s not fine. He doesn’t know how Eddie can be okay with it. 

[iceeckos12]

time travel snippet

little time travel au oneshot. season 5 jon travels back in time to season 1. from the perspectives of tim, martin, and sasha. 3.5k.

i dont think i need to tag anything, but please let me know otherwise.

Tim wakes up that morning, and it’s just like any other day.

Well—no, okay, that’s a bit misleading. Today is his first day working as an archival assistant, so he’s one part nervous, one part that breathless, exhilarated feeling you only get when you’re about to do something unfamiliar that may or may not redefine your life for the foreseeable future. When he says “it’s just like any other day”, he means that he wakes up, and he’s a normal person doing normal people things like eating a healthy breakfast and going to work.

(So, no. In short, he doesn’t realize that today is the day when It happens, that big, life-changing event that you think will Never Happen To You.)

He gets out of bed, stumbles into the bathroom. Washes his face of whatever residue that’d built up during the night, tries to scrape away the evidence of his nightmares, smiles big and bright at the mirror to see how successful his efforts were. He’s betrayed by the traitorous bags beneath his eyes, but that’s okay. Sasha taught him how to wield concealer as a shield whenever his past wore down his armor.

He shoots twin finger guns into his reflection, making soft pew, pew! noises that are almost too-loud in the hush of the bathroom. Then he turns on his heel and walks away, sauntering and humming along with the chorus of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5.

He gets to the Institute twenty minutes before he’s supposed to—not because he’s trying to impress his boss or whatever (he and Jon have known each other long enough that there’s no point). It’s just, Jon will probably want to make some sort of game-plan before the actual workday starts. 

The poor man had been relieved to an almost comical degree when Tim had said yes, I’ll come with you to the Archives. It’s painfully obvious how out-of-his-depth Jon is with the whole “Head Archivist” thing. Tim’s honestly baffled as to why Elias had singled him out for the position in the first place, considering his lack of qualifications.

But, whatever. It’s fine! Tim and Sasha will be there to help him—although the third assistant is a bit of a problem, considering that they know absolutely nothing about him. There’s no guarantee that this Martin Blackwood won’t report inadequacies or mistakes back to Elias. If that’s the case, Tim and Sasha will have to be Jon’s safety net, which is partially why Tim is hoping to talk to Jon before anyone else gets there.

He also wants to talk to Jon because he just knows the man is probably working himself up over all of this. Maybe reassurances won’t do away with the source of anxiety entirely, but at least it’ll remind Jon that he’s not alone, and that he can count on Tim and Sasha.

As expected, when Tim gets there he can see a sliver of light pouring out from the cracked door of the Head Archivist’s office. He selects a desk and sets his bag on top of it, noting a set of strange gouges in the fake wood with a raised eyebrow, and then an internal shrug. The Institute issued laptop is near the far edge of his desk, and his collection of pictures are strategically placed so that he can see them all clearly.

His eyes linger over the image of him, his mother, and his brother. Their smiles are almost perfect replicas of each other, like someone took a mold of one of their faces and recreated it twice over.

Briefly, he closes his eyes. Then he shakes himself, releases a slow, steadying breath, and goes to check on Jon.

Tim’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he goes into Jon’s office.

(That’s misleading too, though. He’s not sure if Jon will be visibly calm or upset, if he’ll be on his laptop, if he’ll be picking at the skin around his fingernails, as he so often does when he’s stressed. He is expecting Jon as he is and always has been—a twenty-some year old going on sixty, who wraps his gruff, grumpy demeanor about himself to protect the soft, vulnerable core he likes to pretend doesn’t exist.)

He comes up to the door, and the soft rectangle of light that emanates from beneath the door paints the tips of his shoes gold. “Jon?” he calls softly, rapping his knuckles against the frame. There’s a soft rustling noise—papers maybe? but no audible response, so he shrugs and pushes the door open. “I’m coming in.”

Tim steps inside, a quip instinctively readying itself on his tongue—but then his gaze lands on Jon, and he freezes dead in his tracks.

Even years later, he still vividly, viscerally remembers the moment he saw Danny standing on the stage underneath the Royal Opera House, the way he’d looked...not quite right. The wrongness had been subtle, so much so that it had been unnoticeable upon first glance, upon second glance. The longer Tim had looked though, the more obvious it had become, exposing all the little faults in that almost-perfect recreation of his brother.

Looking at Jon now, it’s the first and only thing he can think of. Because—yes, there’s the long, silver-streaked black hair, there’s the rich brown eyes, there’s the pair of spectacles that make him look far older than he actually is. But that’s where the similarities between the Jon he knows and this Jon end.

Jon’s always been a small man, but his feigned haughtiness makes him seem much bigger than he actually is. Except—except this Jon looks smaller somehow, his shoulders curved protectively inward, like he’s trying to present less of a target. And there’s something about his face, too—his expression is too sharp, too much—

But the worst of it is his eyes. There’s something very wrong with his eyes.

Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Jon? He doesn’t say it out loud though, just keeps staring at Jon, a heady mix of terror and horror making any sort of reaction impossible.

After a moment Jon’s lips thin, contorted by some distant cousin of displeasure, and he rises to his feet. Tim stumbles instinctively backward, his breath escaping him in a sharp gasp that’s immediately swallowed up by the apathetic stacks of books and papers surrounding them. He’s struck by the fact that if he dies here, it’s unlikely anyone will notice; he’ll become just another set of marks gouged into the desk, willed away with an uneasy shrug.

Jon freezes, lips parting subtly, as though he were about to speak. Tim feels his breath catch in his chest, unable to shake himself out of the clouded stupor his mind has fallen into.

In the end, Jon says nothing. Just releases a long, slow breath of air and sits back down, pushing his chair close to his desk. The motion looks heavy, tired, as though it takes far more energy than it should.

“You—you should go,” Jon rasps, and there’s something off about his voice too, though Tim can’t put his finger on why. He can’t cobble together enough of a train of thought to make sense of any of this, all he can think of is that clown ripping Danny apart—

He stumbles out of Jon’s office, sits down at his desk. Stares down at the cheap, fake wood, at the gouges that have marred the otherwise pristine surface. Puts his head in his hands, and tries to will his heart to stop pounding in his chest.

-0-

Martin’s heard things about Jonathan Sims.

He’s not usually the type to pay attention or encourage gossip, as the vivid memories of his classmates tittering cruelly whenever he walked by still leaves a sour taste in his mouth.The problem with the Institute is that the employees get bored pretty easily. Though most would consider academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal to be fairly interesting, it’s still academic research. And the subject content can get to be a bit...repetitive. There’s only so many gruesome statements you can read without thinking, oh great, more meat.

So the employees gossip a lot, and while Martin usually tries to keep his head down and avoid it, it’s difficult not to overhear some things. And from what little he’s heard, he’s...a bit concerned. Rude and unsociable has frequently been mentioned, as have arrogant and unnecessarily finicky, and worst of all, a bit of a stuck-up know-it-all.

Normally he tries not to put too much stock in office gossip—he’s well aware that the grapevine tends to exaggerate one’s most undesirable traits—but if any of it is true, then he might just be in trouble. It was hard enough being a library employee when his boss wasn’t even paying attention most of the time. If Jon is as exacting as they say, it might be enough to expose the fact that Martin has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. And if that happens, then he might get fired, and he can’t get fired, he needs this job, he can barely keep up with his mum’s medical bills as it is—

Calm down, Martin tells himself firmly, pressing his hand against his sternum, as though that will be enough to quell the rising panic. It’s only your first day. Maybe he’s nice, and we’ll actually be good friends.

(With his luck? Yeah, right.)

The Institute looms in the distance, growing closer with every terrified, grudging footstep. A shiver runs up his spine at the sight of its imposing presence, a dark, ugly blot of a building against the backdrop of the iron grey clouds.

