#anyway as you can see i am terrible at describing clothes

[ruanbaijie]

a vampire's wardrobe in republican era china by shen zhiheng @asiandramanet october creator bingo board ⎈ layout + mythology

bonus:

[sundrop-writes]

One Moment Per Episode With Dick Grayson

Season One, Episode One: "Titans"

Summary:

You and Dick haven't spoken since the Titans parted ways in San Francisco five years ago.

Even though you used to be as close as two people can be, both of you are doing just fine leading your own separate lives - until your psychic powers cause you to have a vision of the end of the world, and you have to turn to him for help. As much as Dick doesn't want to get involved, you know that him leading The Raven on the path she needs to travel is the only way to stop the terrible fate you saw.

He wants to deny it, and stay as far away from you as possible - but he can't avoid you or the truth that you have told him when he runs into that very Raven you speak of in an interrogation room later that night. He has to face a simple truth he has always known: you're always right.

Dick Grayson x Fem!Powered!Reader. Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers. Emotional Angst and Bantering/Humor. Set during Season 1, Episode 1.

Word Count: 2,300

DC Titans Masterlist | AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: the reader uses she/her pronouns (some people might accuse the reader character in this story of being more of an OC and I am okay with that - I try to make all the reader characters in my other stories as blank and open as possible and every now and then I let myself have a little bit of a treat) - but as usual with my stories, the majority of pronouns used in the fic are you/yours; other than clothing style and a scar that informs her backstory, the reader's looks are not described and are left vague (as far as race, body type, hair colour, etc. - those things are not described); the reader character does have powers - I might make a separate post detailing the reader's entire backstory and power set (or I might just let it be spelled out slowly through the chapters) - but for now, I will tell you that the reader character is psychic and can see glimpses of the future in dream-like visions; the reader and Dick are 'exes' - their relationship was never official (they never explicitly called each other boyfriend/girlfriend), but they used to have sex often (and they both have feelings for each other that they never openly spoke about), and they are childhood friends, so there is a lot of emotional history there; mentions of canon-typical violence; this fic does use Y/N; mentions of the reader being shot during a past undescribed incident; there is references to sex and discussions of sex, but no explicit smut (but there might be some later in the story? idk yet); emotionally constipated Dick Grayson; idk what else ? - pining, emotional angst, using humor to deflect emotional tension, banter. I just really like the vibes of this. there is not a lot of big content warnings for this fic (yet).

A/N: Honestly, I am really excited about this one. I have a lot of ideas for future episodes (especially the episode where Dick loses it emotionally and just gets followed around by a hallucination of Bruce for the entire episode - but that's not until Season 2, oop). Titans is one of my favourite series ever - if you couldn't tell - so getting to examine each episode closer and appreciate each individual episode as a unique piece of art while writing this instead of binging a whole season gives me a whole new appreciation for the show. I hope you guys enjoy these as they come out - especially because I do have an idea of where this fic is going, but I don't know where I want these characters to go in Season 4. (I kind of want to do a secret surprise reveal of two of the characters being related and being siblings, but... idk. Sometimes people don't like that.) But this is definitely a good opportunity to send me ideas of where you want this story to go/how you want it to end up. Anyway - please enjoy!!!

....

Dick needed some fucking air. 

He could barely fucking handle today. He had to compose himself before he lost it and started breaking things. It was all such a shitshow - the department pushing a new partner on him, footage of Robin all over the news, every other half-cocked beat cop making comments about how Robin was just another masked psychopath who wasn’t that different from The Joker. 

Fuck them. 

If they only knew what Gotham was like - if only they had to deal with a department full of asshole’s on the Joker’s payroll. If only they had to watch criminals walk away because they made bail on the decision of a corrupt judge. If only they had to sit behind a desk and listen to a mother’s sobs as she begged for him to find her missing child - knowing how many people elbow to elbow with him would laugh at her tears rather than start looking. 

If they only spent one night tending to civilians while the smell of burning flesh permeated the air, with the Joker’s screaming laugh stuck in their ears because he thought that bombing a low-income housing complex was just that funny. 

Fuck all of them. 

Dick clenched his fist tight - his knuckles aching as he resisted the urge to drive his arm right through the glass at the front of the precinct. He just - he really needed some air. 

Dick walked out the front doors (rather than smashing the glass), and took a deep breath of the cool night air, trying his best to calm down. It was getting late, and things were relatively slow, even for it being a Tuesday. No influx of late-night chaos yet. He had some time to collect himself before- 

“So - Robin’s in Detroit now, huh?” 

That voice. 

Dick felt the sting of familiarity pluck at his spine, and he whipped his head around at lightning speed, looking in the direction of the voice. Surely enough - you were the one standing there. It hadn’t been some kind of auditory hallucination on his part. 

So much for time to calm himself down. 

He was immediately met with a confliction - lust and annoyance bubbling up inside of him. He didn’t want to see you again, he didn’t want you to be here, especially not without warning. But you looked so damn good - it was a distraction from that fact. 

That was always the thing about exes, wasn’t it? 

(If Dick could even call you his ‘ex’ - the two of you had slept together more times than he could count, both metaphorically and literally, but the two of you had never put an official label on the relationship like he had with Dawn or Barbara. He cared for you like a friend, and like a lover in a way that he was never willing to admit - but did that make you his ex? Especially if he never stopped caring about you?) 

That thing about exes being: they always look so fucking good when you see them after a long time of being apart. The universe dangling something in front of you that you’re not allowed to have and technically, should no longer want. 

But oh - Dick found himself wanting so very badly. (And he tried his hardest to hide that fact as he continued to carefully stare you down.) 

Because you looked so good. 

You were wearing something of your usual style - an outfit of many confusing layers that somehow showed off the natural curves of your body and hid you all at the same time. 

A long skirt with a ruffled hemline and bold, colorful pattern. A pair of boots that you had probably gotten from some vintage store that were likely older than both you and Dick, leathery and well worn in. Your jacket was much the same - a supple brown leather with a soft fur lining that made you look very warm and cozy. 

Topped off with a pair of the largest, gaudiest dangling earrings that Dick had ever seen - the kind that would have gotten snagged on one of his nice shirts and gotten the two of you tangled up during one of your hook-ups. A pair of earrings that he would have scolded you for wearing - but he would have delighted in finding them on his bedroom floor after you left because it meant having a piece of you still with him. And it would mean having an excuse to visit you later because he had something of yours to return. 

Those earrings glistened in the light of the street lamps, just as your eyes did while you stared him down with those inquisitive, knowing eyes. Looking at him with that same expression you always wore - the one that seemed to say you knew everything that he never would. It equally fascinated him and infuriated him. 

He hated the fact that you had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, causing his heart to race - had you snuck up on him on purpose? Did you find it funny? 

“Y/N,” Dick said your name curtly, still feeling a slight twinge of shock that you were standing in front of him at all. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

You let out a dry chuckle, and stepped closer to him, making his whole body stiff. His first instinct was to step backward - to gain more distance from you. But he didn’t want to seem like he was afraid of you - afraid of that closeness. So he forcefully locked his legs and stayed in place as you drifted closer, and you idly conversed back. 

“Oh, Dickie.” You sighed in return, using his childhood nickname. “A warm welcome as always.” 

Dick rolled his eyes at this. Did he really need to bother with manners and formalities? The two of you had known each other for so long, he guessed that you were both well over stuff like that. 

“Do I need a reason to be here? Can’t I just visit an old friend?” You posed, a humorous tone still running through your voice. 

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he took a more defensive stance. He quickly went from shock then to annoyance. 

The two of you were old friends - you had known each other since you were in diapers together. The two of you had grown up together, raised by a unique circus family. And that meant that Dick knew you well enough to know that if you were here, you had a good reason to be. 

(If you had wanted to chase him when he first left Gotham, you likely would have camped out in the trunk of his car, or you would have shown up at his new apartment the day after he moved in. You wouldn’t have waited this long to contact him.) 

“Do us both a favor and cut the bullshit, please.” Dick replied sternly. “Why are you here?” 

“Grumpy.” You sighed, sounding defeated. 

He waited for a moment, and surely enough - you folded, now willing to directly explain your reason for showing up in Detroit so suddenly. 

“I had a vision.” You explained. “A girl. The Raven. A lot of others consider her to be the eater of worlds, but she is the one who is going to save us all, Dick.” 

He let out a harsh puff of air, reaching up and running fingers roughly over his temple. Yup, there it was - the headache had fully set in now. He really didn’t need this. Not tonight. 

He had known about your visions for a long time. When he was younger, he had been shocked to find out that you had inherited your mother’s ‘gift’. He previously had no clue that her set-up as a sideshow fortune teller with Tarot cards and a large crystal ball wasn’t all psychology tricks and half-guesses she put on for tourists - but in fact, it was actually something informed by larger supernatural forces at play. And it was something you could do as well. 

So he was inclined to believe you when you told him about this vague vision, but he also didn’t want to be involved. He had a lot on his plate right now - he didn’t need this. 

“Look, I’m sure that whatever you saw was important, but-” He began. 

You sighed and shook your head harshly at this ‘but’. 

“Why don’t you just take it to New York instead? This kind of thing is way more Donna’s speed, anyway. I’m sure she can help you find this girl, and-” 

“That won’t help.” You told him. “The girl is already on her way here.” 

You spoke the words with such utter certainty, and it sent shivers up Dick’s spine. The calm, tranquil look on your face - the ominous wiseness you held: it reminded Dick so much of your mother. The other-worldly authority she held that had ultimately gotten her killed. It was strangely creepy. 

“Just so you know, I hate it when you say ominous shit like that.” Dick told you, gesturing to your person with stiff offense in his body. “Just because your mother played the creepy voodoo witch for tourists doesn’t mean you have to.” 

“I’m not playing.” You replied, exasperated. 

You knew that Dick could be frightened of your powers at times. He was someone very logic-based - he built his beliefs around facts. So having you follow your visions and your ‘gut feelings’ when they were never concrete, changing on a dime - he hated the uncertainty and chaos that came with it all. But you had learned to trust yourself and your feelings over time, even if he didn’t. 

“And you know, you’re involved in this whether you want to be or not.” You told him, trying to get the conversation back on track. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Robin made his first appearance in months last night.” 

Dick became stiff at this, and quickly glanced around - as though waiting for someone to appear out of nowhere and point an accusing finger at him, screaming out that he was Robin and he had been caught. 

“You can’t help it, Dick Grasyon.” You declared with intense certainty. “You need to save people, you need to feel like you’re making a difference, you-” 

“So what, now you expect me to save the whole fucking world?” Dick snapped back. 

“She does.” You corrected. 

“Who?” He replied - confused and once again annoyed at your mysticism and bold confidence in your visions. 

“The Raven.” You told him. “She needs you. And whether you like it or not, you need her.” 

You shifted your stance then, waiting for him to tell you that you were right - which was how most of your arguments ended. 

But then, as a sick reminder, the lapel of your jacket opened enough for Dick to get a glance at your chest. The neckline of your blouse was wide open, but his eyes weren’t drawn to your cleavage - instead, he became focused on a large scar that you had sitting over your heart. A place where a bullet had ripped through you, leaving you barely alive. 

He still remembered the feeling of your blood warm under his hands while you looked up at him with tears in your eyes, begging him to save you. He remembered sitting at your bedside, believing that you would never wake up again. 

He couldn’t help but to reach up and gently skim his thumb across the roughness of the scarred skin as he glared at it with a stiff jaw. The touch sent shivers through you - it was the first time he had touched you since that last night in Gotham, when you had woken up to an empty bed and absolutely no explanation as to where he had gone. 

Dick felt rage boil inside of him. 

How could you ask him to save the world when he had been responsible for this? 

This - this was why he was no fucking savior. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said, choking on the words slightly as he took his hand down, shoving it back into his pocket once again. He had to avoid the temptation of touching you any further. 

If you weren’t safe around him, why would some little girl from your visions be? 

“This isn’t about me.” You scoffed. “Or-” 

‘Or us.’ 

You held back, knowing how dangerous it was to mention the royal Us around flighty Dick Grayson. For a bird without wings, he was absolutely capable of taking off in a quick moment when he wanted to. 

“This is about something so much bigger.” You pressed. “She’ll be here soon.” 

Dick let out another strained sigh at you using such ominous words again. 

“Well, next time you’re gonna come here and be all ominous and creepy, you should at least bring some coffee.” He told you, sarcasm tight on his lips. 

You made a mocking face in return. 

“Well, you could be more polite.” You scoffed. 

Before Dick could recommend that the two of you go and get a coffee in order to truly catch up, someone called out his name, drawing his attention away from you for a moment. 

“Hey, Grayson!” Someone called, sticking their head out the front door. “Prentiss is looking for you!” 

When he turned back, you were gone. He tried not to linger on it too much - how creepy it was. You were silent and quick like a ghost - he thought that your ominous jewelry might jingle like a house cat’s bell. 

But - he would call you later. Hopefully you still had the same number. 

…

Dick walked into the interrogation room, trying to clear his mind of the interaction with you. When he saw a small, scared girl, he thought it best to lighten the mood with a joke. 

“Hi, I’m Detective Grayson.” He said, introducing himself. “I hear you like to play baseball with bricks and cop cars. You wanna tell me what happened?” 

“You’re him.” She said, whimpering and tearful. “You’re the boy from the Circus.” 

At first, Dick thought that everyone was simply being ominous and creepy today. But then he realized:

‘Oh fuck. You were right.’

...

A/N: Please do not ask me when this fic will be updated - this fic does not have a schedule.

While this is technically the first chapter in a 'series', each chapter is meant to be enjoyed on its own. The overarching plot of the series is still that of the original Titans show, and I won't be making any major changes to the canon of the show - I just intend to showcase smaller emotional moments between the reader character and the canon characters. This is something I want to work on casually in the background between working on other things. This fic is not my main focus, and I will not be rushing to update it or complete it.

Comments and reblogs are encouraged, and I am thankful for them - but please keep those comments focused on the actual content of the series (it's plot, the characters, their dynamics, etc.). Please do not spam me asking me to update this or asking me when I will update this - because I am not in a rush to do so. I have a lot of ideas for this series that I am excited about, but I want to work on it slowly and casually because I don't want to lose my enthusiasm for it and I know that rushing will take that enthusiasm away.

If you enjoyed this - great, thanks. But if you expect this to be updated weekly like a factory pumping out stuff on a clearly outlined schedule - then you are in the wrong place. If you are expecting constant updates of this fic and you will be disappointed if it doesn't get updated regularly - you should just block me now and pretend you didn't read it. But if you are a patient person - feel free to read and enjoy my other Titans works while I am working on updates for this (and working on other exciting things), and feel free to send me a message telling me what you thought of this fic or other fics in general.

Also - if you can't get Dick Grayson off your mind - my requests are open.

[ever-eilish]

Could you do Billie Eilish asking r out

A (not so) bad day

billie eilish x fem! reader

a day that is supposed to be horrible takes unexpected turns, after you accidentally bump into a certain singer

author's notes: thank you so much for requesting, I really appreciate it! sorry if this is not what you wanted, I really hope you like it though! once again, english is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes, enjoy❤️

warnings: a bit of cursing, but mostly fluff

Chaotic. That was the only way to define today. You know that saying that 'nothing is so bad that it cant get worse'? So, that saying has proven true today.

I woke up 30 minutes late, spilled the coffee in my white clothes, missed the bus, and now I'm here, standing in front of the bland beige door, waiting for my boss to decide to call me to give me some more of his scolding.

Bad luck. That's the only word that can describe my day, or rather, my week.

Everything that could go wrong, did;

I'm in the midst of a series of catastrophic events ranging from the simplest, like knocking my butter breakfast bread to the floor — with the butter-covered part facing down, of course — to the more serious, like being threatened with losing my job by my annoying, weird boss.

I'm snapped out of my thoughts when I see the door in front of me open and the middle-aged man walk out of the room - which looks more like a chain saddle.

"Well, well, it looks like you've decided to be late again?" the wretch says.

As if I'd choose to miss my bus, spill coffee on my white blouse, and wake up late.

"That way I'll have no option but to fire you," he repeats the same words he's been saying to me for so long.

Son of a bitch.

"Sir, please! I promise it won't happen again, I love my job!" I lied.

"I'm sorry, but you're officially fired," he announces, as if announcing me as an Oscar winner. I take a deep breath, count to a thousand, take another deep breath and, with all the calmness in the world, say: "FUCK YOU!" I throw my badge on the floor, and walk towards the office door, ignoring all the crooked looks directed at me, and leave that musty-smelling place.

I didn't even like it there!

