#and then i must be a smartass about it on my own blog but in like the most cowardly way possible

[fadelbison]

I really had to read with my own two eyes multiple times since this post had multiple people add on to it, bringing it back to my dash again and again, that the drama from Tharn and Phaya's past life did not feel dramatic at all. And somehow that detracts from taking the drama of the present as seriously as the show is taking it. This story is based on Thai folklore? The Naga and Garuda are eternal enemies. The love between a Naga and a Garuda is an insult to the literal cosmic order. Chalothon who was only trying to preserve the natural order has been wronged by their love. The natural order is also referenced several times but especially when the priest was like keep Phaya and Chalothon away from each other, they're destined to be enemies. Not meeting the show halfway to accepting this as part of your lens as an audience is frankly...an interesting choice to make. The next bit is pure conjecture on account of me not being Thai but I'm trying to relate to what The Sign is likely trying to do from my own understanding of Asian folklore and the way we use those stories to build new stories. What is there to get out of this show other than the big fuck you to 'natural order' of things that must be because of the way that they are. Why can't a Naga and Garuda be in love? This must be a concept that people explore under the general lens of forbidden love in Thailand (pure conjecture but also like I don't know how it can't be true). We all have our poorly explained versions of Forbidden Love gone bad; Romeo and Juliet, Ram Leela, Devdas would be some heterosexual stories of Forbidden Love that kind of hand waves around the forbidden part a little bit that I'm familiar with. Devdas (the story I'm most familiar with of the one's stated) and its myriad adaptations is a story about the absolute ways we hold on to class even as it brings about our own downfall.

It's a great pick for a queer adaptation because the reasons why the lovers couldn't be together was so made up and really came down to ONE person (Devdas' mother) who just couldn't let go of class even though everyone else was literally begging for the two to just be together because let me tell you none of you have met a poor little meow meow on the scale of Devdas.

The Sign is bringing the forbidden love between a Naga and Garuda as a parallel of the forbidden love between two men. Homosexuality outside of the legal sphere really does come down to an ideological difference as to what is natural vs not. Homosexuality goes against a natural order of reproduction. And this is true. Two men cannot reproduce, two women cannot reproduce with each other.

The challenge isn't to prove that they can, it's to prove that reproduction isn't the centerpoint of human life, that we have transcended the need for our life to be dictated by this 'natural' order because on principal our societies just aren't built along the paradigm of 'survival of the fittest' where the benchmark of species fitness is its ability to reproduce.

Thai shows including things that have come out of Idol Factory (that produces The Sign) are often socially engaged with LGBT rights within Thailand. Now that gay marriage is legal or on its way to be, I assume a move in the direction of bringing same sex relationships up to the same societal respect as straight relationships would be a natural direction that future screenwriters will go.

The Sign is trying very hard to take the question of homosexuality right to the heart of Thai culture and tradition and talk about it from that lens [this is less conjecture and more paraphrasing what Saint has said about the show in interviews] And I know that you all are capable of meeting a story halfway in respecting its desire to set up the stakes through references of allegorical story telling since y'all have been doing it with Last Twilight and Le Petit Prince. So I don't know even know why I had to make this post but: tl;dr: The stakes of the love between Tharn and Phaya and the forbidden nature of it is set before you even see much of the show just from the fact that Tharn is a Naga and Phaya is a Garuda and as a member of the audience you have to accept that the love between Naga and Garuda is a deviant form of love in Thai culture.

[yakuzacanons]

hi there! i wanted to thank you for creating this blog, it gives me immense joy reading everything you write. these games have changed my brain chemistry and i'm enjoying it way too much. i have a zhao request - taking care of his drunk S/O

thank you!

Teehee this is so cute and funny to me, of course you can sweetie anon

When it comes to drinking, it always goes one of two ways: Zhao gets drunk and you have to babysit him or you get drunk and he has to babysit you. Don't ask me how it happens, it just always turns out this way. One of you just goes balls to the wall hard and the other just...watches.

First of all, if you're too drunk to walk, you're getting carried around piggyback style. He could call a cab, and might if you guys are far from home, but he'd rather just hoof it himself and have you fall asleep on his back than deal with you getting sick in a car.

Alas, he cannot help but tease you a bit when he sees how drunk you are. Will poke your cheeks teasingly and point out how red your face has suddenly gotten. Says that he thinks you've had enough just to see your drunken reaction.

Having said that, he does know when to cut you off. Once he does, he's like a strict mother. No matter how you beg, you shan't be having another drink on his watch!

If you're a loud or talkative drunk, he just nods and giggles his way through it, which probably only makes you louder. If you're a sleepy drunk, his job is super easy: he just picks you up and takes you home the second you start nodding off.

He will not force you to drink water but he'll definitely make some smartass remarks about how it's your funeral if you don't and how next morning will be hell. Ironic considering he doesn't take his own advice when he's the one drunk off his rocker.

The one thing he is not good at helping you with is if you throw up. He knows it's not your fault and it happens but he cannot help but get the ick, so to speak. He's like "Ahhhchaaa, I can't believe I'm doing this" as he's cleaning up while you're totally knocked out.

Definitely the type of guy to tuck you into bed, getting you all dressed into your jammies. He'll put your shoes and dirty laundry away and plug your phone in, all that jazz.

Tea first thing next morning is a must. It's good for you dammit, he says.

[usa-manors-library]

You Are _____ The Father

(A/N: This is an answer to an ask on my ask blog, @ask-the-usa-manor , but it got pretty lengthy! I wouldn't say it's the best quality since I intended it to be a much shorter blog post and not a full length oneshot, but at least it's fun. Enjoy the crack. So much crack. A substantial amount of crack. A boogie woogie amount, if I may be so bold. But. No real crack. Don't do crack. Do water. Stay hydrated. <3

Ft... LIGHTHEARTED WRITING BY EVE!?! 😱🤯🔥🥣🦆***NOT CLICKBAIT***)

America sighed, content with his world as he picked up his bowl. It was a perfect afternoon. Life wasn't always this easy, but right now, everything felt perfect. The silence was golden, and this quiet peace was a rare escape. One that he normally didn't care for, as he didn't usually like to hear his busy mind. But for whatever reason; right now he was content with it, and he was grateful.

Sunbeams. Silence. Serenity. Soup.

"IT'S HERE!!!"

...South Dakota.

From where he was in the kitchen, America heard a series of crashing noises follow the distant announcement, trailed by a string of Virginia's indignant scoldings.

America cringed inwardly as he heard Dak wave her off with a quick 'sorry.' 

Bad move. He must be really high spirited about something if he's brushing off Ginny's annoyance. A peeved Virginia was a force to be reckoned with. Everyone knows that.

Especially me, America shuddered, perhaps a little too over dramatically as he returned to his lunch, Some days it feels like she's my parent, not the other way around...

He heard the scolding intensify.

...Welp, not my problem, He shrugged, Godspeed, Dak.

If it were anyone other than Ginny, he might've stepped in. However, believe it or not; he was a smart man. Deep down. Deep down. Very, very deep down. Wayyyyyyyy deep down, there was a little. Tiny spark of intelligence. Shocking, he knows.

Smart men didn't get under Virginia's skin. There are less painful ways to murder your soul.

While America shuddered at the thought, the nearby garden door swung open.

"Dad!"

"Don't care, eating soup," America shrugged, taking another spoonful, "Do whatever. Just don't die."

New York (that's odd, he's never in New Jersey's territory- er, 'the garden') kicked his shoes off, "Was that Dak who pulled into the driveway?"

"No, it's your other brother who has a shrine of bumper stickers to Badlands national park and an eerily accurate bobblehead of Mount Rushmore on his dashboard."

New York looked like he was about to shoot something back, but stopped short as a muffled chant started up;

"York, York, York, York."

America slowly lowered his soup. The chanting was getting louder. New York was... seemingly fine with it?

"York, York, YORK, YORK!"

America let out a shaky sigh, "Why is it getting closer?"

"YORK, YORK, YORK!"

"What's happening?"

New York just grinned.

"...Will it harm my soup?"

New York shrugged, "Probably not."

"Good," America turned his attention back to his beloved lunch, "Then I don't care."

"YORK!" South Dakota threw the kitchen door open, waving an envelope in the air. Virginia was right on his heels, still glaring daggers at him.

"Dak! Dak-man. Cadilldak. Dakbook," New York grinned.

America's eyebrows shot up. New York smiling at the sight of one of his brothers screeching at him while bursting into the room?

...Who's going to die?

"It's here!" South Dakota repeated triumphantly, handing New York the mail, "The paternity test's here!"

America almost choked on his food as he broke into a coughing fit. Virginia stared at him.

"Great!" NY cackled, snatching the envelope and blatantly ignoring his dying father, "So, have you heard from Connecticut? Is everything ready on his end?"

"Don't ask me, I'm just the guy you bribed into picking this up."

"Smartass," New York shook his head, "Alright. Let's go, Dad."

"Pardon?" America wheezed out, placing his soup on the counter.

"What? All those wars and you're going to let a soup take you out?"

America knows flipping off his own son is wrong.

But damn.

Does he want to.

"I have several questions," He started, uncertain if he really wanted to have that knowledge.

"And they'll be answered," New York assured, "If you come with us."

America paused and took a moment to process the situation. He looked to Virginia for help. She lingered for a moment, before shaking her head and walking away. Not her job, not her struggle.

Meanwhile, hesitation was the entirely wrong response.

"Dak," New York deadpanned.

South Dakota nodded, "On it, chief."

SD dashed forward and, to America's horror, grabbed the bowl of soup before swiftly returning to the opposite side of the room.

America gaped at him. After a long moment, he regained his voice;

"...Dak-"

South Dakota tilted the bowl ever so slightly, threatening to spill the bowl's contents. America froze.

"...You wouldn't," He said sharply, a look of devastation and disbelief in his eyes. Disbestation? Devastelief?

Dak stared right back at him, "Would I?"

"What is he paying you?" America bargained desperately, "I'll double it! Just hand me the soup."

"Sorry, Pops. New York's paying me in free entertainment. I doubt you could top it."

"This is how you repay me?" America hissed, the searing knife of betrayal at the hands of is own sons twisting into the gut, "After I fed you? Put clothes on your back? Raised you-?"

South Dakota tilted the bowl a little more, the soup right against the edge.

America immediately raised his hands in surrender. South Dakota and New York exchanged grins.

"...Alright, alright," He inhaled sharply, "You win this time. Where are we going?"

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Some days, America felt like his children were walking 'practice protection' ads. Very convincing 'practice protection' ads. This, was one of those days.

"When did you even...?" America glanced around, "...Get all of this?"

He was fairly certain he was on a stage, one decorated like a stereotypical talk show set. A vaguely familiar one, might he add. They must of modeled it after a real show.

A curtain was separating the stage from what he assumed was an audience. It worried him at first, before he picked out the voices and realized that they definitely belonged to his own kids. Then, it no longer worried him.

It terrified him.

South Dakota stood on the left wing, offstage and still holding America's soup hostage. He even put it in a prop cage he found in the back... America wondered if he could take legal action and put the 'sue' in soup.

"Well, we were originally expecting to use it for you," New York admitted, "Clearly, we still are, just... in a different way than anticipated."

New York motioned to one of the armchairs. America accepted the offer and sat down.

After a couple minutes, he closed his eyes. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe he's still at home, with his leftover soup still in the fridge and ready to be reheated. Maybe-

Hearing three sets of new footsteps, America cracked his eyes open. 

Nope, not a dream, He determined, A nightmare.

"Blackmail?" America questioned the newcomer taking a seat across from him.

England looked severely annoyed as he huffed, "Scotland."

"Thought so," America nodded. He glanced at the other, "And you?"

"Fear of Wales," Britain answered lightly, "And your offspring."

"Which one?"

"That's a rather loaded question."

"Now then!" Connecticut clapped his hands together with a smile on his face, "We can get started."

The three countries present were incredibly unsure if the wanted that. They didn't even know what 'that' really is. Of course, nobody cares what they want. At the end of the day, they were outnumbered 3 to Lord knows how many.

"Yorkie," Connecticut held out his hand, "The results, please."

New York stared down Connecticut, making no move to hand him the envelope.

"I had him first," NY stated sharply, "I knew him before you. I get to be him."

"I had him last," Connecticut huffed, "I had the latest version of him."

"I had the classic."

"He wasn't born there."

"He wasn't born at your place either!"

America and Britain watched the argument like a tennis match, eyes darting back and forth between the two states.

South Dakota was recording the ordeal on his phone, which in hindsight was pretty useless considering California set up cameras for 'the aesthetic.'

England was trying his best to dissociate from the entire situation, glaring at the wall and wondering what different life choices he could've made to prevent any of this from even existing. 

"Fine then," New York grumbled, "If we want to stay on schedule... Where was Maury born?"

In an instant, the envelope was snatched from New York's hands. The two formerly arguing states stared in bewilderment at the man who slipped in under the radar.

Eyes glimmering, suit still on from work, District of Colombia beamed.

"...It's my time to shine."

Crickets.

This can't be real.

"...You said you weren't coming," Connecticut blinked, "You're always 'too busy' for this stuff."

DC shrugged, "A man's allowed to change his mind."

"So, you really want to host?" New York asked incredulously, looking DC up and down, "...You?"

"I can have fun too, dammit."

Connecticut and New York exchanged glances.

"...I mean," Connecticut conceded, "I don't see a problem with it." 

New York shrugged, "If there's one thing you've shown us through the decades, it's that sometimes your only gift is entertainment."

"Thank you," DC nodded curtly, "...Bi-"

"But," Connecticut cut in, "We're co-hosting."

"Sounds fine-"

"Don't even argue," New York interrupted, "We're older."

"I didn't-"

South Dakota checked his watch, "And we're on in three, two...!"

The stage curtains opened, revealing an audience mostly consisting of family members with nothing better to do today. Applause prompted by the blinking 'applause' sign eventually died down. It was relatively quiet, except for continued rapid clapping from...

America squinted, eyes still adjusting to the stage lights.

Iowa.

"Woo!" Iowa cheered. He leaned over to the seat right to him- Nebraska- and whispered, pointing to America, "I knew that guy in college, Neb."

"That's our father," Nebraska deadpanned, "You've known him since you were born."

A hand from the row behind them took advantage of the exchange and stole a clump of their popcorn unnoticed. Cayman Islands was now completely prepared for the dumpster fire of a show to start.

This caught Arkansas's eye, and he leaned over to the popcorn thief.

"What's your name again?"

"C-"

"AndcanIpleasehavesomeofyourpopcorn?"

"-ayman."

"Thanks!" Arkansas smiled brightly, taking a quarter of his cousin's spoils.

Cayman stared off into space. He has to stop falling for that crap one of these days.

"I'd applaud, but," Michigan shrugged apologetically as he stared at Britain, who offered him an awkward smile and tried not to make eye contact with his nephew's clear lack of right arm, "You know how it is."

"Hello ladies, gents!" Connecticut greeted, "All of you who don't deserve such respectable titles! Welcome to tonight's trash television episode, Are You the Father? to avoid copyright infringement! Thanks for coming out! Who's in the house tonight?"

"Well, Colorado's here, higher than the waist on DC's trousers, " New York jabbed, ignoring his the capitol's glare as a spotlight briefly shone on Colorado. Colorado simply threw a peace sign before the spotlight went to another person in the crowd, "England's dad Wessex is here, somehow still not dead. Great job, Gramps. Keep making England wish you were for the res of ust."

"Speaking of Wessex," DC added, "What a perfect way to Segway into business! Now, 1,096 year old England claims to be the father of 5,258 month old United States of America. But America's younger half-brother, Britain, has some doubts about the validity of his father's words."

"...I do?" Britain muttered to himself, confused.

"Yes! You do," Connecticut prompted, "Why is that, Britain?"

"Oh... Uh..."

For once in his life, Britain seemed reluctant to insult someone.

New York nudged him, "...You won't hear a peep from us for a month-"

In a flash, UK pounded the arm of his chair with his fist.

"F%^* THAT YANK," He bellowed, "THAT'S WHY."

A bleeping sound via Utah with a censorship button echoed from the stage speakers. He's not even supposed to be there, he volunteered 5 minutes before the show and when nobody answered him he made himself comfortable.

New York nodded his head, as if to say; 'Keep going.'

"...Well then," Britain continued, "He's a total piece of—"

Utah kept the bleeping up until it was all you heard when Britain opened his mouth. At this point, the country wasn't even swearing. He was just reading his grocery list aloud.

"@%*% +^%{%]* +#^]*^{^[+ *]+}+!|]!,¥\+[+@&/!" Britain finished, "If that wasn't bad enough, he's a TWO DOZEN EGGS—"

"Thank you, Britain. I think that's all Utah can handle for now. He gets physically sick when he has to censor someone," DC elaborated.

"I mean, just look at him," New York motioned to the offstage unnaturally pale Beehive State, "Frail Victorian child lookin' mother—"

Utah shot him a warning look. 

"—'s favorite child who we all appreciate. And who might need to hand the remote to Nevada before he passes out—"

"So. England," Connecticut moved on, "You're the only person here who currently knows if America's your real son, or if you just snatched him Russian-Empire-and-Finland style. Anything to say on that?"

"Thank you for giving me the final push I needed to decide that a restraining order's mandatory," England solemnly answered.

The three hosts exchanged glances. They really didn't have the legal team to handle this. At least they didn't think so, considering their legal team was Rhode Island with a baseball bat.

"America," DC immediately continued, looking at the third victim- Ehm, 'guest'- his father.

America's eyebrows climbed up as he slowly turned to face DC, "...What did you just call me?"

"Right, sorry," DC quickly backtracked, "Terribly unprofessional of me Mr. United States, sir."

"That's not what I..." America gave up halfway into his sentence and simply sighed, "...Never mind. When can I get my soup back?"

"How does it feel to possibly be fatherless?"

"When can I get my soup back?"

"Want to expand on your answer?"

"When can I get my soup back?"

"I see. How does that make you feel?"

"Hungry. When can I get my soup back?"

"Is that hunger for the truth about who your father is?"

America stared at him like he was an idiot. To be fair, we don't have the evidence to disprove that claim.

"It's hunger," He explained at a tortoise's pace, leaning forward in his chair, "For. Soup."

"Interesting."

"Chicken. Noodle."

"Ah," DC awkwardly nodded, "That's a good one."

"I ask. For so little."

America held eye contact with the capitol for an uncomfortably long amount of time without blinking.

NY leaned over to Connecticut.

"...I can't believe I'm saying this," He muttered, "But we may need to cut the musical number."

After a couple extra moments of watching the scene in front of him, Connecticut acquiesced.

"Cut the musical number," Connecticut approved, "This is only a pre-show, I doubt the audience would care. Get to the results before he starts crying."

"Which one?" New York huffed, "They both look pretty friggin' close to tears."

"Yes."

On the edge of them, really. Neither of them looked like they wanted to be in this situation, and District of Colombia came here willingly. 

"Washdistbia!" New York called over, "Stop trembling like a half-drowned kitten and wrap it up!"

Somehow, DC was able to drag himself out of the numbing paralyzation he found himself in and managed to look away from the haunting stare of America.

"Right," He answered shakily, "On to the results. In the case of 5,258 month old USA-"

"It's okay to say 438 years old, I can take it-"

"Englad, you are..."

Everyone watched in silence as he made an effort to open the letter.

It took him a solid three minutes.

It was a regular paper envelope.

"...Missing out on our new discounts! Get a brand NEW Ford F-150 for 30%-" DC blinked.

He read the paper. Then reread it. Then read it once more.

He glanced in the envelope again. Nope, nothing else. Just amazing deals for this autumn brought to yOU BY THE EVER AMERICAN [EAGLE SOUND] FREEDOM INFUSED-

Utterly lost, he looked to the others.

"...What the hell is this?" He asked, lifting up the 'results' in question.

A murmur of 'don't look at me's fell upon the stage and audience. Backstage, South Dakota cursed under his breath.

"I knew I should've asked them to stop mailing me my coupons," Dak sighed.

What.

"You get your junk mail from..." Connecticut took a deep breath, "The paternity testing lab?"

"Yeah," Dak admitted nonchalantly, "My grandma lives there."

America looked up hopefully, "Mom?"

"NO-"

Abruptly, the outro music started blasting. Without uttering a sound, England stood and walked away stage left. He hates you all. Especially Aili.

"...Well, that was... that," New York checked the time on his phone, "I'm going to take my seat and... pretend like I didn't just waste my afternoon."

It took America 0.5 seconds to practically hurl South Dakota out of his way so he could reclaim his soup. 

Britian rushed... away. Simply away. He is gone. He will not return. Everyone wave goodbye. Goodbye, Britain. He's free. Freedom. He's free. F r e e...

Ish.

"Goodnight everyone!" Connecticut bid with a wave, following the others off the stage, "Enjoy Florida on I Can't Believe It's Not Dr. Phil!"

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

"...How'd you get my DNA, anyway?"

"You're a heavy sleeper after you cry. Pretty easy to get after Homeward Bound."

(A/N: I want soup.)

[duhragonball]

Disinterpretation

I finally finished the Sarah Z video about “pro vs. anti”.   It’s pretty long, and I ended up watching it in chunks over several days, but I think it’s worth watching, especially if you’re sort of partially connected to online fandom, but not enough to be aware of all the lingo. 