If there’s one thing he’s good at though, it’s keeping his head down and muddling through until he’s able to figure out what is actually expected of him. He can twist and fold himself into whatever role they need him to fill, as he has done so many times in the past. Not easily perhaps, but he has always managed. The alternative is untenable, after all.

So he takes a deep breath, and shoves his panic down as deep as possible. Lifts his head and forces a smile onto his face, like a good attitude will be enough to protect him from his boss’s wrath.

He could really do with a cup of tea.

Martin trudges down the stairs, giving the blank walls, the old-fashioned carpet, a dubious look as he does. The Archives themselves are as he remembers it—he’s been down here a couple of times when Gertrude made a request for something specific, but—

He pauses when he notices a man sitting at one of the desks, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders aren’t shaking and his breathing is even, so Martin doesn’t think that he’s crying? He’s just….sitting there, his stillness so perfect it’s almost inhuman.

“Hello?” Martin calls softly, cautiously, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

The man looks up, revealing a very handsome face and brown eyes so dark they may as well be black. His cheeks are dry but his eyes are bright and a little wild, and his mouth is pressed into a small, tight line. He doesn’t speak, just keeps watching, blinking dazedly in Martin’s direction. Martin gets the feeling that this person isn’t entirely there at the moment, like a house in which every room is lit, but there are no people inside.

He swallows and shifts nervously back and forth, trying to decide whether or not to call for some backup. Eventually he sets his bag on the floor and shuffles a bit closer. “Um—are you—is everything okay?”

The man blinks rapidly, some semblance of awareness creeping back into his gaze. He shakes his head slowly, pushes his short, gelled hair back from his head. His hands are trembling. “I’m...yeah, I’m fine. It’s—everything’s, it’s…”

But then his gaze lands on something over Martin’s shoulder, and all the color drains out of his face, his mouth shutting with a painful sounding click. Martin quickly spins around, searching for whatever could’ve scared him so much—

There’s someone standing in the doorway of Gertrude’s office.

There are so many things that one normally takes in upon first meeting another person: their hair, their skin color, all the little wrinkles and marks that give you the briefest insight into their life. Martin looks at posture first, tends to check if a person is intentionally looming, or if they’re making themself smaller.

But all Martin can see are the eyes.

There’s—two of them he thinks, but two is such an arbitrary number when the thing you’re applying it to doesn’t ascribe to human values (he’s not sure how he knows that—how does he know that—?). That horrible, terrible gaze is an unerring arrow, all-encompassing, all-consuming, piercing the deepest corners of his mind. It hurts in some distant, nebulous way he’s not even sure he comprehends—

Then he blinks, and the sheer terror, that feeling of the horrible, violating exposure of everything that he is, abruptly snuffs out. What’s left is just a person, wispy and small, his slight frame fairly drowning in a chunky, cable-knit jumper. He’s leaning against his doorframe, his eyes—two big brown ones, rich and unfathomably sad and more than that, human—drinking Martin in, his lips parted in a soundless gasp.

“Um—” Martin glances over his shoulder, and almost leaps out of his skin when a land falls heavily on his shoulder. The man who’d been sitting in the chair is standing just behind him, a strained but polite smile on his face.

“Hi Jon,” the man says, an undercurrent of a warning in his voice.

Martin glances between the two, his confusion growing with every passing moment. This is not what he was expecting when he first came into work today, and the uncertainty makes him feel strange and off-kilter.

The person in the door swallows once, twice, then straightens, one hand still gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. When he speaks, his voice is soft, tentative, a little ragged around the edges. “Tim. It’s, um...it’s good to see you.”

“Martin Blackwood, was it?” Tim continues, injecting a bit of cheer into his voice. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s being addressed, and he shoots Jon—this is Jonathan Sims?—an uncertain look before nodding slowly. “We’re happy to have you on the team.”

“O-Oh?” Martin squeaks, then grits his teeth and bodily forces his voice back into its normal range. “I’m—um, I’m happy to be here?”

“Good,” Tim says through a grin that looks more like a grimace, giving Martin’s shoulder a friendly pat. The look he shoots Jon is a dark, mistrustful thing. The look Jon gives him back is fragile, vulnerable, that winds the tension in Tim’s shoulders so tight it has to be painful.

Jon’s gaze flickers to Martin, just for a second—and then he disappears into his office, leaving the door cracked behind him.

Tim and Martin stand there for a second, staring at the door. Tim’s still tense as a bowstring, and his grip on Martin’s shoulder is almost uncomfortable. The air in the Archives feels stuffy and too warm, and there’s a strange prickling sensation on the back of Martin’s neck, like he’s being subjected to close scrutiny.

Then Tim sighs and lets go of Martin’s shoulder, a little of the tension bleeding out of him, and without it he looks small, deflated. He goes back to his desk and sits down, booting up his laptop without a word of explanation to Martin.

Martin stares at the back of Tim’s head for a moment, a number of questions clamoring around in his brain—what the fuck was that? What’s wrong with Jon? Why are you so obviously suspicious of him?—but the words won’t come. Breaking the silence feels...sacrilegious, somehow. Every breath of air sticks against the back of his throat.

In the end, he doesn’t say anything either, just sits at his desk and takes out his Institute-issued laptop. Stares blankly at the screen as the machine slowly, laboriously, comes to life.

-0-

Sasha’s not entirely sure how to interpret the tense atmosphere that has descended over the Archives.

The first day she’d arrived a couple of minutes before she was supposed to, prepared to follow Jon’s direction and help him adjust as best she could. (Her feelings about Jon’s promotion...didn’t matter. She didn’t like it, but it wasn’t his fault that Elias was an old-fashioned misogynist.)

But when she’d come down the stairs, Tim and the assistant she didn’t know, Martin, had been seated quietly at their desks. They’d both had the same distant, shell-shocked look on their faces, like they’d received some shattering, horrible news. Sasha had sent Tim a confused look, but he either hadn’t noticed it, or hadn’t wanted to explain.

She hadn’t even seen Jon that first day, just received a polite email asking her to start organizing the statements according to the system which he’d devised.

It’s been almost three days, and nothing has changed. Oh sure, they’ve all started organizing the statements as directed. Tim cracks jokes, Martin tiptoes around them and makes copious amounts of tea. That strange tension that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, like the world is holding its breath in anticipation, hasn’t faded though. And while she doesn’t know Martin all that well, she knows that something’s still up with Tim. He seems more subdued than usual, keeps sending uncomfortable looks in the direction of Jon’s office—

—which hasn’t been open since that first day. She hasn’t seen Jon at all either, no matter how early she arrives or how late she stays. The only proof she has that he’s still alive is the polite email she periodically receives, detailing some specific task that he wants for them to do.

Even then, his emails are...odd. She’s not sure how she can tell, but they feel...awkward? Stilted? Like he’s only half-aware of what he’s typing, or like he’s only asking them to do things because he feels like he should, not because he has any actual goal in mind.

Normally she’d be frustrated by this, would complain bitterly to Tim about Elias passing over her for someone who obviously doesn’t properly appreciate the position they’ve been given—except that she knows Jon. He’d made a point to explain the situation to her himself, an apologetic twist tucked into the corner of his mouth. More than that, he’d asked her to follow him to the archives, saying that he wanted the two people he trusted most, her and Tim, to come with him.

He respects her too much not to take this job seriously.

The strangeness of the archives is only emphasized by Jon’s complete and utter lack of presence within it, but she doesn’t—she doesn’t buy that. She doesn’t believe that he’d just suddenly decide not to do the job he’d been so anxious to excel at. 

More damning than anything is Tim’s complete, utter silence regarding Jon’s strange behavior, but whatever he knows about it, he isn’t saying anything. Martin is willing to talk, but he seems to be as lost as she is.