My God, how am I going to pay my bills? Fuck that old cuckold.

Fuck that old-man

Oh my God, I'm going to have to sell my computer.

I hated my. co-workers anyway.

My God, my computer.

All thoughts were running. through my head in a whirlwind when suddenly I bump into someone in front of me and fall to the ground.

THAT'S ALL I NEEDED!

Without even noticing who it was, I quickly stand up muttering something like, 'I'm sorry'; and I offer my hand to the stranger sitting on the floor.

And it is at that moment that, with my hand outstretched, I begin to notice the victim of my lack of attention.

The stranger wore a black blouse with white stripes — or white with black stripes - and black shorts. Her beautiful hair had the roots dyed red, while the rest was dark brown.

I could have sworn I knew her from somewhere.

It's very sudden when I feel her warm touch on my hand - which remained stretched - and I feel the girl partially throw her weight on me to get up.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I should be more careful" she says, with an embarrassed smile.

"I'm the one who apologizes! I've been walking around thinking about nothing and ! ended up bumping into you" I say,

scratching the back of my neck.

"Are you okay? You hit it really hard against the floor" was only when the girl tells me that I notice my throbbing hip.

"I'm great!" I lied knowing full well that the last thing I was in right now was 'great'. "Hm, so, you live here?" the stranger says, acting as if she wants to continue a conversation.

I don't have anything better to do, after all, why not talk?

"No! I live in my house," say, internally cursing myself for the terrible attempt at a joke.

Anyway, she laughed, and I felt my. embarrassment soon go away when I heard the good sound of that laughter.

"Oh got it, you're the funny type, then?"

she asks me, clearly joking.

"That's what they say"

We stare at each other for a while when very quietly, I hear the click of a camera. The girl seems to hear the same thing as I do, when she suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me nto the convenience store next to us.

What the fuck is going on?

She pulls me further into the store and 'hides' behind a food rack.

Holy shit, is she being followed?

My God, could it be that she's a serial killer and I recognized her because of that?

Holy shit, I'm too young to die.

What if...

I am interrupted from my mental breakdown at the sound of his voice.

"Hm, I'm sorry about that. You know how it is, right? Paparazzi are everywhere."

My God, I was right.

She's a serial killer and I'm her next victim. "Are you going to kill me?" my eyes widen as I ask.

"What?" she says to me, visibly confused, "my. name is Billie! I'm a singer."

I let myself take a deep breath when I hear what Billie tells me. Well, at least I won't die today.

"Hey, I really enjoyed talking to you, and I wanted to meet you again" she says, looking deep into my eyes "what do you think about going to a coffee shop with me one of these days?"

Is she asking me out on a date?

"Like a date?"

"Yes!"

"I want to!" I reply promptly, and watch as she rummages through her purse for a pen.

"Here!" She finally finds a blue fine-tipped pen, pulls out my hand, and writes something.

Before I can process what was happening, I feel a small kiss being left on my cheek and watch her walk out of the store with her head down.

When I look into my hand, I read:

"Cafeteria 221B, Baker Street;

03/22, at 9:00 pm.

See ya<3"

Maybe today wasn't such a bad day after all.

[alexiswritingstuff]

A Man And His Guard. 1/2

Status: Completed.

Pairing: Gustavo Fring x male reader.

Other appearances: Mike Ehrmantraut.

Summary: During the rise of Gus’ paranoia, Mike hires you in an attempt to ease it. You work where he does, do everything he says and later even learn that you are to go home with him.

Neither of you knew what to expect of each other, but how does one Mr. Fring react when you will not stop making... comments. 

Warnings: flirting.

Always be aware that there might be spelling mistakes and such in my writing. I do read over them, but they can just slip under my radar sometimes.

A/N: I think this is the first time I am actually writing a male reader fic so I hope I do it justice. I am a male myself but I rarely use gendered terms with the reader anyway. 

Also I’m like terrible at flirting so if the readers lines aren’t great then... my bad ig.

This is a two part series, so begin waiting for the next edition to arrive!

I hope you enjoy!

More Gustavo fics.

It was around the time that Lalo Salamanca was presumed ‘not dead’ when you had gotten the job.

Their crew was sparse, most had been taken up at posts where they surveyed the other properties/places that Mr. Fring usually went to. So Mike reached out with an offer.

You knew him from work done in the past where you had acted as a guard for a person he wanted to meet, for a reason you had later learned, but that specific guy had a target on his back from a lot of local businesses.

For this job, like many others, you had no idea what you were getting into. And even if there was a proper brief, none of it would prepare you for what would actually come.

Gustavo Fring had been a name thrown around many times in your life. A very common thing when working in this particular field. 

But, seeing him right there in the flesh, on practically a daily basis at this point, was a thing that there wasn’t any words to describe. Because usually no one lived to even talked about it, or, obviously, they weren’t allowed to.

It was some time in the late hours of the afternoon, the liveliness of restaurant slowly reducing as time went by.

There were barely any customers occupying the booths or the neighbouring tables, and the new people coming in usually just wanted something for the road if they couldn’t be bothered to wait in the drive through.

You were moving amidst the dinning area, the long dust pan and brush in hand as you collected up stuff that had fallen during peoples meals, and swept across the beige tiles that felt increasingly bright in the sun.

The surroundings were still a bit noisy. People were chatting away, cars passed at almost every minute, there was muffled clatter from the other employees as they moved around kitchen equipment as they cooked.

It wasn’t that bad.

In fact, the only thing that you didn’t really like about ‘working’ in Los Pollos Hermanos was the need to wear its uniform.

Being a guard in this side of the business usually enforced the wearing of dark coloured clothes. It was a way to keep up a feeling of mystery, provide the impression that you were a person not to be messed with.

But there you were, stood in an obnoxiously bright yellow shirt which was paired with that damn red visor and a matching apron, to top it all off.

This might as well have been a punishment than a job.

After however long, you completed your round of the dinning area and ducked into the hallway beside the drinks machine, finding the place where you had initially picked up the dust pan and brush to return them.

And you did, a deep breath filling your lungs once the equipment was leaned back up against the wall.

It had been a long time since you had worked around a plethora of people and their own individual personalities, so coming to this work place almost felt jarring in comparison. People were properly polite. Gave smiles that were actually genuine. 

The clear of someone's throat emitted from somewhere to the left, and your head turned in that direction immediately, your feet soon following, “Mr. Fring.”

“Has the floor been cleaned?” The way he dressed for work was always so smart, though it kind of reminded you of SpongeBob, and it perfectly matched with a lot of things about him.

You gave him a simple nod, “Yes, it has.”

“There are still a few customers out there, so I’ll do the last round once they leave.” you then explained and turned yourself to face the doorway that lead to the main area, attempting to peer round it so that you could see into the dinning area again and the car park through the windows.

“Any signs?”

The words left you just blinking for a moment. You had thought by taking your leave from the conversation that it would bring on its end. But now you were looking back to the man who hadn’t moved a step.

Anyone else would’ve been confused at what he had meant by that question. but you knew instantly. And even if it was your job to check, it sort of made you feel bad that you had to.

“No one came.” you stated, plain and simple so that it wouldn’t display your pity, and Mr. Fring subtly took in a deep breath, his chin only slightly raising, “Good... Go clean the empty tables.”

Now was when he was about to walk away, probably to go back to his office to make calls as a way to further check if there was any new information, but when he watched your face crinkle up in what looked like distaste at the task he had just given you. 

He seemed to become a little distracted.

“Do I at least get paid more?”

Sure, Mr. Fring had a lot of encounters with many different people, each with their own separate way of approaching things, different ways of speaking. 

But no one had ever attempted to talk the way that you did. Especially when in direct contact.

It was a thing that could only make him stare, even glare, in an attempt to hide his surprise. But it wouldn’t shake you. In fact all you did was shrug, “Oh, well.” you breathed out, giving him one last glance before you moved to get the cleaning supplies.

“I guess if it’s for you then I’ll do it.”

~

You found yourself making your way through the many hallways of Los Pollos Hermanos. An amount that after a long day made the building feel like a maze, though the size wasn’t even comparable to one.

Soon, you had located the way to your bosses door, a deep breath sucking into your lungs before you raised your hand to knock against it. The sound was the only thing that filled the hallway.

“It’s Y/n. Y/n L/n, Sir.” you called quickly, realising that at this time he was always expecting to be in danger. A mysterious knock to his door wasn’t exactly going to help with that.

It took a good minute for there to be any kind of response, but after it sounded like an object had been set down, the muffled voice finally came through the gaps of the door. 

“Come in.”

Your hand grabbed at the handle, the cool metal almost shocking the warmth of your skin, before you twisted it until the door was pushable. “Hey,” you had began, ready to step into the new room. But that was quickly halted when your eyes fell on its contents. 

It was very dark compared to literally any other room in the building. The walls may have been a little darker already, but because of him relying on only the light from the sun and a lamp residing on his desk, it took you a moment to actually see anything.

You cleared your throat when your gaze landed on a waiting Mr. Fring, “Sorry to interrupt-- Lyle said that you wanted to see me earlier?” you explained and finally stepped into the room so that you could close the door behind you.

“I didn’t know I had made such an impact already.”

Mr. Frings eyebrows had twitched in a way that almost wasn’t visible. However, the rest of his face didn’t change, “When accepting the job, did Ehrmantraut explain what it would hold?”

Your shoes scraped the ground as you stopped yourself about a step away from his desk. Your back straightened as you took a moment to think, “He barely does when he has an offer.” you pointed out simply, though your tone changed when you next spoke. “Was I wrong?”

“Did he mention that you would be working for me... personally?”

In that moment, you had paused for about three seconds, even if it had felt like 10 minutes in your head, as a certain word rung through your ears over and over again.

“Personally, huh...” you repeated. It tasted sweet on your lips, your mind running very fast over any of the things that it could mean. “I guess I didn’t quite catch that part... But I like the sound of it.”

Through your now, slightly, dazed state, you had missed the way Mr. Fring had lowered his head just a tad. His lips were pressed together. His eyebrows begging to furrow though he wouldn’t let them, especially when you had spoke again.

“Am I supposed to go get you stuff? Run errands, drive you places-- That kind of thing?”

The man before you almost huffed a laugh. He dipped his head as he slowly pushed back his chair. “In the future, it is possible.” Mr. Fring was now stood up from his seat, his feet taking him round his desk in such a slow pace that it had your pulse raising. “But for now we are going to my home.”

He stopped in front of you, about two and a half steps away, with that strong gaze he always held. Though this time it most definitely felt different as your breath was close to hitching, “Now I really do like the sound of this.”

In about a second, Mr. Frings body had entirely stiffened.

It was unnoticeable to people who had just met him as he was usually quite a ridged person, the wind couldn’t even sway him. But to someone that knew him enough, it was clear as day.

The intimidation he had held on his face had faded as if it had just been wiped off with a cloth. It was almost like he had forgotten how to breathe.

Suddenly, before you could clock anything, Mr. Fring turned towards his desk like there should be someone waiting on the other side. It almost startled you. But soon, a hand of his reached across the surface of the table. 

“Mr. Fring?” you had questioned, any and all excitement now being swarmed by confusion. 

Just as you were about to move, try to catch the look on his face, his feet had began to twist until the rest of his body urged to follow.  And now, he stood, facing you once again. 

His eyes were aimed at what you could now see was some kind of sticky note folded in half, and then they flicked to yours. 

His chin raised until it was in level with your own and by the next time you had blinked, the note was held out in front of you. 

“Read it.” was all he said when you hadn’t taken it, and after just looking at him for a moment, you sucked in a quiet breath, retrieving the paper from between his fingers. 

By the time you had began unfolding it, Mr. Fring had turned once again, making his way back to his deskchair when your eyes landed on the word in black ink.

“Lakeview?” The chair squeaked beneath him as he sat, but besides that he didn’t even bother to look up. He simply grabbed a pen and dragged a clipboard in front of his eyes. 

“Am I allowed to ask, or is this going to be a game of hard to get?” The urge to smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth when the tip of his pen visibly stilled. Though, when Mr. Frings head slowly raised as if it was in slow motion, that feeling had stopped in a instant. 

His eyes were almost harsh when they met with yours, as if they could pierce right through your own. They never moved and as time passed, he hadn’t even blinked. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

It was a warning. He knew it, you knew it. 

So, guess his surprise when the only thing you had done in response was, once again, simply shrug your shoulders. 

His whole body froze like it had done before, though this time he hadn’t broken the eye contact. 

Every other person he had met, even ones that worked for him, crumbled under his gaze when someone had pressed his patience or authority. They would look away, forget how to speak, or quickly turn on their feet to do whatever he had asked. 

But not you. 

Your shoes were planted in the same place as before until you wanted them to move. 

“You know, I do like a good game, Mr. Fring.” It was so silent in that room that it was like you could physically see your words pierce through the air. A pin could drop and the sound could be heard as if it was played through a thousand speakers. “I think having an opponent like you is going to be great fun.” 

That was when you had officially turned on your heel. The smirk broke across your lips the moment you faced the door, and even more so when it had opened.

By the time you were back in the hallway, sifting the post-it back and forth between your fingers, the image of Mr. Frings expression was clear in your mind in a way that made it so hard to not laugh. 

His lips were parted. Every muscle in his face looked as if it had been frozen in time, tense. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.

He almost lost the grip he had on his pen. 

~

You ended up back in the main area of the restaurant, your eyes being hit with a much dimmer colour this time as the sun began to hide.

All the tables had already been cleared earlier by you, and Mr. Fring when he couldn’t keep his mind occupied. The customers had gone home, hopefully pleased with their meals, which let an almost eerie silence hang in the air as the other employees had left too.

You moved through the rows of tables, searching for even the slightest speck of dirt or trail of crumbs that would set a certain man off if he saw. But there was nothing.

It had all been more than thoroughly cleaned.

So, you ended up by the table next to the entrance, a slight sigh huffing through your nose. Your body wound round the back of bench closest to the door, a hand reaching for the red blinds that covered the window.

Your fingers parted two of the slats, and you made yourself slightly lean over the bench so that you could get closer to the glass that lay beneath the blinds.

Upon first glance of the world outside, everything seen was slowly being engulfed by the black mass of night. One so deep that it had started to prevent the ability to see the horizon.

The only car in the parking lot was Mr. Frings, coloured in such a way that it would’ve been invisible in the evening light if it wasn’t for the reflections from the surrounding lamps.

There was no one in the car, no one outside of it, and no other vehicle stalking around, as the rest were just general cars that passed by on the main road, and that was now like every 10-15 minutes.

After making sure that there was complete satisfaction with the fact that there was not a singular person in the vicinity, you let the slats set back into the original places, stepping away from the window so you could make your way through the restaurant. 

Again.

The sigh that left your mouth this time was of relief when you opened the door, to what would be a supply closet for anyone else. There they were, sat in the neatest pile you could be bothered to put them in. Your clothes.

Pretty much the only item of your own that you got to keep during the day was your shoes, so when that sweet sweet fabric was in your hands, it was utter peace. Paradise. Like reuniting with a long lost lover.

Upon imagining how a person would look standing in the middle of a closet and practically cradling a set of clothes, however, you straightened yourself up into the usual guard posture, any remnants of excitement fading from your face.

And then you swivelled on your foot, leaving the closet like you had never even been in there.

By the time you had gotten to the front of the restaurant all over again, the clothing happily held in your hand, it seemed that a certain Mr. Fring had beat you to it.

There was no way to tell if he had disliked having to stand there waiting as his head was directed towards the window you had been look through before, his hands clasped behind his back that made him properly appear like a business man.

Or just an old man.

If you could see his face however, you thought that you would’ve seen that usual, intentionally, blank expression. A theory that was then proven to be true when you had stopped by his side. You cleared your throat, “I take it we’re going to yours now?”

His spine straightened in about a second when your voice found his ears. He had gotten lost, his gaze consumed by the endless possibilities of what waited for him outside the restaurant. 

But in the next second, by the next time he had breathed, his body twisted towards you like he had been standing like that the whole time. The previous vacant look that carried across his face was replaced by a smile, though his eyes had not changed.

And that was it. That was all you got.

Mr. Fring passed right by you without another word, his footsteps echoing around the unsettlingly empty room, before he made his way through the door with the exit sign shining above it.

When it had closed again, further encasing the restaurant in a strong silence, you had begun to blink, your brain at least attempting to process what had just happened.

However, the longer you stood there, the further away Mr. Fring became, and by now he was on the path between the rows of parking spaces. Getting closer and closer to his car.

You almost stumbled over your feet as you made your way over to the exit yourself. 