As I expected, the whole thing was vague and confusing because the people involved in the conflict made it vague and confusing.   In theory, the full terms would be “pro-shipping” and “anti-shipping”, but it seems like it’s more about particular kinds of ships that could be considered controversial.  But that’s a slippery slope, and apparently the whole conflict mutated into both sides deciding that every hypothetical relationship between fictional characters is either equally valid or equally dangerous.  

Long story short, it’s just purity culture, which was what everyone on Tumblr was calling it around 2012.  But now, if you’re a sane person who genuinely asks: “Who gives a fuck about Voltron?”, these people will jump your ass and accuse you of being on the side of their enemies.  “Children have died over the importance of Lotor/Hagger!   Your callous indifference proves that you yourself must have murdered children!” 

I think what Sarah Z really hit upon in this video was that media consumption has become so ingrained in our culture that people feel like it has to go hand-in-hand with our morality.   That is, it’s not enough for me to watch Star Trek, I have to justify Star Trek as evidence that I’m a good person.  Maybe this is where the expression “guilty pleasure” comes from.   Conversely, it’s not enough for me to not watch Dr. Who, I have to somehow convince everyone that Dr. Who was invented by the devil.

I’m pretty sure the Reylo ship has a lot to do with this, since it’s kind of understood to be a dark, problematic concept, and fans either embrace its flaws or recoil in horror because of them.   Star Wars itself is a dumb story about space wizards, so people try to give the debate more weight by linking it to freedom of self expression and/or enabling real world harm.   Suddenly it’s not enough to just think two actors would look cute making out instead of fighting.   Now it’s this battlefield for the soul of civilization or something.

I grew up in the 80′s, when “concerned parents” and grifters would accuse the Smurfs and metal bands of promoting satanism and witchcraft.   I used to hear stories of teens going out into the woods in the middle of the night to do occult stuff, and all I could ever think about was: “Why would anyone bother wandering out in the woods in the middle of the night?”  Which is why “concerned parents” turned their attention to things that were closer to home, like Saturday morning cartoons.   It had nothing to do with the content; it was just about finding a safe, accessible target for their hysteria.   Some people want to go on a crusade without leaving the house, so they pick a fight with Papa Smurf instead of confronting the real evils in the world.  Even as a kid, I knew this was a con, because I’d watched the show for myself and knew it was too saccharine to be threat to anyone.

The pro/anti folks have tried to disguise this with a lot of terminology.   I wondered why they seemed to reluctant to use the full terms “pro-shipper” and “anti-shipper”, and it’s probably a couple of things.   First, the word “shipper” is basically an admission that this is pointless bullshit that doesn’t matter, and they’d like to avoid that connotation.   Second, they seem to have decided that this goes beyond shipping itself, into practically anything else they want it to involve.  It’s all part of the con, which is to make you believe that it’s “us vs. them”, and you can be part of “us” by curating specific attitudes about Steven Universe.

Seriously, “about Steven Universe” is such an incredible punchline.  You can make anything funnier by adding those three words to the end of a sentence.   “Do not interact if you blog about Steven Universe.”   “Hey, what’s up, YouTube, this is SSJ3RyokoLover69, and this is going to be kind of a serious video about Steven Universe.”   “Mrs. Johnson, the results of your biopsy are in, and I have some bad news about Steven Universe.”   It’s a fucking kids show.   “Oh no, all the characters look like the characters in all the other kids shows!”   Yeah, that’s because it’s a kids show.   Marvin looks like Garfield, this isn’t new.

The common denominator here seems to be that both sides try to wrap themselves in the flag of vulnerable groups: impressionable minors, trauma survivors, harassment victims, etc.   The “pros” want to protect those people so that they can feel free to explore weird subject matter on their own terms, and the “antis” want to protect the same people from being exposed to weird subject matter that they might not want to see.   It’s all about establishing a moral high ground.   Back in the day, it was called “sanctimony”. 

But people get roped into this, because at their core, people want approval, and this stupid conflict offers them a sense of community.  As long as you support the cause, whatever it may be, you’ll have this online friend network that appears to support anything you do.   But if you deviate from their norm, you’ll be cast out.    Does this sound familiar?

To use a more familiar example, I still sometimes find people clamoring about Gochi vs. Vegebul.   I’ve never understood this, because both ships were canon, and I never saw much direct evidence of a war between them, but people would still talk about how crazy the Vegebul shippers were, and how crazy the Gochi shippers were, and it was like some huge thing going on just over the hills.   It’s the same idea, since the idea that you could like both or neither never seems to occur to anyone involved.   I never gave a shit, because I used to see the same dumb agendas in the Harry Potter fandom.

Okay, so let me take you back.  It’s 2005 through 2011, and I’m hateblogging all seven Harry Potter novels, because fuck you, that’s why.  The funny thing I encountered was that occasionally fans seemed to want to pretend like my bashing of certain characters was proving them right somehow.    They were like “See?  He hates Ron Weasley too!  That proves that Seamus Finnegan is the coolest guy ever.”   The Slytherin stans would do this all the time, because I would constantly take the piss out of the Gryffindor characters for being self-important dopes.   I think they just liked hearing it from an outside perspective.   But I had to keep reminding them all that I hated all of them.   Every character from Harry Potter sucks ass. Voldemort was my favorite, but only because he was the one guy who wanted to kill all of the others.   But he sucks too because he failed. 

And the shippers were the same way.   I’d say something shitty about Ron, because Ron sucks, and some smartass Joss Whedon fan would be like “Yes!  Boost the signal!  That is why Harry/Hermione is the best ship!”  And I’d be like “No, Harry and Hermione suck at least as bad as Ron does.  They’re all terrible and I hate them.”   I really do think there was some sort of Stockholm Syndrome going on with Harry Potter books, where everyone secretly knows they suck, but the fans sort of latch on to one or two characters and go like “Well, he’s not as shitty as the rest.”   Like finding spaghetti in the trash and picking out the meatball with the least amount of lint on it.   Then you’d go and start a flamewar with some other starving person over whether your meatball is shittier than theirs.  This is what people mean when they say to read another book. 

Anyway, the big thing I picked up from Sarah Z’s video is “disinterpretation”, a term coined by MSNBC columnis Zeeshan Aleem.   The Twitter thread is worth a read, but the short version is that he once remarked that a Julia Louis-Dreyfus routine wasn’t very good, and someone got mad at him for insinuating that women are incapable of being funny.    They just took his dissatisfaction with one performance by one comedian as being a universal condemnation of women comedians in general.  And this sort of thing is all over the internet.   Everyone sees what they want to see and then they take it as permission to overreact.  

I ran into this myself a while back, because someone saw who I interacted with on Twitter and decided that they’re all bad guys and if I have any interaction with them, then that makes me a bad guy too.   At the time I tried to play it cool, but the more I think about it, the more it ticks me off.   And over the course of that conversation, it was said that I don’t talk about myself much, and that’s kind of funny, because all I ever do on social media is write long-ass blog posts like this one.  I don’t expect anyone to memorize them, or even read them all the way through, but when I write all this stuff and someone goes out of their way to say they don’t know anything about me, the message is that they just didn’t pay attention to what I was saying, and they didn’t bother to try.

So I’m a little jaded from that, because I got called out for a bunch of stuff I didn’t even do or say, and apparently that’s just a thing that happens.   People will reject you for completely arbitrary reasons, not because of anything you actually said or did, and you’re left thinking you made some terrible mistake.   Except, no, I’ve seen it happen to other people, people a lore more conscientious than I am, and if they can’t satisfy the bullshit purity standards, then I never stood a chance.   If the game is rigged so I can’t win, then I’m not going to play.  

And it’s that same condition that probably draws people into these online holy wars, because if you declare yourself for the pro or anti side, at least then you’ll have a posse backing you up.   Only they don’t support you, they support your willingness to support them.    Once your commitment to their agenda wavers, even in the slightest, they will turn against you.   

Sarah Z suggests that both sides of the war drop the pro and anti terms, since they lost all meaning long ago.   But that just invites a new set of useless terms to perpetuate the same cycle.   Her more useful advice is for fandom people to broaden their horizons.   She got a lot of flak for tweeting “Go outside” once, but the ironic thing is that it’s sound advice.   I had lunch with my mom yesterday and it was just nice getting away from things for a while.   People need to do that more often, and unfortunately it feels like it’s harder to do than ever before.

But “go outside” isn’t just a literal thing.   It can mean going beyond your usual haunts, reading the same books, watching the same shows, rehashing the same conversations.   I think the reason this stuff always revolves around “shipping” is because there seems to be this deep-seated compulsion to pair fictional characters off like this, and for a lot of folks it’s the only way they can consume a story, so they do.   And they do it lot, and there’s a lot of them, and they do it the same way every time, and lo and behold the same old conflicts start up.   So maybe “go outside” should mean “go outside of that cycle once in a while.”   Just a thought. 

[petersasteria]

70s to 80s Prompt List

LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!

My favorite movies in which the prompts are from (in order of the prompts): Kramer vs Kramer, When Harry Met Sally, The Breakfast Club, Twins, Sixteen Candles, Annie, Chances Are, Dead Poets Society, and Fast Times At Ridgemont High.

“Some things, once they are done, can’t be undone.”

“My wife used to always tell me: ‘why can’t a woman have the same ambitions as a man?’.”

“What law is it that says a woman is a better parent simply by virtue of her sex? You know a lot of times, think about it. What is it that makes somebody a good parent? And I don’t know where it is written that says a woman has a corner on that market; that a man has any less emotions than a woman does?”

“I’m not a perfect parent. I don’t have enough patience. I forget he’s just a little kid, but then I get up in the morning and we eat breakfast, and he talks to me, and we go to school, and at night we eat dinner together, and we talk, and then I read to him. And we built a life together and we love each other. If you destroy that, it may be irreparable.”

“I hate you!” “And I hate you back, you little shit!”

“I came home to share with my wife one of the five best days of my life and she tells me that she doesn’t want to live with me anymore! Do you know what she’s done?” “Yes, she loused up one of the five best days of your life.”

“Will she pick me up after school?” “Probably, and if she doesn’t, I will.” “What if you forget?” “I won’t forget.” “What if you get run over by a truck and get killed?” “Then mommy will pick you up.”

“A woman friend. This is amazing. You may be the first attractive woman I have not wanted to sleep with in my entire life.”

“I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

“I hate it. I hate having to go along with everything my friends say.”

“You ought to spend a little more trying to do something with yourself and a little less trying to impress people.”

“My god, are we gonna be like our parents?”

“We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it; that’s all.”

“When you grow up, your heart dies.”

“Screws fall out all the time. The world’s an imperfect place.”

“You could be a boxer or something. I could be your manager.” “No, I could never fight for money.” “Well that’s fine. You fight, I’ll keep the money.”

“Yeah, tell your brother that if he messes with me, he messes with my whole family!”

“Don’t be a smartass.” “Okay, I’ll be a dumbass.”

“I loathe the bus. There has to be a more dignified mode of transportation.”

“Would you stop feeling sorry for yourself? It’s bad for your complexion.”

“I can’t believe this. They fucking forgot my birthday.”

“I’m a businessman. I love money, I love power, I love capitalism. I do not and never will love children.” “You love money and power and capitalism? You know, they’re never gonna love you back.”

“My psychiatrist says I suffer from the halo effect, the tendency of widows to idealize their dead husbands. He says it keeps me from falling in love again. He has a point, but I can’t imagine I’ll ever stop loving Louie.”

“We’re all connected. It’s all connected under the skin. You never know who’s lurking in what body. Your wife could be your grandmother. You meet some guy who gets on your nerves, probably your mother-in-law. We keep meeting souls we’re attached to. For better or worse, life after life.”

“Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary!”

“You must strive to find your own voice because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are going to find it at all.”

“For the first time in my whole life, I know what I wanna do! And for the first time, I’m gonna do it! Whether my father wants me to or not!”

“No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.”

“I woke up in such a great mood today. I don’t know what happened.”

“I just couldn’t make it on time.” “You couldn’t or you wouldn’t?”

“Am I hallucinating here? Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” “Learning about Cuba and having some food.”

“My brother’s gonna kill us! He’s gonna kill us! He’s gonna kill you and he’s gonna kill me, he’s gonna kill us!” “Hey man, just be glad I had fast reflexes.” “My brother’s gonna shit!” “Make up your mind, dude. Is he gonna shit or is he gonna kill us?”

“Are you in my class?” “I am today.”

“You dick!”

“You’re on dangerous ground here. You’re causing a major disturbance on my time.” “I’ve been thinking about this, Mr. Hand. If I’m here and you’re here, doesn’t that make it our time? Certainly, there’s nothing wrong with a little feast on our time.”

“We were messing around and something happened.” “What do you mean something happened?”

“Look, I never even talked to her again.”

“I finally figured it out. I don’t want sex. Anyone can have sex.” “Yeah, ___? What do you want?” “I want a relationship. I want romance.”

“Look at you: member of the honor roll, assistant to the assistant manager of the movie theater. I’m tellin’ ya, ___, if this girl can’t smell your qualifications, then who needs her, right?”

𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @blueleatherbag @cocoamoonmalfoy @thatforgottenangel @parkerpeter24 @turtoix @slutforsr @givebuckyhisplumsnow @runawayolives @hollandsrecs @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @yourstrulyamour @juliediggory @rumplebutterbaby @dummiesshort @thevelvetseries @buckymylove @moonlight-onyx @bora-world @supred12 @more-like-reyna @caitsymichelle13 @aayaissaa @wannabemobwife @sunwardsss @bigassnocash @repostcentral

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @holland-styles @trustfundparker @alinastarkrovs @celestialholland @hufflepuffprincess24 @tommysparker @justasmisunderstoodasloki @quaksonhehe @call-me-baby-gir1 @itstaskeen @theonly1outof-a-billion @lost-in-the-stars03 @justafangirlduh @piscesparker @speedymaximoff @miraclesoflove @lexirv @blairscott @getbywithasmile @pqrkerr @lavender-writer @blackbat2020 @hoodpankow @bi-lmg @emmastarz @moonchild-s-blog @itszulli

[acedhigh]

SIEGEMAS 2020 @dualrainbow​ starring: Marius Streicher, Dominic Brunsmeier, Monika Weiss, Elias Kötz. main blog: @elitejager​ note: hey to anyone who reads this, I haven’t written anything in forever and the only time I’ve ever written a fic was a request, so this is a first for me. as an Autistic person I wanted to touch on the topic a little (i.e how the world views us versus how we view others and express ourselves) and incorporate it into my prompt for this piece. Marius inspires me a lot, I know he’s a popular part of Team Rainbow so I hope you all like it & happy holidays ✌

07 December.

As an icy chill snaked its way down his nape, Marius was reminded of the changed season. Days, weeks even, inside the workroom (his 'safehaven' as he called it to himself), made time and weather and all things mundane merge together in one big negligible blur. The transition between October into November now early December had seemed so...rapid. "Getting lost in one's work" was nothing short of apropos for this revelation; Unfazed by the cold however, he merely rolled down his sleeves and resumed gazing intently at his go-to site for ordering parts - Hated the white background (far too garish) but it offered the best of the best, and a quicker delivery schedule. He'd need it. It wasn't unusual for him to spend great bouts of time in one place. Even less unusual to be knee-deep in a project or two. But it was when morning frost and Christmas music became part of everyday life to crudely round off the year, that Monika and Elias were particularly attentive to Marius and his propensity to isolate. He'd been like that as long as they could recall. It could be almost jarring at first - His quips that'd rub less-familiar colleagues the wrong way, the speed at which his social battery would fizzle out like an ember, and a subtle arrogance which stepped on many toes. In contrast to Marius' heated and bull-headed nature, even his enthusiasm and eagerness to share or contribute somehow seemed misplaced or perhaps just poorly timed; Boundaries were a struggle and frequently crossed line despite how many walls he put between himself and others. He was unpredictable to most. "Hard to decipher", as Monika once put it. She was the first out of the four to recognize he was on the spectrum, and it tugged at her heartstrings to watch him endure contempt in place of a little understanding - But she vowed to hold her tongue. She did not want to patronise or belittle someone as bold as Marius. After all, in many ways she considered him to rival herself academically, and that garnered much of her respect. He was capable, he didn't need her or anybody else to coddle him or worry. Monika did not worry about him at all in fact, until this time of year.

16 December.

Elias had a similar view. Never had he met someone so rigid in his performance, so disciplined, yet so antsy. Must be the whole chaos of creativity, he thought. He recounted several incidences where he tried his hand at entertaining Marius, to no avail. Like things just didn't connect with him or tickle him the way Elias could achieve with others. But that didn't mean they lacked a connection at all - They were close, but where other people stood Marius was always one step further away, by his own accord. It was clear from the get go that the engineer liked to do things his way and per his agenda. Elias would grant him the favour of “breathing room” because he knew that although Marius held people at arms' length, beneath that eccentric exterior there was a shining heart of gold that cared deeply about the people he would shoo out of his workroom. Today was no exception, apparently.

"Hey, Marius--" There he was, ensconced in something technical of course, and drenched in fluorescent white light.

"No!"

"Huh--"

"Don't-- You can't look. Just...I'm busy. And I'm discussing this prototype of mine with the head of BMVg, whatever it is, it can wait."

Oops, Elias. "This isn't for prying eyes, it's commission work. I'll humour you later."

"Ah, err, got it. No peeking. Just don't work yourself to death and I'll check back in tonight. See ya!"

Yeah, this wasn't uncommon he muses, as he's met with a cold hand gesture towards the door. Though Elias couldn't help but wonder if maybe Marius was pushing himself even harder as to not think about the holidays. Dominic's relationship with him was different. Not as warm to the touch. And certainly more volatile, when tension arose. A clash of unorthodox personalities. They were polar opposites in one way, but fiercely empathetic in others, because pariahs stick together even when grating on each others' nerves - It was their non-conformity that made them a good team no matter how unconventional (and potentially troublesome) the dynamics. He knew how it was to be alone like the back of his hand. Maybe that too is the reason for their kinship, once all strain dissipated. Even he occasionally considered how his comrade handled the isolation; Dominic relished it to a degree, a darker mind who co-existed with his demons. But he knew Marius and he frequently observed his drive to form relationships only for them to fall flat or worse because of that same old disconnect Elias talked about on occasion. Never brought it up verbally but nothing could ghost Dominic's perusal. "Damn. Rejected again," Elias jests as he spots Dominic taking a break from playing grease monkey on his bike - Cigarette routinely positioned in mouth and garage wide open so that snow had begun collecting on the entrance floor. This wing was probably his safehaven, too.

"You should leave him to it." Dominic takes a long drag before expelling two plumes from his nose.

"Yeah I know, I know. Just seems wrong to not try. I don't think he's going home for Christmas. Hasn't heard from his Uncle for a couple of years...Not sure why. Marius tells me that's nothing out of the ordinary. Still, doesn't hurt to remind him we're around."

"He knows we're around. If you and Monika make a fuss it'll probably backfire."

"You could be right. But hey, buzzing in somebody’s ear is better than letting them feel ignored. I wouldn't be half as fun if I wasn't annoying."

"...Are you sure 'fun' is the right word?" Dominic concealed his smirk behind another toke.

"Whaaatever. Have a good night Brunsmeier. And don't get too cold old man! I don't know how you have the place all opened up on days like this. I don't want to come back tomorrow morning and find you in cryostasis."

"Uhuh. Well, snow chains. Fitting new ones on the tires and have to put 'em to the test somehow. See you, Smartass."

23 December.

The air was cold and dry and it permeated indoors but the serenity of snow blanketing everything for miles upon miles outweighed the chill in his lungs. Even the sun couldn’t thaw the ice nor interfere with celebrants having their white Christmas. From the moment he'd woken up that morning he rushed to get stuck back into his work without so much as cranking up the radiators. No matter the climate, it wouldn't deter him from his endeavours, much like Winter itself. As he fine-tuned his latest creation Marius felt overcome with accomplishment and relief knowing he had the rest of the day to spare after hours of trial and error. Fingers weaved and arms raised he stretched up high, taking a moment to admire the fully customised apparatus begging to be used. Fishing his phone out of a denim pocket he checked the time and grabbed one of the gift boxes wrapped neatly with a lavender bow. Monika would always make a point of going home to celebrate with her family - he'd heard many stories about her mother's Sauerbraten - and was always the first to leave to ensure she'd catch her flight. Ergo, her turn came first. His soles crunched against the virgin snow as Marius made his way to the dormitories. He could've forgotten the clean scent of fresh air or the sheer brightness the day can bring after spending a majority of his time hunkered down at the workroom. Cutting it close, he was fortunate enough to cross paths with Monika, luggage in her wake while punching in a numberpass for the electronic gate. "Monika!" He called out, waving her down.

"Hm?" Immediately she turned on her heel - Perhaps he startled her, or it was the (pleasant) surprise of hearing that familiar voice in another place other than his station or dorm.

"Monika, I'm glad I could catch you. Here--" Offering the palm sized box it was clear to the both of them that neither knew exactly how to handle the situation without underlying befuddlement. "--Frohe Weihnachten." (Merry Christmas). Ah yes, he'd forgotten that part. He wasn't well-versed in the act of gift giving - not face to face, at least...

"Really? For me?"

"Of course it is. It's purple. I don't know anybody else's favourite colour."