“I—that first day, Jon…” Martin shrugs, shooting a nervous glance toward the door leading to the archives. He’s been spending a lot of time hovering in the break room making tea, not that she can blame him. “He—I mean obviously I don’t know him very well, but he seemed...upset?”

“Upset,” Sasha repeats dubiously.

Martin lets out an exhausted sigh and turns away, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. He just—okay, so, bear with me for a second, but he reminded me of this guy who used to live in my neighborhood.”

Sasha backs off, folding her arms and leaning against the counter. “Okay?”

“There was this little old couple that used to live in my neighborhood. They were—they were really sweet! The husband used to give candy to us younger kids. But um—sometimes you’d see him sitting in the rocking chair on his porch, and it was like...he wasn’t entirely there? Like, he’d just sit there for hours, rocking and staring at nothing. That’s—that’s what Jon’s expression reminded me of.”

Martin gets more animated the more he talks, Sasha notes; his hands move in broad, sweeping gestures, his expression twisting into an expression of extreme concentration. The moment he finishes he deflates again, tucking his hands into his armpits self-consciously, a hedgehog curling protectively in on itself.

“So, yeah,” he finishes eloquently.

“Huh,” Sasha says thoughtfully.

She gets back to her desk. Looks over at Tim, who’s studiously working through a box of statements, his mouth set in a neutral, concentrated frown. Takes a deep breath, letting the taste of dust and old papers sit heavy on her tongue.

Then she opens her laptop and starts looking through the catalog of cursed items that are currently being held in Artifact Storage.

(She doesn’t think that she’ll find anything, but—but just in case.)

-0-

They all get the call the next Monday morning: Elias Bouchard was found dead in his office.

[mego42]

are you gonna write an extended cut of that scene??👀

i would never say never but am currently EXTREMELY obsessed with a thingy i’m working on that is uh, v smutty and v extended, hahahahahaha so in some ways it scratches the same itch? it’s also v dark and twisted and i’m having a lot of fun with it.

super unedited, fucked up, nsfw snippet below the cut!

(no seriously, dark and twisted, dead dove do not eat)

His smile curls and goes sly, and he sucks on his bottom lip, shifting his weight again, deliberate this time. Her eyes flick down, then back up, and she swallows. He sees her hips roll against her palm, small and slow, almost like she don’t even know she’s doin’ it and has to bite back a grin. He can win this, easy. 

“How you want to play this, ma?” he asks, coating the question with honey, and when her eyes open, he lets himself look soft, mouth open, eyebrow raised in question.

She blinks, her breath hitching, her heart beating so hard he can see it fluttering in her throat.  Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and his vision tunnels, unable to look away from the movement. He snaps himself back, and she’s lost her own battle and is looking down him again, her hips rolling again, and he can see her drawing circles around her clit with her middle finger.

This time he lets himself grin, more teeth than anything else, and preening a bit. He knows he makes an impressive picture, towel and all. But when he reaches down and grabs himself, her eyes drop lower, and he realizes that wasn’t what she’d been looking at at all. 

“See somethin’ you like,” he asks, lazily scratching his chest right next to the puckered mostly white scar just below his breast bone.

Her eyes snap back to his, and she clenches, blanches, but she can’t hide the way her hips buck. And that’s—shit. 

There’s something new growin’ in him now, and he doesn’t even know exactly what it is. It’s a cousin to the hate and the want, but not quite the same. It’s something like spite and vengeance and satisfaction but not quite any of those either. It spirals up from his gut, burns in his chest, and makes his heart race. It's the same thing he feels when he sees that gleam in her eye when she's up to some shit. The same thing he felt when she handed him that page with his fingerprint blazing across it, when she jacked all his pills and told him to cut her in or eat shit, when she sat at her dining room table ignoring Mick's gun pressed to her temple and tellin' him he's an idiot. 

It's the feeling he gets whenever that monster of hers gets her claws in him good—vicious, ruthless, victorious. 

“Yeah? You like seein’ what you did? How close you got?” He starts stroking himself, long and slow because fuck if there isn’t something here that’s doing it for him. “You get yourself off sometimes thinkin’ bout that night and leavin’ me there on the ground?”

“No!” 

Her horrified denial is immediate, visceral, strong enough that she yanks her hand away, and a part of him he didn’t even know was bristling settles. 

“No?” He strokes harder, rolling his hips with the movement, but now she’s got her hand clenched in the bedspread. She’s still propped up like she can’t bring herself to stop looking, but she’s drawing the line at touchin’ herself.

“There's somethin’ though,” he continues, thoughtful. “Somethin’ that gets you wet.”

Rio cocks his head, considering her. Taking in the flushed skin and stormy eyes, the set of her jaw and defiant tilt of her chin.

“It make you feel powerful? Holdin’ the gun? Firin’ it?”

She jerks, gasps, twisting her fingers tighter into the fabric

“Yeah, that’s it.” He’s going faster now, his own breathing starting to hitch as his pleasure builds. “You called the shots, turned things on their head.”

She can’t stop herself from pressing her thighs together and squirming. 

Fuck, he’s close, and the big-eyed way she’s lookin’ at him, her eyes flickering between his hand on his dick, the scars on his chest, and the look on his face is getting him there faster than he’d expected.

“A gun? That’s life and death. That’s ‘bout as powerful as you can be. 

She bites down on her lip so hard he’s pretty sure that pointy little tooth of hers breaks skin, yanking her hand towards herself and taking the bedspread with her, unable to let go, unable to not touch herself, and his hips jerk, nearing his own peak. 

“That’s what it is, right? That’s what all of this is.”

He can see it, the thing in her. The hungry thing with teeth and claws, the thing he’d seen all the way back in the beginning and knew what she had the potential to be. The thing he’d fed and groomed and praised, coaxing it from her darkness and into the light. 

“You were in charge; you had the power.”

And now she breaks their gaze. She throws her head back, and her back arches as she lets out a helpless cry, grinding down on the fistful of the blanket she’s jammed between her legs as she crests, and he comes with a hoarse shout.

That’s what it is, he realizes as the heat bursts and ebbs, clarity following in its wake. That’s what that feeling is—was? Is. 

It’s recognition and familiarity and like callin’ to like.

It’s the realizing her monster’s the same breed as his own.

His whole body releases, and he sags, giving himself a moment to catch his breath before using the towel he’d had wrapped around his waist to wipe himself off, tryin’ to wipe away the sentiment along with it. 

“Well shit, darlin,” he says, smothering his discomfort and presenting her with a smooth, sly, and more than a little mean smile. It’s not like she hasn’t earned it. “That’s dark. Thought you were a good person or somethin’.”

It’s almost funny how fast she jerks up at that, hair wild and eyes flashin’ like she doesn’t have her pants half off and evidence of his point drippin’ down her thighs.

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

13 Queliot recs 4/4

of places where you thought that love would be found by @margosfairyeye

I’m not much for soulmates, but that means that I’m often fond of stories that start off with soulmates and soulmate marks, then do something weird with it.  This is a great example of that subgenre; Quentin has a mark that’s unlike any other (a nice parallel to his canon problem of being a Nothingmancer for so much of his life); Eliot has Margo’s mark.  And yet, and yet, and yet.  Obviously this is one of those rewrite-the-stars stories; it’s not really full of surprises, but it’s lush and sensual and draws you in, laying out the longing and the edge of hopelessness and then the hope in a very visceral, intimate kind of way.  This one really could do almost anything and scrape by on sheer aesthetic quality, but I think what it does is exactly the right call.  It’s not terribly long, and I’d love to see sequels; I think it’s an interesting universe, and I’d like to see their in-universe nontraditional relationship unfold further.

* His name is Eliot, he says, and Quentin doesn’t think he knows a nicer name.  Quentin can’t stop looking at Eliot’s form, his long legs and the fabric wrapping closely against his chest; but more than that he can’t stop looking at his eyes.  Quentin remembers some cheesy quote about the eyes being the window to the soul. He thinks it might be less bullshit that he’d thought. 