The door opened in a flash, engulfing your skin in the night air, and you were about to continue walking... Until you heard the jingle in your pocket. “Shit.”

There was a meeting that you had with Mike about a day prior. He gave a run down of the usual stuff that went down in Los Pollos Hermanos and, at least, the basic duties that the boss would have you do. 

You were given a set of keys, each for pretty much any place that Mr. Fring had access to himself. Now it seemed that he was testing your memory. 

After glancing back at Mr. Fring, you let out a hushed grunt, pulling the keys out of your pocket from under your apron, and then turned back to the door, locking it in a speed that should’ve gained you an award.

You swivelled round after doing a test pull on the handle and basically began jogging to catch the man who was now very close to that blue vehicle.

But just as the distance was beginning to shorten, a few things began piecing together.

The sudden change, the smile that he used on other employees, something that he hadn’t used on you all day until it was time to leave the safety of the restaurant. 

You understood that he would have to put on an act at some point, sure. Though apparently it hadn’t occurred to you what that would mean until now. 

He was the boss, and you were just some random guy who had a job in his business. 

That doesn’t exactly give the right to catch a ride with him, now did it?

“Uh, Mr. Fring?” 

The man himself had just placed a hand on the roof of his vehicle. His eyes were once again aimed into the distance, and it took about five seconds to get himself back as he then turned to you, the same smile taking over his lips, “Yes, Y/n?”

“I believe that I’m supposed to be getting picked up on something called Lakeview. Would you happen to know where that is?”

It wasn’t a name for a person, as you knew for a fact that if the man in front of you had a target of any kind he would just straight up say it, and it wasn’t going to be a place because Mike would’ve at least said something.

It was a pickup point. 

Mr. Frings chin slowly raised. And now, with the smile that took over his lips, his eyes seemed to crinkle with it, “Lakeview road?”

Your spine straightened, all the air coming into your lungs feeling like it was on hold, especially when you nodded your head as a commitment to your idea. 

Mr. Fring simply turned his head upon the confirmation, and he pointed towards the road on the other side of the main one, which was directly across from the proper entrance of Los Pollos Hermanos.

You squinted your eyes after following the direction, trying to see the road that was partially illuminated by a streetlight as your shoulders attempted to ease from the previous tension. 

And then you spotted it. A car parked beside the red fencing. 

It was one that you didn’t recognise, but still. 

You were right.

In order to keep the smug look off of your face, you lightly bowed your head when your attention went back to your boss. “Thank you, Sir.” you said and Mr. Fring simply copied your previous movement before finally opening his door.

“Have a good night.”

By the time his car had left the grounds of Los Pollos Hermanos, you had made it to the edge of the main road. You were stood on the concrete sidewalk, a streetlight towering over your head as you looked back and forth to gage where any oncoming traffic was.

You only had to do it once for each side, tonight apparently being a night where not many people were aiming to travel.

So on you went, now jogging across the two lanes until you got to the other side like that one chicken did. Your shoed feet were met with a mix of sand and stones this time as there was no sidewalk to even the ground.

And then there it was in front of you. 

A blue RAV4.

The driver must have sensed the new presence as within the next second, the door on their side had opened, a scene that had your feet slowing by the time the figure was out of the car. 

It was a woman. One you had seen in a picture when Mike showed members of the crew working for Mr. Fring. Mrs. Ryman? Her and her husband were the people ‘occupying’ the safe house. 

“Mr. L/n?” she questioned, and as soon as you gave her a nod of confirmation, she immediately proceeded to walk to the back of the car before any sort of question could fall from your lips.

She grabbed the handle on the left side of the door and pulled on it until it was open about half way so that your eyes could cast onto whatever was inside. You almost tilted your head like a dog. 

There, in the back of a damn car, laying on his side very uncomfortably, was none other than Mike Ehrmantraut himself. 

It all made sense.

It was late at night. Mr. Fring had now left Los Pollos Hermanos, meaning that if anyone was watching him, they would have followed his car to see where he was going next. 

None one was watching you.

The urge to laugh was fighting itself way up your throat, but you took a deep breath in through your nose and let yourself walk forward when Mrs. Ryman had turned to you expectantly.

“You didn’t have another one of those sandwiches today, did you?” A grunt followed your words as you practically shoved yourself into the trunk of this random car, and shifted until the left side of your body was fully pressing into Mike’s. 

The door was only just able to close again. 

The surroundings were plunged into darkness. A few beams of light managed to filtered through the gaps in the backseats and the trunk cover enough so that you could make out the face of the man before you as you dropped your pile of close on your lap.

“I see you worked it out.” 

Your body felt like it sunk into the walls of the car though it had barely moved, your hands raising to rub at the skin of your face either in disbelief or tiredness, “I will admit that I thought you were talking about an actual lake at first.”

Mike huffed a laugh at that, the two of you slightly rocking together when the car started backing up. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t try to find one.”

“Me too.”

Despite the fact that you were currently sat, cramped, in the back of a car. There was a feeling of comfort that had been kept from you throughout the day. Especially now that Mike was with you. 

He might’ve been a man that has killed multiple people, and is not afraid to do the same to more... but so are you. 

When you are on the right side, his right side, he’s just another old guy that you would see walking down the street, or sitting in a restaurant.

Being in this business meant needing to keep connections with certain people hidden so that they wouldn’t end up getting hurt as a result of someone trying to prove a point. 

He was the closest thing to family.

Mike let one of those deep breaths seep through his nose, and you swear it almost sounded like the huff of a dragon. His head leaned back into the wall behind him. “How’s Gus?”

Ah. The question you knew was bound to be asked soon.

You shuffled slightly even if it wouldn’t do much, more scared of accidently kicking Mike in the ribs than anything else now. “Obsessed with me.” 

The look Mike gave you was one that you could feel even if you couldn’t properly see it, and you tried not to smile as you fiddled with label of the shirt you held. The man most definitely rolled his eyes. “No, no... He’s obsessed with everything else to be honest.”

A sigh passed from your lips into the air inside the car. 

Your head shook, a mixture of emotions filtering through your body as your mind reminded itself of Mr. Frings previous behaviour. “He really wants him to just show up already, but... man, I don’t know. I’m not sure if he’s actually prepared for that.”

“Well. That’s why you’re there.”

You tried to fully sit upright, only getting about half way before you looked at Mike with narrowed eyes, “Yeah, about that-- You know, when you said that you needed my skills, I was thinking more along the lines of stakeouts or surveillance stuff, or like... having me fight someone at least.”

“I didn’t exactly prepare to become a janitor.”

The car was most definitely somewhere down the main road by now. Mike’s head remained where it was, not even bothering to tilt it in your direction when he next spoke as he simply closed his eyes instead. “Still part of the job.” 

You stifled a scoff, just watching the man when he attempted to cross his arms over his chest. “Gives you more acting lessons too.” Mike then added and you supressed the urge to kick him, more like nudge him, with your foot. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” It was your turn to roll your eyes.

“You’re still paying me more.”

~

The sky above was pitch black by the time of arrival on Jefferson Street. The quiet outside, the warmth of the car, and the general darkness worked together in a way that was the opposite for most people.

The distance between Los Pollos Hermanos and Mr. Frings house was far enough that if there was a kid sitting in one of the backseats they would be in a deep sleep.

But as an adult, you were wide awake. Especially when you felt the car begin to slow after a turn.

You attempted to prop yourself up from your slouched position, your eyes trying to find an angle where you could see out the window, despite the fact that it was very much impossible to do from inside a trunk.

“We’ll be out in a minute.” Mike assured, observing your many attempts at moving. You sunk back, mirroring his position when you hit into the wall of the car, “And how do you know that?”

As if on cue, the ride to the house seemed to have come to an end. The car stopped, again slightly jolting the two of you together. “We’re in the garage.” The monotonous edge to his voice was audible more than ever.

You could only blink for a moment as the muffled sound of someone getting out of the car echoed through what most definitely was a garage. “Jeez-- How many times have you had to do this?” you questioned, and it had Mike’s head shaking in a second, a grunt rumbling through his throat.

The door beside you finally opened, and though you had to squint due to the sudden light, you swung your legs to the side, eagerly pushing yourself out of the trunk.

“Oh, man.” you breathed out once on your own two feet, and moved to the side so that Mike could get himself up while you stretched your arms high above your head in a way that your spine needed very much. “Do we really have to do that every time?”

“It’s the safest way.” Mike insisted as he closed up the car and your head shook, “Seriously?” But he ignored you, starting to walk through the garage. “Follow me.”

Even after a ride like that it was immediately work time.

You wanted to complain until you couldn’t speak anymore, but nevertheless you complied and followed behind the man like a duckling does with its mother.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes flickered around the room when Mike opened the door to what was originally a living room, “Hey, Mike.” a man had called, and Ehrmantraut started to spark up a conversation. 

However, when your gaze landed on the desk that his friend was sat at, your brain seemed to tune it out.

There was about about seven different monitors on and working. Each screen displayed a shot from wherever the camera was placed. It varied from the entrance and exits of this house to what you assumed was Mr. Frings. 

But even then they seemed to changed at the click of a button to an entirely different location.

Maybe he was prepared.

“L/n.”

Your eyes snapped to the door way to find Mike stood about halfway through it. He tilted his head to the side and you began walking all over again when you realised what he meant.

So, now, he lead you through the hallways of the house. You nodded at anyone you passed, seemingly understanding the tired look on their faces though this was your first proper day.

Eventually you found yourself in the basement of the house, and while Mike continued through the room, your feet slowed on the platform before the last two steps, your eyes yet again being consumed by the new atmosphere.

This was where the couple stayed after doing their daily appearance out of the house, as the rest was swarmed by a bunch of dudes.

They had most of the stuff they need. They had cupboards, a kitchen area along the furthest wall, a clothing wrack. There was a king sized bed, and a table to your right where they could sit and do whatever they wanted if they weren’t upstairs at this time.

And though your mind practically begged you to continue looking around. A certain question sprung through your thoughts.

“Listen, I appreciate the fact that there are a lot of things you can’t tell me about this job,” you began, a hand placing down on the little railing, “But am allowed to ask why you have just lead me into a basement?”

Ehrmantraut was now stood in front of the big shelf that sat at the corner of the right wall. It extended to the ceiling but the width was about 4 columns worth. Your eyebrows were quick to furrow when he reached for one of the shelves.

Even more so when quiet beeps sounded from what only could be a keypad.

“Mike?” you had questioned, a mild laziness to your voice as your brain consumed itself with finding the source of noise. And then your feet finally moved, allowing you off of the platform, onto the carpet. 

But it seemed you had stopped as fast as you had started.

Your body almost jolted when a mechanical sound pierced through the air, and soon, Mike grabbed onto the middle divider with both hands, beginning to pull on it as hard as he could.

A rumbling rippled through the floor you stood on as the shelf scuffed against the carpet, and despite your disbelief, the mechanism disconnected from the first column of shelf.

It was opening like a natural door would. There was certain things on shelves that shook with the movement, though others appeared as if they had been glued down. Just there for decoration.

It wasn’t until the shelf door was turned as much as it could against it’s hinges that your eyes allowed you to focused on what lay beneath it. Your jaw almost dropped. 

It was a tunnel.

There was a goddamn tunnel that connected this house to the next.

“No way.”

Mike didn’t have to tell you twice when he signalling for you to follow him this time, and upon going through the doorway, turning into the passage, it almost gave you chills. 

But that was more due to the fact that the temperature was different than in the house.

The walls of the tunnel were a grey concrete. One rose higher than the other leading the ceiling to have to curve to meet with them both, and support beams, the same colour as the walls they were up against, were placed about two steps apart, the lights situated between them.

Not even a deep breath could ease the speed of your heart. In fact the closer the journey was to its end, the faster it went. 

So, when the back of, what you were assuming was, the same mechanism as in the previous house was now right in front of Mike, your shoulders fought to lower.

There was a combination of knocks that the man did against the smooth door. A sound that echoed through your ears over and over again the way ripples moved in water.

Mike took about a step back with a sniff when muffled beeps came through the, practically invisible, cracks of the door, and your body instinctively straightened like a soldier in front of their commander.

The door had opened.

There was no reasoning for the way you felt right then and there. 

You had met Mr. Fring earlier. You had seen him, you had spoken, exchanged even informal parts of conversation, and have stood beside each other on multiple occasions. 

So why, as you stared back at the man who was now revealed in one of his usual suits, was it like your lungs had forgotten their very function.

Mr. Fring gave Mike a nod to which the man did the same, and before you knew it, with a clear of his throat, Ehrmantraut turned on his feet, beginning to make his way back through the tunnel.

Your lips parted as you watched him go, though no words could even try to roll off of your tongue. The scuff of his shoes were the only thing to echo through the air, so when that familiar voice broke through, it had your head turning back within seconds. 

“L/n.”

His eyes were already on yours by the time you were back to your original stance. 

Your eyebrows were raised, a mixture of eagerness and excitement rumbling through your chest and ears when he tilted his head to the side. A gesture that Mike had used earlier to get you to follow him. “Come in.”

Just you and Mr. Fring.

“I’ll show you around.”

next 

[bellatrixobsessed1]

I Am Blackened Bones (Last Part)

Her re-coronation ceremony comes with a festival. The first one that she had attended in ages. The servants had made good on their promise, she had been buried under so much silk and fabric that it was almost suffocating. Her head was heavy with golden combes and elaborate, dangly hair sticks. And then beneath a crown. But she had looked beautiful. Felt beautiful. But it wasn’t exactly practical attire for a festival and so she has dressed herself down. Something simpler, more comfortable and breathable but with a nice touch of elegance.

She isn’t sure that she wants to stand out, but she seems to do so all the same. Looks and murmurs aren’t lost on her, although she can never quite make any of them out. She thinks that that might before the best, despite Katara’s reassurance that they are just curious to see how she is doing and what she is like.

Azula tucks her hands into her sleeves and pauses to look around. Zuko and Mai have yet to arrive with TyLee and that adds a whole level of anxiousness to her already edgy mood.

“It’s weird being back at home, isn’t it?” Katara asks softly. She already knows the answer.

Weird, she supposes, is one way to describe it. “I don’t feel like I belong here anymore.” She has been gone for long enough to have forgotten the do’s and dont’s. Long enough to make a fool of herself, trying to fit back into the standards that she had once upheld.

She laughs too loud. Her posture never seems to be as poised as it had been. She she talks too much when she gets into a conversation Her clothes seem far too elegant for her even when she is dressed down. She says the wrong things and at the wrong times.

And Katara seems to find it terribly endearing. She finds it rgayer humiliating.

“Of course you belong here, you're their princess. And they seemed pretty happy to have you back during your re-coronation ceremony.”

“Right…” Azula mumbles.

“They’re probably just curious to see your firebending performance tonight.”

Azula isn't sure if she is ready to give them something else to talk about. Isn't sure if she is ready to show off her white fire, everyone had made such a big deal of her blue fire. But she does enjoy feeling the heat of her flames on her face, had always enjoyed the thrill of a display well planned. Which, evidently, is the other problem; she usually plans her choreography at least a few months in advance. She says as much to Katara.

Katara who gives her one of those soft smiles and laughs. “I thought that you said that you wanted to be more spontaneous and whimsical like the spirit. Well here's your chance! These shows are all about creativity anyways.”

Azula bites her lower lip. “Yes. I suppose.” But it still makes her stomach flutter. It is quite a risk to make her first festival fire dance an impromptu act.

.oOo.

Azula worries too much. Overtones things that need not be over thought. Her firebening is nothing short of mesmerizing. Mesmerizing and masterful.

Everything is an art from her breathing to her hand gestures to her firebening itself. She has adorned her hands with elegant armor. The sort that makes her hands look like long silver claws. It was certainly a unique choice to dress in silvers, blues, and whites instead of a Fire Nation red and gold. But it suits her well. And it suits her fire well.

Each and every gesture is deliberate and elegant. The twist of her wrist, the quick flick and pulling back of her arms, the roll of her hips. It takes katara a moment to realize that she is mimicking the swish and sway of the north sky curtains. That her arm gestures wave like those lights and her fire fur also and unfurls just as the colors had weaved in and out of one another.

Sparks look like crystals of snow. And smoke rolls across the stage like seafoam crowning a wave. And Aaula stands at the center of it all, hair fluttering, forks of lightning crackling around her. She is in her own snowy, stormy sea.

She looks upon the crowd, fierce and focused. Her fire reflects in her eyes, putting a confident twinkle in them that almost fools Katara. If she hadn't heard it from Azula’s own lips, she wouldn't think her nervous in the slightest.

Her fire snuffs out and her hair settles over her shoulders. She ends with a graceful bow and closes her eyes as the crowd claps for her.