"I'm a little speechless...! Thank you Marius, and Frohe Weihnachten. I got something for you too, so did Elias. You were too busy we didn't think to disturb you and thought we'd leave them on your desk. You're welcome to pick them up yourself beneath the tree Emmanuelle and Yumiko set up in the foyer." Something akin to a glorified 'Secret Santa' Harry suggested for Team Rainbow to build on their camaraderie but appealed little to Dominic.

"Oh, that was unnecessary, but I'm grateful. Then I'm obliged to thank you as well. I didn't expect anything - I just wanted to see what I could come up with. I hope you like it."

"No act of benevolence is unnecessary. I'm tempted to open this up right here and now, I'm very curious. I'm going to show restraint however and open it tomorrow. I'll shoot you a message afterwards, OK?" She unzipped her case and placed it delicately atop folded clothes. Whatever it was, it seemed fragile, and would need the padding. "You take care of yourself Marius. Tschüss!" She passed through the gate and left with a smile.

24 December.

With more confidence after yesterday's exchange next in line was either Elias or Dominic, whoever he bumped into first. Today was bitterly cold and much darker, grey clouds hanging overhead almost as thick as the snow. Still, it was welcomed by those who enjoyed the seasonal comforts of lounging around; Vastly preferable to these scorching Summers in recent years, to Marius' admittance. He could spy from beyond his work station window that Dominic had the garage locked up early and was now dumping fodder to feed one of his burn barrel fires. To Marius, this had grown synonymous with Winter, and was a good way to gauge the severity of the weather - Dominic explained to him that it became habit from his undercover days, and was a quick & easy disposal method of...well, anything that could burn. Which sounded vaguely ominous with the way he put it, and there was no doubt in his mind that it absolutely was ominous. But that was then. He would ponder though, what his fellow operative saw in those flames. If he thought of an array of things and memories like a haunting myriad or maybe he just saw nothing more than a warming fire and burning magazines. It was hardly worth asking either, because he was scarcely linear, and seemed to quietly take pleasure in keeping people on their toes. An enigma for sure. They both were. Joining Dominic's side he could feel heat from the fire and the barrel itself as it raged on between them.

"You've been out here a while?" "An hour, maybe less." "Can't be too good for you. It's cold & flu season. If you're going to see your nephews and nieces, that's not wise." "I've dealt with worse." "Yes, that's true, I'm sure your lungs appreciate your pack-a-day fitness ritual." "If I smoked a pack a day, BPOL would give me the chop faster than any bad habits could on my life expectancy. Besides, I can still outrun you. Did you come here to give me health advice or was there something else?" "I know you well enough to know that giving you advice often goes unheeded." Much to my dismay. "So no, however--" He presents the red giftbox to Dominic, which he'd yet to acknowledge. Or he didn't care enough to ask. There's a visible confusion that reads in his otherwise stark expression - Like Monika's the day prior. Was it really so foreign for Marius to present his generosity this way? "Oh...?" "Open it, Dummkopf." Rather than muster some spur of the moment retort Dominic does as instructed. He settled the box in snow and crouched down to examine what awaited inside. "Pure silver electromagnetic rods. In a similar vein to an EMP device, rather, a preemptive attack on them and on your target. Think of them as an extension to your CEDs. Place them around in any formation you like to create an electromagnetic field; They will go live the moment your CEDs do. I've included a remote for functionality and to check that they're all within range of each other. The frequencies will be dizzying for enemy weaponry and at the touch of a button, shock anybody standing within the field's radius." Astounded, Dominic can only look down in disbelief at the device in his hands. It's one thing to fix up an old motorcycle, or even a car, but something of this calibre was truly belonging to a prodigious acumen. And that prodigy is Marius Streicher. "Oh, there's also armbands and a 'plate' you fit to the bottom of your footwear to absorb static and safeguard you from being on the receiving end of the electrogrid. That part should be a familiar concept." "..." "Well?" "I don't know how the hell you come up with this shit, but it's incredible." "Mmhmm. Of course it is, I made it. Brave of you to finally admit that." "Don't make me regret showing some gratitude. I mean it. Is this what you've been busying yourself with the whole month?" "Yeah, calculating pulse waveforms took more work than Monika's and Elias' upgrades, I readily accepted the challenge though." "You went to the trouble of making something for them too huh. Crazy." "I did yes. Monika's was no sweat. I pulled up the files on her RED Mk III and tweaked a few things. Utilising the same technology I fitted a lens-like screen to a headpiece, so the intel she needs is always in view, and her handling of weapons isn't compromised. I think she'll appreciate the purple tint I used for the lens. That, and it can also be used for her spelunking - The new and improved Spectre can see beyond solid walls several metres thick, and it can detect hollow spaces like tunnels. If she removes the chip and slots it into the drone I made for her - I'll reveal that part to her once she's back - she can apply the Spectre to airborne recon in the same way as the lens itself." "Now, you're showing off. She's going to use and abuse that thing every chance she gets." "Good. Then I won't have made it for nothing." "What about Elias, what did you give him?" "I haven't given him his yet which works out nicely." "I'm all ears, Brainiac." "Interesting moniker. Elias gets a conal radius motion & thermal detector that bolsters his ballistic shield. This will give him an increase in tactical advantage, by alerting him to whoever is in his vicinity. If there's an obstruction or he loses sight of the enemy he can find them with ease and make his move. Like Monika's, his can mimic the technology he's accustomed to and can also be detached and used with the specialised drone made for him. He'll be able to temporarily blind at range, or cause distraction, meaning if he keeps his wits about him he'll manage to play a part from long distances." Dominic spied something else in the box as Marius gave his run down on each of the devices. Brow furrowed he picks it up and examines it closely, unable to crack what purpose it served. "Hm. And this?" "That, is a personal touch. Call it whimsical but I think you'll like it. His drone is also yours." Shooting the engineer a bewildered glance Dominic held the second remote in hand, waiting expectantly to understand its significance and what exactly made it so 'whimsical'. "I had trouble coming up with a unique quality for each of you. You're both irreverent in your sense of humour, so I decided to play on that. Elias' drone also has a compartment where something, such as a flashbang for example, can be stored and dropped at command. I'll tell him about that. What I won't tell him however is that you have full access to the drone with that control you're holding. I'll leave it to your imagination to invent shenanigans of your own design. It ought to appease your prankster inclinations," Marius smiled knowingly, but only just - A sliver of the pride gathering in his center. Dominic's was blatant and devilish; Cogs turning in his mind already. But moreso this was a gift with meaning, and understanding to a level that excelled clinical intelligence. He had captured all three of them as operatives and as people, as friends, in the best way he knew how. Each gadget was far from mere machinery. Like polaroids immortalising their merits on the field and in life. "Don't expect to hear this out of me again anytime soon but you've outdone yourself." "Hah! It's worth the effort just to wring sincerity out of you, you ornery bastard." "Yeah, yeah, pot calling the kettle black. I know you're not a drinker but come on, show me how to use this thing over a pint - and bring the drone. I want to get Elias back for all his gaudy Christmas music in the dorms. I considered smothering him with his pillow, but this will suffice." He sneered, amused by his own facetiousness. "I know you don't have anything else planned so I'm not giving you much of a choice." After placing everything back in its box Dominic stood up to give his friend a gracious pat on the back. Marius noticed a glint in his eye he hadn't been privy to before - one unlike the dispassion that most would consider default to 'Bandit' - perhaps they were both seeing each other in a different light. An aspect they kept tucked away, save for rare junctures such as these. "Fine. I'll agree, considering the occasion. Might as well get into the spirit of things a little. Frohe Weihnachten, Dominic." "Frohe Weihnachten."

[cutesuki--bakugou]

@charvaughn-writes​ Aaahhh, thank you so much!! I’m so glad that you enjoy my work, and I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to this request for a long time. I had fun with it, though, I hope you like it! I went pretty naughty, so ╮(╯∀╰)╭

Please blacklist the tag cutesuki-lemons if you do not want to see this content from my blog. I will no longer be tagging with specific keywords for this type of content.Thank you~

Due to the nature of this post, the characters are 18+

Under the cut~

“K-Katsuki~! A-ah, yes!” You dug your nails into your husband’s strong biceps, your teary gaze locked on the way his cock slipped in and out of you, stirring up your walls as he fucked you roughly. With your legs held back by his firm grip under your knees, which both rested on either side of your head, you had the perfect view of his muscular body. His skin, along with yours, was glazed with sweat and your own juices, which peaked in your mind for a split second to bring the realization upon you that this had been going on for a very long time. 

You couldn’t help it, though. Sometimes you just had an urge, a little itch, to wake up your lover with more than just a simple kiss. No, today you had been too enticed by his hard cock, stricken by typical ‘morning wood’, and your desires couldn’t be contained. Bakugou loved it, of course, and was more than eager to please, even in the early morning hours. And pleasure you, he did, until you were a filthy, writhing mess, begging for his cum. 

“You like that, babygirl? Huh, my little cock hungry slut--” Gripping on tighter to your legs, Bakugou somehow pushed them back even further, digging and slamming his cock deep and hard inside you. Leaning your head back, you were completely at his mercy, unable to move and unable to control your voice. You were sure that your neighbors could probably hear you, even if they were in their own homes, but you could really care less about any of that. All you cared about was the pleasure, feeling it begin to peak and roll tighter in your core with each thrust. 

“Yes, yes! I love it, Katsuki--” Toes beginning to curl, you released his scratched-up arms to instead grip onto the pillow above your head, hiding half of your face in the crook of your elbow. “I-I’m going to cum! I’m going to- oh fuck! Fuck!” As the pleasure erupted, your entire body seized, twitching and squeezing around his cock. Breath caught in your throat as your mind nearly went blank, your moans stopped for a moment, allowing you to hear Bakugou’s grunts and curses. 

“Damn it, babe, that’s it--” With a few more deep and erratic thrusts, Bakugou released inside of you for the second time that morning, filling you up with his hot cum. Keeping himself buried inside of you, he leaned over your twitching body, pressing his lips roughly against your cheek and pulling you back into some sense of lucidity. “Feel satisfied now? You can be such a little naughty thing sometimes; waking me up by grinding on my cock like that.” 

His deep voice in your ear sent shivers down your spine, finding the strength to open your eyes and look over towards the digital clock on the nightstand. An hour later, and yet, you could have easily kept begging for more. It wasn’t as if you were neglected in any way, since he always knew exactly how to pleasure you. The problem was that you felt so addicted to it, that you wanted it so often and couldn’t resist. But the day had responsibilities ahead, and it wasn’t on the calendar to have your husband fuck you until lunchtime. 

“It was amazing as always, Katsuki. I just couldn’t resist…” You turned your head, kissing his lips tenderly. “The way I woke up with your cock so hard against my ass,” Another kiss, but rougher this time. “I needed to have you inside me.” 

“I’d fuck your sexy ass all morning if I could,” releasing your legs, Bakugou removed his now semi flaccid member from within you, before moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “Damn meetings.” 

Stretching out your sore and ravaged body, you ran your leg up and down along his back, observing the red scratches that adorned his skin. “How about a shower?” 

“Go for it, stinky.” 

Giggling, you sat up, putting your arms around his neck as you leaned against his back. “No! Not just me,” You gave him a firm kiss on the cheek, ignoring his grumble of annoyance. “Take a shower with me.” 

“You think we can get through a shower together when you’re like a horny crazy woman this morning?” 

“Yes! I think we can do it. I bet you… Well, if I win and we make it through, you’ll cook breakfast. But if you win and we can’t help but fuck s’more, then I’ll cook.” Smiling against his cheek, you watched his expression as he contemplated the deal, before his crimson glare moved to you out of the corner of his eye. Without a word, he stood, leaning forward a bit so you were forced to hold him tighter and swing your legs around his waist so he could carry you. 

“You’re on, babygirl!” 

Getting under the water was like heaven against your sticky, sweaty skin, unable to resist a relieved sigh as you ran your fingers through your hair. “Feels good! We both get so sweaty.” 

Already washing off his body, Bakugou gave a grunt in agreement, though was more focused on properly cleaning himself off. Though, as he got to his arms, he scoffed. “Damn it, babe, you ripped me to shreds. I’ll have to wear a jacket in the middle of summer.” 

Giggling softly, you ran your fingers along your handiwork. “Oh love, this is nothing. Remember that one time you bit up my neck and shoulders really bad, I had hickies and stuff all over--”

“-You mean last week-” 

“- I had to wear a turtleneck. Yes, last week, smartass.” You gave his backend a firm slap as he turned, which only gained you a glare over his shoulder. 

“Don’t slap my ass or we’ll have problems.” 

“But it’s so nice. So firm and sexy.” Leaning up against his back, you had both hands on the corresponding cheeks, giving them a squeeze. “Cute, too.” 

Ignoring your squeezing, Bakugou got under the water to wash off the soap off his body and wet his hair. “Don’t be a pest. Hurry up and wash yourself, or I’ll do it myself.” 

“Oh no, that’s such a horrible idea, please don’t do that.” Voice tinted with sarcasm, you wiggled around to his front, keeping your arms around his torso. As if it were a punishment, Bakugou held both sides of your head as he kissed you roughly on the lips. 

“You’re gonna make me kick your ass. Maybe I didn’t spank you enough.” Smirking against your lips, Bakugou planted a firm, hard slap on your ass, forcing a squeak from you and a tighter squeeze. 

“Ow!! So hard- mmph!” You were silenced as Bakugou kissed you roughly, squeezing your body against his in a tight hug. Although it was intense at first, it was quick to soften, becoming sweet and gentle as you both stood beneath the warm falling water. The butterflies in your stomach that had been fluttering about all morning returned, making your skin tingle and core begin to ache. Already, you wanted him again, but not like before. 

You wanted it slow and sensual up against the shower wall, with the hot water and rugged smell of his body wash surrounding you. Bakugou must have easily able to tell, his hand sliding down along the curve of your ass and between your legs to stroke your sex. Sure enough, the wetness between your legs was slick in comparison to the water, so he was easily able to reach and tease your swollen clit. 

“I knew it,” He growled against your lips, his own desire burning in his crimson glare. “You just can’t resist.” 

“I could never… Please, Katsuki… I want you to fuck me gently, and then afterwards, I’ll cook you a yummy breakfast. Maybe I’ll throw a head massage in there, too, while I wash your hair for you.” 

“I don’t need any incentives from you, babe. But I did tell you that you’d lose. Now turn around and stick your ass out for me.”

[musicnoots]

On a Quiet Evening in West Warwick

George Luz/Reader

Requested by @radiantcade: “Shannon omyword I just saw requests were open, anything fluffy with Luz please and thank you? (Chuckler if you do The Pacific would be my first choice though)”

A/N: tooth-rotting fluff that im not ashamed of

Synopsis: You’re busy doing work, but George wants you to know how much you really mean to him.

Tags: @gottapenny @dustyjjumpwings @higgles123 @david-weepster @wexhappyxfew @bandofmarvels @medievalfangirl @those-dusty-jump-wings @junojelli @curraheev @alienoresimagines @dumpofdumblings @inglourious-imagines @majwinters @not-john-watsons-blog

“You’re so pretty.”

“Hm?” He catches you off-guard, you’re busy doing paperwork at the dining table, and he’s busy watching you while shoving a bacon sandwich into his mouth. Your eyes are tired after hours spent on writing report after report for work—and they said business was easy. Coming home from work to do more work when all you want to do is settle down and dance with your husband under the kitchen light, tangle your fingers in his fluffy hair and kiss him silly.

George is waiting for you to finish up so that you two can cuddle on the couch and, if you’re not too tired, a little bit of dancing to Frank Sinatra on the radio. “You’re pretty. Like, really fucking pretty, I ever tell you that?”

You shake your head. “Don’t think you have, Mr. Luz. Tell me more.”

“Well,” he burps first and the air in front of you smells like bacon and mayo for a quick second, “you’re pretty. Period.”

“Okay…”

“I know you think you look like shit right now, but baby, you’re so pretty. Everything about you is pretty. Even the annoying parts.”

“George,” you sigh. There’s a part of you that questions how he managed to put a ring on your finger, but seeing how happy he looked in front of you was enough to remind you how much you love him.

Your husband was a jokester, but good lord, he was also a professional smartass that knew how to push your buttons the right way. He could never make you angry. “Sorry, baby. But must I elaborate further on the beauty you have bestowed to me?”

“We’re married.”

“I think,” he takes a quick water break, greasy fingers holding the glass as water dribbles down from the corners of his lips, “you’re gorgeous. Prettier than this bacon sandwich. Prettier than our wedding that we couldn’t afford. Prettier than those stupid petunias in our front yard.”

“Hey!” you look up from your work to find him grinning because he had finally done something to gather your attention. “I spent good money on those stupid petunias!”

“Money can buy you petunias,” he stands up from the table, “but you know what money can’t buy? My love for you, and I love you so effortlessly. My love for you is...is bigger than this!”

He stretches his arms out wide, and you find yourself smiling, too, momentarily forgetting the paperwork on the table. You lean back against your chair, arms crossed and looking at the man child in front of you trying to show you his love for you that can’t be measured. You will never know just how beautiful you are to George, but you can imagine there’s so much you can’t see when he tells us how pretty you are in the hours after dinner, wanting to sit in his lap and play with his hair.

“Gimme a kiss,” he puckers up in front of you, and you sit there, looking up from your papers to George with his lips out, eyes closed and looking like the idiot you fell in love with so long ago. “C’mon, please? Gimme kiss.”

You comply and lean in to press your lips against his, and he pulls away looking like the happiest man in Warwick. The things you’d do just to see him like this everyday, the list is endless, but knowing that he’s happiest when he’s with you is enough for you to put work aside and settle your attention on him.

You cup his jaw, pulling him closer to kiss his forehead and then his nose. He takes your hands into his when he nudges your nose with his own, and you’re left with wanting more of him. “Care for a dance under the kitchen light?” he asks. “I swear you can play with my hair later, just dance with me. I’ve been waiting for this moment all day.”

He pulls you up from the chair before you can respond, knowing that you could never pass up an opportunity for a little bit of late night dancing.

“Was all of this part of your scheme to get me to dance with you?” George has his hands resting on your hips, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Yup. You’ve been doing work all day, and here I was being a good husband and politely waiting for you to finish.”

“Except I didn’t get to finish—“

“Oh hush! I, George Luz, hereby forbid you from doing anymore work today and demand that you gimme the lovin’ I deserve… Please just dance with me, Y/N,” he insisted and you don’t respond, just nudging his neck with the tip of your nose is enough to tell him that you’re done for the day.

The swaying of your bodies leaves you in a peaceful bliss, hands buried deep in his hair and his lips kissing that one spot behind your ear. You feel like the prettiest person on Earth married to the most incredible man who goes out of his way to make you feel incredible.

On a quiet evening in West Warwick, George finally gets you under the kitchen light and in his arms. Maybe it’s not the dancing he anticipated for, but to have your head on his shoulder and your lips on his skin is more than he could ever ask for.

[adultswim2021]

Aqua Teen Hunger Force #12: “Love Mummy” | November 24, 2002 - 11:15 PM | S02E08

Frylock finds a really annoying mummy in the basement of the Aqua Teen home. He constantly demands affection, meals, and consumer products. 

This is a fine episode of Aqua Teen. It’s solidly absurd concept and they adequately wring all the comedy out of it over the course of the episode. A solid “not waste of time”. But I gotta admit, I’m completely at a loss for words for what to discuss with this one. There’s really no stand-out jokes, and this episode keeps it pretty simple as far as the premise goes. This a very typical episode. I literally watched this one three times in a row to try and come up with SOMETHING relevant to say. Maybe I’m in the wrong line of work. And by work I mean volunteerism. And by volunteerism I mean (j/o hand gestures).

Oh! I thought of it. When they get the Mummy a bunch of shit from the mall, he looks really cool. And that rock climbing wall is so funny. What a good guy.

There’s a couple things to note here; the Dr. Weird opening calls back the Circus episode, which also featured murderous corn. This is one of the few bits of continuity that the show has, and I know there are Dr. Weird opens that reference each other that wind up getting shown in scrambled order. I hope my own numbering of the episodes proves solid in this regard.

Also, a very recent episode of South Park (the Tegridy Farms Halloween Special or whatever) kinda straight-up steals this premise in a Butters subplot, except it’s taken in a slightly different direction. It was the last completed season as of this writing. I rented it on DVD and it was the first season where the customary “commentary minis” were absent, I’m guessing because they would have had to fess up. Sucks!

MAIL BAG

Extra heavy mail bag today; accidentally let my messages pile up. So let’s blow through it, baby! ALL ANONYMOUS:

They shouldve called adult swim These Toons Will Get You High. Hell, they shoulda called Cartoon Network that! Have you SEEN Scooby Doo? (If you don't know what I'm talking about, check out Harvey Birdman's SCORCHING takedown and maybe you'll finally get it)

Yeah, okay. We’ll do that. Lol... I’ll get right on that... NOT

hey this is matt besser and bitch i just want to say one thing: this tumblr will get you high!

Oh wow. Big surprise for me: Matt Besser, my big comedy heee-row :D reads my  blog! And he’s probably gonna read that last message! Buddy! The wheels are in motion!

Pretty Cool that there was a Brak Show episode called Runaway followed by a home movies episode called stowaway. Now if only there was a space ghost episode called Castaway and Space Ghost interviewed the three then surviving members of gilligan's island. Oh well! Two's a charm in this case, smartass.

Hey, why’d you call me a smartass? It’s a shame indeed that they never made that Space Ghost ep... you fucking jerk.