Quentin watches Eliot’s eyes look him up and down, and he feels excited, and confused, and slightly nauseous.  He remembers something someone told him, recently, about how the first time they saw their soulmate, it was like being hit simultaneously with the flu and a contact high.  Quentin doesn’t feel dissimilar to that description. 

He tries to look at Eliot’s hands, his arms as they walk, but Eliot doesn’t give him a lot of time for study.  It’s presumptuous to ask someone what their soulmate mark says, most people consider it slightly personal information (with the exception of people like Julia who just give no fucks). But Quentin thinks that if Eliot has a picture, like his, he’ll be able to tell from a quick glance, and he can’t figure out a way to phrase asking that, anyway. 

He can barely contain how excited he feels as they walk, and have snippets of conversation, and his wondering grows into full-on hope.  Eliot opens a door and Quentin finally catches enough of a glimpse. It’s on the wrong side of Eliot’s arm for him to see clearly, but Quentin can definitely see a distinct letter ‘M’.  So not him, then.  *

press your love into my palm by @propinquitous

There are a lot of Mosaic stories in the fandom, many of which share the basic plot of “they have sex in the Mosaic timeline.”  And a lot of them are really good!  I picked this one because it’s a stand-out example for me; it really just picks up from the moment of That Kiss and just keeps going, so what you’re going to get is what you expect.  But I just think it’s so beautifully done, the sweet edges of humor, Quentin’s shivery, hopeful boldness, Eliot being so blown away at how much he’s sold Quentin short in his mind.  I love a story that could seamlessly be canon, and this is exactly that story -- no one can tell me it didn’t happen just like this, because I read it, and I am a believer.  Just a blue-ribbon, five-star, standing-ovation They Have Feelingsy Sex story.

* Eliot pulled him in without hesitation. In some former life he'd been embarrassed of this kind of tenderness, save for maybe with Margo. It was always in him, though, and Quentin had been tugging at its thread for years. He'd almost completely unraveled in the time they'd spent working on the mosaic; every night that Quentin spent curled against him, desperate to quell his fear and frustration, frayed his edges. By the time Quentin kissed him, Eliot felt as threadbare as the clothes he'd arrived in.

Then, after. The second kiss was less chaste, more everything else. Eliot opened his mouth against Quentin's and ran his thumb over his cheek, felt him go slack under his touch. He tested, bit at Quentin's lower lip gently and tugged at the shorter hairs toward his nape. Eliot curled his fingers over Quentin's and he could feel the slight shudder as the arm supporting Quentin buckled and threatened to give out.

"Hey," Eliot said again when he finally pulled away. He didn't sit back and he didn't take his hand from Quentin's face. Instead he breathed in Quentin's heavy exhales and leaned his forehead against his, watching and waiting until Quentin opened his eyes.

"Hey," Quentin finally whispered.

"This conversation is riveting," Eliot said. Quentin smiled then and, Eliot thought, looked almost bashful.

"Well, I mean," he managed to say before he pushed forward again and didn't stop, his mouth firm against Eliot's until he had pushed him back and straddled his lap.

"Should I keep talking?" Quentin asked, running his hands up Eliot's chest. *

Shine Through My Memory by PanBoleyn, @eidetictelekinetic

This is kind of two separate stories in one, covering all of season 4, beginning with the alternate Brian and Nigel identities as they meet and fall in love, vaguely aware that there’s more to their connection than they can make sense of, and dropping into an alternate Monster plotline.  I don’t always like s4 stories, just because -- all the reasons and all -- but this is a really good Quentin, stubborn and fierce and heartbroken, juggling for all he’s worth to keep the layered memories of Brian/Nigel and the Mosaic timeline and the current clusterfuck separate and under control before he snaps under the weight of them.  It’s a little heavy, but there’s one chapter left to go, and I’m really looking forward to the release of the ending.  You really can’t get a more balanced and sturdy combination of dark canon!fic and romantic fix-it -- it’s truly the best of both worlds.

* “Colored chalk on my hands,” Brian murmurs, tasting the vanilla-caramel-white chocolate of his latte but remembering the taste of plums instead. He doesn’t even like plums, which makes the whole thing weirder, because in this not-memory he does. “I don’t understand any of this. Tell me it’s as weird for you, because I -”  A long-fingered hand closes over his own, and Brian looks up into gold-hazel eyes that he knows/doesn’t know and sees - all of it, reflected back. “I don’t get it either,” Nigel says, voice soft. “But I think maybe I’m better at just rolling with the punches than you are, hmm?” “I don’t. Roll with, with anything,” Brian says, and his voice isn’t steady anymore. “I don’t know how, my life is a predictable bore and I like the predictable part if not the bore part. But I think you have to tolerate being bored to keep things predictable so. So I tolerate it.” Tolerates a job he hates because teaching is better than a cubicle at a 9 to 5, and because the paintings and the newly-begun manuscripts that are Brian’s only love won’t pay the bills. “I’ve dated the same woman off and on six times because neither of us care enough to say no the next time one of us is lonely enough to offer, there’s been a man or two in the off points but no one. Nothing like -”

My dreams make no sense, and I feel more in them than I’ve felt in years. It’s not something he can say out loud, though. *

Veins Fit to Bursting by @amagpie

It’s a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fusion!  It’s a REALLY GOOD SMART WONDERFUL Buffy fusion!  Everyone kind of maps onto BtVS characters in a clever way, but it’s by no means a remake -- they remain very much themselves.  BtVS is obviously deep in the DNA of The Magicians, in terms of layering worldbuilding on top of an essential bone structure of coming-of-age, and this story is just an absolute bullseye in terms of understanding that.  Quentin’s general depression encompasses but isn’t limited to his feelings of being the useless sidekick, and Eliot’s transformation from mousy nerd to the undead version of the Champagne King is not only very William/Spike, but it builds this lovely foundation of connection between him and Quentin, neither of whom are living quite the life they once imagined they would.  There’s a very quarterlife-crisis vibe to the whole thing, which is perfectly in harmony with both shows, and a light touch to the voice that suits this slightly lost Quentin perfectly -- honestly, it may be my very favorite version of Quentin’s inner voice.  It’s early days yet in this WIP, but it’s fully earned my confidence in the first few chapters, and I am 100% down for the ride.

* “Okay, so I guess you could maybe say I’m a vampire hunter. But it’s not like it’s my job or anything,” Quentin pushes out in a rush.

A slow smile spreads across Eliot’s face: scary and genuine. There seems to be real interest in his eyes. Eliot settles himself onto a bench, patting the seat next to him. Quentin settles himself on the very far end of the bench to put at least a few feet between them. He’s down for a chat, not to get murdered.

“So it’s an extracurricular?” Eliot prompts. Quentin chuckles with how close to the truth it actually is, looking away. They do have an official college club to make research sessions easier -  the Ancient Sumerian Culture Club . They have a budget and everything - which Quentin submits as treasurer - although it more often gets used for pizza and wooden pegs than flyers. 

“More like a duty. Or well, not exactly my duty.” Quentin furrows his brows. “Do you remember Julia?”

“I think so? Your friend, really tiny…?”

“Yeah, so, um, Julia is the slayer.”

Quentin looks back at Eliot to take in his reaction to the news. Eliot’s eyes widen, his hands tightening for a second on the bench beneath him. Something like pride coils up in Quentin. 