“Well she certainly hasn't lost her touch.” Mai comments.

“It comes naturally to her.” Zuko replies.

But Katara has a feeling that she will still complain about how rusty her skills have gotten because of disuse. Katara can't tell the difference. If anything, she seems better connected to her fire than ever.

.oOo.

She is more nervous to see TyLee again than she had been to perform. Perhaps more nervous than she had been to speak with Mai. But it is one last thing. One last thing that makes her feel jittery.

TyLee looks perfectly content just talking with Katara, Zuko, and Mai. It gives her the impression that she is intruding on something when she walks up and greets them.

“That was an amazing show.” Katara says.

“Thank you.”

“Sparkler?” Zuko offers.

“Those are for children.” Azula replies.

“I’m pretty sure that the label says not to give those to kids.” Sokka points out.

Azula shrugs. “Father let me use them all the time when I was a child.”

“He also let you go to war when you were a child.” Sokka quirks a brow.

She snatches a box of poppers and tosses one at his big toe. He gives a satisfying “yowch!” She takes another and tosses it at the pavement, watching it give flash it’s split-second spark. “Zuzu and I used to throw these at each other all the time. And when father told us to stop we would throw them at him.”

TyLee giggles. “Oh yeah! That was so funny!”

Azula nods.

“You two were little menaces.” Aang says as Toph cackles, “no wonder Ozai was so angry all the time.”

“He didn’t need our help.” Zuko grumbles. “We threw those poppers at each other and we turned out fine.”

“Did we?” Azula quirks a brow. “You have anger issues and a need to people please and I have…whatever it is that causes a person to see things that aren’t there now and then.”

“You’re also a people pleaser.” Mai shrugs.

“Speaking of which…” She turns to TyLee. “It’s good to see you again, TyLee. Katara and I were going to go get some tea and kebabs. Do you want me to bring anything back for you?”

“I’d like to go with you guys. I can never decide which kind of kebab to get.”

“But the fireworks display is about to start.”

“As it does every hour.” Mai reminds her. “The main event isn’t until midnight so…”

“But we’ve never missed an hourly show.” Azula replies. “Except, of course, for the past few years when we didn’t attend the festival.”

“Well then I guess the three of you better hurry back.” Mai shrugs. “We’ll go set up the picnic blanket and what not.”

“Top of the hill, under the maple tree?” Zuko asks.

“Top of the hill, under the maple tree.”

And so they split off. She, Katara, and TyLee follow the scent of sizzling meat and chili pepper and the others follow the blinking of the fireflies towards the hill.

“How have you been, Azula. I heard that things have been really…strange for you.”

“Yes, a little bit.” She finds herself toying with the excess fabric of her kimono’s sleeve. “I…I got to see a few new places. The Spirit Oasis was nice—I was unconscious or freezing while I was there though so I didn’t get to take in the scenery all that well. But the Water Tribes have these lights that dance in the sky. Have you ever seen them? I think that you would like them!” Maybe she should give TyLee a turn to speak. But TyLee seems perfectly content to listen to her talk about the lights. “I based my performance off of that. Maybe we can all go one day. Me, you, and Mai. Like old times.” She would quite like that.

“That sounds nice, Azula. But I would like to…get used to talking to you again.”

It is TyLee’s kind way of saying that she needs to build trust again. And Azula can’t blame her. She feels somewhat the same. They have to get used to each other again. She has to get used to the Fire Nation again. She also has to get used to herself. She likes to think that she will keep good company on that journey.

“What about you, TyLee? What have you been up to these days?”

“Oh! All sorts of things! I was with the Kyoshi Warriors for a while, as you know, but then I saw this traveling circus and I just couldn’t resist. I kind of missed that, you know?”

Azula nods. “That suits you much better than being a Kyoshi Warrior…or someone who just follows me around. You’re a skilled combatant, but you aren’t a soldier.”

“None of us were.” Katara adds and Azula nods her agreement.

“I’m so much happier with that traveling circus. We go everywhere and see everything and they are such a fun bunch!” TyLee declares.

Truly it sounds like the perfect path for her. Azula hopes that she can find her own now that she has the time and mental fortitude to do so. “Have you ever played any Caldera City festival games, Katara?”

“I did once about a year after the war. Turns out that you need to be a firebender to win most of them.”

“Hmm. Yes. That’s right. Our games are fire based. However, I imagine that, now that we have more waterbenders and earthbenders who attend, we probably have more diverse gaming options.”

“Is that your way of asking if I can win you one of those?” She points at a fluffy pile of plush toys.

“It might be, yes.” She pauses. “It, of course, is also an opportunity to prove that I am better than you at a game of flaming hoops.”

“That’s a firebending game.”

“The hoops don’t necessarily have to be on fire.” TyLee smiles.

“But then it is not a game of flaming hoops. It is just regular hoops.” Azula frowns. She clears her throat, “not that I particularly care what kind of hoops they are, so long as I get a prize.”

“She cares a lot.” TyLee whispers. “It’s going to bother her all night if you play flaming hoops with hoops that aren’t flaming.”

Katara smirks. “Well I guess I know what I’m doing tonight.”

Does Azula win their game of hoops? Only three out of five times. It would seem that Katara is quite better at it than she had anticipated. Has she acquired one large komodo-rhino plushie, three smaller ones, and a sky bison plushie? Most certainly. She gives the sky bison to TyLee who snuggles the thing all the way back to their spot on the hill.

Did they forget the tea? Yes. Did they also forget the kebabs? Also yes. Are the others quite disappointed? Quite. Is that humorous? Indeed.

Sokka loses their game of drawing straws so he has to walk down the hill and fetch their tea and kebabs. At least he does not have to wait in line. At least there are going to be at least three more shows before the main event.

Azula leans herself against Katara. Lets the waterbender wrap her arms around her the way that she had back when she was just some confused and curious fire spirit. It is comfortable. A nice welcome home. A promising welcome.

There is noise all around; booms, crackles and pops. Sizzles, drum beats, and laughter. Chatter, chimes, whistles, and smokey hisses.

Azula had missed home so terribly and it doesn’t truly hit until now. She is thankful for that. Thankful, also, for the realization that her yearning for home means that she still belongs here. That her flame is still strong. She isn’t entirely certain of where she will go from here, but wherever she goes, she will travel whole and hopeful. Authentic and cherished.

She looks at Katara. The fireworks twinkle in those pretty blue eyes, bathe her soft skin in flashes of pink, green, and gold. It is not unlike the sky curtains. Azula turns her own gaze back to the fireworks.

She stares up at them with Katara’s hand in one of her hands and several komodo-rhino plushies in the other.

She used to know all about komodo-rhinos. She still knows all about komodo-rhinos.

20 to 55 inches. 4 tons. Black or white komodo rhino. 59 inches. 7 tons. White or black komodo rhino. 39 inches. 7 tons. Greater one horned komodo rhino. 60 inches. 10,000 pounds. Caldera ash komodo rhino.

[heliads]

And of course I am obliged to send in a Magnificent Seven request as your resident Magnificent Seven mutual! (Although if I wasn’t supposed to send in more than one I am sorry and you can feel free to get rid of whichever request you like least.)

Anyways, could I maybe ask for the Magnificent Seven as a group with a platonic female reader? They meet the teenage reader while on a mission where she offers to help them out with her sharpshooting skills, and after seeing how skilled she is an how she doesn’t really have anywhere to go they offer her a place with them. She has a good relationship with everyone and is either a daughter or younger sister figure to the rest of the Seven - or, rather, Eight with her on the team - but they all get the sense that there’s something she’s holding back. Finally, while gathering information for a mission, they notice her talking to another young woman and looking very flustered and manage to peace together what’s happening: the reader likes girls and was too scared to tell them for fear of getting kicked out of the group. So as a group, they all sit her down and talk to her and tell her that of course they accept her and would never leave her, and she admits they’re really the only family she’s ever had and it’s all really familial and sweet?

Again, thanks so much in advance if you do choose to write this, and I do hope you’re doing well!! <3

'eight of us' - the magnificent seven

masterlist

Sam Chisholm is starting to think that this whole journey may never end.

That’s not terrible, all things considered. A week or two ago, Sam was pretty certain that he would end up dead by daylight. Cowboys and outlaws, convicts and loners, don’t tend to stay alive long in these parts, and if they do manage to eke a living, it’ll be desperate and constantly challenged by nature and man alike. He’s alive. His traveling companions are alive. That should be all he needs to puff out his chest and say that he’s lived a good life.

Still, though. Questions plague him as they do any other man. Questions like if he should carry on in this fashion, for one thing, and with these people. He enjoys the other six men in what local legend has started to call the ‘Magnificent Seven,’ and although the title seems rather magnanimous for Sam’s taste, he can’t deny that it’s got a certain ring to it. Finding someone you truly trust to watch your back in a firefight is a rare thing. If Sam’s got it now, why should he give it up?

Maybe it’s the uncertainty of it all that really has Sam wondering where his life will lead him. When he was younger, the mystery of a life on the road called to him like an apple in the Garden of Eden. Sure, his childhood friends could find themselves something special by settling down with someone, or finding a stable job they knew would keep them fed, clothed, and out of trouble, but that had never attracted Sam like the allure of a bit of danger.

He’s got a job too, anyway. He’s a regular U.S. Marshal, against all odds. Not that Sam getting the job was any rare occurrence, just that he’s still got it. Sam is one of the rare men who seems to enjoy thrusting himself directly in the path of danger. The fact that he hasn’t ended up on the wrong side of a duel or bar brawl yet is a minor miracle.

If he were in the mood for some introspection, plain and simple, Sam would admit that he recently came pretty damn close to the end of the road for that front. In an effort to liberate the frontier town of Rose Creek from some mining tycoons, he had rallied up a group of fine men and women to fight greedy fools who’d become too attached to their own coin purses and not nearly fond enough of their own fellow man. The idea had been good. It had been done for the right reasons.

Still, as dawn came over the liberated town, Sam and the others nearly found themselves celebrating in a casket instead of an open bar. Sam can’t quite describe it, how the danger of it all still hangs over him like a foggy morning’s chill. He’s been in fights before, bad ones. He’s no stranger to the whistle of gunfire, the knowledge that he might not make it out alive. Still, there was never anything like this.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t yet moved on to his typical life. He’ll still uphold the law, of course, you can take the man out of the office but you can’t take the office out of the man, but he can do it with several friends by his side. It’s a fine thing, not being alone. It tests your patience something terrible when you’ve got a chorus of snores going when you’re trying to catch forty winks, but it reminds you that you’re not alone in this great and glorious world of yours. It makes Sam think that he might have done something right beyond the requirements of duty. Sam found a family of sorts, and he’s got them no matter what.

No, he decides, he won’t leave. In fact, he might even test the boundaries of this band of brothers by adding another member. Sam has been the de facto leader of the bunch for a while now, perhaps because it sometimes feels like he’s the only one capable of making decisions with a clear head more than half the time, but the others respect his resolutions wholeheartedly whenever he goes to the trouble of pronouncing one.

So, when Sam announces late one night that he’d like to welcome a neighborhood stray into the group, no one objects. The decision has been a long time in the making, that much is clear. There’s been a girl hanging around their camp for a while now, a teenager out of school but not the least bit interested in a marriage proposal. 

From what Sam has observed, and he’s had plenty of time to do so, Y/N L/N is far more interested in the careful care and usage of her gun than any boy her age. Not that he can blame her; the scrubby adolescents in this small town, just like in any other identical village before or after it on the long road to salvation or at least the eastern seaboard, are a riotous mess of bad decisions and cracking voices. Shotguns are far more fascinating creatures, and at least they aim true if given proper care and attention.

Y/N’s offered to join their group a few times by now, the offers ranging wildly in nuance and discretion. The first time, she was extraordinarily cagey with her words, mentioning only that it wouldn’t be a bad thing if, you know, she was to spend a little more time with the wayward men than normal. A few days later, she brought up how useful her sharpshooting abilities would be on the road. Yesterday, she tracked Sam down and informed him none too cautiously that, on account of her family being nowhere to keep her tied down, she would have nothing stopping her from joining their ranks.

Sam had laughed and told her that he’d think about it. True to his word, Sam has been pondering the matter for a while. Y/N’s a fine fellow. Her conversation is good and her manners better, even when she’s trying to push the matter of her acceptance into the band of travelers. She wasn’t exaggerating when talking to Sam earlier, either; Y/N’s skill with a gun is nothing short of spectacular. If Sam was looking for additional people to join their party, she’d be the first on his list. And, since there’s nothing stopping him from swelling the ranks, he decides that they’ll take her on. Easy as that.

He tells her the next morning, after the men have had time to sit and ponder the nature of their new visitor. They were all accepting of this new condition, of course, but Sam didn’t really think there would be any problems. Heaven knows Goodnight’s been hinting awful heavy that it wouldn’t be all that bad were they to take on another poor soul in their quest to liberate small towns from tyranny.

Y/N, too, is thrilled. She does her best to play it down, of course, not wanting to seem needlessly exuberant, but Sam can see it in her eyes that she’s pleased. It doesn’t take long for her to pack up her belongings and sell the rest, which concerns him a little. In the end, any observation of her affairs makes him all the happier that they’ve taken her on.

And so the Magnificent Seven– no, make it eight now– leaves town once again, setting their sights for the long and restless road. Y/N’s got a horse of her own, and although it may be no champion thoroughbred, it’s got good legs and can keep up with the rest without getting tired, which is never something to scoff at. For the first few days or so, Y/N is overly careful to be polite and avoid offending anyone by accident, but then the shyness wears off and it’s like she’s been one of them all this time.

A few months in, Sam can hardly remember a time when Y/N wasn’t there. She’s laughing the hardest at Faraday’s jokes around the campfire, she’s an ace shot when they need firearm support, she’s just as much one of them as Sam himself.

Only–

Only, there’s something she still isn’t telling them. Sam can’t put a name on it for certain, but he’s devoted an awful lot of time to watching people for secrets, and he’s pretty sure she’s got one that she isn’t all that inclined to tell him. All of the signs are there:  shifting eyes, odd silence on certain topics, quick changes of conversation when one of them starts asking her questions she doesn’t want to answer. Normally, Sam wouldn’t begrudge anyone for their silence, they’ve all got things they’d rather not speak on, but Y/N has never been anything but open. This sort of wariness from her is unusual, and it makes Sam wonder just what sort of secret she’s so intent on keeping.

He carefully brings it up to Goodnight in private, just to ask the other man’s thoughts, but the former soldier agrees with him, says he’s noticed it on his own, too. Goodnight is sure the secret is harmless, but Sam has seen many a harmless secret turn into something quite harmful indeed under the blunt force of pressure and fear.

It’s not like he doesn’t trust Y/N. He does. She’s more than proven herself capable of watching his back in a fight. She’s one of the more honest people he’s ever met, but the weight of this secret has clearly been gnawing at her for a while, and sometimes that kind of force can wear a person thin before they least expect it.

He should ask her what it is. He should wait until she brings it up first. Sam’s mind is torn between methods of how to go about finding out this secret, but then when he’s least expecting it, the answer arrives to him in the form of a visit to a new town.

The party has been there for an hour or two before Sam finally gets what he’s been wanting:  some answers. They’ve split up a little to canvas the streets and get information. Supposedly, a band of thieves has been terrorizing this town, but since they wear masks, no one knows their true identities. Sam has just finished thanking an elderly gentleman for telling him all he knows about the attackers when he turns to see Y/N talking to a young woman about her age.

Well, talking is really an overstatement. The young lady is talking, to be sure. Y/N seems hardly able to get a sentence out. Her face looks hot and she’s stammering, more flustered than Sam has ever seen her. Funnily enough, it reminds Sam of a few boys from his hometown when they were talking to the girls they liked–

Oh.

And then it hits him. That’s the secret, then. Y/N manages to wrap up the conversation and starts walking back down the street, but she’s not gone far before she runs into Sam. They don’t even have to say anything for Y/N’s face to fall. Her eyes go wide with fright. When you’ve been holding a secret within yourself for so long, when you’ve been so terrified of discovery, you know when somebody’s found you out because you’ve imagined that very scenario happening hundreds of times before. Sam knows, and Y/N knows too.

He gestures for her to walk with him, and Y/N does, her footsteps uneven and unsteady. “Y/N,” Sam says pleasantly, “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“I think you already know,” she whispers. “It’s not– if you want me to leave the group, I would understand.”

This shocks Sam more than the revelation. “Why on earth would I do that? You’re a proud member of our little circle, Miss L/N, I’m not inclined to get rid of you unless you wish to be rid of us.”