The idea of Murphy being obsessed with getting to a pro shop is funny. And old man like him loves nothing more than hitting the links. That's why it's funny. Let's not turn into one of those "I don't see the humor in this" animation youtube losers because you are mad at MC Chris' abusers.

Fuck you bitch, I literally said that I enjoyed the episode more than ever before. But you really need to be getting pissed off at the game of golf, it’s a freaking environmental hazard having them courses be all over the place. They could be building free housing for twitter communists in it’s place. Also let’s not forget: Sealab sucks. I hate this guy get him outta here!

hey there was no new adult swim blog tonight. What's a matter? Cat got your tongue?

I thought I had my queue built up but I guess I didn’t. If you MUST know I was busy watching cinema with my friends who I respect and cherish. We watched Dr. Dolittle 2 on the internet together :)

[desiree-harding-fic]

Broken Engagement Chapter 2

AKA What am I doing with my life?

Part one can he found here.

Once again credit to @fandomsnstuff for helping me birth this love u babe

_________________

Kravitz remembers  a book he read years ago that claimed that to be an expert at something, a person has to have at least 10,000 hours of experience.

By that logic, there are few things Kravitz could call himself an expert in. Law? Certainly. Between law school and practicing, he’s well past the threshold. Parenting? He’s not sure the rule applies there. Certainly not piano, no matter how many years he spent on it. He’s not an expert cook or an expert driver or even an expert at washing dishes, by the standard of hours alone.

But carefully avoiding the place in his thoughts where Taako resides is something Kravitz can claim expertise in easily.

Taako smiles at him, acidic and empty, and leads Kravitz to where he’s pushed two folding desks to face each other, and Kravitz settles into the plastic chair and allows the autopilot he’s developed in twelve years away from Taako take over. And he doesn’t think about Taako. He doesn’t think about the way he looks different, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes and the way the glasses almost hide them. Doesn’t think about how something in his voice has changed. He pulls out a legal pad with the questions he outlined to ask Angus’s adviser and carefully ignores the thousand questions perched on the edge of his tongue and his lips, ready to spill out any moment - questions like how did you get here and where have you been and who the fuck is Peynirci and why  - 

Taako has notes too. Kravitz doesn’t think about whether or not that’s like him.

He doesn’t check Taako’s hands to see if there’s a ring (there isn’t) and he doesn’t think about whether or not he cares (he doesn’t).

Kravitz is here for Angus, after all, but the thing is that Angus is fine. Taako runs him through Angus’s grades (all A’s) and what he’s seen of the social scene in regards to a twelve-year-old entering the school. Apparently there was a lot of talk originally, which has since died down. Taako even points out a few extracurriculars that are starting up soon that Angus can use to find some friends. He writes a list of them on a piece of paper from his own notebook and rips it off to give to Kravitz and says that Angus already knows about most of them but they can look at them together on the school’s website and blog and Kravitz doesn’t think about how Taako’s eyes are blank and cold when they meet his.

At least Angus isn’t hovering. As soon as Kravitz and Taako sat down he plopped onto the ratty blue couch in the corner and stuck his earbuds in. Kravitz almost feels bad. He hates talking about Angus while he’s there, but there was no better time to have the meeting.

(Except never. Never is sounding good right about now.)

And the meeting is fine. They talk for a half hour, and everything is fine. Taako stands up to show him and Angus to the door, and Angus gives him a hug and a wave goodbye, which Taako takes in stride, and then they’re walking away from the classroom through the halls and out the door and Kravitz thinks, very proudly, that he didn’t think about Taako once the whole time.

*~*~*~*~*

The door closes, and Taako does not panic.

Because panicking is definitely, one hundred percent off brand for Taako these days, after all. Taako is a mature adult who can definitely handle being suddenly confronted with his ex-fiancé who just happens to be the father of his favorite student which he maybe should have put together before now and which is definitely completely fine and not a problem.

He collapses into his desk chair and puts his head in his hands.

The universe has it out for him, he’s sure of it. Just when he thought he was going to be fine, when he weathered all the shit from his last career and he went to therapy and to school again - when he started a new career and dealt with the Great Googling Fiasco of three years ago and moved out of Lup’s and got his own place and felt secure in any measure for the first time in maybe his whole life - just now he gets Kravitz dropped on him out of fucking nowhere.

“Did I piss of a god somewhere along the line?” he says into his hands. He looks up at the ceiling. “You know if it’s one of y’all’s jobs to ruin my life at every turn do you think you could take a vacation? For a month or two? Please?”

The foam tiles don’t answer. And what the fuck was he expecting in that department, really.

Fuck.

The one thing in his life, the one thing Taako thought he got away with just had to come back to haunt him. As his favorite student’s dad, which is insane because since when did Kravitz have kids? Or kid, singular, Angus doesn’t have any siblings, but fuck.

He can’t help but feel like he should have seen it. Angus has his dad’s eyes, almost exactly. The smartass humor, the bookishness? It’s Kravitz up and down, Kravitz all over. Even the way he dresses, too neat for a twelve-year-old, and Taako put it down to the kid being a little too smart for his own good and a little odd because of it, but of course he’s Kravitz’s son. Of course he is. They have the same goddamn name, how did he not see it?

He can’t help it. He checks the email thread he was sharing with Angus’s dad, and of course, of course, the email address is right there, kmcdonald@astrallawgroup.com and Taako could die.

Does it color the exchange differently, knowing now that he was talking with Kravitz the whole time? But no, the words are the same; it’s all the same. Except Kravitz was on the other end. Kravitz, who Taako hasn’t seen in years, who he hasn’t even done so much as stalk on Facebook because Lup said it wouldn’t be good for him, who he had just learned to put away in the past. Who he could imagine as a closed chapter, maybe not an entirely happy one, but at least one that was far away where it couldn’t hurt him anymore.

But it wasn’t good enough was it? Fate or providence or whatever else put Kravitz on the other side of Taako’s door and subsequently opened that door to a thousand thoughts, a thousand emotions Taako really doesn’t have the time or the energy to deal with.

And Kravitz is going to be in Taako’s life for four years and he acted like he didn’t even know Taako, what the fuck was that? Nice to meet you, like he didn’t know, and maybe he doesn’t want to know Taako anymore, maybe he really wanted to act forever like they never knew each other - 

Maybe four years as polite strangers will be manageable. Maybe Taako will only ever see him from afar in the school parking lot or at parent nights or in the audience at a show or something and it won’t be a big deal. Maybe it’ll just be like it never even happened. Like there was never anything between them and there doesn’t have to be and it won’t matter, like Kravitz isn’t the final massive regret hanging over Taako’s past, the one he still hasn’t been able to deal with.

But Taako opened the door and saw the same eyes that he woke up to every morning for something like three years. Taako opened the door and Kravitz was on the other side, and maybe he was content with leaving him in the past before, but now -

Not to mention Angus. Taako is Angus’s mentor, his adviser. And now Taako has to teach Angus every day and pretend that nothing has changed when he knows whose son he is now and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to look at him again and not know it. He’ll know that, and he’s afraid that every time he looks at Angus it’ll be colored by what he knows, who he knows Angus is going home to, and how he could be going home to - 

No. Taako is not going there, no sir, not today, not at all, nope.

Fuck, what is he going to do?

There’s another knock at his door, and for a moment Taako thinks that maybe he really never will get any rest. That Kravitz came back and he’s going to give Taako the what-for he deserves - 

But the door opens promptly after and it’s not Kravitz. It’s Barry.

“Hey bud,” he says, glancing down at his phone, “I texted you a minute ago but I don’t think it went through and I figured you were going to be done with your meeting by now -” he shuts up as soon as he meets Taako’s eyes.

“Oh, shit,” he says, as Taako stares at him, and Barry must recognize the look on his face. “I’ll tell Lup we’re both coming for dinner and you can tell me in the car, okay bud?” Taako nods and puts his head back in his hands, tugging on his hair a second before getting up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. He hopes all his shit’s packed up. He’s about 15 minutes away from a full what the actual fuck breakdown, and he’d much rather have that in Barry’s car and living room, preferably with a glass of wine, than in the Neverwinter Secondary Academy.

Barry claps him on the back as he walks out the door and locks up.

“Hey,” he says, “it can’t be any worse than the Great Googling Fiasco.”

Taako laughs, maybe a touch hysterically. Because his brain is a little fuzzy and far away, and what else can he do at this moment but laugh?

“Oh believe me, Barold,” he says. “It’s worse.”

[kurtsieforlife]

SpaceLord

So I haven’t written anything in years, but yesterday I popped out a quick little thing for a fandom and with characters I haven’t before. I also don’t usually write pairings or smut, so hopefully this works for someone other than me!

*I accidentally posted this to my personal blog, so some of you may see this twice lol*

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe the liquid courage hadn’t been a great idea. He knew he should just keep his mouth shut. Given the menacing figure looming over him, and the fact that his smartass comments frequently cause him trouble, he really should just keep quiet. However, he just didn’t have the ability to refrain.

“Well you know, performance issues. It’s- not uncommon. One in five…”

Unsurprisingly, Loki shut him up with a hand around his throat.

I knew it! I just couldn’t help myself. I’m going to die and that wasn’t even my best comeback.

As Tony stared at Loki, desperately trying to figure out what the angry demi-god would do in response, something must have shown in his expression. Loki paused in dragging him across the penthouse floor and stared at him curiously.

“So, you enjoy this, is that right Stark?”

Enjoy this? Hell no I don’t enjoy this! Apparently his face said something entirely different, since Loki smirked at him and stepped closer.

“You mortals have always had some interesting kinks. I suppose we have a few minutes to spare before your friends show up.” Before Tony could wonder what they had time for, Loki pulled him along and shoved him roughly against the wall. He leaned in so close that his bright emerald green eyes dominated Tony’s vision. He didn’t say anything further, just studied Tony appraisingly.

His heart was pounding rapidly and his chest filled with anxiety and tension and something else. It was definitely not arousal, no way. Absolutely not. It was purely adrenaline for sure. Tony’s mental refutations were quickly dashed when Loki briefly tightened the hand on his neck, sending a surge of heat throughout Tony’s body. Loki’s smile widened dangerously.

“I can give you what you like, just say the word.” The hand loosened up and started stroking along his neck instead.

“You know nothing about me,” Tony protested weakly. Even with the additional airflow he was having trouble catching his breath.

“Is that so? I think you’ll be surprised by just how much I know.” Loki eased back a few inches and a green shimmer washed over him. Tony was so surprised by the sudden appearance of skin in front of him that it took him a minute to realize he was also bare, save for his suit bracelets. Greedy eyes slowly examined his naked form as he tried to decide how he felt about this turn of events. Unconsciously, his own eyes began to wander over the unexpected sight in front of him. Loki was just tall enough that he was immediately looking at broad shoulders and a firmly muscled chest. Exploring further he saw slim, toned abs and defined hips that dipped in to form that perfect V shape…

Loki moved closer again, sadly disrupting Tony’s leering.

“Yes or no, Stark?” Loki’s voice was low and husky and Tony found himself nodding hurriedly. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was agreeing to, but he was definitely sure that he didn’t much care. What the hell? When else will I get to be with a magical alien? It still may not be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.

A startlingly cool hand landed on Tony’s stomach, drawing his attention back to the situation. His muscles twitched underneath it as the hand slowly trailed down lower, teasing at his belly button and lightly dragging short nails along his hips before, finally , gripping him tightly. Tony leaned his head back against the wall and fought to control his breathing. It wasn’t easy. Loki’s touch was soft yet firm, and just right. He’d had countless hand jobs over the years, but never one that got him so bothered so quickly. It could have been mere seconds, or whole minutes, or even hours at this point- he had no concept of time anymore. His breath came in large gasps and his knees stared to shake lightly. He didn’t even register that his own hand was moving until he was suddenly holding warm flesh. Loki’s skin ran almost cold, but here he was furnace warm and it made Tony’s head spin. His whole body was tense with arousal and adrenaline. His senses were overwhelmed by the contrast of cool skin pressing against his, the hot heat against his palm, the faint smell of sweat and pheromones, and the low, growling sounds Loki was making in his ear. Never before had he been so lost in a moment- wanting so desperately to come yet never wanting this to end.

Frantically searching for any distraction to help him hold out a little longer, Tony panted out the first words that his brain could put together. “You…really know what you’re doing here, Reindeer Games.”

Loki pulled back just enough to look directly at him. “The name is Loki.” He said nothing further, just stared expectantly at Tony until he figured out what he was supposed to do.

“Right. You really know what you’re doing here. Loki.” He placed a little extra emphasis on the name and was rewarded with a predatory grin.

“Indeed. I have had centuries of practice after all.” Centuries??

Tony didn’t have time to process that thought fully because just then Loki both quickened and tightened his movements while simultaneously leaning in and placing a sharp bite to Tony’s earlobe. That sent a hot spike of stimulation throughout Tony’s entire body. He gasped loudly and squeezed his eyes shut. Sweat dripped down his face now and his trembling increased.

“Well it’s, uh, it’s paying off for you.” He scarcely had the breath to force out the words. He was barely holding on to what was left of his control.

“Of course it is.” He could almost hear the smirk. Abruptly, fingers firmly stroked the skin behind his balls and everything went static. A loud scream that may have been Loki’s name burst out of his chest. All of his senses were useless- he couldn’t feel anything other than the intense release. He gasped out curses and praises and Loki’s name in combination with both.

It was several long moments before he regained any level of focus. He gulped in large breaths of air as his heart pounded wildly. His legs shook so hard that the only thing supporting him was the hand Loki was using to hold him against the wall. Once he was able to open his eyes again, he saw Loki’s wide green eyes and satisfied smile right in his line of vision. He couldn’t resist letting out a lazy grin of his own.

“Are you ok Stark?” Loki’s voice was raspy and it send a jolt of pride through Tony’s chest.

He shook he head and blinked furiously, trying to kick his brain back into functioning. “Yeah, yeah I’m good. Really good. Great, actually.” He was rambling and he couldn’t care less.

“I told you that you would be.” The (well-earned) smug expression was firmly back in place. Loki slowly removed the hand supporting Tony and took a couple of steps back. A shimmer of green passed between them, and the sweatiness and stickiness covering them were gone. One more flash of magic saw them both redressed.

Loki stared at him and raised an eyebrow. Tony forced himself away from the wall and stood up straight. His head and body was still buzzing with afterglow, but he quickly realized that break time was over.

“So, what happens now,” he asked warily?

Loki let out a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately, your fellow ‘Avengers’ will be here shortly, so I imagine we should pick up where we left off.”

Tony was once again cut off from a smart remark by Loki lifting him by the throat. As he walked across the penthouse towards the window, he gave Tony another appraising look. “You are remarkable, for a mortal, Stark. I have enjoyed our little interlude. Should you survive this battle, I would visit with you again.”

He didn’t have time to wonder what Loki meant by “survive” before he found himself crashing through the window and hurtling towards the street below. Even as he frantically called for Jarvis to deploy the suit, he couldn’t help but hope that Loki would keep his promise.

[thatfanficstuff]

Bound - 11

Pairing: Niklaus Mikaelson x OFC

Warnings: nope

***

Stefan was a good friend, and he was also a smart friend. That is to say, he dropped me off at home then promptly left. I didn’t try sneaking in. There was no point. I lived with vampires. And I was a grown woman. I was allowed to do as I pleased. Or so I kept telling myself.

Elijah came to greet me before I even had the front door closed behind me. “Hello, Cassie. How lovely to see you today.”

I arched a brow at his formal tone and his lips twitched.

“Are you mad?” came from deeper in the house and Elijah gave into his grin.

He gave me a nod and returned to the living room. I wondered how big of a tantrum Nik had thrown when he’d found my note. When he peered at me from the top of the stairs I gave him a little wave. “Hello, Nik.”

If anything, his scowl deepened. “Are you going to answer my question?”

I tilted my head. “What question?”

He narrowed his gaze and started down the stairs. “Are. You. Mad?”

I pursed my lips in thought before shrugging. “Not particularly. I’m actually in pretty good mood today. Thank you for asking.”

Elijah’s laugh drifted in from the living room though he quickly tried to cover it with a cough.

“Not angry. Mad. Insane. Crazy. What would possibly possess you to go off without either myself or Elijah?” He was doing his best to keep his voice level and I took pity on him when I saw the flash of worry in his eyes.

I sighed and put my things on the entry table. “Don’t be dramatic, Nik. I left you a note. I was with Stefan and you could have tracked my phone if you were really that concerned. I appreciate your protective streak but I had it covered.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I believe we covered this, Cassie. There will never be a time that I do not worry about you. I would appreciate it if you gave me less reason to do so.”

I closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my head against his chest. He held me tightly and kissed the top of my head. Finally, I pulled back to look at him. “Look, if you promise to try and give me room to breathe, I promise to be more transparent about what I’m up to. Deal?”

He hummed which I chose to take as agreement. I released him and put a little space between us. “Damon left three coffins in the house. He doesn’t know what happened to the third. He thinks Bonnie may know.”

Nik rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Of course. The witch.”

I glared at the tone in his voice. “Watch how you say that word, hybrid.”

I wasn’t buying the innocent face he pulled for a moment but decided to ignore it for the time being. He was only trying to get a rise out of me anyway. “Bonnie should be easier to track than the coffin.”

Before he could respond, the front door flew open. In seconds, Nik and Elijah were both standing between myself and the threat, whatever it may be. I couldn’t see past them so I would just have to take my cues from them.

“Our brothers insisted on seeing you. Both of you,” Rebekah said. Rather than relaxing, tension straightened the spines of the men in front of me. Super.

“Niklaus.”

“Hello, Kol.”

“I’m sure you didn’t expect to see us up and around.” Pure venom laced through the voice and put me even more on edge. Nik really needed to quit daggering his siblings.

“Actually, Niklaus was the one who insisted on undaggering you upon Mikael’s death.” Elijah was trying to smooth things between them. He never would have allowed them to stay daggered, either.

“Yes, Rebekah mentioned father’s passing. So you’ve managed to kill both of our parents now, Niklaus. You must be so pleased with yourself.” That was a new voice and I didn’t care for his attitude. Trying to make Nik feel guilty for ridding the world of Esther and Mikael was absurd.

I hadn’t thought it possible for Nik’s shoulders to get any tighter, but they did exactly that. “I did what needed to be done.”

“Oh, don’t start that. That’s your excuse for everything. You don’t get to decide what is necessary all on your own anymore, Niklaus. We won’t allow it.” That was Kol again.

When Nik and Elijah both remained silent, I was finished. I stepped out from behind Nik’s back and took in the three Originals in front of me. Rebekah’s eyes widened slightly as she took me in and her gaze darted from her brothers on either side of her before coming back to me.

“Well, hello, darling,” said the shorter of the two. He was dark. Dark hair, dark eyes and a wickedness behind his smirk that spoke of evil intentions. His eyes ran over me from top to bottom. “Who might you be?”

“This is Cassidy Grimes. She is off limits,” Nik bit out from beside me. He looped an arm around my waist and tugged me against his side.

Kol’s brows shot up. “Off limits? Since when does Niklaus Mikaelson declare anyone off limits?”

“Since Cassidy,” Elijah said. His voice had taken on a harsh edge as well.

Kol prowled closer. “Surely you realize that only makes her more intriguing.”

“Enough, Kol.” It was Rebekah that spoke this time and my eyes found hers in surprise. “Leave her alone.”

He tilted his head as if I was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. After a long stretch where everyone but him seemed on edge, he shrugged and moved back. “Very well, sister. I was only teasing.”

My gaze moved from him to the taller, quieter brother that had merely stood observing this whole time. Catching me watching him, he gave a little bow of his head. “Finn Mikaelson.”

Of everyone in his family, Nik had spoken the least about the eldest brother. I had no reason to dislike him, but I did just the same. Something about the man just didn’t sit right with me.

“Perhaps we should move into the living room and discuss this like a civilized family,” Elijah suggested.

I pressed my lips together to keep the smartass remark that was on the tip of my tongue from coming out. Being bitchy when I had my powers was one thing. Powerless, I’d rather not tempt trouble.

Nik steered me into the living room. Heat flooded my body and I came to an abrupt stop. My stomach twisted and I felt as if I would vomit at any moment. The room began to spin around me making me feel that much worse. My hand groped blindly looking for purchase, though Nik quickly grabbed mine with his own. “Cassie? What is wrong?”

The panic in his voice led me to believe that I must look about as bad as I felt. I opened my mouth to answer and everything went black.

***

Later I would learn that Nik caught me before I hit the ground. He laid me on the ground and knelt beside me as he tried to bring me around while the others looked on helplessly. Just as he was about to take me to a doctor, he heard a voice he had hoped to never hear again.

“Niklaus.”

He froze, my hand still gripped in his and refused to look up. Seeing her would only make all this more real.

“Mother,” Rebekah breathed out, denying him the ability to ignore the ghost in his presence any longer.

He remained knelt beside me as he looked up slowly to meet Esther’s piercing gaze. Unfortunately, she wasn’t a ghost at all. She was as solid as the day he ripped out her heart. She crossed the space between them and glanced between him and me. “Do you know why I am here, Niklaus?” she asked.

“Because you’re a dumb bitch that doesn’t know when to stay to dead?” he answered without thinking, his focus not easily pulled away from me in my distress.

Esther smacked him, the impact stinging his cheek and sending fury flooding through him. Elijah placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder to keep him calm, lest he forget she was more than their mother. She was the Original witch.