“Huh,” Eliot finally says. *

[junqkook]

what’s your writing process like? :-) like where do your ideas come from and how do you get started writing?

oh!! thank you for being curious and asking c:

ideas-wise, i get them from anything and everything. songs, observations, lines, dreams, etc.! anything i see or hear or read can give me an idea for a story and then i build off of the original idea.

so basically after i get The Idea™ i build off of it to get the rest of the story. i’m not much of a planner bc if i do plot ahead i’ll end up going way off script while actually writing anyway (unless it’s a Big Boy™ fic or a mystery/thriller, in which case i do plan ahead and attempt to stick as close as i can to the original plan). The Idea™ is almost always a specific scene that i get in my head and i come up with the rest of the story around that scene. i’ll work with what i know from the snippet my brain gave me; these are some questions i ask myself before writing.

what brought them together to this scene?

what’s the au? (fantasy? college setting? work setting? etc.)

what do they do outside of the scene? (what job or life fits them best in the context of this specific scene?)

how long have they known each other?

what was their first meeting like?

do they like each other? do they hate each other?

how does the story start and how does it build to this scene?

what happens after this scene? more conflict? less conflict? feelings or no feelings?

those are just some quick examples of what i’ll consider when i decide to write The Idea™ into an actual story. once i have those answers, i come up with a few Main Points™ of the story, but not usually details. maybe i’ll have some specific dialogue that i want to use at some point. maybe i have one or two details for other scenes that i want to include. but mostly i focus on the Main Points™ that will move the story and figure out an ending (not always required—every breath you take had a planned ending that i always worked toward, into the woods did not have a planned ending until i actually wrote the ending).

then i just put some music on and write! i’m also a writer that can only write chronologically which sucks sometimes, but alas what can you do. if i get stuck somewhere, i take a break and maybe write something else until i figure out a way to move toward the next Main Point™ in the story and then i go back to do that! i also tend to cut out a lot of filler scenes in my fics bc i’m easily bored (both when writing and when reading) so sometimes it makes my stories feel rushed but oh well akdhskdhsk mostly i just have a vague idea and then i dive in head first with the writing, which changes and evolves as the story unfolds. i don’t like plotting beforehand bc i tend to get overpowered by my characters, who tell me to fuck off and guide the story themselves with me just scurrying to write down whatever tf they’re doing.

oh! and i’m a visual person, so i always visualize everything i’m writing. it helps me with the mood and flow of the story while writing! i need to be able to picture things so i love descriptions and details, but not too many or else i’ll forget what the heck was happening in the first place. if i get stuck with making a scene feel more real, i’ll just pause for a second and picture it in my head. what is (s)he hearing? what does it feel like? is the air fresh or is it dry, or maybe humid? what does it smell like? how is (s)he reacting to what the other character said? is his/her heart beating fast, or slow, or hard? these are all pretty good questions to ask yourself while writing that can help you make the scene more visceral and real for the readers.

i hope that helped (and was clear)!! ♡

[sleepyverstappens]

F, G, I, U ☺️

Thank you for sending these in :D. I’ll stick with F1 fic/writers for F and U, because they’re fresher on my mind I guess. 

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

This is so difficult, I’ll do two okay and that’s already way less then I could’ve added here xD. 

“Max, I’m serious. If someone found out. God this is all kinds of wrong, you do realise that right.You’re so young still and I’m your team principal, there’s a power difference here it’s gonna look like I forced you into this. God I did, didn’t I? I just barged in here and took what I pleased, fuck. Fuck!”

And no, no that won’t do. He’s not gonna let Christian think he’s forced him into this. He was stupid to let this happen again for sure, but nobody forces him to do anything especially not this.

“No one forces me to do anything, you of all people should know that by now Christian!” He hisses back, all of a sudden very much aware of the people still roaming the energy station again.

“No one will believe that Max. This can’t happen again, for real this time. And delete those goddamn pictures!” Christian says before he slams the door closed behind him, leaving Max alone, naked and shivering. Not from the cold though, no from once again getting rejected by the older man.

I really liked this bit, because it feels like I really nailed both Christian and Max’s reactions. Christian is internally freaking out about it all and then he sees Max taking pictures and all that worry just spills out. And Max’s line about no one forcing him to do anything just feels very Max. He’s a stubborn guy both on and off track and I think with just those few words it really comes across?

“That’s different though. It’s about control I guess. That feeling of playing on the edge, on seeing how far I can go until you make me stop. Is it just giving up control for you?” Max asked.

“No, no I don’t think so. I guess it’s more like… like when you’ve got a bruise and press on it. Make it feel worse, but once you take your thumb away from the bruise it feels nice. Like when you twist a string around your finger until it turns blue, the way it feels when the blood rushes back in after you loosen the string. I guess, I guess it’s like that. The more you hurt me, the better it feels afterwards.”

I know it’s from a flashback scene in the Max/Lando fic, but I feel like it really explains why Lando is into getting hurt really well. Like I wrote in the fic itself it just explains it with simple examples of things everyone must have done at least once in their life. It was difficult to write a good explanation of why Lando was into painplay because it’s a tricky subject, but I think this worked out pretty well.

G: Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

It kind of depends on the story. The longer ones are often written out of order, which sometimes makes it more difficult, because then you end up stuck with multiple scenes that you somehow need to connect. The shorter ones often come to me from start to finish. But I’ve learned that sometimes it’s just better to skip to a part further into the fic if you’re stuck with another scene. 

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

I think that would be outsider pov fics. Like it’s not necessarily a guilty pleasure though, because I will tell it easily, but there generally just aren’t a lot of outsider pov fics in fandoms, so when I find one it’s just like finding a hidden little gem. I also definitely would not be able to write them myself. As for a guilty pleasure in writing I guess it would be kid!fic again, I just can never resist writing my otps with a cute little kid. 

U: Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

@hypersofts aka higgsbosonblues on AO3, I’ve told her many times before how much I love her TWAWBU verse. I totally got sucked into it and I think that’s kind of when I truly gave into this new fic fandom. Like I had been reading F1 fic for a while, but mostly as a bit of a guilty pleasure. But with this one I was really waiting for updates and reading them as soon as I got the email notifications. To think I actually skipped it a few times when I saw it in the Max Verstappen tag because I wasn’t sure based on the summary :O And of course her other stuff is amazing as well!

@captainfuu aka extremesofts on AO3, at first we actually randomly wrote a few fics with a similar-ish storyline which was really fucking random. But her fics are just so so good! They’re just so visceral and raw. I can’t really pick out a favourite right now, but I always know that when I see a new fic of hers I’m in for a treat :D

@itsmaxver aka lasorcas on AO3, she only started actually writing and posting her fics (in English at least) but they’re so good! And after talking to her a bunch I know there is some amazing stuff still in the pipeline as well. Like I’ve told her before she’s just so good at writing the surroundings in fic (something I struggle with myself) which just sets the scene so perfectly.  

[abovethesmokestacks]

Goodbye

Title: Goodbye Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader Word count: 1.9k Spoilers: None Warnings: angst, lots of it

I blame this entirely on Katy Perry, because “The One That Got Away” played last night and refused to leave me, so surprise children, it’s feels murder time.

This fic can also be found on AO3. It is not to be reposted anywhere else without my express permission.

Tags at the end.

One year. As the words trip across his plush lips, that’s all you can think about. One year. One year of dance hall dates, of being the girl on Bucky Barnes’s arm, of sweet kisses and a warm hand holding your own. There’s a small part inside of you that refuses to listen to what he’s saying, refuses to acknowledge the bravery of his decision, that screams loud and desperate because he will leave you. He’s ripping himself away from this life, throwing himself into a dangerous game few seem to be surviving.

“Sweetheart? Sweetheart, please, say somethin’.”

Bucky’s cap is tipped just so, jaunty and paints such a handsome picture along with his pressed uniform, but god, his eyes betray him. How many times have the pressing silences between you erupted into arguments just because he couldn’t keep the annoyance out of them? You’d like to think you are an open book, but Bucky Barnes tries so hard to keep part of himself locked away, only to be betrayed by the keyhole into the very room he’s hiding in. You can’t even fault him, you wish you could do the same sometimes.

“W-when?” you finally stutter, unable to face his worry right now, too afraid that the pacing monster inside you will break free if you do.