Y/N casts him a quick, disbelieving glance. “Are you sure? I mean, now that you know that I– that I like girls.”

Sam chuckles. “So do many of the rest of us, and that hasn’t seemed to discourage anyone.”

A slow, careful smile blossoms on Y/N’s face. “You’re sure?”

“Very,” Sam answers her. “If you’d like to tell the others, I’m sure they’d have the same reaction as me. We’re a company, Y/N. We stick together.”

“That we do,” Y/N murmurs.

The rest of the group is waiting up ahead of them, ready to review the information they’ve learned. Sam meets Goodnight’s eyes and nods once, signaling that he’s found out what’s been keeping their youngest member so occupied. Y/N nods too. She’s got something to say, but for once, she isn’t afraid.

requested by @faerieroyal, i hope you enjoy!

magnificent seven tag list: message me to be added!

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[bomberqueen17]

ok lol

after all that i didn't actually tell myself the story of what i have to do today

you see the hubris. i was like "i have described the problem huzzah" check a thing off the list move on.

part of the thing i was describing was how lists don't work for me. so like. in the text of that post was me explaining that i had to do a thing in order to function. and then. then! i didn't do that thing.

ok so today what do i have to do! a lot of it i have already done on sheer momentum but now i have been stymied by something and have to regroup.

i have to load and run the dishwasher, check!

i have to put in a load of laundry, check!

i have to go over to my own house, bringing a number of items which i had for traveling but which should not wind up at dude's mom's house, check!

I am going to bemusedly greet the electrical inspector for the town, who was supposed to be rescheduled and not come today, and give him a little tour of the things the electrician said weren't ready to be inspected, and he's going to say oh yes, I see what he was going for, he's done a lot of stuff already, isn't this nice, well I'll be back, have him call me when he's done those two things he didn't get to, everything else looks really good. This will derail me a bit, but I will persevere.

whilst at the house, i am going to cut out fabric to make my own not-quite-floorcloth to go under the microwave, since i want to put something there before i do anything else, and i hate the paltry shelf-liner offerings actually in stock anywhere in town, and i am too decision-paralysised to actually buy anything online rn. check! (finished measurements will be 26.5x23". I found enough white canvas for this, and have soaked and ironed it in accordance with the tutorial, but i am going to paint it and then sew it to an unpainted backing, which I hope will protect the shelf surface, as I don't need this shelf to be grippy since it's just to protect the painted surface from the microwave and whatever winds up next to it. So the backing is an old mostly-polyester sheet, somewhat pilled with wear, because i know that won't be slippery but also won't scratch the surface.)

I was going to then prime this canvas, but I don't... have any primer? This is false, I know I do, but damned if I know where it would be. I have to stop by a hardware store for paint chips and polyurethane anyway, so now I guess I'll get some primer. I don't think I need art store primer for this at all.

i have terrible acrylic craft paints but i am not trying to do anything wildly sophisticated. in fact i'm not sure what i'm trying to do. actually i could get little sample pots of a couple of the colors i'm considering at the hardware store, paint smallish swatches on the wall, and then paint this cloth with the leftovers, LOL. That might actually be the thing to do???

Dude might be annoyed if I'm swatching without even having consulted with him but 1) i know what he likes and 2) he's so busy rn he won't even put his plate in the dishwasher or talk to me about what groceries to buy so like, he doesn't have the energy to care, and anyway you can just paint right back over swatches and in fact I will do so, so whatever. Possibly the swatches will just give him something to disagree with but when you are as fatigued-in-general as he is, often that is the best way to get a decision made!

(heck what if i painted the whole shelf liner cloth a gradient between two of the adjacent swatch colors and then stenciled a doily over it in metallic gold that'd be a pretty sick shelf liner pattern)

ANYWAY the story of what else i have to do today is that i also have to go to the grocery store. so if i manage both the grocery store and the hardware store before noon i'm gonna be the fucking champion of the fucking world i tell you what. but that is my goal. i should do the hardware store first so the groceries don't have to sit in the car and get warm but that feels contrary because the grocery store is more urgent. but no, i'm going to do the hardware store first because i am a little bitch and can do what i want. and i won't forget the groceries after that. (famous last words, stay tuned to see if i do)

[bakafurai]

ooooo you wanna tell me about your ocs so bad ooooo

it wasn't until i got this ask that i realised oh shit i have. a lot of ocs,,,

ANYWAYS,,, i've decided i will now talk about my ocs ethos, pathos and logos :3 putting it under a read more bc. I like to ramble haha,,,

little backstory time: these three are actually one of my oldest ocs dating from.... late 2017 I think? I remember it was during my Sanders Sides brainrot era (it's a youtube series by thomas sanders that is very good i def recommend it), i was watching on the behind the scenes videos and they mentioned Ethos, Pathos and Logos and i thought "oh that sounds neat" and looked up and then boom. ocs where made...god they were sooo different back then, my oc lore has gone through many changes XD

oh here are the name meanings btw (taken of this site bc i am terrible at describing things lmao)

My human drawing skills has gotten better since I made this but the designs stay roughly the same so here they are!!

for slight context: they are fairies (not the typical kind you see in fantasy though), they come in all sorts of colours (passed down genetically and each of them have special abilities they get from around 6 or 7 years old, kinda similar to MHA's quirks in a way (I made this up before i got into mha btw), it starts to develop for them at the age of 4, where a symbol shows up on their bodies, when a fairy gets older they'll learn the ability to hide this symbol if they so wish (otherwise it's shown through clothing, though this act is not the most common). And yes they do have things but are generally pretty tiny (but powerful enough to let them fly for a decent for time), there are some who have larger pair of wings (this is. a whole other can of worms relating to the in universe magic that i won't go into too much details here haha), but short wings double wings are the norm (nobody has a set of 4 of wings, just 2, there is an exception but again is another can of worms haha).

uhh that's about it i think? there's some random slightly unrelated stuff like they can summon a shield or bladed weapon via their symbols (developed in the same sense as their magic, but comes along later when they are like 15 or so). also they can glow in the dark ig (except for fairies with darker colours, like black or dark grey, but these coloured fairies aren't the most common.)

They're able to cover their whole body with a pretty tough metal to protect themselves, sometimes spikes will come out (they cannot control this.), also they coincidentally have a circular shield they can summon and grow at will.

OOPS I DID NOT MEAN TO GO OFF ON THAT LMAO ANYWAYS ACTUAL OC TALK TIME DFGHDJD

I'll start with Ethos first: Ethos is non-binary, aroace and 20 years old (at the time of their first appearance). they live in an apartment in what i can only describe as the fairy version of england with their childhood best friend Pathos (who i will get to in a min).

Ethos is currently studying to become a defence lawyer. They're generally a pacifist and try not to take sides (ironic i know, it was Pathos who encouraged them to go for it), that being said they can be sassy if allowed- generally it's when they're at home with Pathos or their qpp (they don't have a name and design yet but i'm working on it). Ethos and Pathos have known each other since they were kids, and Pathos was the first person Ethos came out as non-binary too, and in general Pathos is kind of like a brother to them.

Next up is Pathos my silly little guy!!! Pathos is cis male, pan, and also 20 years old. As mentioned previously, he and Ethos are roommates and childhood best friends so i won't get too much into it. oh also he has undiagnosed adhd.

Pathos is,,, a special case in terms of magic abilities, they were born with a unnaturally large amount of excess magic (which is. another can of worms. hm.), without going into too much detail. by normal means Pathos has empathic abilities, when they turn it on it shows up as different colours depending on the emotions, he's able to sense it similarly even with his eyes close so he can use it as a second pair of eyes if he wants to. With enough concertation he can extend the area he's able to detect emotions, but he tries not to that too much because it can be overwhelming for him (or at worse it will turn into full on telepathy he has no control over).

If someone's emotion is strong enough it will show up as a glow around that person for Pathos, it can overwhelm Pathos if he actually activates his ability. The excess magic generally comes into play when he feels too strongly, his colours will change and he will gain another ability (ei; anger will make him turn red, and will gain pyrokinetic abilities. the angrier he gets the more monster like his body also gets, generally he gets fangs, a devil tail and smoke will come out of his mouth, but over time his hands/feet will turn into claws, his fangs n horns will grow, his body heat will grow hotter and the smoke will become more intense. that's definitely an extreme case, a more lighter one would be turning yellow when he's overjoyed/excited and gets a pleasant warm aura around him).

Pathos has a bladed weapon he can summon, but i haven't decided on what yet (it hasn't really come up in my stories yet), Pathos is a strong fighter, has been trained in martial arts since he was 11 to defend Ethos and other classmates from some bullies (fairies are generally very accepting and kind but it takes some time for some young kids to learn these things).

Pathos, when he's not doing martial arts, studies animal care- his class each have assigned animals they care for on the side based on their abilities. Pathos cares for a mother earth dragon and her 3 young ones, Dragons in this universe are heavily sensitive to emotions of others so generally Pathos' abilities comes in handy. Dragons in protective care in this planet and it is considered illegal to hunt them- this doesn't stop poachers from other planets to sneak in (pathos has managed to stop them a numerous amount of times,). Pathos is also unnaturally talented at flight despite his average sized small wings (doctors believe it may be due to the excess magic he has)

oh fuck i have no talked about his personality yet damn uhhh. Pathos is super friendly and all over the place, a big lover of food/baked goods, and is very good at making friends. Being an empath he's very quick to pick up emotions of others and if they are uncomfortable or not, which makes me a pretty easy guy to go to for a lot of fairies who know him. A huge lover of hoodies and sometimes gifts close friends hoodies, also he has a pet pigeon named "Buddy" whomst he loves very much.

LASTLY WE HAVE LOGOS,,, god I have rambled so much lmao,,,

Logos! She's not actually fairy, and more so an android made to look like one. Her body is genderless but her AI is set to female so she uses she/her pronouns. Logos was created to assist the queen of what i will for now be calling faeland (basically fairy england,,, fairy uk,, the planet is a lot like earth in many ways), originally she was grey with no ounce of emotions but the queen thought that was sad so she used her magic (not fae magic, sorry this is another can of worms) to give her the ability to feel. Logos' "brain" is connected wirelessly to a large internet archive holder owned by another oc that is connect to a lot of places- due to this she has access to an enormous amount of information (fun fact: originally she was all knowing but this concept became to confusing to me so i changed it. this might not make that much sense either in terms of logic but i wrote this bit when i was like 17 i think so uh. shoosh ig.) to which she uses in a large variety of ways.

Her look as seen from above is her more casual look, the hoodie was a gift from Pathos, she uses in day to day activities- including detective/police work, being an informant for the queen, assisting the queen in her tasks in general. However some may know her as the one-man-army knight general of the queen, she can shift to a more knight like look when she fights, there are plenty of soldiers around but Logos could probably hand a large amount of enemies by herself.

Speaking of fighting! As she is not actual fairy she is not born with magic or a weapon- instead she has a katana stored in her body symbol that glows to give off the effect of a regular fairy summoning a weapon. After the queen fused some magic in her body, she has been able to let out electricity from her body (she does this only in dire situations, but at most she might use it to taze someone if needed), her symbol also oddly shows up through her clothing but works the same way as before.

Personality wise, Logos is somewhat stoic and logical, but is perfectly able to read the room. Her eyes will change colour if she feels something strongly (it is a magic user thing), but it doesn't happen often. Generally speaking Logos is one of the few emotionally stable characters I have. When Logos is with Pathos she often ends up become his babysitter or having to stop him acting on impulse, she also becomes a grounding presence for him as she learns more about him and helps him through some of his mental health issues when they come up. Logos come off as cold but she's decently friendly and kind hearted, she just has a resting serious face.

aaand that's about it I think????? wow I sure rambled a lot lmao it's been what. about 2 hours????? since i started typing??? whoops

[seven-stars-in-his-palm]

Ngl I was kinda asking what your thoughts were on the au in a sleep deprived frenzy but I do have my own thoughts so here they are. sorry for confusion lol

I like the idea I wrote into the fic that Mabel knit a sweater with a design that can be felt for Ford. like knitting buttons into it and using raised stitches, stuff like that. I haven't yet had him wear it but I swear I'll figure out when to make him put it on.

Just... I was thinking of adding a scene in the near future where Dipper or Mabel or even both maybe begin to feel sad that Ford can't see them and doesn't know what they look like, but Ford hugging them and letting them know that he loves them regardless of his blindness, that he cares about them as who they are and not what they look like. potentially maybe just playfully describing them by what he can feel, like Mabel's sweater or Dipper's hat. just... bonding stuff.

And then... angsty stuff like Ford being taunted by Bill with the triangle using his blindness against him in cruel ways. once Weirdmageddon happens, I keep thinking about Bill torturing him by making his attacks complete surprises and leaving Ford without his assistive devices in the fearmid so he's scared and lost. just aaaaaaarggghh....

but anyway, three thoughts for you I guess lol. hope you like and I'm still wondering about what you think about the au haha.

oh my god I misunderstood you I misunderstood you I missed understood you I am going to exil tumblr and never return I’m so ashamed if someone did that to me I won’t be able to live this down there are so many things I won’t be able to live down ohhhhhhhhhh myyyyyyyyyyggggooooooooOODDDDDD—

THOUGHTS?!?!? ourgh ourgh orugh I love reading bullet points….hmmmmmmm here’s a few of mine, I think.

- ford’s relationship with braille. he must know it, right? unless you came up with another way to do that but I think he’d like to read in braille regardless. I imagine that he’d hoard books like that because he came across it so little in the multiverse that when he’d find it it was a treasure to behold. bro hoards knowledge

- the photooooo ik you’ve definitely talked about this but he’d keep it. despite how long it’s been he can still remember what it looks like. can feel the rough edges. the thing that’s bad about it is that he doesn’t know if the image is still there or fucked up or faded or Whatever, because of course he wouldn’t be able to tell. he keeps faith that it is clear, though, and when stan or someone else tells him that the photo is indeed in its pristine condition, he really appreciates it. like a lot. gives him stability to the fact that at least Something didn’t change.

- his clothes. it doesn’t matter what colors someone gives him as long as they feel the same, but yes he’d definitely appreciate a sweater he could feel. before that option was offered up to him, tho, he was chill without knowing. mabel could knit any color or pattern sweater and he wouldn’t give a shit because at least it’s a sweater. like she could put ‘world’s worst uncle’ and HE’D STILL WEAR IT PROUDLY. no shits given he actually doesn’t want anyone telling him what they look like he’d rather live in bliss thanks <3

- ford identifying people by things he’s felt….oh that. that. can’t even say anything

- ford wouldn’t have ever seen what old stan looks like. he has a deathly similar voice tho, so he can’t help but imagine stan as a younger version of himself. this helps to both assist and worsen certain situations.

- ik atla wasn’t around during his time but I’d think he’d try and learn to see Toph-Style, keyword being TRY. he of course isn’t successful, but does learn the valuable lesson of touching things to find their shapes, like rocks. he’s gotta learn how to just brave it and Touch

- and during weirdmageddon, one thing I could see bill doing is sort of returning ford’s sight sometimes? just like, little frames here or there? taunting him? making him see terrible things, what bill is doing to him and the town, and Other Things? just. returning the ability only to use it in the worst fucking possible. how the last thing ford will technically see in his life is bill, in the physical plane, hurting his family. just taking away precious things you didn’t even know you ahem y’know?

so. There’s that! not much. idk if this conflicts with any canon u got or smth of it’s what off the top of my head :) Ty for the rambling!!!!