Nik and his mother glared at each other a moment longer before she shifted her gaze to me. “The poor child. Whatever has happened to her?” She sounded concerned, but the small smirk on her face did not go unnoticed by either Nik or Elijah.

***

Bound: @deadmanwalked @the-doctor-9-10 @kawaiirepublic @xlosttdreamss @tkdgirl2012 @cacti-succulents-andlesbians @killerheelsanddullknives @readeity @kayla-03-blog @star-incandescent  @bookwormstrawberry @lostinwonderland314 @zillahvathek @kayluera

All the Things: @swanky-batman @rissyrapp20 @startrekkingaroundasgard @spooookyscary @taylordrunkonwhiskey @laneygthememequeen @collette04 @shatteredabby @thewolf-and-thesheep 

[ghostbustermelanieking]

praescitum chapter fifteen

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter ten, chapter eleven pt 1, chapter eleven pt 2, chapter twelve, chapter thirteen, chapter fourteen

casefile, season 10, season 11, 11x05 ghouli. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: As Mulder and Scully adjust to their reassignment to the X-Files and working together in the wake of their separation, they find themselves investigating a small town and a ghost that apparently warns people of bad things to come.

note: i took the portion at the beginning of this chapter from ghouli.net, aka the coolest promotion this show has ever done. i mentioned things from various entries, but the quote at the end comes from the This Screaming Skull entry.

once again, i am so so sorry for the length of this chapter.

---

fifteen.

november, 2017

Scully can't sleep after they leave Jackson's house. Even with Mulder wrapped around her, sleeping restlessly in her arms, even with the exhaustion settled into her bones, she can't sleep. The mess of images running through her mind is too strong. (Her baby on a cold metal table. Pictures of her son growing up, smiling happily into the camera, all the moments she wanted to experience with him. Her son with a bloody wound in his head. Her son calling out to her in dreams, her son sneaking out of the hospital to find her. He's alive out there. She's more sure of it than she's been in a long time. She's seen something just like this before, and she's willing to believe in miracles again.)

She can't sleep, and so she grabs her phone from the bedside table and pulls up ghouli.net. She wants to know her son, and this feels like the best way to do that.

Scrolling through the blog, she figures out quickly that the user Rever is Jackson. The more she reads, the more obvious it becomes: he talks of snow globes, of the apocalypse, of a period as a child where he stayed in a hospital with doctors who isolated him, took his stem cells, used some sort of gas on him. (That part makes her a little nauseous, makes fury rise in her throat like bile. She has no way of knowing whether or not it's true, but she has no reason to doubt it. And the idea of it makes her furious, guilty, sick to her stomach. It makes her want to hurt the people who have done these horrible things to her son.) She reads an account of a dream just like the one she had the other night, an account from childhood where he refers to himself (she doesn't know if it's him, but it must be him, it has to be him) as Billy, where he describes displaying some sort of clairvoyant ability. And the recurring part of a large section of these entries seems to be her.

She used to think something like this was wishful thinking, was silly and too hopeful and self-indulgent, but it's here, it's all here. He knows her. Her son knows her, even if it's just a little. He saw her as a child, during a clairvoyant episode. He describes her in the dream similar to her own recent sleep paralysis dream that led her here: red hair, crucifix. He describes her on the same bridge she saw in her visions of the end of the world. He describes seeing her when he seizes, wonders if they share the same scars. He writes, I want her to hear me, but I don’t want her to hurt, not because of my uncontrollable screaming skull.

Her eyes flood with tears; it's all too much, it's too overwhelming, and yet it's the thing she's wanted to hear for years and years. She sniffles loudly, wiping her eyes, her nose, unable to take her eyes off of the phone screen.

Beside her, Mulder stirs. “Scully?” he murmurs, and she sniffles again. He rises up beside her, wipes her cheeks and wraps his arms tight around her. “Are you okay?” he murmurs, concerned. “D-did you have a bad dream?” His own voice is full of weariness and pain, the weight of everything they have endured.

Scully gasps a little on a sob, shifts in his arms and smiles waterily. “Mulder, look,” she whispers, handing him the phone.

She watches him take it, watches his face shift as he reads. He looks up from the screen with astonishment. “Scully,” he whispers in quiet reverence.

She shuts her eyes, presses a hand to the side of his face as a tear slides out from under her eyelids. “I guess… I never knew we were connected like this,” she whispers. “Even after those visions from a couple years ago. But, Mulder… he knows who I am. He's seen me, all this time.” She makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

Mulder seems as overwhelmed as she is. He wraps his arms tight around her, rests his chin on her shoulder, rocking her back and forth. She holds him tight, her fingers digging into his shirt. He's alive, she reminds herself. Their son is alive, and he's out there somewhere. He knows who they are. He wants them to find him.

“We have to find him,” she whispers.

---

At breakfast, they try to get in touch with Detective Costa, to see if there's any news, but the intrusion of the DOD has the guy spooked and he won't talk to them. It's more or less to be expected. Neither of them are very deterred by it—especially not Scully. She takes the lead, suggests they split up and talk to some people about Jackson. “Try to learn more about who he is, try to see if we can figure out where he'd go, or why any of this happened,” she says. “If you'll drop me by the rental car place, I bet I can grab one for the day. We can cover more ground if we go separately.”

Mulder agrees, of course. As much as he doesn't like the idea of splitting up, it makes sense. And he doesn't think he could deny Scully anything right now. He takes her to the rental car place from the hotel, makes her promise to call him immediately if anything happens. She promises, leans across the console to kiss his cheek before climbing out

He's jittery and panicked as he drives away, weariness mixed with anticipation mixed with fear mixed with hope, and it seems appropriate when he realizes he forgot his coffee at the hotel. Cursing under his breath, he decides to stop by the coffee shop that he and Scully visited the day before and pick something up.

Skinner calls while Mulder is at the coffee shop—pissed, of course. Apparently the DOD and the DOJ have complained about him. Mulder isn't surprised, but he isn't focused on that at all. He's thinking about his son, where he could be, if Scully will find him first. If this coffee shop is a place his son liked, if he'll come here, if he's safe out there, if they can save him. Skinner tells him that he needs to come back, and Mulder insists that Skinner needs to come out there instead. He feigns a bad connection for an excuse to hang up, grabs his cappuccino and leaves.

He meets with Brianna and Sarah's parents, separately, and then with some various other people—teachers, Jackson's boss from his job at a grocery store—to discuss Jackson. Scully is doing the same with some family friends she was able to get in touch with, and she has an appointment with Jackson's therapist later in the day. He gets something of varied reports: Jackson's boss and some of his teachers have good things to say, other teachers say that Jackson was a smartass and a troublemaker. (Mulder can't say that he was much different in high school aside from the two girlfriends thing, but he hasn't had the cleanest dating record anyway, so who is he to talk.) Brianna's parents apparently thought Jackson and Brianna were just friends; the father seems angry and disapproving, in light of what apparently happened the day before, and the mother seems somewhat confused as to how Jackson could get tangled up in this mess. He's such a sweet kid, she says, I can't believe he'd do this. Sarah's parents are less willing to talk to Mulder, and he can't gauge much of their opinion on Jackson. None of them seem to know where he would go, the fact of which seems darkened by the fact that they all believe he is dead. (Why the hell are you chasing a dead kid, Agent? Brianna's father snaps. Mulder guesses that they didn't tell the press about the missing body. He pretends that his chest doesn't ache when he says dead.)

When Mulder is finished with the meetings, he ends up back at the hotel with takeout and a copy of the forensics report from the Van de Kamps. (He drops by the police station on his way back, purposefully finding an officer he didn't recognize to ask for a copy.) He wants to know for sure if his son killed his parents—and the more he looks over the case, the clearer it seems that he didn't. Aside from the evidence he's noted since last night—the cold soda, the open door—the pattern of blood splattering suggests that there couldn't have been only one shooter.

It seems too convenient: the accident with the girls, the Van de Kamps's death, Jackson's seeming suicide. He thinks it was done that way on purpose, fabricated. He's seen it a million times before.

At that moment, his phone buzzes on the bedside table with a text from Skinner. He's in Norfolk, it says, and he wants to meet at the crime scene. Mulder drives out to the old ferry immediately. Just like in the coffee shop, it's impossible not to take in the scenery and wonder. That girl, Sarah, said kids come out here to get high; was Jackson (is  Jackson) one of those kids? Did he like being out on the river? Did he like growing up near the coast? Does he love the ocean, like his mother?

Skinner is waiting for him with the typical warning: drop the investigation. He explains Project Crossroads as a eugenics program based around hybrid DNA and alien technology, began by a Dr. Masao Matsumoto. Mulder already knows some of this story: it was unpredictable enough that it was eventually shut down. Skinner confirms it: Matsumoto got rid of the files, and then vanished. Jackson is one of the subjects of the project.

When Mulder explains their relationship to Jackson, the astonishment passing over Skinner's face is simultaneously comforting and entirely uncomforting. Mulder can't handle it. He thanks Skinner for his warning and leaves, commenting that it came too late as he goes.

By the time he gets back to his car, he's exhausted, nose stinging with the potential onslaught of tears. He doesn't want to consider it, any of it: what they did to Scully, what they did to his son. On Scully's recommendation, he read through Jackson's blog earlier today, and the entries there are both cathartic and painful. All these years, their son has seen Scully, and Mulder will admit that he's grateful for that. He's spent a lot of time desperately wanting their son to know his mother. But the darker entries, the ones with hospitals and shady doctors and painful seizures, just make him sad, make him angry and protective. They couldn't protect their son, but neither could anyone else. Was it inevitable, all of this? Could they ever stop these people from finding him? Is he really still alive, out there somewhere, and how is that possible? Why has their son only ever seen Scully, and not him?

Mulder spends a long time sitting in the car, his forehead pressed awkwardly to the steering wheel, until his phone buzzes in the cupholder. It's Scully; she's out of the meeting with the therapist, and she thinks they should talk. It's probably not the smartest idea to meet in public, but they're already probably being watched. Mulder texts back to meet him at the coffee shop; he's exhausted, he needs the caffeine.

When he gets to the coffee shop, Scully is standing by the front counter, her head dipped down and her hair hiding her face. She looks exhausted, too, shoulders tense and body slumping. But she smiles at him when he enters the store, touches his hand softly as he comes to stand beside her. They put in their orders and retreat to a counter near the window to wait.

Mulder gives a brief summary of his conversations with Jackson's acquaintances, his encounters with Skinner. In turn, Scully shares her own experience, talking to Jackson's friends and his therapist. “She more or less confirmed that Jackson had the same vision as I did, of the end of the world,” she says, tapping her fingers absently on the counter. “Our… shared vision. We really did share it.”

Mulder is about to speak, but the barista calls his name at that moment—or the fake name he used yesterday, that he doesn't want to explain is fake at this point. “I'll be right back,” he says, and gets up to retrieve the coffee. When he returns, she is staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts. “So, you think a shared vision means that it's more likely to come true?” he asks, sitting down beside her.

“What if I didn't get a glimpse of the future? she asks. “What if I was just a receptacle for his message to me? Just like my dream to come here.”

The barista from yesterday passes by, tossing out a, “Hey, Bob,” as he goes. The fake name he's been using. Mulder jabs a finger at his own chest, jokingly.

“It's an alternate reality,” Scully says with amusement. “Fox doesn't exist in coffee shops.”

“No,” Mulder says in slow realization. It makes sense, suddenly, the fabricated crime scene. “It's a false reality, Scully. Just like everything we've seen so far. I've been going over the forensics of the case. The police think that Jackson killed his parents, then himself, but the spatter pattern tells me different. It tells me there were two shooters. Her body was moved after she was shot to make it look like there was one shooter.” Scully's listening intently, her face serious, and so he keeps going, trying his best to be gentle. “Scully, I believe that, through the Smoking Man, you were an unwitting participant in a eugenics program called Project Crossroads,” he says softly. “It was spearheaded by Dr. Masao Matsumoto. He disappeared two years after William was born. I believe our son was one of his test subjects.”

Scully's expression shifts, to one of distress, but not of surprise. They've suspected something like this for years; he's heard her accounts of unusual activity when William was a baby, mobiles spinning on their own. But she says nothing.

He keeps going, piecing together what he's been considering since last night. Brianna and Sarah's claims of a monster and of not seeing each other, the impossible disappearance of Jackson's body. The impossible abilities he had as a baby, that could've continued into adolescence. “Jackson knew he was being hunted,” he says, “so he hid the only way he knew how. He created an alternate reality playing dead.”

“So he made us hear the shot,” says Scully, instantly understanding. Instantly unquestioning. “And see the hole in his head.”

“Yes, and those two girls thought they saw a monster.” It all makes sense now, every piece of this confusing puzzle. His son is alive, and he's not a murderer. But he is in danger.

“And so, Mulder?” Scully says, prodding a little. He sighs. “Where is he now?”

He sighs again, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “I don't know, Scully. I wish that I did. H-he could be anywhere by now.”

“It's possible he's still in Norfolk,” she notes, thoughtfully. Looking down at her coffee cup. “Or… he could be long gone by now.”

“I don't think he's gone,” says Mulder. He has absolutely no idea why he would think he knows that, but he does. “After everything that's happened here… I don't think he's left. I think he's still here somewhere. He's trying to figure out his next move.”

Scully rubs a hand over the side of her coffee mug before reaching for his, holding it in both of hers. “Do you really think we're going to find him?” she whispers, her voice small and vulnerable. She'd sounded so sure the night before, and now she sounds so unsure. She holds onto his hand tightly, his knuckles against her chest.

He reaches up with his free hand to push hair behind her ear. “I do,” he says softly. “I really do.” He rubs a thumb soothingly over her cheek. “He's spent so much time wondering about you, Scully, if the things on that blog are true… if he heard the things you said to him in the morgue… I don't know how he couldn't want you to find him.” She chuckles under her breath, nervous and grateful, and he leans in to kiss her forehead. “You're going to see him again,” he says softly, and she squeezes his hand. “You are.”

---

Ryan has a broken ankle and a couple of cracked ribs. The doctor splints his ankle, advises him to stay off his feet and to ice the sore spots, and gives him some crutches.

Annie hovers the entire time, clearly worried. She admits with shame to the doctor that she wasn't home to see the accident, sounding a bit disgusted with herself. Ryan tells the doctor and Annie that he fell down the stairs; it's the truth. He's not going to detail why, or how, but he did fall down the stairs.

Annie wants to know what really happened. She asks him several times. He doesn't know how to tell her. He doesn't know if she'd believe him. When he was a little kid, and he used to tell her about the things he saw, curled up on her lap and wiping his face on her shirt, he'd ask, Do you believe me? and she'd say, Yes, Ry, of course I do. But he doesn't know if she ever did, really. At least, he doesn't know if she ever believed in the ghost part. (He knows she believes he was seeing things.) And even if Annie believes in the ghost, that doesn't necessarily mean she believes in the Specter's power.

She didn't believe Jared, when he tried to tell her. Why the hell would she believe him?

A nurse wheels him out in a wheelchair, just like in the movies. Annie follows behind them with his crutches and thanks the nurse profusely. Towards the exit, she helps Ryan out of the wheelchair and into a regular one, clarifying, “I need to go and get the car.” As the nurse leaves, Annie sits down beside him and tousles his hair. “How are you feeling?” she asks softly, clearly tired.

Ryan works his jaw back and forth, just as tired. Fear still wedged under his skin. “Not amazing,” he mutters. “Not particularly great.”

“Oh, buddy.” She tousles his hair again, like he's a little kid. “I'm so sorry. I should've been with you. I don't… how long were you there before I got home?”

He shrugs. He doesn't know; he honestly can't remember. Passing out will do that to you.

Annie looks concerned, chewing at her lower lip. “What you were saying…” she starts, tentatively. “... Before we left the house…”

Ryan sighs almost automatically, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Aunt Annie…”

“I want to know,” she says, a little stern. “You said we couldn't leave the house, or something would hurt us. What was it?”

“I told you, it was nothing. Nothing. I was in a lot of pain, I was talking nonsense,” he says, but he's thinking of something else. Of what happened just before he pulled her inside. He's suspected possession for years, maybe even got proof of it, but he's never seen it. And he's scared shitless. It could've hurt her, it could've taken her the way it took his parents. It can hurt anyone like that, and the only chance they have of avoiding it is in the house. “I just want to go home, okay?” he adds, nearly pleading. They'll be safe there.

Annie bites her lower lip. Squeezes his shoulder comfortingly. “Was it the Willoughby Specter?” she asks in a hushed voice. She's talking to him like he's a child, like he needs to be fucking comforted. “Was that what you were scared of?”

Irritated, Ryan is ready to blurt, No! but something stops him. He doesn't want to up and tell her the truth, but he doesn't want her to think that there's no danger from the Specter. Doesn't want her to be caught off guard. “It doesn't matter,” he snaps instead, too harshly. He just wants to close his eyes until it’s all over, like he really is a child.

Annie squeezes his shoulder again, prodding. “Is… is this because of your uncle?” she says, and her tone is serious this time, full of regret and hesitance, like she doesn't want to talk about this. And she doesn't. She doesn't; she's told him so many times that she doesn't want to. But she continues: “B-because he's getting out of prison?”

Something stronger than irritation rushes through Ryan: disgust, he thinks. “What the hell, Aunt Annie?” he growls, yanking away from her so harshly he bangs his ankle against the left of the chair. He yelps with pain.

“Oh, honey,” Annie yelps right along with him, leaning over to touch his shoulder again.

He waves her hand away, glaring. “What the hell,” he whispers, and the pain has tears welling in his eyes. “You're gonna be like everyone else in this town, huh? Blame everything on Uncle Jared and my parents?” She looks apologetic, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care. “I thought you knew me better than that,” he hisses. “I thought you thought I was better than that.”

He shifts in his seat, pressing a hand to a spot just above his boot. “Ryan…” Annie starts, but he won't look at her. He wipes his eyes, wishes for some different reality. One where his parents lived, and his aunt and uncle like each other, and he's never, ever seen a ghost.

Annie sighs, exhausted. “I'm sorry, Ry. I'm sorry. I'm going to go and get the car, okay? We're gonna go home and get some sleep.”

She pats his back a couple times, an attempt at comfort, and then she gets up and walks towards the door. Ryan looks away. Shifts in his seat and stares straight ahead until the tears are gone.

He spends a few minutes watching the bustle of the hospital. The announcements over the intercom. The people clustered in the waiting area. The man who comes charging into the hospital and runs straight for the front desk. “My wife, I need to see my wife,” he blurts. “Someone called me and told me she was awake.”

The man is tall, with a full, neatly-cut beard and round glasses, and Ryan feels like he recognizes him from somewhere. “What's your wife's name?” the woman at the desk asks, infinitely patient.

“J-Joy Seers,” the man nearly stammers, and Ryan recognizes him in a second. That's Mrs. Seers's husband.

“Mrs. Seers is awake?” he says immediately, without thinking. Mr. Seers whirls towards him in confusion, and he clarifies quickly, “I was her student.”

He nods quickly, eagerly. “She's awake, they told me, and I want to see her,” he says, turning back towards the nurse.

The nurse taps on the keyboard for a second before informing Mr. Seers, “Third floor. Room 26.” He nods, frantic, and moves for the elevator.

Ryan watches him go, his own mix of frantic emotions surfacing. Mrs. Seers is awake? He's relieved, of course, but he has no idea how to interpret this news. He knows that the Specter was involved in her accident, and a part of him probably figured that she wouldn't wake up. But now that she has… he has no idea what that means. If there's been some kind of supernatural interference, or if it's just an everyday kind of miracle.

“Ry?” His aunt's voice is soft and gentle, apologetic, as she reaches out to touch his shoulder, but he jumps anyway. “Are you ready to go?” she asks gently.

Ryan nods, his eyes darting back and forth to the elevator. “Mrs. Seers just woke up,” he says. When Annie raises her eyebrows at him questioningly, he adds, “Mr. Seers just came through and asked to see her. He said she was awake.”

“Oh,” says Annie, clearly surprised. “Well… that's good news, isn't it?” She grunts with the effort as she helps him up, balances him on the crutches. “That's excellent news.”

Ryan's watching the elevator, nerves rising, heart pounding. He's thinking of the morning after last Halloween, when he got the news about Mrs. Seers, when he'd realized he hadn't been able to save her, to stop the Specter. “I hope so,” he says softly. “I really do.”

---

Mulder and Scully spend a few more hours at the coffee shop, combing through evidence—the forensic reports from both crime scenes, and Jackson's blog. (Reading fully through Rever's entries leaves a sizable lump in Mulder's throat, and he can hear Scully sniffling at intervals; it's incredible, remarkable, remarkably painful. It's the most connection he has with his son, and he clings to it, clings to the visions of Scully, ignores the small voice at the back of his head: Why hasn't he ever seen you?) They're there for long enough that it's dark the next time Mulder looks up, that he can hear Scully's stomach rumbling next to him. “Scully,” he says, and she doesn't look up. He repeats her name, and she doesn't seem to hear, doesn't look up until he nudges her shoulder, her eyes wide and questioning. “Have you eaten anything since breakfast?” he asks gently, ignoring the fact that he himself hasn't eaten today; she's much worse off than he is, she needs to eat.

She bites her lower lip and shakes her head.

He nudges her shoulder again, motioning her towards the door as he stands. “C'mon. It's been a long day, and we both need to eat something. We can go back to the hotel, order a pizza or something.”