You know it won’t be good by the slightly pause before he speaks again. It never is, and you steel yourself for the deadly blow.

“I… I leave for England tomorrow.”

One year, and it’ll all be gone tomorrow. You are an open book, and he reads you with a pained expression on his face.

“I didn’t- I got my orders today. Please, doll, it’s not that bad. I won’t- They’re not sendin’ us into battle straight away. You gotta understand, I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t?” It comes out sharper than you intend, slipping out before you can lock yourself down again. He’s leaving tomorrow, and you won’t allow your parting to be tainted by anger.

“I got drafted,” he confesses, jaw clenching before cupping your cheeks and bringing you in close. “Please, don’t tell Stevie. I told him I volunteered, it’s… I thought it would be easier.”

“Nothing about this is easy, Bucky.” You look over your shoulders, spotting the mop of blond hair a little ways away, where Steve is buying snacks from a vendor. “You should tell him.”

Bucky shakes his head, “I can’t. He’s… Well, you know how he is. Please, darlin’, I just want my last night to be somethin’ I can remember when I’m fighting.”

It is soft and pleading, the request matching the sadness in his eyes. It appeases the mounting hurricane inside, dissipates the raging emotions somewhat, calms the howling into a starved whine that longs to take and give in equal measures. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, you let yourself melt into him. His warmth will soon be gone, and he will need yours where he is going.

Minutes and hours mercilessly tick by, caring none for the desperation you show in giving and taking until your breaths turn ragged and you think a part of you has been burned into Bucky’s heart forever. The silence of the cramped apartment he shares with Steve has saved every litany of praise, every prayer for more, every vow of safe return and every dream of the future. 

“I’ll come home, sweetheart. I’ll come home, and I’ll put the prettiest ring on your finger, and I’ll never leave you again. No, baby, don’t- I swear, God himself can’t make me break this promise. It’ll be us against the world.”

You wake up alone, Bucky’s sheets cold, and you allow yourself to break. His scent still lingers in the pillow case, his touch a ghost trailing over your skin. The room feels too empty, desolate without him in it. His things are still there, but now they seem to belong to someone else, a stranger that never held your heart. Outside, the subdued clattering of dishes signals that Steve has found his way home too, and if it wasn’t for the monster moaning its swan song, you’d feel a little ashamed, because how could Steve not figure out why you’d be in Bucky’s room. He knocks five minutes later and offers breakfast, and you stay quiet until you hear him shuffling away, not leaving until much later when Steve has already left.

For a while it hurts, your friends fawning over you and trying to paint you as the devoted girlfriend who waits while her best guy is somewhere across the ocean fighting for freedom. There is nothing glorious about it. Bile rises in your throat when you go to a movie and it’s prefaced by a short snippet about the war effort, the brave Captain America smiling for the camera. There is nothing glorious about waiting for a sign of life, or a proof of death.

There are signs of life. Bucky sends letters, his hurried scrawl making your heart leap, every declaration of life and love signed with “Us against the world”. There are signs of life, and you cling to them, repeating promises made and vows uttered until you think you can see them on the horizon.

And then the next letter.

“I regret to report that Sergeant James B Barnes of the 107th Infantry Regiment went missing behind enemy lines…”

Something rips from you, the festering worry finally rupturing and you finally allow the scream that has been bottled up for nearly a year to claw its way out of your chest. There is nothing glorious about it, nothing like the starlets of the silver screen would have you believe. It is ugly and visceral and it hurts when you shatter, when every hope and dream of seeing Bucky again is torn from you. 

I swear, God himself can’t make me break this promise.

God, you decide, cares nothing for war. He reaps no profit, doesn’t grant mercy. God, you realize, did not make Bucky break his promise. The devil takes his due.

“A symbol to the nation, a hero to the world…”

You clutch your cane harder, drawing in a shallow breath before stepping onto the escalators. Up until recently, it’s been years, maybe even decades since you let yourself think about him, about them. Everywhere, Steve’s face looks down at you, stoic with his mouth set in a determined line. It’s not him you’re here for, not really.

History has been kind to him, and by association, to Bucky. They found each other in the chaos, fought together and died within a year of each other. Bucky has his place in the exhibit, as he should. You don’t know how they found you, but a year before, a representative from the Smithsonian reached out, saying they had found out you had been Barnes’s girlfriend before the war, and were you perhaps willing to contribute to the part of the exhibition dedicated to Sergeant Barnes?

Time has made you a liar.

It was easy to give a small laugh, to confirm that yes, indeed, you were Sergeant Barnes’s gal before the war, but it was only a year. You barely heard from him after he shipped out. So much time has gone by, you doubt you’d have anything to contribute, whether physical mementos or exciting stories. It was only a year after all, you understand, don’t you.

Your heart clenches when you make your way to the front of the group of people admiring the uniforms. You never got photos of him like this, as a member of the Howling Commandos. His army uniform had been handsome as any, but god, you would have given anything to see him in this, the blue playing off his eyes and the soft brown of his hair. 

“Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country…”

You can’t help the tear that trails down your cheek, the flickering newsreel of Bucky and Steve smiling together too much for you. You shouldn’t have come. You’re almost 90, this is no place for you. Maybe you should have just told them the truth when they called: that every letter Bucky ever sent rests in a box at the back of a closet, that they have been in that box since 1944, that you’ve carefully packed it up and ignored the sting in your heart with every move.

Sniffling, you turn to leave, walking past the glass wall dedicated to Bucky when something pulls your gaze up. Later you will say it was all your imagination, the result of confronting the memories you’ve tried to keep hidden all these decades. But right now, there’s a set of footsteps that calls to something in you, that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end and your heart trill in anticipation. You find a pair of eyes in the crowd, dark under the black peak of a baseball cap, but you know that should he remove it and step into the light, they would be as blue as you remember them. For a second there seems to be a flash of recognition in them, lips parting as if to speak your name.

And then the man passes, and you feel like your breath has been knocked out of you. The air seems stuffier than before, and you hurry to get outside, sitting down on a bench to draw in deep breaths. It’s all a trick, a combination of wishful thinking, low light and seventy years of heartbreak taking you by surprise.

He’s not actually there.

Heavy footsteps search the rows, a bundle of flowers gripped tightly in one hand. Part of him knows what he will find, another one fearful of what he’ll feel. He wanted to find you as soon as he remembered, as soon as he made sense of why his heart sped up at the memory of an older lady locking eyes with him at the museum, but time and haunting ghosts kept him from you.

Finally finding what he’s looking for, he swallows thickly, kneeling on the dewy grass, letting one gloved hand run over the smooth marble.

“Hello, sweetheart. I promised I’d be back, didn’t I?” His voice cracks, eyes blurring as he takes in the condensed story of your life, imagining everything that must fit into the dash between the two dates. “I’m sorry I took so long, that I couldn’t come back sooner. I made you a promise, darlin’, and now I’m too late. I just want you to know I saw you. I saw you and you looked just as pretty as the morning I left. God, I wish I could have come back, that we could have had that life I talked about.”

He clears away the leaves that have fallen, gingerly placing the flowers, rearranging them to his liking. “I kissed you goodbye that morning. Had to tear myself away, but I couldn’t leave without a final kiss. And I don’t know if you remember it, but you kissed me back. It was all I could think about on the way over, the one thing that kept me sane in the trenches, the thought that even in your sleep, you could recognize me, and how I wanted every morning to be like that.”