[bafflement]

Deaged Oz AU [continued]

Emerald Pine sighed as she noticed that her scroll was ringing. Who could it be at this time of... oh. Qrow. Hopefully he wasn't drunk again... Picking up rather hesitantly, she could hear his voice on the other side. He didn't sound drunk, weirdly enough. He just sounded... panicked. "Hey, Em? Y'know ya said I could always come lay low at your place if I needed to? Well... we need to." "... we?" "Yeah, we. I'll tell ya when I get there? Bit busy trying to keep the kid alive right now." "... kid? Qrow, did you kidnap a child?" "S'not that simple... you'll see. Besides, ain't your nephew there? Maybe he could use a friend..." There was a desperate hint of hysteria in his tone, as though whatever it was that had happened had well and truly upended Qrow's world view. "This child you found, they're not dangerous, right? And where are their parents?" "As said, tell ya when I get there." Qrow muttered something too low to be easily picked up through the scroll and the connection cut. Em sighed as Qrow rang off. Well then, that was obviously as much information as she'd get out of him... she didn't even know if the kid in question was a boy or a girl. Oscar came through into the room, looking curious. "Who was that, auntie Em?" "Oh, just an old friend, he's bringing someone to stay with us for awhile. Mind sharing a room for a week or two?" "Huh? Who're they bringing?" "I don't know, Oscar. All they said was that they're a kid. Qrow's a huntsman, though, so whatever it is can't be that dangerous?" "A huntsman? A real one? Here?" Oscar sounded excited 'Can I meet him? Can I ask him stuff? What's he like?" "Qrow is... Qrow. Hard to describe, really. No idea who trusted him with a child, but I might need to have words with them, too." Qrow breathed a sigh of abject relief as he came to the door of the farm. The bundle in his arms hadn't moved once since that terrifying moment he'd first found him. He was breathing, but he was so frightfully still in his arms, pale skin even paler than normal, moonlit hair half burned off. Em came out to meet them, glancing with concern at the boy in Qrow's arms before her eyes widened slightly. Looking back up into Qrow's face, all he could do was nod as he lay them down on the sofa. Their clothing was mostly rag, bits of it seemed to have flaked off in some terrible heat, but the boy himself seemed untouched. Em wrinkled her nose slightly at the smell of blood and burnt hair, but tucked an old blanket around him anyway, Qrow tucking something familiar beneath it, wrapping one tiny hand around the hilt. The boy wasn't very old. Ten, maybe? It was a bit hard to tell, but he was definitely younger and smaller than her nephew. This was all absolutely impossible, of course. She'd wake up from this at some point, but for now... "Qrow?" She bit out. "Explain. Is that... what happened to them?" "Magic bullshit, Em. I don't have anything better. Maybe he will when he wakes?" Oz moaned as he came to, the light bright against his eyes. He groped for glasses that he couldn't find and winced. He tried to ascertain if there was anyone else, if he'd become just a voice in their head but was met with silence. A slightly sleepy murmur that he knew to be Ozymandias, but beyond that, nothing. So, this was likely still his body, then. "Where am I? Qrow? What happened. What happened to my students, to Beacon, to..." "It's okay, Oz. You're alright, you're safe for now." "Maybe but... everybody else? This feels odd, it's still me but everything seems far bigger than I think it ought to. If I died, I don't understand how I'm still here." He raised a hand in emphasis, blinking at just how small it looked. "... Qrow? How old would you say I am? Physically, at least? Because on one hand I am so incredibly glad that my curse has not claimed someone else, but on the other, I sincerely doubt that this was Miss Fall's intention."

[ifeltfree]

Yeah, of course I'll talk with you about it. I'm sorry to hear you're recently diagnosed. I'd say it gets better, but I'd be lying. What does change is that you get tougher, more resilient. If you're lucky, you have people around you who understand and support you well. The seizures never stop being terrifying.

It's an awful disease and one that is extremely misunderstood. Isolating is the right word, for sure. I was diagnosed at 16, so I know how hard it can be to have it as a teenager/young person as well. It feels like it's stealing from you. It is. Don't let anyone tell you any different. Your feelings are justified.

As far as how I cope? Poorly, for a long time, but recently things have been looking up. I was seizure-free for about five years before a recent set of breakthrough seizures (I crashed my car too, lol what a time), so I'm relearning how to deal with the fear and paranoia.

Logistically, I've done a few things:

I was able to get my job to let me work from home 3/5 days of the week.

I sleep. A lot. I still hang out with people and I have a lot of friends, but I had to accept there are things I can't do.

I spend a lot of time in quiet. Overstimulation doesn't help. I found this out the long way - took me forever to realize shutting up one or a few of my senses cut down the brain activity (I'm dumb).

I don't drink. I used to drink - probably too much. Substance abuse and epilepsy don't mix. That wasn't the reason for my breakthroughs, but I do have a little sobriety app. Kinda fun, honestly.

I talk to my friends about it.

That last point is something that I'd never done before this year. It's hard, of course, but I think it's helped that my friends now know I'm having crises of sanity, faith, philosophy - whatever - every day of my goddamn life. It's impossible to live with this disease and not think about what's real, what's not, if I'm losing time, what exactly is a soul...you understand.

Also, seizures are impossible to describe, but I try. That helps as well. Horrifies my friends, but they've said it's ok to talk about.

Every seizure I've had (barring these last ones, or I'd have killed myself) has stolen my personhood from me. I'd wake up as a different person, and then I'd just...live in a stranger's apartment, wear a stranger's clothes, wake up in a stranger's bed. After about a week, the feeling starts to fade but nothing ever goes back to that first reality. That disorientation is, for me, one of the worst parts of epilepsy. It's fucking scary. And if you go through that, I am so, so sorry.

If you want to talk about this more, let me know. I'm much less serious than I seem, and I write like this because I'm overeducated after being scared shitless by my brain. So.

Anyway, feel free to publish this and I hope you feel better soon.

Also, tell your tattoo artist what happened - they'll thank you for not coming in, and they also need to know you're not a flake. Don't want to make them responsible for an unconscious body when they don't have to be! :)

thank you for talking to me more about this. you worded a lot of this really well and its reassuring to know its normal to feel that way that i do about it all. my family thinks im exaggerating it so sometimes i question if im blowing things out of proportion.

anyway, thats terrible that you crashed your car. thats such a huge fear of mine and i cant imagine going through that, im so sorry. its so unfortunate that you have to miss out on things, but im glad you figured out what works for you to keep you in better shape. im gonna try and be mindful about the things you mentioned and see if they make a difference for me, thank you

i dont have much of a support system, most of my friends stopped talking to me after college and i find it hard to meet new people where i live. its significantly harder to cope with shit like this when youre on your own. im sure you get it. and i totally understand what you mean by losing your sense of self. it feels like everything is foggy, all the time but even worse on days i have seizures. it almost makes me mad cause its not fair that after everything else that comes with it, i have to have a diluted watered down personality too.

again thank you for this. ill definitely reach out if the urge arises and you definitely can too. im always open to talk, about anything

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

And Eat it, Too: Chapter Fifteen: Jon's Choice

In which Jon chooses Michael, the Unknowing begins, Jon says goodbye, and nothing goes according to ANYONE'S plans…

>>> NOW ON AO3!

It starts with vague monster-sex and ends with explosions. So. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Tim lives, damn it.

(Masterpost including playlist)

*

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

He wakes with wonderful weight draped over him, safe and compressed and—

Wait. Maybe spinning a little, though it’s not vertigo. It’s because there’s no gravity in here, that’s why, and—

Wait. There was no gravity, he just dreamed it, and that’s okay, this is better, because he never—

Wait.

Memory of hurt surfaces, vague, unformed.

Jon refuses to continue thinking.

“It’s all right,  Archivist,” Michael purrs in his ear. “You’re all fixed. You can come back now.”

Nope.

Whatever was before was so terrible, and in here, he does not have to go back to it, and does not want to go back to it.

“Archivist,” it sings.

“No Archivists here,” Jon mutters.

Michael laughs and nuzzles his cheek.

Jon startles, tingling, shocked with weird sensation too much to be pleasant and too good to be pain. “What?” Jon gasps. “What?”

“I am afraid your clothing is gone,” says Michael, who is visibly amused.

Jon goes stiff as a board.

Michael laughs. “I am sorry for the surprise. I do have new things for you. You were so cold. And they were… more blood than cloth, at this point. I’m very impressed they were even still on your body.”

This isn’t Elias, this isn’t a sex thing, Michael isn’t pushing where Jon did not give. “I…” He gasps. “You’re here!”

“Not to question your convictions, but I might argue you are the one here,” says Michael.

“You’re alive,” says Jon, grabbing Michael, clinging with all his might, and then he bursts into tears.

Michael lets him, watching his face, occasionally running its sharp claws along his scalp in the most amazing sensation, both soothing and energizing.

But it still hurts. It all hurts. “I… I… my heart…”

“The Lonely lets its prisoners go too slowly,” says Michael as though that’s just a waste of resources. “And the Dark will never leave you, unless banished.”

“You’re alive,” Jon whispers again.

“Archivist, I cannot die. I will still be me, even when the images she sewed into me vanish.”

Was that present tense?

Wait.

Jon shakes his head, unsure he heard it right. “What time is it? I… the Unknowing…” They don’t want you there—

“Ooh!” says Michael, like it’s spotted a piece of candy.

And suddenly, Jon knows that thought was a lie.

Of course they want him there. Even if they don’t like him or trust him, they know damn well he can keep their minds safe.

And Martin does like him.

And Elias at least wants to sleep with him. (And values him as an Archivist too, or whatever.)

Daisy may hate him, but she still came to him when Basira needed help.

Even Annabelle claims to like him (maybe a lie, but who the hell knows anymore).

Jon considers these things, brow knit.

“You have been strangely scarred,” says Michael.

“I… what? More? Where?”  Jon can’t see any of himself under the Distortion, which is thematically appropriate.

“Here.” It touches his head.

“I suppose the Dark and the Lonely, right after each other, would do that.”

“No,” says Michael. “No. This is your god, I think.”

“It scarred me?”

“Oh, yes, Archivist,” it says with interest. “Burned, intensity, too much, too fast—I am surprised you did not tear in half.”

And Jon knows what it was, and it has nothing to do with his latest adventures. “Elias,” he mutters. “Made me watch.”

Michael doesn’t show any reaction to that.

Jon isn’t sure if he wants it to. “I think I should get dressed now,” he says. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Time is an illusion, Archivist. It does not matter. Though if you wish, of course, I will let you go.”

Jon does not stop clinging. It’s impossible to describe how Michael feels; solid and not, tingling energy and warm leather. “Time does matter, and I am on the bloody clock.”

“But would you not wish to be free of it? When the Dread Powers win, there will be no more time. What bliss! What freedom! Can you dream, can you see?”

Jon makes a face. “I like time, Michael.”

Michael gasps. “Why?”

Jon laughs a little. “It makes things… easier.”

“To label.”

“To… to understand. To know. I wouldn’t want time to be gone.”

“Even when you are running out of it?” says Michael, sly.

“Yes, even then, and don’t you try to manipulate me using that. Um. Also, what time is it out there?”

”Eighty-four o’clock.”

Jon laughs. “Fine, be that way.” He knows it’s fine, knows it is. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like, Jon thinks, feeling blissfully unsure. He stretches. “There’s really no time passing in here?”

“None, if I allow it.”

Then fuck the Unknowing. “Please allow none. Please give me… I… please let me rest.”

“Do you wish me to remove myself from you?”

It’s still asking. After Elias’ assault, this feels like a healing balm. “No. Please stay.”

“Very well, Archivist. Though I should let you know you are… growing to be much. Soon, I will not be able to carry you with any great ease.”

“What does that mean?”

“You are becoming, Archivist, and it is such a sight to see.”

Jon closes his eyes. Guilt. Shame—

Which Michael doubts away. Jon did nothing wrong, really. Not really—

“I’m not sure I should let you do that,” Jon mutters. “I deserve those feelings.”

“Do you? Because you used your power upon those who would do you harm, who are—in your view—evil?”

“I don’t have that right.”

“You did not. Now, you do.”

“No, Michael, I don’t.”

"Do you wish me to stop, Archivist?"

Jon does not. "No," he says, quietly.

Michael nuzzles him. "Then I shall not."

Jon sighs. “Just a little longer.” He closes his eyes.

“Whatever you say, Archivist.”

He sleeps.

#

He wakes a little, realizes he’s completely clean, and wriggles further under Michael.

Maybe he never wants to come out.

Michael shifts enough to feed him - water, some pieces of fruit he does not recognize and confuse him with their sweet/savory taste.

They’re perfect.

Jon wriggles back underneath.

Michael makes a pleased humming sound, and Jon goes back to sleep.

#

When he wakes again, Michael’s face is right above his.

He feels quiet inside.

It’s bliss.

Michael doesn’t so much as blink. “Hello, Archivist.”

“Do you…” Jon doesn’t even know what he wants to ask. “You… this… do you…”

“Did you break?” Michael says. “That would be a pity—I haven’t even had the chance to drive you mad, and here, you’ve driven yourself.”

Jon laughs. His smile fades. He breathes just a little faster. “Am I allowed to kiss you?”

He thinks he startled it, which would be a feat, but he also thinks it doesn’t matter if he did. It’s just a kiss; but it’s his choice, requested because he wants it, because he doesn’t really know if anything comes next, or has to, because it feels like Michael is worshiping him.

What an odd thought to have.

“Oh, Archivist, the things you say,” beams Michael and then kisses him in reply.

Apparently, the offer is still a given.

A pulse moves through the floor, the walls, like an excited heartbeat, soothing, almost hypnotic. Kissing has never felt like this. It’s nothing like Elias’ relentless assault; nothing like the sweet but directionless moments with Georgie.

Definitely nothing like other kisses, which just left Jon thinking something was wrong with him.

Michael is eager, welcoming; expertly teasing, somehow making promises with its dishonest tongue. Its speed is Jon’s; content to linger, no rush involved.

It may be a slow burn, but Jon is catching fire.

He’s gasping, twisting. Suddenly wanting the weirdness of Michael’s form however Michael wants to project it because it belongs to Michael.

It’s the who, he thinks, tilting his head back. That’s what I was missing, I only want when it’s the right who. It feels like revelation. It feels like translation for what was wrong with him his whole life.

No. Not wrong. Just him. How he works.

I’m not broken, he thinks, and wants to laugh for joy.

“I am a what, Archivist,” Michael reminds him, and kisses along Jon’s jaw.

“The what, then,” Jon says, amenable. “I… I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do you want to do this?” Michael says.

“Yes.” Jon surprises himself with the answer, considers it, and is sure. ���I do.”

“Then I get to show you very good things,” it says, and its form shifts, going more serpentine, less… blankety. “Your employer will be angry with you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Your god could be, as well, though I am guessing; perhaps it will approve?”

Jon sputters. “Well, maybe I don’t care what it thinks, because it scarred me, and this was the best rest I’ve had in—”

Something down below shifts again, and encases his erection in a tight, warm heat, and whatever Jon was going to say falls right out of his head.

Michael laughs.”Did I misinterpret, Archivist? Perhaps I did. You can be very confusing.”

“N-no,” Jon says. “I mean… misinterpret. I mean—”

It’s another slow, searing kiss, and instinctively, Jon thrusts his hips.

It’s wet in there. He gasps against Michael’s mouth.

“As this experience is new to you,” Michael observes, “we will first ensure our ability to continue for some time.”

”I… what?”

Michael begins to move.

There’s no other word for it, and it is boneless and improbable, and never takes it out of kissing range. Jon groans against it; this is already far more intense than anything he’s ever done to himself.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, clinging to it.

“Never,” Michael lies. “Or at least… not for a while.”

Jon manages a breathy laugh. He’s trying to wait, trying to be considerate, trying to… to…

He thrusts his hips against Michael’s indescribable movement. “I’m—“

In his ear, buzzing and in his head and under the carpet and maybe coming from Mars: “Do.”

Jon comes and thinks he’s definitely done it wrong every other time before. He can feel this in his teeth, wringing his eyes closed, tightening his abdomen so much he damn near lifts them both off the rug.

He’s not sure what sound he makes, but Michael swallows that, too.

Then it’s over, and Jon collapses, recalling how to breathe.

Michael is sort of nuzzling him, weirdly fond. Shifting again, resettling; it’s sliding weight between Jon’s legs.

He’s dazed. “The fuss was about a lot, it turns out,” he says.

Michael finds that funny. “We are hardly done, Archivist. But now, we can take our time.”

“We... what?”

It’s moving his legs, raising his knees. For no good reason (surely there could be no shame after that), Jon’s face is burning.

“Do you wish to continue?” says Michael, holding his widening gaze, and draws its sharp fingers down his right side.

He gasps, arches. “Yes. Yes, I wish to continue.”

“Of course, I will still kill you someday,” Michael says, looking pleased with itself. “That was a joke, do you see?”

Jon laughs and curls up to kiss it again.

Those claws are driving him crazy.

He never realized how much of desire was an internal engine, pistons chugging away even when the body wasn’t quite there yet.

“I,” he says, feeling something down there, something he cannot identify and is afraid to try. “I don’t…”

“Shall I stop?” says Michael, who seems to be having a delightful time. Whatever it is strokes against him, long and slow.

Jon is still compressed, weighted down, feeling precarious (that’s the lie) and safe (that’s not). “Y-you sure you want to?” He says. “I… want to take care of you, too.”

Michael smiles. “I have what I want. You, Archivist.”

“I don’t… your body isn’t like mine, and…”

“My body is what I wish it to be. Continue to let me in, let me have your dreams, and I am sated.”

Remembering, Jon says, “Don’t I need them? To get stronger?”