Her jaw works back and forth, as if she's thinking, and then she nods, almost reluctantly. “I'm going to keep looking, though,” she says, her voice soft and determined.

“Honey…” he starts, squeezing her arm soothingly.

“I can't stop, Mulder. Not until he's safe. That is the most important thing right now, okay?” she replies. Not accusatory, not angrily. Just firm enough that there isn't any room for argument. She meets his eyes with hers, silently willing him to understand.

And he does. Of course he does. If it were anything else, he might push a little harder, but it's their son. “Okay,” he says. “We'll keep looking for a little while longer.”

Her eyes are grateful; she rises on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek briefly before walking with him to the door.

Mulder fully intends to keep his promise—he’s considering suggesting that they take turns, that he can keep looking while she rests a little and he'll let her know if he finds any leads—but they never make it back to the hotel. They're passing the hospital from the night before, the one Jackson vanished from, when they see the flash of blue and red lights in the parking lot.

“Mulder…” Scully says in a gaspy, breathless voice, grabbing his arm hard.

“I see, I see,” he says, and he turns into the parking lot too hard, pulling up to where the cars are clustered. They are both thinking the same thing: he's in there.

Neither of them are sure, of course, but Detective Costa confirms it almost immediately, by confirming that they don't have Jackson in custody, but that they have the exits covered. He shows them a picture that he received, of William (whole and okay and alive) sitting on Brianna's bed, and their breaths simultaneously catch in their throats. “Detective, I'd like to ask you to keep your officers outside so that we can be the first to go in,” says Scully, her voice full of emotion—anticipation, fear.

“Agents from the Department of Defense are already inside,” says Costa.

Mulder has to bite back angry words, the furious things he'd like to say. He and Scully exchange a glance, and he knows: they're thinking the same thing. “Excuse me,” he says, and they push past Costa.

The hospital looks normal when they enter: nurses bustling around, people in the waiting room. No sign of Jackson, or of the DOD agents, but they both know Jackson can manipulate his appearance. Scully is breathing shallowly, nervously, as she scans the faces in the rooms, and the two of them keep moving until they hear the echoes of multiple gunshots, somewhere above him. “Evacuate the floor!” Mulder calls, largely on instinct.

As people around them begin to panic, to run for the exits, he looks over at Scully. Her eyes are wide. She jerks her chin towards a stairwell, and the two of them begin to push towards it.

An alarm begins to blare. They move together through a mass of people running down the stairs. More gunshots in the distance, which Mulder finds both terrifying and shockingly comforting; if they're still shooting, than they probably haven't hit him yet. His son might still be alive. Someone slams hard into him and he swears, pushes through in an attempt to keep up with Scully.

They get into a hallway and run through a set of double doors; he veers right, and Scully veers left. He keeps running, even as he hears Scully shout, “FBI! Put your weapon down!” He hears the voice of a DOD agent, although he can't hear what he's saying, but he doesn't hear any gunshots, so he keeps going. He rounds the corners of the hallway, scanning the rooms for Jackson, when he nearly runs into Scully as she rounds a corner. They both freeze at the sounds of multiple gunshots, at the sound of two thuds somewhere down the hall.

Mulder meets Scully's eyes briefly before moving towards the sound, quicker than her. Relief courses through him when he gets close enough to see it; it's not Jackson. It's not Jackson. It's the DOD agents, bloody and lifeless on the ground. “They shot each other,” he informs Scully as she catches up to him.”

“Well, who were they shooting at?” she replies.

Her voice is soft, vulnerable, and he understands what she is saying in a split second. “He's here,” he says, and shouts immediately, “Jackson! It's safe. It's over.”

“Jackson, we just want to talk to you,” Scully calls out, scanning the room right along with him. “Make sure you're okay.” Her voice has that same vulnerable quality, and something else he recognizes, something he hasn't heard in years. The voice she used with Emily, with William. The voice of a mother.

They're surveying the room, and Mulder hears a sudden rustle behind them. They turn in time to see a frightened nurse scurry to her feet and run out of the room. Frustrated, Mulder sets out to keep looking, Scully right on his tail.

They search the whole floor, finding another body, and then the stairwell, the parking garage, the parking lot. If Mulder knows anything about his son, he knows that Jackson is trying to run, to get to safety. He's hoping to catch him before he gets too far. But it's no use; he's probably long gone, and he has the advantage of being able to make people see things that aren't there. For the first time, the idea occurs to Mulder: they may not be able to find him.

The parking lot is crowded, so crowded it'd be hard to find anyone, but Scully catches up to him near the car. “Anything?” she calls in a soft voice that's somewhere between hopeful and defeated. Like she, too, knows they won't find him.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. He feels as defeated as she does, feels so fucking stupid. After all these years, he still can't protect his own son. He's a pathetic excuse for a father. “He's disappeared.”

Scully sighs a little, devastated. He reaches for her and she comes, leaning hard into his chest, wrapping one arm around his back and her other hand around his elbow. He rests his chin on top of her head, rocking her back and forth in the crowded parking lot. He holds her tight and, over her head, continues scanning the crowd for William's face.

---

They go back to the hotel. They crawl into bed together, wrapped around each other, his hand heavy over her stomach, his cheek pressed against her shoulder. He kisses the soft spot under her chin, rubs his nose against her jaw. “I'm so sorry,” he whispers, and she crumbles, tears welling in her eyes. She stifles a sob with her palm. He thumbs a tear away from the corner of her eye, sniffling from behind her. “I'm so sorry, honey,” he chokes out.

She reaches for his hand and holds it tight, pulls it to her mouth and kisses his knuckles, the base of his thumb. “He's alive,” she whispers, and she can feel him trembling against her. “He's alive,” she says, holding his hand against her cheek. “Our son is alive, Mulder.”

He kisses the nape of her neck, the top of her shoulder, kisses her like he can kiss the pain away. She can feel his tears wet and cold against her skin, rolling down her collarbone. She quivers in his arms, and he bundles her closer. She thinks of a night, sixteen years ago, where they lay together in a bed like this holding their baby boy between them.

---

In the morning, they agree they should go home. It's one of the hardest decisions Scully has ever made, but she doesn't see much point in staying. They have no idea where to find him, and he's probably long gone by now. He must be running. He must be so scared.

They go home. They eat breakfast—Scully is anything but hungry, but she hasn't eaten for a full twenty-four hours and she doubts Mulder has, either—and they leave. The car is still packed up. Scully tucks the broken snow globe and the vial with the strand of Jackson's hair that they tested into her purse. Mulder bundles the files, the printouts of Jackson's blog into the glove compartment. They climb into the car and leave, driving out of town in near silence. Past the ocean, past the bay. Scully lets her forehead hit the window, watches the town where her baby grew up vanish behind her. She wonders what his life was like. She wishes she could have been there for it, every step of the way.

As they get further away from the city, she retrieves the glass with his hair, cradling it in her palms. It's silly, very silly, but it's all she has left of him. She remembers William as a baby, the soft chubby weight in her arms, his first haircut. She'd taped the strand of baby-soft hair in a scrapbook the way her mother had done with all of her children, a scrapbook that is probably buried somewhere deep in Mulder's office. This is all she has left.

She looks up absently at one point, and her eyes fall on a little rural gas station, one with a windmill in front of it. A windmill like the one in the snow globe, the snow globe she saw in her dream.

On an impulse, she asks, “Do we need gas?”

Thoughtfully, Mulder says, “I could use a bathroom,” and guides the car off of the road.

He parks next to a tank and goes into the store to use the bathroom. Scully pays and begins to fill the tank. The door chimes, behind her; she stretches a bit, craning her neck to relieve the tension. Ignores the store until she hears a familiar voice. “Were you following me?”

She turns to see the man from the hospital a couple nights ago, the one who ran into her when she dropped the snow globe, the one who told her not to give up on the bigger picture. “Hey,” she says, much more cheerful than she feels. “Didn't I see you at the hospital?”

“It must be kismet,” the man says with a chuckle, shrugging. “But I doubt we'll be seeing each other again. I'm driving cross country.”

“Oh. A-Anywhere in particular?” she asks politely.

“No, I just want to see the world,” the guy says, almost wistfully. He meets her eyes and says, in the same serious, knowing way as the other night, “Things are about to change.”

He starts to walk away, but Scully's curiosity is peaked. This can't be a coincidence, between the windmill and the things that this man keeps saying. She remembers something that Mulder told her the day before, about the man who disappeared after Project Crossroads. “Hey,” she says, and he turns towards her. “Are you Dr. Masao Matsumoto?” It's possible, she thinks, that Matsumoto would come looking for his patient if he was in danger, if the details of Project Crossroads were being unearthed again.

But that doesn't seem to be the case. “A doctor?” the guy says, chuckling again and shaking his head. “No, I never finished high school.” He pauses for a second before adding, “You seem like a nice person. I wish I could know you better.”

His voice is sincere, and despite the strangeness of both of their interactions, Scully can't bring herself to dismiss him for some reason. “Well,” she says, “safe travels.”

He nods, turns around and heads for his car. She turns back to her car and hears his car door open before she hears his voice again. “If you don't stand for something…” he starts, and she whirls around to look at him. “... you'll fall for anything,” he finishes.

Speechless, Scully watches him as he climbs into his car and starts it. She's so lost in her thoughts that she doesn't hear Mulder until he's right  beside her. “Who's that?” he asks.  

“Just a friendly old guy,” she says, watching his car pull out of the parking lot. “But he seems so familiar.” It dawns on her, suddenly, and she gasps a little. “The Pick Up Artist,” she says, wonder in her voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“That book in Jackson's room,” she says. “I think he's the author.”

“What'd he say?” Mulder asks.

“He gave me a piece of advice,” says Scully. “He said… he said, ‘If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything.’”

Recognition flickers over his face like a flame. "That's a Malcolm X quote, Scully,” he says.

Their eyes meet in a brief, mutual understanding, and they move together towards the road. Scully scans the road, her eyes moving up and down it as she shifts around Mulder, but there is no sign of him, and she's about to voice something—a protest, a thanksgiving, a plea—when Mulder says, “Scully,” and points to a surveillance camera near their car.

They move towards the store now, nearly running. Mulder gets there first, flashing his badge, and nearly commanding, “We need to see your surveillance video. Now.” The clerk nods, wordless.

The footage is on a shitty TV on the wall, and the guy rewinds it for them until Scully stops him. “Right there,” she says, and he stops, and there is her son. Standing right there in front of her, William, her baby.

Are you Dr. Masao Matsumoto? the version of her on the tape asks, and her son says, A doctor? No, I-I never finished high school. The words of the friendly old man, but in her son's voice. This is their son's voice. Her mouth drops open, emotions bubbling inside her; Mulder's hands drop to her shoulders and squeeze. Holding her there, grounding her.

You seem like a nice person, says her son. I wish I could know you better.

She reaches back for Mulder's hand, holding it tight. A smile breaks out over her face as she watches herself wish her son safe travels. “He found us,” she whispers, her voice raspy. She squeezes Mulder's hand hard. “Mulder, he found us.”

---

Jared Caruthers has always communicated with his nephew through alternating letters and emails: letters mostly, but Ryan always sends emails when it's something urgent, and he needs a faster response. One day in November, he receives an email from Ryan that practically screams urgent; Call me, it reads, as soon as you get a chance. I need to talk to you. And then it includes a number, a number Jared actually recognizes; it's the landline at his parents’ old house, the one he knows Annie moved in to when she adopted Ryan.

The next time he gets a chance to use the phone, he calls Ryan immediately. No question. If Ryan needs to actually talk to him, instead of explaining things in an email, then he doesn't want to wait around and find out why. The fact that he's calling a landline, though, since he has to call collect and can't call cell phones, isn't helping his anxiety. He listens to the rings, discordant in his ear, counts them absently the way he did when he was a kid. He's prepared for hearing Ryan's voice that he's startled out of his wits when a woman picks up and says, “Caruthers residence, this is Annie speaking.”

Jared freezes, his mouth hanging open as he realizes. This isn't some random woman, this is his baby sister. He hasn't heard her voice in years. She hasn't wanted to talk to him.

As Annie prods, “Hello?” he considers just hanging up and forgetting the whole thing. But he remembers the crypticness of Ryan's email, the seeming urgency. That, mixed with the fact that Ryan is telling FBI agents that Jared was possessed that night, feels like enough motivation to speak up.

Just as Annie starts to threaten to hang up, Jared clears his throat and speaks. “Annie, it's Jared.”

She gasps on the other end, stunned. He can hear it, plain and simple, over the clatteriness of the phone line. He doesn't say anything else as she recovers, as she demands, “Why are you calling here, Jared?”

He tries to embed his voice with apology. He tries to explain: “R-Ryan asked me to call here.”

“Why?” Annie snaps, almost begging, and Jared recognizes that voice from their childhood. They used to fight over toys, and she would use that voice: This is mine! His little sister is all grown up now, but all he's picturing is the little girl with chubby cheeks and pigtails.

“I don't know,” says Jared, trying his best to sound level headed. Trying his best not to cry. “Annie, if you're uncomfortable…”

“Aunt Annie—” He can hear Ryan in the background, calling from a distance. “Aunt Annie, I need to—”

There's a rustle on the other end, and Annie's voice comes back, angry and dark. “Look, Jared, I've tried not to discourage your relationship with Ryan—tried not to discourage any way he wants to cope with this horrible, fucked up mess—but he is getting himself in trouble with the whole Willoughby Specter debacle. He is getting himself hurt.”

Jared's mouth drops open in instinctual shock; it's the kind of thing he's always suspected, always feared, would happen. Ever since Ian and Marion and Holly. But somehow he still can't believe it. “I-i-is he okay?” he stammers dumbly.

“Aunt Annie!” Ryan shouts on the other end, and he sounds just like Ian when he didn't get his way. Jared has a school picture of his nephew from a couple years ago that he keeps tucked inside a book; Ryan looks just like Marion, but he sounds just like Ian.

Annie sighs. “Yes. He's fine,” she says curtly. “He sprained his ankle falling down the stairs, and cracked a couple ribs. When I came home, he was hysterical, insisting we couldn't leave the house. I think he was trying some kind of banishment spell or something? There's salt lines around all the doors that he won't let me touch, and the whole house reeked of sage.”

A different kind of fear fills Jared, a furious one he probably doesn't have any right to. “Wow,” he chokes out, voice rough. It's the most he can manage at the moment.

“Let me talk to him, Aunt Annie!”

Annie sighs again, clearly put out. “I'm going to put you on. But Jesus, Jared, please don't encourage this stuff.”

There's a clatter on the other end, and then Ryan's voice comes through, stiff and annoyed. It's clear he's heard everything Annie has said. “Look, Uncle Jared—”

“Ryan, what the hell?” Jared snaps, probably harsher than he should. He can feel the guards watching him. The call's being recorded, of course, but it's probably not a good idea to get overexcited anyway. He lowers his voice and mutters, “I told you that you couldn't try anything like that, didn't I? It's too dangerous! I've told you a thousand times…”

(When Ryan had first contacted him, it'd been about the ghost. He'd written him a letter two years ago and said, I've been seeing the Willoughby Specter all his life. I don't think you murdered my parents. I think the ghost used you to get revenge because you were trying to get rid of it. He'd apparently found the police report somehow and figured out what they had been doing before the murders took place. He wanted Jared's help getting rid of the ghost forever. And Jared had been so scared of something like this happening—of getting Ian's son killed by the same being that killed him—but he'd been unable to ignore his nephew's letters. His whole life, he'd been tortured, and it was probably Jared's fault. And a part of him couldn't turn away a connection with a member of his family. That little kid in the crib.)

(But look. Look what happened. Jared can't shake the feeling that he's about to fuck up his family all over again.)

“What else was I supposed to do?” Ryan hisses, furious. “You don't understand, Uncle Jared, it's been getting stronger!” His voice softens in tone, like he's trying to whisper, but it doesn't soften in fury. “It's getting stronger, I thought it was gonna hurt Aunt Annie! And it tried to, it possessed her! I didn't know what else to, what else was I supposed to do?” His voice breaks off in what is nearly a whimper, muffled like he has a hand pressed over his mouth, like he is trying to stifle tears.

Jared sighs, balling his hands wearily in his hair. His nose is burning like he is going to cry any minute. “I don't know, Ryan, I don't fucking know. But you can't be fucking around with this stuff anymore. If you try to get rid of it… you just need to leave it alone, okay? Just leave it alone, and it'll…. it'll…” He falters. He doesn't know if he can say the end of that sentence. He can't promise that it'll leave Ryan alone. He can't promise a goddamn thing, but he can't risk his nephew being hurt. He can't.

Ryan laughs, bitterly. “You really don't get it, Uncle Jared,” he says sadly. “It's too late for any of that.”

And then he hangs up with a sharp click, leaving a startling emptiness echoing in Jared's ear  

---

Scully wakes up in bed (in her bed, the one that she and Mulder picked out together), too warm, tangled up in quilts and sheets, her hand tangled in the chain of her cross and her thumb hooked in the loop of her ring. The first thing she sees is frost gathered on the windows, and her first thought is, Jesus Christ, I hope William is warm. And then she reminds herself, Jackson, in the firmest voice she can muster. Jackson, her wayward, intelligent, dumbass kid. She once told Mulder that their son looks just like him, and he does. Tears well in her eyes, and she wipes them quickly, takes a deep, shaky breath. He's alive, she reminds herself. He's alive.

The second thing she notices is that she's alone in bed, the sheets rumpled and cold. She sits up tentatively, the ring slipping off of the tip of her thumb, and calls out softly, “Mulder?” There's no answer, no sign he's in the bathroom. She tucks some wayward hair behind her ears before climbing out of bed. The floorboards are freezing under her feet and she shivers, padding out into the hall.

Mulder isn't upstairs; she has no idea where he is until she starts downstairs and hears it. The muffled, miserable sobs coming from the living room.

Her chest clenches, her heart pounding against her ribs, and she hurries the rest of the way down. Mulder is on the couch, curled smaller than she ever would've guessed, his eyes screwed shut, and he's muffling his sobs behind his palm.

Sudden guilt rises in her throat, and she whispers, “Mulder,” her stomach twisting.

He looks up, startled, his face wet. “Oh, Scully…” he mumbles, as if embarrassed, wiping his cheeks frantically. “I-I'm sorry… I didn't want you to…”

She drops on the couch beside him without another word and wraps herself around him, hauling him into her arms. He whimpers a little, his face pressing into her collarbone. “I didn't want you to see me like this,” he croaks ashamedly, and she squeezes him tighter, kisses the top of his head. Shakes her head with her lips to his hair. She doesn't want him to feel like he has to hide his feelings to protect her. She never wants that.

He breaks down slowly, his fists gripping her t-shirt. She rocks him back and forth the way that she did after his mother died, whispering soothing things into his scalp. “I thought he was dead,” he gasps out, and she grips him tighter, murmurs, Shhh. It's okay. You're okay, honey. It's okay.

They collapse in a tangle of limbs against the arm of the couch, Mulder mostly on top of her. She welcomes the weight, his cheek against her sternum and his hiccuping sobs into her shirt. Her own eyes are filling with tears. She holds onto Mulder like a lifeline, and they ground each other to the earth.

---

Later, back in bed, she curls around his back the same way he did for her on a shitty couch bed, palm splayed across his ribs. He holds her hands in his, and on his fourth finger on his left hand, she feels a slip of metal she hasn't noticed in years.

She rests her chin on his shoulder, kisses the side of his neck gently. “Are you okay,” she whispers.

He hmms in response, kisses the back of her left hand. “I don't know,” he murmurs. “I… I can't tell you how relieved I am that he's alive. That he's… okay… but going through that… it felt real.”

“I know,” she says. She knows better than anyone. She doesn't think she'll ever forget the sight of her baby on a morgue slab. She presses her cheek against his back and bites back a shudder.

He holds her hand tightly against his chest. “I just… I always thought I would… get to talk to him,” he whispers. “Or that he might… I-I know it's selfish, but…”

“It's not selfish,” she says immediately, hugging him tight. “He's your son, Mulder. It's okay to have… regrets.”

He sniffles, quivering in her arms. “I just… I love him so much, Scully.” He squeezes her hand. “I want to know that he's okay.”

“I know.” She scoots up a bit to kiss his cheek, the spot behind his ear, wipes her eyes and leans her forehead against his neck. “I do, too. I do, too.”

He kisses her knuckles, the inside of her wrist. She can feel his ring between her fingers; she shivers. “I'm so glad you got to talk to him,” he mumbles, and she sniffles. He turns in her arms and pulls her against him, kisses her forehead gently, kisses the spot where a tear drips down her cheek. “I'm so glad he found you.”

---

Scully has another dream, the first one she's had in days that doesn't begin with sleep paralysis. She's lying in bed, and then she sits up, and she sees the dark figure standing in the doorway. She can't make out the face, but it feels so familiar. It feels like the dark figure in her first dream from Jackson.

Initially, in the midst of that first dream, Scully had thought it was another recurrence of that strange, Willoughby-induced fear that's been following her along with that silly case. A recurrence of all the things she's been seeing. But she couldn't explain why she felt compelled to follow the figure, why the dream had felt so significant. That was primarily the reason she'd actually told Mulder about that dream; she'd found herself unable to ignore it, dismiss it as another fearful hallucination or the like.