Wetting his lips, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the cold marble, eyes squeezed shut and remembering a tender moment that not even the most brutal torture could pry from him.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

@loup-malin, @ursulaismymiddlename, @bakexprayxlove, @brookebarnes, @callamint, @mrshopkirk, @hellomissmabel, @tatortot2701, @ceebeetumbles, @thetalesofmooseandsquirrel, @lenia1d, @andhiseyesweregreen, @basicallyericharris, @thatgirlsar, @bubblebathsandsarcasm, @amrita31199, @netflixa, @erisjade, @rockintensse, @marvelrevival, @riskybarnes, @writemarvelousthings, @gallifreyansass, @allyallyally-oh, @shy2shot, @angryschnauzer, @engineeringgirlcve, @hellstempermentalangel, @whyisbuckyso, @melconnor2007, @snuggleducky

@avengerofyourheart, @booksandshowsandmovies-ohmy, @themcuhasruinedme, @creideamhgradochas, @feepsmoothie, @nuvoleincielo, @wellfuckbuck, @rotisserierogers, @sarahsassafras13, @romanosgirl1978, @rrwilson66

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[saviourfinn]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Bodhi Rook & Finn Characters: Bodhi Rook, Finn (Star Wars), Leia Organa, Poe Dameron Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bodhi is the only surviving member of Rogue One, I'm Sorry, but it eventually gets better for him Summary:

Snippets of Bodhi's life, from the battle of Scarif to his meeting with a young ex-Stormtrooper, some 40 years later.

Bodhi survived Scarif. He got badly burned, but managed to make it. The others weren’t so lucky.

When he called for them through the comms, begging them to somehow get to the ship before he takes off, there was no response. He waited until the last possible second, adrenaline and visceral fear the only things preventing him from feeling the atrocious pain pulsing through his body. When none of the others - not Chirrut and Baze, not Jyn or Cassian, not even K2SO - showed up, Bodhi’s heart sank in his guts, weighed down by despair. He almost didn’t make the ship take off : he didn’t have anything left to live for, no family or friends or mission, he was tired and hurt and so sad he had become numb, and all he wanted to do was lay down on the cold metal floor and let the Death Star swallow him all, as it had swallowed his family and city.

But there were a couple of rebel soldiers who had managed to get to the ship on time, and he couldn’t possibly condemn them to the miserable fate he wished for himself. So with a heavy heart and blood dripping in his eyes, Bodhi dragged himself to the cockpit, and took off. They got off Scarif at the last second, the shock wave of the explosion tailing the ship on its way out.

It took months to recover physically and mentally, but after that Bodhi dedicated himself body and soul to the Rebellion. He wanted to stop the Empire, to help and save as many people as possible, so that the sacrifices of his fallen friends would not be in vain. So that the burned souls of Jedha, his Jedha, of Scarif and Alderaan may be avenged. So that, maybe, he would stop screaming himself awake every night, phantom pains eating at his face and the voices of the Rogue One crew haunting his dreams.

And finally, when Luke Skywalker blew up the Death Star, taking advantage of the plans so many people had died for, Bodhi felt hope like rarely before. It hadn’t been for nothing. Cassian, Jyn, Chirrut, Baze, K2SO and so many others - they hadn’t died for nothing. They had defeated the Death Star, at last, bringing hope to the Galaxy. Bodhi had accomplished his duty. The message he had carried had finally came through.

He became a war hero. If he wasn’t already one, after Scarif, his accomplishments within the Rebellion afterwards made him one. Pilot, spy, captain, he succeeded in many missions - and failed some. He became a legend, even (he was the Rogue One), a living symbol of hope and sacrifice. Bodhi didn’t feel like one, though. He felt older than he really was and tired, so tired. But the Empire was still alive, and he would fight them until his dying breath.

When the Empire was eventually beaten down, Bodhi felt a wave of joy and relief wash over him. He felt empty, too. Fighting them had become his only purpose in life and he didn’t know how to live normally anymore. While the others partied and celebrated outside, Bodhi got back to his room and lit up a few candles. One for each member of Rogue One. He would have wanted them to be there, alive and well and celebrating with the others. But they weren’t, so he closed his eyes and tried to picture them in the Force instead, serene and free. He had no idea what the Force looked or felt like but Chirrut had believed in it, and it was enough for him. Eventually, Bodhi came out of his room and mingled with his troops, fellow pilots and rebels clapping him on the shoulder, laughing with him and sometimes crying in his shirt. He could relate.

After the war, Bodhi settled back on Jedha, near the ashed ruins of what had once been the Holy City. New towns were emerging and growing all over the area, people rebuilding their lives as best as they could. He did the same, building his little house with his own hands, brick by brick, stone by stone. He helped his neighbors, became part of the community, and felt peace and stability for the first time in his life. Children of the area loved their Uncle Bodhi, loved his wild tales of rebellion and hope, and he opened a piloting school that quickly attracted many students. Most people weren’t repulsed by his scarred face - the war had been devastating for Jedha, tearing away not only cities, but also flesh and limbs, and he was far from being the only one whose body had suffered.

Years passed. Way too soon, the delicate peace following the fall of the Empire shattered, a new evil called the First Order slowly rising from the darkness. Bodhi was old now, wearier, and he couldn’t find in him the strength to go back to the front line. He had a husband, a good life he earned, and he felt like if he joined the Rebellion again - no, it was called the Resistance now -, he would truly lose his mind. It was already hard enough to keep the nightmares and the guilt at bay. He couldn’t do it, not again.

But if Bodhi had always been scared, he had also always been brave and selfless, so of course he helped the Resistance in his own way. He stayed on Jedha - he wanted to protect his still-recovering planet, his home, his sweet husband - but he started to train young pilots recruited by the Republic and the Resistance. He organized a network of messengers, pilots able to fly any kind of ship whose job was to gather and transmit vital information.

Still, the First Order gained influence, destroying the fragile new Jedi Order and annihilating the New Republic with another mass destruction weapon. Bodhi wasn’t Force-sensitive, but he felt the destruction of the Republic as he had felt the destruction of Jedha, as he had felt and seen Scarif go up in flames, his friends turned into ashes. History was repeating itself, and Bodhi was losing hope. What had been the point of Rogue One, if every few decades a new Death Star was born ? Who would sacrifice themselves this time, and would it even make a difference ?

However, hope was restored a few days later, when the First Order’s weapon was destroyed, and when it became known that a young ex-Stormtrooper had been the key to this victory. Bodhi’s heart swelled with emotion, and for the first time in years he left Jedha : he had to meet this man, the Stormtrooper strong enough to break conditioning, brave enough to overcome fear and obedience in order to do good.

Bodhi hadn’t realized it at the time, when he himself had defected, but if someone was brave enough to choose to do the right thing, even in the cruelest environment, then hope would never be lost. 40 years ago and encouraged by Galen Erso, Bodhi had carried this flame. And now it was Finn’s turn to be that beacon of hope, that light in the darkness. The promise that no matter where and when, people could do good and change for the better.

When Bodhi arrived at the Resistance base, Finn was still in a coma. He was stable and should wake up soon, the medics said. Bodhi sat a little by his side, struck by how young Finn was, by how vulnerable he seemed in his sleep. Had Bodhi ever been that young ? He was old and weathered now, and his troubled youth seemed so far away. His years in the Rebellion had passed in a blink, leaving him dizzy and tired, with the bitter taste of blood, ash and victory in his mouth. Still, Bodhi smiled and briefly squeezed Finn’s hand in his own, hoping to give the young man a little comfort in his sleep.

Bodhi spent the next few days speaking with various Resistance members. He caught up with Leia - when he was on Jedha they often spoke via holovids, but it had been years since he’d last seen her in person. They talked about Resistance business of course, but also about themselves. On top of Luke’s disappearance and Kylo’s vile actions, Han’s death had been almost too much for her to bear. Almost. But Leia Organa was strong and resilient, and albeit shaken, she was still standing tall. She had carried the Rebellion and then the Resistance for so many years, and was still convinced that they would set things right.