Softly, Michael says, “You need the living, now. The old will not keep you fed.”

He didn’t want to hear that, didn’t want to know, but Michael is right. Whatever lines he had to cross to survive the Dark, its broken sun, the Lonely and the Web—and what he did to Manuela’s people—there was no going back.

He can’t face it yet. Cannot.

Jon suddenly has a realization. “Wait. I didn't have any nightmares.”

“I ate them,” it purrs at him. “Feasted while you slept. It was perhaps more than I have done before, but… you wanted to rest.”

“Didn’t it burn you?”

“Not in here, Archivist. This is my domain. Your Watcher is not very happy with me,” it says, quite pleased.

A way around harming Michael. “It won’t hurt you in here?”

“It will not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Michael looks mildly surprised. “Because you said you did not want to sleep in my Corridors.”

Jon sighs explosively. “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t realize that could’ve been avoided.”

“I did not bring it up again, Archivist.”

“We are both idiots.”

Michael, fortunately, finds that amusing.

Jon takes a moment to let it sink in, to let the relief ease some of the pain the Lonely left, the wounds by the Dark. He’s never felt so settled in his life—so certain. “Michael, I… I want you. I don’t want to think about anything else but you until we’re done. Whatever you want to do next, yes. The answer is yes.”

Michael’s eyes light up, and Jon thinks he may have asked for more than he realizes. “Our goals are aligned,” it says, and the sinking feeling melts away, and Jon feels worshipped, and Jon feels loved. “The things you say,” it whispers.

Then its fingers are on him again, dragging down his entire torso, catching his nipples, just parting the skin over his ribs, and it heals at once, and it most definitely is not pain. Jon shouts and gives in to the intensity it pulls over his mind like a caul.

It doesn’t hurt as it enters him, whatever it is—not sharp, warm, a little too flexible to be anything Jon can identify. Maybe it should hurt, maybe it actually does, but he’s twisted too much to feel it.

Need, need, want, want, each push deep inside crests right over that pounding desire Elias forced on him in the hall, because this is his, and he chooses it, and tries to angle up against Michael to take it deeper.

Michael grips his hips (light, hair-thin cuts that seal almost immediately, raw sensation driving him wild) and does something different, making heavy contact with a place inside Jon that sends shocks all the way to his toes and up through his eyes like white lightning.

He shouts.

Twists, head back and throat exposed, as Michael sets a steady rhythm and Jon realizes he’s hard all over again.

He didn’t know his body could do that.

Maybe it isn’t real. Maybe it’s distorted, mere perception.

If it is, he doesn’t care.

It’s lasting forever.

It’s not lasting long enough.

“Don’t stop!” he shouts, and Michael laughs, and draws its fingertips over him again, and he gasps as its sharpest points just tease across his nipples, and he comes.

Doing this while filled is more. More. So much more.

Jon can’t even make a sound, strangled with it.

He collapses. He doesn’t think the ugly wallpaper spinning is entirely Michael’s doing.

Not in the usual sense, anyway.

He can’t tell if it climaxed, too—if it can, if it did—but judging by the sounds and the way it’s moving (on, against, with), it’s satisfied.

So is the Eye, but Jon refuses to engage with that.

He slides his hands down what could be Michael’s back, its form always shifting, its mass accepting his touch. “Don’t ever stop,” he wishes.

“Never,” it says, and this kiss doesn’t taste like a lie.

Jon dozes, and time doesn’t move at all.

#

It is twelve thirty-five when Jon appears back in his office, wearing yet more clothes he never purchased, and he feels the immediacy of Elias’ attention snap onto him.

“He noticed I was gone, then,” says Jon as Michael turns back to its door. “Stay with me.”

Michael raises its eyebrows.

“I want you here. With me.”

“Making a proclamation, Archivist! How bold. Sadly, I will have to make my excuses.” Michael beams. “I am weakened, and it would not be a good idea to face your employer right now.”

“Weakened?”

Michael doesn’t reply.

Something is still wrong. Jon swallows. “Please just… we’ll need that door. Soon. The Unknowing is happening soon.”

“I did not forget, Archivist.”

Jon feels like he has to try to be the moral center here. “Please be mindful who you eat.”

Michael thinks that is hilarious, and its laughter echoes a moment after the door is gone.

Jon can see the outline.

Looking up, he sees tiny dots where all the spiders hide.

Trembling, looking around, he sees that his office is filled with fucking eyes, magnificently hidden on the walls and in the ceiling and the furniture and the rug, even on the shade and bulb of his little desk lamp, and he wants to go find a window just so he can jump out of it.

Elias bangs into the room.

For one moment, it’s a repeat of the… other night (Last night? Was it really?), and Elias is furious, and Elias is scared, and then he… stops.

He looks at Jon, around Jon, at things Jon has no idea of.

And Elias takes a single step back.

Jon stares at him. “What?”

“Oh is that him?” comes a cheerful voice, and a little old man peers around Elias’ shoulder. “Hello!” he says, absolutely beaming, the kind of elderly that makes people think cute. “It’s wonderful to meet you when you’re awake!”

“Go back upstairs, if you please,” says Elias, who has yet to blink.

“Elias is such a wet blanket, isn’t he?” chirps the old man. “Later, then!” And he gives Jon a look that somehow says he knows what Elias is looking at, and that look is hungry, and it is not cute or chipper at all, and he is gone.

“Simon Fairchild,” Jon blurts. “He’s…” One of Elias’s donors. Also big. Huge. Old. Something not at all as he appears.

Fitting, for an avatar of the Vast.

Elias steps inside and closes the door. He comes no closer.

Jon shifts his weight, and Elias goes feral, looks like he’s about to leap over the desk at him.

As if he thinks Jon’s going to vanish again. It must be quite the mystery how Jon did it in the first place.

“I’m just going to sit down,” says Jon, and does. Right now, he does not care if Elias looms.

“What has happened to you?” Elias says, softly.

“I rescued Michael. Then your Peter Lukas came along and put me in the Lonely, and said something about a ritual,” says Jon.

“He what?”

“Then Michael rescued me. I think you’re all caught up.”

Elias stares at him. “You’ve been missing an hour and a half.”

Jon laughs. It’s almost a sob, shakier than he likes. “No,” he says. “No. I haven’t.”

Elias comes around, very gently cups his chin, looks.

Jon lets him.

He’s proud of what he did.

He’s terrified of what he did.

He did what he did.

Somehow, rest—actual rest—with Michael, helped this all to settle. Good or bad, it’s done.

“Oh,” breathes Elias. “You have grown.”

“Did you know you scarred me, the other night?” says Jon. “Apparently, what you did to ‘help’ me face my nightmares did actual damage.”

“No, Jon. I’d say quite the opposite.” Elias strokes Jon’s hair, ignoring the flinch. “If those parts of you had not been hardened, imagine what harm the Dark could have done.”

As always, Elias knows just what to say, and Jon can all too clearly imagine Mister Pitch’s blade scraping lines across his brain. “Thanks for that image,” he mutters.

“I am proud of you,” says Elias. “I am also very angry.” He strokes Jon’s jaw with his thumb.

Jon shoves his hand off. “I don’t want that.”

“So you say.” And Elias winces, and checks his phone. For a moment, he looks so human, so incredibly frustrated. Then the mask slips, and the other looks back at Jon. “I am about to go teach a lesson on how unwise it is to poach from me. Would you like to come?’

“I’m not quarry, or something,” says Jon.

Elias gives him a heated look.

Jon puts his hand over his face. “You said ‘poach.’ I only meant—”

“I know, Jon. Do you want to come?” says Elias.

“No,” says Jon.

“You could face your captor. It might help you parse what happened to you.”

“I’ve chosen my therapist, thank you.”

That reminder wiped Elias’ smile away. “I should have thrown it into the sea.”

Jon sighs. “Elias…”

“I should have sent it up to the Daedalus, to be hurled into the sun.”

“Stop. You’re being ridiculous.”

Elias cups his face again and brushes Jon’s lips with his thumb, his gaze heavy, hot. “I should never have underestimated you.”

Jon can’t reply to  that. There is so much in Elias’s look. “You—”

Elias’ phone buzzes. He sighs. “Do not dare go home with that creature.”

“I’ll go where I want to,” Jon dares in his direction.

Buzz.

“Damn these jackals,” says Elias, and turns to go. Glances back. “There is movement at the museum. You don’t have time to run off again, unless you want everyone to die while you’re playing catch-up for your teenage years, so I’d suggest. You. Stay. Put.” And he’s gone.

Jon can’t bring himself to care about Elias’ mood right now. He stretches out on his desk.

The tea is cold.

He drinks it anyway, half expecting a spider in the cup, but there isn’t one.

If he lets his mind drift, he can see Elias’s office—and Peter Lukas, the man who’d followed Jon, who’d trapped Jon, looking half chagrined and half pleased with himself.

Elias was clearly reading him some sort of riot act. Simon Fairchild sits on the couch behind Lukas, laughing through the whole thing.

Why were they talking about me? because he suddenly knows they were. “You owe me an answer, Annabelle,” he says.

The spiders do not reply.

Jon rests on his desk. He doubts he will get much time.

Absently, he strokes the scar on his left arm and thinks of Michael.

Michael, who is weakened.

Michael, who evinced some kind of conflict in D.C, who is not well.

Jon didn’t ask what was wrong.

He wishes that he had.

#

Tim’s the one to come for him. This is significant. It is an acceptance, of sorts. “Elias says it’s time to go,” says Tim, who is dressed all in black, and wearing a backpack full of plastic explosive.

There’s one for Jon, too. He, however, does not have a ninja uniform.

Daisy and Martin are waiting, grim. Elias arrives—but not to go with them. “I will be blind if I go with you. From here, I can watch and provide help.”

“What, Jon’s powers aren’t good enough for you?’

“Jon’s powers will have enough to carry without trying to shoehorn me into the mix,” says Elias. “I assure you—being that close to my mind would… distract him.”

Apparently, Elias isn’t being secretive about his wants anymore. The way he said that was awful.

No one is sure how to take it. They all look to Jon.

Who is red.

Which does not help.

“Don’t want to know, don’t want to know,” mutters Tim.

Jon won’t look at Martin.

Daisy couldn’t care less. “So are you doing this, or not?”

Suddenly self-conscious, Jon fights the urge to turn away from them. As casually as he can, he touches the scar on his arm, as though just being nervous. “Michael,” he says, softly. “We need that door. Please.”

It appears, and opens all on its own.

Elias’ nostrils flare.

Martin whistles, low.

Jon opens it.

Though that wall goes into the library, should reveal stacks and stacks of books, instead, the door opens on a quiet street.

Across the way is a building, falling apart; it’s brown, simple, with white stone accents and blue window coverings.

It’s a cute little area; touristy, with signs proclaiming foot-long hot dogs and 50% off towels.

It’s also completely empty, and feels darker than it should.

HOUSE OF WAX, it says, long defunct.

“Doesn’t seem very big,” whispers Martin.

“They made it big,” whispers Jon, and steps through.

This place should not be so deserted—

Jon feels it the second his feet touch the street—a pull, an emptying of mind, a strange, sucking loss of everything he is and was and could be.

The others pile after him and also freeze, blank, breathing faster, all of them beginning to panic because they cannot know what they have forgotten.

Then Jon’s mind snaps back into place. “Look at me,” he says, not even thinking. “What do you see?”

“Jon,” says Martin with great relief.

“My asshole boss,” says Tim with less acid than usual.

“A monster,” says Daisy.

Jon winces. “Good enough. Stick close. Martin, where’s that side entrance?”

They go around the neighboring shops (SHOES GALORE, the sign proclaims), and find the simple service entrance.

It is unlocked, door wide, waiting for them.

“This is a bad sign,” says Martin.

“Yeah. For them,” says Tim, and runs right in.

“Tim, wait! Damn it!” Jon runs after him.

“Jon, wait!” says Martin, following.

Daisy sighs and follows, too.

#

Tim is gone, just gone, and Jon can’t see him.

“Tim!” Jon hisses, and is shushed by Daisy.

Jon can’t find him.

No, no, no, he thinks, over and over, clutching fistfuls of his hair.

“It’s bigger on the inside,” Martin tries to joke, voice trembling, and is also shushed.

It is bigger. It should not be, but it is.

It is very quickly clear that the blueprints Martin found are completely useless, and Tim is completely lost.

There is a bubble around Jon, near him, in which they all can think, but anyone who goes too far from it gets vague and panicked.

And he has to fight to keep it maintained. It’s not Atlas-levels of weight, but it is badly tiring.

Jon is not sure how long he can keep it up.

“We have to move,” says Daisy, keeping them organized, and they search until they find stairs going down.

The calliope music hits them at once.

Under it is a dark sound, a big, heavy, terrible, inhuman voice, groaning as if undergoing some effort. Over that is Nikola, singing instructions, laughing, having the time of her unreal life.

Her voice affects Jon more than he expected. His focus wavers.

“Steady, Jon,” says Martin.

Daisy searches. “Lower.”

“Why? How do you even know we can go lower?” whispers Martin.

“I know.” She is hunting, and has a different kind of power here than Jon.

They pass the floor with… whatever the Circus is doing, and it is hard, and they feel like they’re moving through mud, and there is no sign of Tim at all.

Jon could cry.

“He’s going to be okay,” says Martin, because he has to, and Jon needs no powers to know that Martin is tearing apart, holding himself together purely with unfounded hope.

Daisy speeds up, on the chase—and she’s right.

There is a weird sub-basement underneath the Circus’ ritual site. The music trickles down, as does that horrible bass moan; and sometimes, there are screams.

“There are people up there!” Martin says.

“They’re being sacrificed,” says Jon in a hollow voice.

“We have to do something!”

“We are.” Jon can hardly handle it. “We are going to stop this all.”

“No, we have to help them, we—”

“We what? If we go there, they will just capture us, too. We don’t have the power, Martin. We can’t save those people beyond ending it quickly.”

It’s true.

That doesn’t make it okay.

The look Martin gives him is not… kind. For a moment.

Daisy snaps her fingers between them. “Explosives. Now.”

Jon blinks a few times. “Load-bearing. There.”

In spite of Tim running off with part of the stash, they have enough—just—to thoroughly bring the building down, collapsing it from the inside, and they move together, staying in Jon’s bubble.

Jon is beginning to sweat. The pressure of the magic growing overhead is…

Bigger than me, he thinks. If it were directed at me, if they knew I was here…

Surely, they wouldn’t skin him now. Breekon and Hope said they had something else, some alternative, and—

Grave dust.

Jon gasps. “They have Gertrude’s skin!”

He gets very startled looks with that proclamation. “They have what?” hisses Martin.

“Gertrude’s skin. Oh, gods, they dug her up. They got an Archivist’s skin, after all.”

Martin makes a gagging sound.

Jon makes a second one.

Daisy snaps her fingers between them. “Focus.”

Not so easy.

Especially when Daisy asks for the detonator, and Jon realizes it’s gone.

He searches everything, takes off his cardigan and searches again, and then realizes just what happened. “Tim has it.”

Martin is shaking. “Jon. Save him. Please.”

Jon looks up. Meets his eyes. Sees—

“Come on, Martin, it’s just a coffee.”

“I… I don’t know, Tim, I mean, we work together, and it could get… awkward…”

“It’s not about that, though, is it?” Tim sits on his desk, in his space, but only the way Tim always does, and it’s wonderful, and warm, and Jon misses it. “How about this: if I let you tell me why I shouldn’t hurl our boss into the sun, will you come?”

Martin laughs. “Tim, that’s not fair—”

But then they go, and they dance, and they kiss, and it is a silly time and it is an awkward time, and when Martin said goodbye to Jon it was saying hello to something so good and so healing that maybe there is hope for joy for both of them, and—

Jon shudders, instantly swims into loss of what could have been.

He’s happy for them. Genuinely. Even if it pounds some more of those lying, Lonely nails into his heart.

It’s better this way. He won’t get Martin killed if Martin isn’t with him.

Martin stays focused. “Please, Jon.”

Martin believes he can save Tim.

“Maybe I can do this manually,” says Daisy, who missed all of that.

Jon touches her arm.

She startles.

“I’ll find it, and I’ll find him. You two are leaving.”

Daisy tells him to do something biologically impossible to himself.

Jon looks at Martin. “You can’t help with this. You know that, right?”

“I know.” Martin’s face twists. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask.”

Slowly, so Martin sees it coming, Jon kisses his cheek.

It is his own goodbye, and in a beautiful, rare moment of miracle, he sees that Martin understands. “Let’s go,” says Jon.