The dark figure hulks in the doorway; Scully whispers, “William?” and can hear the pleading desperation in her own voice. Is this another message? she wants to ask. What are you trying to tell me? She wants it, very badly, to be him; she wants to talk to her son again.

The figure raises a gesturing hand, as if to say, Come with me. And then it turns in the doorway and walks off, out into the hall.

Scully climbs out of bed and follows. She doesn't think she has a choice. The last time she followed a dark figure like this, it led her to her son. Maybe this dream is meant to help her find him again.

The hallway is dark, darker than it usually is; she can barely see the figure in front of us. She follows him warily, her hands quivering. They walk for longer than what would make sense, considering the layout of the hallway, and the figure doesn't say a word, just leads her further and further into the darkness.  

Scully clenches her hands into fists and calls out, “Jackson?” But he doesn't answer. She bites her lower lip, prods, “Are you trying to send me a message, honey?” But still no answer comes. The figure just keeps walking. And as they go, the figure seems to look less and less like her son.

A sudden wave of frustration and fear washes over her, and she surges forward to reach for the figure. But her fingers land on nothing, they're grasping at thin air.

The hulking shape before her freezes in place, as if startled. And then it begins to turn, slow enough to be considered ominous. Scully tries to stumble away but she's frozen, she cannot move. The figure lifts something in its hand, and there is a scratch, like the striking of a match, there is a sudden flickering of firelight.

Scully jerks awake, biting back a startled yelp. Her hands pressed flat into the mattress, her body tense and drawn as a live wire. She can feel Mulder behind her, sitting up in bed and playing absently with her hair, and he lifts a hand to stroke her scalp at the sudden movement. “You okay?” he asks softly, concerned.

She swallows, turns in bed and pulls herself into a sitting position before nestling under his arm. He willingly tucks her into his side. “Yeah,” she says quietly, cheek against his collarbone. “Bad dream.” He looks down at her with curiousness, maybe even hopeful astonishment, and she clarifies quickly, “Not that kind of dream, not… from him.” She knows for sure now that it wasn't—that’s why she didn't have any sleep paralysis—and she's annoyed that she's stuck on the fucking Willoughby Specter again. She doesn't know why it's affected her so deeply, doesn't know why she keeps seeing things.

Mulder kisses the top of her head, rubs a hand up and down her arm. “I'm sorry, honey.”

She shrugs, trying to dismiss the dream and the fear it brought. Her heart is still pounding too hard against her ribs. She pulls the covers tighter around them—it’s still freezing, what looks like an icy rain falling outside—and that's when she notices the phone in Mulder's lap, opened to an email. “Who's that?” she asks, shifting a bit to face him. “Skinner? Detective Costa?”

“N-no, nothing like that,” Mulder says quickly, and Scully knows what he means. Nothing about him. “It's, uh, it's actually from Willoughby,” he adds.

Scully bites back her surprise. Clenches her jaw and forces herself to nod calmly. “From Ryan?” she asks, a little grimly; she's in no mood to dig into this case again, for several reasons.

“No, actually, it's from Deputy Jacobs,” says Mulder. “He wanted to let us know that Joy Seers woke up from her coma. They think she's going to be okay.”

“Oh.” Scully's honestly surprised by the news—after not hearing about any changes in Joy's condition for over a year, she'd doubted whether or not Joy would ever wake up—but it's not a bad surprise. She'd always liked Joy. Having had her own experiences with a coma, she'd been understandably horrified when she found out that Joy was in one. And as much as she doesn't want to think about Willoughby right now—because she doesn't want to think about brutally murdered parents, or wayward delinquent kids, or this nonexistent apparition that she apparently can't stop thinking about—this news is very welcome. If she has to have news from Willoughby, Virginia, she's glad it's good.

“That's excellent news,” she says, to voice her feelings out loud, and rests her head on Mulder's shoulder. “Excellent.”

“It is,” he agrees, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “Her husband must the overjoyed.” There's a familiar inflection in his voice, the inflection of, I know what this is like. I've gone through this before. Scully bites her lower lip and nods. She understands.

Mulder laughs, a little bitterly. “I'll admit, Willoughby has kind of been in the back of my mind these past couple days, even with everything,” he says. “D-do you remember when I called you the night before we went to Norfolk, and I told you I had a dream about the Specter?”

She'd admittedly forgotten until this moment, but she does remember. It scared her half to death, to wake from the mysterious dream and hear Mulder in a panic on the other end. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I remember.”

Mulder swallows hard, a gulp, and shifts restlessly. “In the, uh, dream,” he continues uneasily, “I was shown a body bag.” Scully stiffens instinctively, and she can feel Mulder's own tension, but he keeps going. He says, “And I-I thought it was you. That's why I called you like that. But… I don't think it was. I think it was some kind of warning. About… what was going to happen to Jackson.”

Her heart is pounding again, too hard. She sits up in bed and shifts to face him. But he's not looking at her, his head is bowed. His voice cracks as he speaks again, quivering: “A-and the whole time we were there at that hospital, I couldn't stop thinking…” He takes a trembling breath, wipes his eyes. “... t-that I could've stopped it… I could've saved him if I'd just…”

She can't take anymore. She moves towards him in one fluid motion and wraps her arms as he chokes out a soft sob. “It’s okay,” she whispers, ignoring her thudding heartbeats, her fear and her anger, everything but this man in her arms. Her hand tangled in his hair. “Honey, it's okay. It's okay.”

They hold each other in the dim-lit room, sleet falling outside, and they do not speak of the Willoughby Specter again that night.

---

Ryan goes back to school a few days after his return from the hospital. The pain’s become more or less manageable, and besides, he doesn't exactly like hanging around the house, with all this new tension between him and Annie. (He doesn't exactly like leaving the house, either—it’s more or less become a sanctuary for him—but Annie leaves it every day, and he knows he can't go without leaving the house forever. And so he goes back to school.)

His friends, and some of the nicer students, want to know what happened. He gives the generic answer of I fell down the stairs, and wishes that would be the end of it. He's tired of talking about it. He doesn't want to have to explain why it happened, or how it really happened, that he was pushed down the stairs by a fucking ghost.

More people want to tell him what he already knows: Mrs. Seers woke up. Apparently a group of people is planning to go and visit her after school. One of his friends invites him along, and he agrees, mostly because he feels like he owes it to Mrs. Seers. After all, it was probably his fault she got into the accident in the first place. But Annie is wary to let him go; apparently, she doesn't exactly trust him right now. Ryan grits his teeth and curses under his breath and argues the best he can, until Annie gives in just a bit and agrees to drive him herself. It's not ideal, but it's something.

By the time they get there, the group from school is already leaving. Annie shoots Ryan an apologetic look and he does his best to ignore it; he's not in the mood. They ride the elevator up in silence.

Mrs. Seers still looks sick: pale and thin, with her hair having grown long. But she's sitting up in bed, and she smiles when Ryan comes in. “I was wondering if you would come by,” she says, straightening a bundle of flowers and setting them in a vase beside her bed. “The other students told me you had been hurt.”

“Yeah, Ry took a bit of a spill,” says Annie, squeezing his shoulder. “But we were so happy to hear that you had woken up, Joy, and we thought we should come by.” She grins. Ryan always forgets that his aunt and Mrs. Seers know each other; he thinks that they have a mutual friend or something.

Mrs. Seers addresses Ryan, her voice polite and sympathetic. “Does it hurt?” she asks.

Ryan shrugs. “Not too bad.” He shifts his weight, trying to take it off of his ankle. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Seers?”

“All right.” She shrugs. “All of this lost time… it is strange.”

“I can't imagine,” Annie says in a soft voice. She squeezes Ryan's shoulder again before stepping back. “Listen, I wanted to run downstairs and have a word with Ryan's doctor while we're here. This kid doesn't want to use the crutches half the time…” She chuckles, and Ryan rolls his eyes. “I'll give you two a minute to talk, okay?”

Mrs. Seers nods.

Ryan almost wants to ask her not to leave—he hates awkward situations, and this is definitely a taker. But he's not a little kid, and he doesn't feel particularly companionable with his aunt right now, anyway. So he says nothing and she walks out of the room and leaves them in silence.

Ryan shifts back and forth awkwardly. Mrs. Seers is just watching him, silently, and his first thought is that she is resentful. He blurts, “Mrs. Seers, I'm really sorry.”

She says nothing. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she's still watching him.

Ryan moves a little closer, his crutches squeaking on the floor. “I'm really sorry,” he repeats, in a softer voice. “I… I didn't want anyone to get hurt… because of what was happening in the classroom… with the Specter…” The words sound ridiculous, coming out of his mouth, but he keeps going. He can't help it. Aside from Jared and Robbie, and maybe from that male FBI agent, Mrs. Seers has always been the most open to the idea that the ghost is real, is behind these things. And if she understands what happened last Halloween, than she will understand the apologize and it's a well-deserved apology. “I felt really bad,” he says, gripping the bars or his crutches, the metal lukewarm between his fingers. “Hotrible. I'm… I'm really sor—”

“Did you think it was over?” Mrs. Seers says abruptly.

Ryan blinks in a shocked stupor. For a second, he thinks he imagined it. “Um… what?” he asks, with a little laugh.

Mrs. Seers nods, as if confirming she spoke. “It is not over,” she continues frankly. “You are a fool if you think that.” She lifts her chin to meet his eyes, and he suddenly understands. He understands everything.

Ryan gulps, his hands quivering. He doesn't say anything else. The words are solidly lodged in his throat. He turns, without another word, and begins to make his way out of the room. He can hear Mrs. Seers's voice behind him, calling his name, but he ignores it. He just keeps moving, crutches scraping, hands shaking, just a bit. He keeps going until he finds a set of chairs down the hallway, and it's not as safe as he'd like, but it's better than nothing, it's not like he can do anything else.

He lowers himself into a chair and sits there, nervously, until a hand comes down on his shoulder and he jolts.

“Sorry!” Annie says immediately, holding her hands up in apology and moving into his line of view. “Did I scare you?”

“Startled,” he mutters, although it isn't the truth.

Annie shoots him a look, and he can't tell if it's a confused look or an accusing look. “Why are you out here?” she asks. “What happened with Mrs. Seers?”

Ryan picks at a cuticle, avoiding looking at her. He wants to go home. He'd like very much to go home. “Oh, she said she was tired and she wanted to rest,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Annie looks surprised, but she shrugs. She reaches down to help Ryan up, hooking his arm around her shoulders. “Well. It's good to see her up and about like that, huh? A real relief.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Ryan mutters. His eyes are on the end of the hall, on Mrs. Seers's room. He's trying to avoid the fact that won't stop poking at him, the thing that became obvious a few minutes ago in that room: that wasn't Mrs. Seers.

---

note: i did research for the phone conversation at the end (i.e., how do inmates make phone calls) here. 

[is-i-halloween-yet]

EGO’S HOGWARTS AND ILVERMORNY SORTING

REQUEST: Like if one of the Dark Youtubers was put into, say, the Harry Potter universe, but the reader wouldn't have a part.

Warning: Spoilers. For literally everything. Also I am very behind on Sanders Sides, so please forgive me. Also the AN is important. Read it.  Descriptions get short as they get more obvious in my head but I will explain my thinking if asked!

((AN: Normally I wouldn't do this, but I'm a SLUT for Harry Potter so fine! Just for you beautiful anon. I did this on my personal opinion and it was my goal not to sort everyone in the houses you would think they'd be in. It kinda helped snap me into my writing again so thank you. I almost want to just do this with all sorts of fandoms. Game of Thrones. What God/ Goddess parent they'd have (Rick Riodan stuff) Superhero. Bands. Musicals. You name it! Would love more cause this was fun! Plus now I can casually advertise my Harry Potter imagines Blog: ) so check out @potter-scamander-black-imgines! They are organized by the person and yeah! Those are all the egos I write for so enjoy! I only did the egos that are cannon or the egos I own. Plus, now you guys know who all I will write for. EXCEPT I DON’T WRITE FOR THE YOUTUBERS IN ANY WAY BUT PLATONICLY CAUSE I AM NOT COMFY AND IDK IF THEY ARE EITHER. I also only put down the egos that I have either created or are created by the creator: I ALSO WRITE FOR CHARACTERS LIKE GEAR, A, LIGHT, MARQUESS, ETC BUT I DON’T OWN THEM!!! SO. THEY AIN’T GOING HERE))

Markiplier Ego’s

Mark:

Hufflepuff. Yeah... Almost all Youtubers are Hufflepuff.. But mark is so caring and loyal and passionate... I don't know where else I'd put him. Nevermind fuck you Mark you are fucking Ravenclaw. Fuck you and your brilliant, witty, creative shit. Fuck-

Thunderbird: Yet out of all of them, he yearns for adventure and to try new things, placing him here.

Darkiplier: 

Slytherin. This was obvious. I tried. Cunning, ambition, etc! Dark is the most cunning and determined of the YouTubers Dark!Sides. He thinks of himself and only himself. He acts on only what we strengthen him. I was torn between this and Ravenclaw, but chose this as some of the Ravenclaw traits don't line up.

As for the American school, I would probably place him Horned Serpent. Almost put him in Wampus, but I cannot picture Dark as a solider. While he has the mind, Dark doesn't possess the drive of a solider, and the only other place he would fit would be as a scholar.

Dr. Iplier: 

Slytherin. He doesn’t care about anything but his goal. He is cunning to get there and only has ambition.

Wampus. The mind of a warrior. He has his message and he must spread it. You are dying. Sorry. 

Googleiplier: 

Ravenclaw or Slytherin but I am gonna say Ravenclaw. This entity is as witty as he is intelligent. He has to be creative 

Horned Serpent. His primary objective is answer questions as quickly as possible. How is he not in the house of the scholar?

Bingiplier:

 Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. I say Hufflepuff. While we don’t know much about him, I’d say he is mostly loyal to his cause more than anything else. 

Thunderbird. That skateboard? Uh yeah. He’s got wanderlust. He is an adventurer. 

The Host: 

Ravenclaw. Even in his days as the Author, he has used his own thoughts to narrate the lives of everyone around him. That is creativity. That is wit. 

Horned Serpent. Intelligence and scholars? That’s him. *Drop Mic*

Wilford Warfstash: 

Slytherin. He is cunning, ambitious, and wants nothing more than get to the point of his desires, regardless who he kills or who is sacrificed in the process. He was like this even as William. 

Wampus. No doubt in my mind. He was a solider. Still is at heart. Always will be. 

Abe the Detective:

So. Gryfindor. No question and here is why. He keeps fighting. But he doesn’t for ambition or loyalty. He does it because he has the will to. Because he’s brave. Basically IDK it’s what my heart says.

And Wampus. Just as he is this, he does his job because he has to. He has nothing but to fight on.

Damien the Mayor: 

This was harder than I fucking thought okay. But I am gonna say Hufflepuff. He is loyal. Enough said. Cause I hurt.

And for this I oddly enough am gonna say Horned Serpent. Out of all the options, I think he wants to obtain knowledge in attempts to attain his Hufflepuff loyalty. 

Celine the Seer:

Ravenclaw. I almost said Slytherin, but she took her discomfort with the house and turned it into fuel to learn about what she can do and how she can uncover the secrets. 

And she meets with her brother again in Horned Serpent. Look up for why. 

Mark the Actor:

Slytherin. He is ambitious. He is cunning. He will not stop until he has revenge. 

Wampus. Look up. He is numb. He does what he must and will do so if it ends with blood. 

Benjamin the Butler:

Hufflepuff. Did you watch the livestream? He is such a good loyal boy. 

Pukwudgue. He just wants to heal. He just wants to help. Protect him

Jacksepticeye Ego’s

Jack/ Sean: 

Hufflepuff. Okay. Loyal, compassionate, and so many other traits similar to this are used and surrounded by Sean. I mean PMA, right?

Annnndddd Thunderbird. C'mon is this even a question? Yes I almost said Pukwudgie, cause that's what he does for our community, but our Jackie is a brave green bean who likes to see the world and try new things.

Antisepticeye: 

Gryffindor. Okay. Lemme explain myself. You were all expecting Slytherin. I don't blame you. But here's the thing. While I agree that Anti could be Slytherin, but he is more Gryffindor for his recklessness rather than cunning nature. He is brave, fearless, daring, courageous, and etc. The only thing that separates him from this house is chivalry. Yet even still this house is a better fit. While he has the ambition and self preservation of a Slytherin, in my mind, he is more on the brave side then cunning. After all, who said bravery was a positive thing?

As for the other school, I'm thinking Wampus. Our options are healer, scholar, adventurer, or warrior and Anti is obviously more of a warrior. Calculating and violent. Daring and bold. He will fight hard and he will fight to the bloody end.

Jackaboyman: 

Hufflepuff. In my own head cannon, this boy thinks with one thing, his heart. He jumps straight into things without thought, but it’s not out of bravery or courage. It is out of loyalty and love.

Pukwudgie. He is a lover, not a fighter. So I think he’d rather heal than any of the other options. 

Dr. Schneeplestein: 

Ravenclaw. Yes! He's not evil yall can actually fight me. It was Anti who change the perception of everything. He is smart. Witty. The perfect Ravenclaw.

Pukwudgie. He’s a doctor? So this is obvious? 

Chase Brody: 

Hufflepuff. I almost said Slytherin? But loyalty. Chase is nothing if not loyal. He is loyal to his, wife, to his kids, even to his best friend in a coma. He is and always will be loyal

Thunderbird. Bro Average? Proves? How adventurous he is? ‘nough said. 

Marvin The Magnificent: 

Slytherin. Almost said Ravenclaw! But no! Listen. If you go back to the video, I can infer that he’s got an ambition. He’s gotta be the best at magic. He has to be. 

Thunderbird. He tours. He’s gotta have some adventure in him. Also he has long hair

Jameson Jackson:

Ravenclaw. He’s clearly an artist of some form. And Ravenclaw is the artists home.

This one is hard, but I am gonna guess Horned Serpent. I suppose it would be the old soul in him, but I think he is always trying to learn something new. So this is where I would place him. 

Robbie the Zombie:

Hufflepuff. I think loyalty to his family is his defining trait. 

Horned Serpent, is where his curiosity comes into play. And I haven't devolved Robbie in my eyes yet so this is my start. 

CrankGamePlays Egos 

Ethan:

 Ravenclaw is what I thought at first. Ethan is such a creative boi, but more than that, he is very witty. But I think instead I am gonna have to go with Hufflepuff. Ethan, I know you think you are a Gryfindor, but here's why you aren’t. You get your Gryfindor qualities from your loyalty.

Pukwudgie. He just wants to help! And heal. At least more than the other houses. 

Vladamir: FIND HIM HERE= https://is-i-halloween-yet.tumblr.com/post/177094268858/vlad-vladamir-headcannons

My soft boi is a Hufflepuff. He is so loyal. All he wants to do is help and heal...

AND A PUKWUDGIE. Look up. He’s a healer. 

BlankGamePlays: WE KNOW NOTHING BUT I DON’T CARE

Ravenclaw? He has? Creative? Appearances? 

And Thunderbird? He does? Interesting things? In the videos? He is in?

NateWantsToBattle Egos

Nate: 

Gryffindor. Nate takes chances and is brave. And honestly the only other contender would be the house of Ravenclaw. But my heart declared him more of a lion and I couldn’t disprove it in my head.

Wampus. He charges into everything he does whole heartedly, like a solider, so that is where I shall place him.

NateMare: 

Ravenclaw. This boy is a smartass. He is so witty, but so creative as well. This is where he belongs. 

Wampus. The same reason that Nate is a Wampus. He fights for what he believes is. 

Phantom:

Slytherin. If he has one thing, it is ambition. Enough said. 

Wampus. Wow. All of the Battles are Wampus’. But same reason for other too okay.

Thomas Sander’s Egos

Thomas: 

Gryffindor. So brave. Takes so many chances. Tries so many things. He has the heart of an adventurer if anyone does. 

Pukwudgie. If anyone wants to be a healer or helper it is the YouTuber. And I have said it many times but I will again. Enough said (Will probably say it again sometime soon sorry not sorry). 

Deceit:

Slytherin. He is literally a snake. He is lies. But also lies are cunning I am not saying this house is evil. 

Wampus. Gets the job done. Who cares what it costs. 

Logan: 

Slytherin. While many hear logical and think Ravenclaw, but I think the cunning Slytherin. He is pure logic. Nothing else. 

Horned Serpent. The house of the one seeking knowledge. Make sense? 

Patton: 

Hufflepuff. These folks are essentially fathers. So... It makes sense?

Pukwudgie. Healer and helper and dad? Makes sense. 

Roman: 

Hufflepuff. Roman is his heart. What is the heart if not loyal?

Pukwudgie. I didn’t really think he belonged anywhere else. What is a hero if not a healer?

Virgil: 

Ravenclaw. He is so creative and so smart. This is where the bean belongs. Fight me. 

Wampus. Again. Wasn’t sure where this person is going to be placed, but I am putting him here because he will fight for what he believes in. No matter what. 

[turtlepated]

The Turnings of Fire

HellboyxOC fic

Since Tumblr is being a butt and makes me dig back through my whole blog, I’m not gonna repost chapters 1 and 2 right now. I may go back tomorrow and repost all three together in case anybody wants to catch back up (since Tumblr also won’t let me link the previous chapters...)

Hopefully chapter 4 will be quickly forthcoming, I’ve actually already started it and I have a general idea for what happens. Anyway, here’s chapter 3! 