Bodhi also talked with Poe Dameron. The latter being the Resistance’s best pilot, in the past they had often communicated regarding recruits’ training and Bodhi’s network of messengers. This time though, they mostly talked about Poe firing the fatal blow to Starkiller base, and Finn’s exploits. Dameron wouldn’t shut up about him, telling every feat in great details : from freeing Poe and escaping the First Order with him, to fighting Kylo Ren in a light saber duel, nothing was spared. And Bodhi couldn’t help but smile, touched by the pilot’s genuine enthusiasm, and once again amazed by Finn’s courage. He thought about the long gone Rogue One crew, about how much they would have liked these kids.

Eventually, Finn woke up. Bodhi visited him a few days after, unwilling to crowd him more than he already was. He found Finn sitting on his medbay bed between two rehabilitation sessions. The young man looked tired but alert, a bright spark in his dark eyes.

“Hello, Finn.”

“Um. Hi ?” the young man cautiously answered.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while,” Bodhi said warmly. “I’m Bodhi. Bodhi Rook.”

“Rogue One’s pilot, right ?” Finn asked, surprised then enthusiastic. “Wow, I was reading about you just this morning. You’re one of the Rebellion’s best officers !”

Bodhi’s smile stretched with pride and sadness.

“Yes I am. But you know, before all that I was a cargo pilot working for the Empire.”

“You… worked for the Empire ?” Finn said slowly, shock written all over his face.

“Yes. And I defected.”

The young man stayed silent for a while, looking at him with more intensity than before. Then his eyes lit up, and he beamed.

“Wow, I had no idea ! That’s… that’s amazing, wow. I can’t believe they never mention that in your biographies.”

“Well, I guess it would tarnish the Rebellion’s reputation, wouldn’t it ? That one of their heroes used to be on the Empire’s side.”

“With all due respect, sir, that’s bullshit. You defected from the Empire and brought the message that allowed the Rebellion to destroy the Death Star. Hard to be more heroic than that.”

“Well, I got competition now,” Bodhi chuckled. “Mr. the ex-Stormtrooper who helped blow up Starkiller Base.”

Finn flustered, looking down at his lap.

“I’m not heroic,” he said quietly. “I’m scared all the time, and I honestly just improvise everything I do.”

“And how do you think Rogue One managed to accomplish its mission ?” Bodhi asked, putting a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “We were all terrified, especially me. We went in there blind, because time was running out and someone had to do something. And we succeeded. It cost us… many lives. But it saved so many more.”

At these words, Finn looked up at him, conflicting emotions dancing over his expressive face.

“Listen, kid,” Bodhi sighed. “Being a cargo pilot defecting from the Empire… I won’t say it was easy. It was one of the scariest, hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. And, you know… Despite some being better at hiding it than others, everyone is scared. Fear makes some people cruel, and it makes others feel powerless. But it also makes some people brave. Because choosing to do the right thing despite being threatened and scared, that’s bravery. And that’s what you did.”

A shy smile bloomed on the young man’s face.

“I guess that’s what I did.”

“Also, a Stormtrooper defecting ? That’s unheard of. You really are one of a kind.”

“Well, I hope I’m not.”

“What do you mean ?”

“I’ve been thinking… It would be great if other Stormtroopers also decided to defect. I’m not holding my breath, but I think that’s possible. I never thought I could escape the First Order, and yet here I am. I’m sure others can do it too,” Finn said with conviction, eyes filled with fire and hope.

Bodhi smiled warmly.

“I think you’re right.”

[perelka-l]

Sorry for pestering again, but I've been holding on to this question for a long time: why do you like XANAWill?

oh anon

Ok so for starters - William in general wasn’t a very interesting character for me in gen 2/3. He was cocky, abusive towards Yumi and inserted into plot for sake of drama between Yumi and Ulrich who already had enough problems with their can’t-spit-it-out mechanics. 

But then boy got possessed by XANA. And this is where it gets interesting. What made William was his attitude, his personality, his cockiness and ignorance and XANA used it perfectly for his own goals. XANA needed a warrior, who’s better than this new boy that barely knows what he’s doing?

(Also, he’s wearing an outfit reminiscent of Mister Puck’s one so rule of symbolism applies - he was supposed to be protecting Aelita but instead got hunted down by a big bad wolf- ermmm, squid.) 

XANA stole half of year of life from William, trying to turn him against Lyoko gang and using him as his tool, extension of its will. Over and over he was used to battle the gang, to throw Aelita into Digital Sea, to - in the end - kill Franz Hopper. Even without powers bestowed to him by XANA he’s been used to shatter Lyoko Core - and XANA could just as well abandon him in the Digital Seas but XANA knows a useful too when it sees one. Remember that moment in S3 finale, the last time we saw William? It was when XANA engraved its eye on his torso, XANA recreated digital William how it see fit. He became its tool.

Worth noting that despite what many may suspect, it wasn’t XANA that directly possessed William. Just in case it wasn’t clear.

William did manage at one point to break from XANA’s control in Le lac. Briefly, but he’s like the only person that did that. What makes it a bit more interesting is that William is the only Warrior who doesn’t have Supercomputer-induced XANA-resistance, as seen in Finale of Season 4, in Fight to the Finish.

This Finale in general is where it gets fun. In Sueurs froides XANA makes a slip and teleports William to Siberia thus giving Aelita and Jeremie a chance to figure out how to make him return. And this is when XANA whips out THE MOTHERFUCKING KOLOSSUS. It can be clearly seen as act of anger, rage (XANA becoming more and more controlled by emotions is another topic but for that I’d need to rewatch entire series please I have no time for that…..) and realization of own mistakes. I think this one action is very, very telling how much XANA is possessive of William. The fact that William got repossessed in Fight to the Finish was most likely mostly dictated by necessity but it’s rather nice (Nevemind how hard then XANA!Will proceeds to beat everyone up. Yumi and Ulrich get bloody obliterated in the process.)

Then there is also the fact that Gang rejects him after possession. As much as it was his fault that he got possessed, that he didn’t listen to Aelita, it wasn’t his fault that it was his body used to attempt murder on Franz Hopper, to abuse Aelita (XANA!Will wasn’t battling Aelita, truly. It was way too visceral for me to call it that, there was too much enjoyment put in making her hurt). William is effectively stuck in one place after that.

As much as I am not big fan of Evolution there are snippets in it that give much bigger picture to relationship between those two. 

William stated in the end that he never remembered a thing from his time of possession but one could say either he’s lying or that he’s just slowly remembering things. First it’s small details - in one of episodes he’s seen reading a book Sommeil de mort which apparently is about a man in a coma. Telling enough, but that’s just a start. 

In Mutiny though? XANA attacks him directly with a Scyphosoa. And William Loses His Shit. He does something that no other Warrior did - use weapon against himself. Usually if they ever tried to devirtualize they used each other (remember how much of a big deal it was when it happened the first time?). But here William is desperate, he’s scared, he’s terrified. Of what? Of what he never knew what happened, of something beyond his understanding taking, again, control over him?

And then we have Les sans-codes. Oh baby. This is when things get wild. Yes I know it happened before Mutiny but at the same time it gives viewers who didn’t watch S4 few explanations ok it makes sense scenario-wise. 

XANA!Will in this particular episodes plays on William, manages to use only words to play on his feelings and turn him against Yumi. Let that sink in. And you know what? You can see that segment here, subbed a bit and all. 

The way XANA!Will resorts to almost exclusively physical attacks. “I was getting bored here without you”. The way XANA plays on William’s feelings of being rejected while at the same time both know full well that XANA is, well, bad, for William - “Once again she’s abandoning you”. 

At the same time there is something lovely about the way William is defeating XANA!Will here with attack that so far he could use only under XANA’s control….

On a side note there is a certain detail I like a lot: his sword after possession resembles a bit the way towers in Lyoko are connected to Sector 5. I like the subtle nudge at XANA’s nature, it’s first uncorrupted purpose here…

Yeah I think that’s that. I probs missed out a lot of details I now forgot but eh. That’s what comes to my mind with a bit of support of episodes list.