Back up the stairs, back to that suspiciously open door, back to Michael’s door, which, fortunately, is still waiting (though Michael is not, and that scares Jon very much).

Why would they leave the service door open like that, why would they have left it open, this is too easy, it’s gone too well, they have to be sure of something I don’t know—

Martin is trying not to sob. Daisy at his side, scowling at Jon in what looks like confusion.

Jon closes Michael’s door, leaving them safe in London.

I suppose monsters aren’t expected to do the hard thing, Jon thinks, and takes a deep breath to stabilize his bubble of knowing, and heads back into the worst wax museum in the world.

(part sixteen)

[purplesurveys]

1712

Would you ever work at a movie theater?  Probably not at this point of my life, no.

Do you have a phone charger in your car?  Yeah we have the adaptor that's specifically built for cars – it's just your typical Apple gatekeepy shit that makes me unable to charge my phone in the car because iPhone chargers have different cable requirements. I just bring a power bank to solve the problem.

Do you live far from your parents?  I live with them.

What was the last type of smoothie you drank?  I have never had a smoothie because I don't like fruits. The closest I ever got to having one was buying something from Jamba Juice once, but I got one of their non-smoothie items (a chocolate shake) HAHAHA.

Do you think you have a wide vocabulary?  I like to think so. The thing that is limiting, though, about PR and even journalism as a whole is the general rule that you must be able to write just well enough for a 4th grader to understand. That means I'm constantly sacrificing the vocabulary I do know because I'm kind of required to dumb everything down (I once got told off for using 'plethora' and I've stopped using it since lol).

Anyway, I try to compensate by just writing A LOT on here (i.e. overexplaining in my answers haha) and reading articles so I get to expand my vocab further and to learn more writing styles.

Describe your current position:  I just have my legs propped up. My laptop is balanced between my tummy and thighs.

Have you used a microwave today?  I have not.

What is your favorite mobile app?  Twitter, Instagram, Reddit, YouTube, Facebook.

Have you ever slept through an alarm?  Many times. I'm a terrible waker-upper(??).

Do you have lactose intolerance or know anyone who does? I am lactose intolerant but it has never stopped me before.

Can you go see a doctor alone or do you like to take someone with you?  I can.

Which household chore do you hate the most?  Folding laundry, particularly someone else's. I'm a bit of a germaphobe when it comes to other people's clothes, even if they are fresh out the washing machine.

Do you like pineapple on pizza?  No.

Do you like to hold hands?  Only with a significant other. I feel squeamish if a non-SO does it, even if they mean to be sweet/affectionate.

Will you sleep alone tonight?  Yes.

How do you feel right now? Relaxed and content. But omg my lower back and shoulders hurt. Nothing Katinko can't fix though hahaha.

What are your plans for tonight?  Eat all the shit I ordered from Dunkin' and maybe watch an episode of Run BTS to help lull me to sleep.

Do you want a tattoo?  I want them, but I'm not willing to get them.

Have you ever kissed the last person you text messaged?  Nopes.

Who was the last person you cried in front of?  Technically it was Celeste and Pau but I didn't show it. It was last Tuesday when PH won against New Zealand in the Women's World Cup. Who knew I'd be this invested in football??? LOL

Are your eyes the same color as your dad’s?  Yes.

Have you smoked a cigarette in the past 24 hours?  Nope.

Are you the youngest?  In the family? No.

What’s your favourite type of cake?  Cheesecake with a graham crust is just to die for.

Do you have any life changing plans within the next 6 months?  I wouldn't say so, no.

When’s the last time you played the board game Clue? I have never played it.

[multipleoccupancy]

A bigger New York? It sounded like a headache, it was hard enough keeping track of everything in its current size but Theo smiled anyway as she described it to him. The town was busy but it was nothing on her New York, the closest person walking along the street was a good 100meters away. He had no idea what a 'car' was but did just assume she had mispronounced 'cart' and didn't address it, assuming very incorrectly that it was the same thing. His eyes widened at the thought of a building known as a sky scraper! He even looked up to see the clouds above and tried to imagine what it was like, assuming it was literal.

She revealed she lived by the Hudson and Theo beamed at her, of course that was the side he and Andrea lived too though he frowned in some confusion and slight worry that she lived on the fourteenth floor of anything! "Don't you get dizzy being that high up?" He quizzed right away, the question blurting out unchecked. "People can't live like boxes stacked on top of each other," he shuddered at the thought, "No that ain't for me." He tipped his hat to the girl who emerged from one of the buildings, a subconscious but polite gesture while he wondered about her version of New York.

He chuckled with her as she spoke more about the younger version she had met. "Sounds like something I would do," he confirmed for them ending up fighting a monster together, all perfectly normal for him of course. His face lit up into a wide smile as she mentioned Samantha. "No way is she a friend across the timelines too?" He said excitedly, shaking his head, thoroughly enjoying learning all about this other timeline. Fanciful almost but he believed her every word. "She's my deputy here, and one of my oldest friends."

Oh so there were more! A son and another daughter, a baby no less. Theo smiled for the image despite not having any clue what the other two looked like. What a nice little family, he thought to himself. How fortunate his counterpart was. He seemed to be doing the same work at least and Theo nodded thoughtfully for it. "Delta Green huh? Sounds like a toxic river or something," he mused playfully and still very excitedly as they walked. "By the sounds of it you have your sweet little heart set on working for them, I am sure with some monster killing behind you already and your Pa already working for them, they'll hire you. Sounds like your timeline needs more monster fighting folks anyway." Completely oblivious to the worst parts of Delta Green of course and that it was a contentious issue back in her home.

"Don't worry about your clothes," he reassured her, "Folks have seen stranger here but I'm sure we might have something for you to change into if you need to. Well, Andrea will have something for you. I do not pull off a dress very well." He chuckled again, the laugh akin to her father's after one of his terrible jokes. "Do you want to change your clothes though? We can do that now if you want, just have to walk down this street and take a left and we'll be home." A very simple and short patrol for New York Town's sheriff.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 & 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 @multipleoccupancy

"Well, New York in my timeline is bigger," she explained, excited to describe her timeline to him, "it is a lot more crowded, too. There are people and cars everywhere." Did he know what a car was? She had only seen carriages and horses in the streets here. "The buildings are very high, they're called skyscrapers." She didn't want to assume that he didn't know about these things, but it seemed that this timeline had been trapped in the past. "I live by the Hudson, on the 14th floor of a building."

She followed him, eagerly observing everything around her. A girl about her age stepped out of a house and started untying one of the horses. She was wearing a wool dress that stopped right under the knee, with an apron over it, and thick wool stockings too. Violet had never ridden a horse, but she kind of wanted to try, now. It only seemed fitting in a timeline like this.

A little chuckle left her lips at Theo's apology, on behalf of the 18-year-old version of Theo. "Oh, he was very nice," she replied with a big smile, "but certainly a lot more reckless than my Dad. We fought a monster together, in the woods. There was his best friend with us, too, Samantha. Do you know a Samantha?"

"I was adopted, yes," she confirmed softly, "my siblings, too. Klaus and Sunny. Klaus is the brightest boy there is, he's always reading. And Sunny is my baby sister." And what about the Baudelaires who lived here? Were they safe? Were they running away from Olaf? They kept reappearing in her thoughts. She was worried about them. "People don't know about the paranormal in my timeline, but there's an organization that fights monsters, it's called Delta Green. My Dad works for them, and I hope I'll work for them too when I'm older." She blushed just a little bit. "I hope I will. I think my clothes stick out, though."

[asexualenjolras]

Robin Buckley is autistic-coded. And I love it.

The line: "I don’t really have a filter or a strong grasp of social cues" is such an important line. It's always so refreshing to see such positive neurodivergent representation in female characters. Robin is highly intelligent, highly empathetic and struggles to contextualise and understand social situations but she is shown to be genuine and honest.

It's realistic that she doesn't have a diagnosis of ASD, given that this show is set in the 1980's and autism in females is so misunderstood still today, in 2022.

She says she is aware that her coming across as "mean or condescending" is a "flaw" because her "mother reminds (her) me everyday", which is something so common in undiagnosed autistic people.

We know from season three that Robin wasn't overly popular at school, and was the sort of student that played band and got high grades. We know that Robin doesn't do well when talking about her emotions and she can be quite straight to the point in conversations. She struggles to make friends and has quite a monotone way of speaking. I think it's been hinted at that her special interests may be movies, languages and band.

Additionally, she's shown to have sensory issues with particular textures when she talks about hating wearing certain clothing.

Robin is so well-liked, too. So having her coded to be autistic is such a lovely reminder that being autistic is okay. I think we all need that sometimes.

I headcanon she also has Dyspraxia because she says, and I quote, "I should warn you, I have terrible co-ordination. It took me like 6 months longer to learn to walk than the other babies." She can't run. I can't run very well. She has Dyspraxia. And that's co-morbid with ASD.

Also, there have been studies to show that autistic people are more likely to be LGBTQ+, so it makes sense. Robin is 100% an autistic lesbian and I love her.

Anyways, I haven't seen autism portrayed in a female character this well since Phoebe Spengler in Ghostbusters: Afterlife; these 80's set series and films really are giving us the most incredible representation.

Thank you, Stranger Things. This is such a genuine portrayal of autism. Thank you.

Edit: I'm seeing a lot of people saying that Robin wasn't neurodivergent in season three and I just wanted to add that masking is a thing. Robin didn't know Steve well enough to feel comfortable to lower that mask before. There are hints that she is autistic even in season three, like when she really struggles to find the words to describe how she's feeling and rambles when faced with difficult situations.

In fact, Steve even has to tell her that she "wasn't helping" when El was trying to sort out her leg in the mall scene. The hints were there all along but season four gave us an unmasked Robin and I am so grateful for that.

[sixofpomegranates]

Can you write one where Spencer Reid goes shopping for lingerie with his plus sized girlfriend??

♜ 𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 ♞ -𝚂.𝚁.

A/N: !Skin Color & Ethnicity Neutral! Saleswoman experience straight from my own trauma. 🥲

CW: slight angst, fluff, comfort | Mentions of Weight/bullying, insecurity about body, anxiety, pining, self-hate,

**********

*picture does not describe the looks of the reader*

**********

Is there anyone comfortable with buying clothes in a store anymore?

Is there any chubby girl that is comfortable with it?

What about underwear?

I feel like buying underwear in a store is even worse.

I'm a girl of bigger size. I never fit in anything small ever. Puberty gave me a J-Lo butt but didn't spare me from having the rest of my body fit the new curves.

Online shopping became a thing when I was out of the woods, when I was old enough to have the damage of judging, skinny girls in trendy shops embedded in my mind.

There is nothing worse than standing next to your friends that pick the cutest outfits, and you just know that the biggest size in the store is maybe a 6.

Well, there is. Having a saleswoman come up to you, looking you up and down and telling you they don't cater to your size... Have been there. I cried for the rest of the day.

This is why I love online shopping.

Sure, we can go into details about how it's terrible for the environment to order things and send them back... But the feeling of safely trying on stuff at home?

Not having to stand in front of mirrors that, combined with the harsh lighting, make you hate yourself?

Being able to take the clothes off and just send them back if they don't fit, without the looks of a skinny woman on you?

It is indescribable. It changed my life and my relationship with my body.

Sadly, sometimes you are out with your boyfriend... And men rarely struggle with their body image. They definitely can as well, don't get me wrong, but a sweetheart like Spencer that never has to watch his calories because he stays a skinny pretty boy no matter what? He isn't fully aware of how women still compete with each other when in stores.

He doesn't know the nervous feeling of looking through the sizes of the rack, eyes on you, mouths snickering that you won't find something your size anyway, or that you maybe have luck at the store selling tents.

Yes, we're now in a time where women start supporting each other, strangers ready to throw fists for you to stand up for what's right, but we still have a long way to go.

Women are still trained by society and social media to compete with each other to fit social norms and acceptance. Hopefully, our children will never have to feel like we did growing up.

Going to a mall for a shopping date between Spencer and me isn't something new. He loves having me around when running his errands and then just calls it shopping dates which end with me getting treated for dinner.

But the last couple of times we were intimate, Spencer discovered what fun it is to rip my underwear from my body and go completely feral.

Needless to say, when we passed the store I usually order from online, he pulled me in to replace the ruined pieces and maybe find some more things for me to feel sexy in.

One year of dating, and I am still not entirely sure if he's aware of the issues I have with my body. I am honest about my struggles nowadays, but he just has this smile and way of talking about me and my looks that make me feel like he can't see any of my insecurities.

The women working here come in all sizes and colors; one woman even wears a hijab. It makes me feel comfortable shopping for my underwear; these are all beautiful, friendly, non-judgmental women that just make me feel normal.

Buying clothes should make you feel like this. Normal.

After grabbing some of my favorite panties, ones that don't roll under your stomach when you sit down and actually cover your whole butt and not just one cheek, Spencer and I wander off to the more sexy clothes.

I practically jump at the garter belts in bigger sizes and the tights made for big thighs, and when I turn in Spencer's direction, he lifts a purple lingerie set.

"Please," he says, looking at me with his puppy eyes.

I take the set from him. It's pretty. Expensive, but underwear is expensive nowadays anyway... And fuck, this is sexy.

The waistline has a tough elastic band. I have a soft stomach, so I fear it could leave a visible line through my clothes and make me look like a pressed sausage.

"I don't know..." I whisper, noticing that Spencer has already picked my size. "You'd look so pretty," he insists, and I sigh. "It's underwear. It's not like you'd see it much anyway."

"It's lingerie. Made to be seen by those worthy and make you feel sexy and confident knowing you're wearing it," he corrects me, wiggling his eyebrows.

In theory, I want it. In reality, I fear never wearing it because I could feel ridiculous in it.

Since my youth, I have refused to try on things in stores. You could say that it's a coping mechanism to protect me from past discrimination.

If it doesn't fit, I lack the guts to return it.

Staring at the piece for a while, I decide to take the risk and toss it into my shopping basket. Should the set not fit properly, it'll become something solely for the bedroom to make Spencer happy.

"You win," I tell him with a smile as his grin widens. "Happy?" He nods. "The happiest," he answers, pressing a kiss onto my forehead.

We look around some more and finally pay, the cashier telling us how to ensure the items are returnable should they not fit.

Hearing that the tag must still be attached to the article, Spencer promptly removes it from the purple lingerie set. "We're definitely keeping that," he whispers into my ear, smiling his boyish grin.

Finally, at home, I find a moment to myself. I walk into my bedroom and try on my new underwear. Everything fits as perfectly as always. But I still haven't tried on my lingerie.

I actually dread it.

I undress from everything and stare the set, laid out on my bed, down.

I don't fear trying it on. I shouldn't fear trying it on.

It's just clothes... But the initial feeling of disappointment when things don't fit or looked better on you in your fantasy...

"Okay." Taking a deep breath, I try on the set.

As predicted, the waistband is a little tight at my stomach. It's not as bad as I expected it, but old habits die hard, and I still try to search for the blame on myself.

From the front, everything looks like a dream. The bra sits perfectly, doesn't pinch or make my boobs look pointy in a way that screams Madonna's cone bra. The panties give my body an hourglass look.

It's perfect, except for the way the panties slightly dig into the soft fat of my belly.

Spencer knocks politely before coming in. The second he sees me, his jaw drops to the floor.

He walks over, sitting down on my bed. "You look so pretty," he whispers.

I turn to the side, running over the small roll the underwear creates. Spencer's eyes follow my hands; I know he sees this imperfection.

"Do you think?" I ask him, and he nods eagerly. "I'm so lucky to have you," he answers, lovesick.

"I don't like the roll it creates right here," I say in an act of self-sabotage, thinking I could get him to agree.

"Is it uncomfortable?" he asks me instead. I shake my head, and he nods, "I didn't notice it before you mentioned it. It's not a big deal, honestly. It's still hot as hell. Thanks for letting me buy it."

Suddenly I feel like giggling. Apparently, Spencer does see all the parts I am insecure about; he just doesn't give a fuck about them.

I look beautiful to him, and the only person finding something they don't like about things I want to feel sexy in is myself because I was taught to dislike my body and find problems with it.

Looking into the mirror again, I start feeling silly. You really don't notice the roll if you don't concentrate on it. I run my hand over the expensive material, feeling a burst of confidence run through me.

I turn around as Spencer giggles. "What?" I ask, and he reaches out for my hand. I take it, and he pulls me onto the bed. "I just like having a pretty girlfriend," he states, kissing me softly.

Pretty girlfriend. I like being his pretty girlfriend as well.

As I pull away, I press a kiss on his flushed cheek. "I'm lucky to have you too, Spence."

.

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