@accioturtur

----

Chapter 3: 

“Uhhhh,” Hellboy said eloquently, at a loss for words as his eyes swept up and down the strange woman standing feet from him. She wore work gloves, a flashlight in one hand, and her jacket was zipped up almost all the way to her neck. She must be sweltering, he thought. “Hi?” he offered with an awkward wave of his flesh hand. Without a word in response she began to back away from him, turning on her heel and marching quickly the way she’d come. “Hey, hey!” he called after her, his feet carrying him forward in long strides. “What do you think you’re doing here? You’re gonna get yourself killed! Hey, stop!”  

Far from stopping, however, the woman began to run. Hellboy could understand why, after all there was a seven-foot-tall man with red skin and sawed-off horns chasing her and yelling, but he really didn’t have the luxury of a more genteel approach. He had to catch her and get her outside before something bad happened. “Hellboy, what is going on?” asked Daimio in his ear. “There’s somebody else in the tunnel,” he answered, speeding up to keep her in sight as they rounded another bend in the passageway. The lantern threw chaotic dancing shadows on the walls as it bounced in time with his heavy footfalls. This was taking too long and it was getting too conspicuous. Wyrms could be territorial and aggressive at the best of times, but a pregnant female would not take kindly to all this ruckus. The babies might be small enough to handle, but a fully-grown adult could be up to twenty feet long and weigh hundreds of pounds. Not something Hellboy looked forward to tussling with, but he was more concerned about the human woman who’d be even less of a match for an angry wyrm. 

“Would you just wait a second?! I’m not gonna hurt ya!”  

Another curve, and he lost sight of her. He cursed under his breath and he sped up, wondering how she could have gotten so far ahead of him so fast that he couldn’t even see the glow of her flashlight anymore. He was so intent upon catching up to her that he nearly ran her over. She was stooped on the ground, her hands outstretched as though searching for something. Her head jerked back to look at him as he came charging around the curve, her eyes wide and round as she let out a yelp of surprise and ducked. Hellboy swore again and backpedaled ineffectively, ending up taking two gigantic steps sort of over and around her to avoid a painful collision. 

“Je-SUS!” he gasped out, staggering to an ungainly stop before turning to face her. “Why the hell are you on the floor?” The bottom of his long trench coat had swept over the top of her and mussed her hair into almost comical disarray, his tail accidentally whacking her in the head. “Accidentally”. She reached up with one hand and snatched the handkerchief down to her neck, her face livid and her breathing just as elevated as his after the near trampling. “I tripped and dropped my flashlight!” she snapped, glaring daggers at him. “I didn’t know you were gonna come barreling down the tunnel like a Japanese bullet train!”  

“I was trying to stop you!” he barked back. “You need to get outta here, pronto! It’s dangerous, you could die!” He sighed harshly, glancing up and down the tunnel as he realized that if her flashlight was gone, there was no way she could get back out of the tunnels on her own: he’d have to go with her and then come back. “Son of a bitch,” he growled to himself. This ‘easy-peasy’ mission was proving to be much more of a pain in the ass than he had anticipated. “Ah-ha!” cheered the strange woman and he looked around to see that she’d found her light. Kneeling on the ground she clicked it again and again, shaking it, smacking it with an open palm, but all to no avail. “Crap… must’ve broken the bulb…” Hellboy let his head fall back, groaning in exasperation, the sound echoing up and down the corridor. “Come on, get up,” he said. “I’ll take you back, but we gotta be fast.” 

She whipped around again, scowling up at him from the ground. “What? No, I’m not leaving.” He clenched his teeth, growing more irate by the second as he stepped very deliberately closer and glowered down the length of his nose at her, casting extreme emphasis on his much larger frame and build. “That was not a request,” he said lowly, his voice rumbling from deep in his chest. “One way or another, you are leaving; either on your own two feet or, so help me, over my damn shoulder.” Hellboy saw her hand tighten around the handle of her flashlight as she rose smoothly and slowly to her feet, unflinching as she stared him down. Or rather up. 

Before she could open her mouth to deliver whatever retort she’d prepared, his LED lantern winked out without a sound, leaving them both standing in complete and impenetrable blackness. Hellboy sighed loudly. Sure, he thought, fuming quietly. Why not? “Alllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice…..” he called on the radio. “What is it?” she replied, her voice crackling slightly as though the signal were weakening. “Did you find whoever it is you saw?” “Yes I did, but I can’t do anything about it since I can’t see my hand in front of my own face,” Hellboy replied. “The lantern just went out.” 

“Oh, bollocks,” Alice answered. Not a promising response. “The batteries must be dead! Sorry, HB.” “Fantastic,” he said. “Do you have a cell phone?” asked the woman, and he jumped slightly, having almost forgotten how close she was to him. “I don’t think Amazon delivers underground.” 

He couldn’t see her expression but he could practically feel the irritation coming off her like heat. “Not for the phone, smartass, for the light,�� she said crossly. Grumbling to himself, Hellboy withdrew his phone from an interior pocket, feeling for the power button in the dark. “For all the good it’ll do,” he said pessimistically. “It’s not gonna last us very long.” They were bathed in faint, cool light as the home screen opened and he navigated to the flashlight feature. “It doesn’t need to,” replied the woman. “I’ve got an idea.” He watched her flip her own defunct flashlight around and unscrew the bottom of the cylinder, getting the gist of where she was going as she dumped the batteries out into her palm. 

“Give me your light,” she said, and he handed it to her. She turned it over and over for a moment or two, looking for the battery compartment. “Keep your fingers crossed,” she added, sliding the plastic cover back. Hellboy saw her grin triumphantly in the beam of light from his phone. “C’s. We’re back in business.” She quickly replaced his batteries with her own and the tunnel was again illuminated with bright, LED light. “We’ll just have to share,” she said matter-of-factly, shrugging a backpack off one shoulder and stowing the now useless flashlight inside it. 

“Um, no? Absolutely not,” Hellboy protested, simultaneously frustrated and a little bit impressed by her total disregard for the peril she was in. “Did you hear anything I’ve been saying? Lemme repeat, and I’ll go slow and use small words for you: danger? Not safe? Excruciating death?”  The woman rolled her eyes as she set her backpack securely over both shoulders again. “Are you always this cheerful?” 

He scowled darkly at her, snatching the lantern back with his stone hand. “Hey, I’ll still carry you outta here like a sack of potatoes,” he threatened. “How did you even get down here?” She frowned in annoyance, reaching for the light as she answered, “I found an opening and I went down it. Probably the same way you did.” Hellboy raised his arm, holding the lantern out of her reach. “Also, how are you not dying of hypoxia? This tunnel’s full of toxic gas, even I can’t breathe this air without a respirator; so how’s a human with a cops-and-robbers hanky even conscious right now?” 

“Well, you know how camels can store water in their humps and survive without drinking for months at a time?” she replied with a sardonic smile, straining to reach the lantern. “It’s like that, but with air.” He exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening impatiently at her flippant dismissal as she pulled at his elbow, trying to bring it low enough to get ahold of the lantern. “Look, miss, I got a job to do. In my line of work, humans don’t last all that long so you need to leave,” he said, appealing once again to her seemingly miniscule sense of self-preservation. “I’ll help you get back to the surface, but we gotta go now.” 

“Give me back my batteries, then,” she demanded, hands fisted on her hips. Hellboy scoffed incredulously. “What? Why? Your flashlight’s busted, they won’t do you any good!” “Your lantern’s dead without them, so they won’t do you any good!” she fired right back. “Either we can work together, or we can both go stumbling around in the dark.” What was the deal with this crazy chick? Hellboy could only stare at her, the aggravation draining out of him to be replaced by amused befuddlement. She hadn’t budged an inch when he loomed over her, and he knew for a fact that he could look downright terrifying even when he wasn’t trying. She acted utterly unconcerned about the mortal danger he had warned her about, repeatedly. 

“What are you doing down here at all? What’s the attraction?” he asked, hoping for but not expecting a straight answer as he transferred the lantern to his other hand and held it behind his back, turning in place as she tried to circle him. She looked just as frustrated as he felt, strands of her hair fallen loose from the clip at the back of her head and fluttering down into her face before she blew them harshly away. He had to admire her dogged determination, she kept trying to get the lantern back from him no matter which way he held it but finally she seemed to have had enough. 

“To find whatever’s tear-assing around down here and stop it!” she burst out at last. “Before it lets the fire spread! Same reason you’re here, right?” That certainly piqued his curiosity. There were, of course, other organizations in the world in the same vein as the BPRD, so it was very possible that someone else was aware of the infestation under Centralia. It was equally possible that other paranormal monitoring entities would send an agent out to assess the situation. However, any of the organizations Hellboy could think of would definitely not send a human agent underground into a toxic environment with a handkerchief and a cheap backpack for equipment. “How do you know about that?” he asked, all the ire and acerbic edge gone from his voice, genuinely intrigued. “Who are you?” 

She huffed angrily at him, dropping her arms to her sides and fixing him with a piercing glare. “No one,” she bit out and he chuckled. “No one? Are you Arya Stark?” Grinning now he held up his right index finger and tilted his head playfully to one side, mimicking the pose of Game of Thrones’ famed fictional fencing instructor. “What do we say to the god of death?” he teased. If he got her riled up enough, she might let something slip. “Are we about done?” she seethed, deadpan and uncooperative as ever. Hellboy sighed again, weighing his options before coming to a begrudging compromise. “All right, look,” he began. “Against my better judgement, I’ll let ya tag along, but on two conditions: number one, you have to do what I say, because whatever I tell you to do, like run or hide or get behind me, is to make sure you get outta here alive. Capiche?” She sullenly crossed her arms over her chest and surveyed him with a look of deep misgiving, but finally gave a curt nod. “And number two?” 

“Tell me what I’m ‘sposed to call you,” he said. “If you agreed to the first one, the second one’s even easier. Just give me a name.” She didn’t appear to concur, however, and he watched her chew her lip thoughtfully. He was tempted to point out that they were wasting a lot of time, but they’d finally gotten at least a little bit of traction and he didn’t want to say something to piss her off and make her clam back up again. At length, with a deep sigh, she extended her right hand to him with an expression of resignation. “Claire,” she told him at last, and he gently took her right hand in his own and shook it once. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he drawled with a smirk that made her roll her eyes. “I’m Hellboy.” 

“Yeah, I kinda figured that,” Claire replied with a cynical half-smile of her own. “You’re sort of famous. There’s even a comic book series about you.” He chuckled and ducked his head, making a show of scratching his sideburn so he wouldn’t have to look at her. “Stardom doesn’t suit me,” he admitted. “Hard enough going out looking like this.” Claire’s smile widened a bit at his weak joke. “Saw you on TV not long ago, in fact. Something about bear attacks in Canada?” Hellboy nodded, remembering the assignment of the previous month. “Oh yeah, volkolak. Shapeshifter; right pissy old bastard who liked to dress in a bearskin that turned him into a monster so he could hunt and eat his neighbors.” 

Claire hummed absently then squared her shoulders like an eager soldier. “Well let’s get to work,” she said, turning to head back the way they’d come. “Our best bet’s gonna be that room back there with the other tunnels connecting to it. This is the way I came, there’s nothing down there.” Hellboy stood where he was a beat longer, shaking his head after her. “Hellboy, do you copy?” asked Daimio. “Yeah?” Hellboy answered, still bemusedly wondering where Claire thought she was going when he still had the only light. “Do you have a visual on the subject?” 

He snickered to himself. “More or less. Says her name’s Claire and she’s lookin’ for the wyrms, too. That’s all I’ve got for now, but she’s sticking with me for the time being. Somethin’s up, but I dunno what yet. I’ll keep you posted.” With that he followed after her. 

They pressed onward in near silence, returning to the hub and choosing a path that seemed to delve further down into the ground. Hellboy made a few valiant stabs at friendly conversation, but Claire consistently gave vague or monosyllabic answers and made it very clear she wasn’t up to sharing. As they descended deeper and closer to the burning coal seams the temperature continued to rise. Hellboy checked his IR thermometer, which now read in the triple digits. He spared a glance at Claire, who had replaced her handkerchief over her nose and mouth but appeared otherwise unbothered by the growing heat. 

“Y’know you’re hardly the first spookchaser I’ve ever dealt with,” he told her, trying again to engage her in a way that might reveal more about her. Seemingly despite herself, she looked at him with furrowed brows. “The first what?” Hellboy shrugged. “Like stormchasers, only with monsters and ghosts and stuff. They show up every now and then on our missions. Most get scared off pretty quick, some aren’t that lucky. And one or two we’ve actually hired at the BPRD.” 

“That so?” Claire replied, casual as if they were talking about the weather. “Are you offering me a job?” “Might be,” he said, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “We’ll have to see how the interview goes.” Even with half her face covered he could tell that he’d made her smile. “I’m flattered,” she laughed. “But I already have a job.” “Oh yeah? What do you do?” 

Claire scoffed then and eyed him with exaggerated suspicion. “Are we really still on the ‘getting to know you’ part of the mission?” He grinned, but the next moment he was on high alert as the ground and walls around them began to gently tremble. Loose dirt started drizzling down on them from the ceiling, quickly intensifying into a cascade while the trembling grew to full on quaking. The tunnel was collapsing. “Move!” Hellboy bellowed, grabbing Claire by the top of her backpack and all but throwing her ahead of him. They sprinted down the passage, the ground lurching under their feet as they dodged falling debris and struggled to see through the dense rain of earth. Hellboy’s heart leapt into his throat as the entire ceiling began to give in to gravity and crash down on top of them with a thunderous clamor, but at the same moment the floor of the tunnel split open beneath them and they found themselves falling.

For several interminably long moments the world was a disorienting whirl of deafening noise, pitch darkness and blinding light blurring together like a yin-yang as the lantern slipped from his grip and tumbled away. After an unforgiving impact with hard ground that knocked the wind out of him and set his ears to ringing, Hellboy took a beat to assess the situation. Everything hurt, which was a pretty good sign that he was still alive. It had gotten quieter, which meant that for now at least the tunnel collapse had stopped. Also, it was significantly hotter now than it had been only minutes before. With a reasonable amount of pained grunting, Hellboy raised himself up onto his hands and knees to see where they’d landed, half buried in loose rock and dirt from the cave in. “Oh boy…”

They had dropped down into what was clearly a former passage of the abandoned coal mine. He could still see timber support beams along the walls and ceiling. The remains of electrical lighting and cables still hung from one side of the tunnel, though there’d been no power to them in decades. There was also very visible steam rising from the ground and the walls around them. The fire must be very close now. Unearthing the lantern, Hellboy searched his immediate surroundings for his unexpected sidekick. “Claire?” he called, setting the lantern down to begin sifting through the remains of the collapsed tunnel with both hands. “Claire, you okay?”

Dirt and rocks shifted as something moved beneath them, and next minute Claire was heaving herself upright, sitting in the rubble and sputtering on dirt and grit. She patted her hands against her jacket, sending clouds of particles swirling into the air. “Awesome,” she coughed, turning to look up at him. She tugged off her handkerchief and mopped at the grayish brown dust coating her face and her head and everything else. “You don’t think they’ll charge extra for that ride, do you?” she asked with a grin. He chuckled at the cheesy battle humor, checking his IR thermometer and the gas detector. The temperature had climbed substantially following their plummet into the mine tunnel. In addition, the levels of toxic gasses in the air had skyrocketed. Hellboy eyed Claire’s dirty handkerchief grimly as she tied it back in place, glancing up at the hole in the ceiling they had fallen through. Somehow or another he had to get them back up there. It wasn’t exactly oxygen-rich, but it would be better than down here, where he fully expected his human companion to keel over any second.

Just as he was wondering how in the Hell he was going to pull that off an ominous cracking sounded from somewhere under his feet and steam started rising around them in alarmingly thick columns. He and Claire both froze in place, sharing a wide-eyed glance. “Ahhhh dammit,” he grumbled as the ground began to crack and the fallen dirt to seep through the fractures like sand in an hourglass. “Go, go!!” Claire spun and started to run but they didn’t make it far before they were falling again. Hellboy reached out and grabbed Claire’s wrist in his left hand, his stone fingers scrabbling against the side of the crevice opening up beneath them in search of a handhold. A blast of scorching air shot up through the fissure, hot enough to make even Hellboy wince. He finally found purchase, grunting in pain as momentum slammed him against the rough, rocky side of the crevasse. “Oh my God!” Claire exclaimed in horror, reaching up to grasp his wrist with her free hand. Gritting his teeth, Hellboy glanced down into the chasm below them.

Like something right out of the Book of Revelations, stretching fifty yards across and deeper than he could even see was a pit of fire. 

[loghainmactir]

For the OC asks: 1, 6, 12, 14, 18, 21, 28 :)

there r so many here 😱😱😱 thank u sm…. i love love love love talking abt my OCs but i can never do it unless someone prompts me and this one is gonna get LONG so buckle in kids!!! (I’m also on mobile, so the questions have been shortened bc I just wrote ‘em down before I got into bed I’m sorry 😭) I’m also going to do 6 as a whole seperate post bc I wanna talk a little about my D&D world, tbh!

1. Three useless facts about your favourite OC.

I can’t 100% choose a favourite OC (… ok its Padril) so! I’m gonna do one useless facts for three characters:

A) Padril once tricked Tamlen as a kid into believing he’d gotten his hand bitten off by the Dread Wolf by sucking it into his shirt and wailing. The clan was not impressed, lmao.

B) Braewyn and her twin, Bradley, often binge-watch Golden Girls when they’re together and have free time

C) Irving owns a set of dragonbone dice and he has no idea how to play dice games. Like, none.

12. Favourite relationship between OCs?

I’ve done this already BUT… my other favourite relationship is between my character, Leon, and his daughter, Jordan, who’s a teenager.

Leon’s essentially got the role of Cullen for modern-day Inquisition mixed w some Leliana stuff, but he’s the one who trains everyone and orders about spies/troops. He’s an incredibly thoughtful and kindhearted guy, though a bit married to his work and sometimes it’s difficult for him to remove himself from it.

BUT… Jordan is the apple of his eye and encourages him to go out and socialise and do things Not Involving Work. They were estranged for a bit bc his work’s dangerous, but now she’s older so they spend time together offen. Similarly, Leon tries to set a good example for her and tries to encourage self-love; Leon’s black, and so is Jordan, n he knows she’s been bullied before so he tries his hardest to encourage self love re: natural hair & dark skin & imperfections like scars (bc he has a lot himself) (He’s also so fuckin awkward lmfao, he tells so many dad jokes when they’re together)

14. Which OC is most like you?

Ok so I have two. Bradley and Raul: Bradley has always a LOT of my ADHD/BPD traits and shares a decent chunk of my trauma even before I knew about it all myself. He’s also bi like me n helped me realize I was, too. Bradley’s much older n more Out There than me, though, but he really is a comfort character in the sense that it’s kinda like “u can and will be ok, he was so u can b too”.

There’s also Raul, who’s like me personality-wise; he’s a smartass, a writer, a feminist, and he really just wants to help people. He’s also afraid of large bodies of open water (like me), and he’s fuzzy n chunky like me too. I swear to god he is his own OC though akgkakf

18. Favourite things to research about OCs?

I rarely research OC things anymore, tbh, unless I’m REALLY uneducated on topics that cannot Just Be Made Up (like Harry and his world— I haven’t researched shit for that, lmao). One OC I researched a tonne on was my OC, Anthony (who’s Bradley’s child). They’re nonbinary, so I spent hours researching what that meant and how to politely portray them… and then I realized I was trans through that. I love them bc of that.

21. Describe each OC as shittily as possible.

God, I won’t do All of them, but:

Padril: that friend from university who’s now dating a man twice their age and is an “artist” (though it’s not going anywhere)

Jakeem: Gaudy Local Man Can’t Stop Bringing Dead Dogs Back To Life; Click For The Full Story! (clicking requires u to sign up & give yr credit card details lmao)

Harry: (to the tune of Hit Me Baby One More Time) MY LOWER BACK / IS KILLING ME / AND I / I MUST CONFESS / SO ARE MY KNEES (are my knees!)

Irving: You Won’t Believe How Much This Bear Can Cry!

Braewyn: “Hehehe! Got your nose!”/“Got your wallet!”

28. If they had tumblrs, what kinds of blogs would they have?

Padril: aesthetic art/travel blog…. occasionally posts selfies of himself on Loghain’s lap. Extensive tagging. Hashtag nature, hashtag beautiful, hashtag art, hashtag daddy (HE WOULD THOUGH)

Harry: completely untagged personal blog. entirely in lower case. probably black w red font. lots of complaints, lots of depressing posts, the occasional COMPLETELY indecipherable meme reblogged by @ltsarahkerrigan’s eustace (occasionally he’d post selfies of them, too). Has, like, 3 followers lmao

Jakeem: fashion/dogblr blog. Has a decent amount of followers because he often posts outfit photoshoots, except most of the outfits are from KMart/Walmart and are cleverly disguised. Definitely gets called out on a regular basis. Basic tags, still gets a tonne of notes.

Irving: a mish-mash of fandom (at least, art, photosets and gifsets), photography, and recipes. Is That Person who always leaves actual comments on posts (and often they’re irrelevant) and uses tags but uses them all wrong (for example he does them in all caps and there’s never a break in them, like: YUM RECIPIE FOOD STEAK BACON VEGGIES). Probably shouldn’t be on tumblr but he’s enthusiastic about it at least!