#because that's really the reason I was pushing through the slough of an end game at the end

[bylightofdawn]

I finished ME3 and whelp that end game was a fucking SLOG. OH MY GOD. It never ended. I ended up going with Control because I am a weak-willed paragon player at the end of the day. I will probably reload my save if I can and experiment with Destroy tomorrow though. Even though I did a shit ton of side-missions I guess my military assets still weren’t enough. I blame the fact I didn’t know the Reapors would breed like fucking lice and I prolly should have spent the first day just scanning for as much materials as I could because I did 95% of the side-missions that didn’t require scanning and I was only like 6000+

Fuck. My. Life.

Okay so my hot takes are as follows: I still love Shepard/Garrus. I was very heartbroken to break Kaidan’s heart by picking the sexy velociraptor over him.

Also, Garrus never gave me shit for picking up with Cerberus and I get why people dislike Kaidan. I still think his pluses outweigh the minuses and I am thinking of doing a m!Shep only trilogy playthrough where I romance him cause fuck I love war buddies falling in love and watching a friendship shift into something more trope. -cough cough- I’m looking at you Cortez and Vega. -cough cough-

Garrus also kinda reads as ver young and emotionally immature in a lot of ways. Like Shepard was definitely the first serious relationship he ever had. Fucks sake, this man’s idea of a date was to go and shoot things on top of the Citadel. And he cannot be smooth to save his poor Turian life. 

But that’s part of his charm, if I’m being honest. However compare that to the heartbreaking and emotionally vulnerable moments Shepard and Kaidan have, you can definitely tell the developers were more invested in that romance.

I ABJECTLY REFUSE to acknowledge they did my bae Kal’Reegar like they did and fucking offed him in a fucking email. N O P E. Sorry, rumors of his death are greatly exaggerated and he will drag his wounded ass home and surprise Tali by being alive. I will accept no other canon.

I fucking ship the hell out of Liara and Javik even though Javik is a super not-cool colonizer/ at times outright misogynist and I don’t know how I feel about this. It makes me uncomfortable but I guess that’s why you have problematic faves. So long as you are willing to acknowledge and accept that the shit they pull isn’t kosher and don’t try and defend it then it’s up for you to find that balance of on your morality scale.

But yeah even Citadel DLC hinted at that being a thing and yeah I ship it.

I don’t mind Garrus/Tali as much as I thought I was when going into ME3 and I know I kinda rudely labeled it as pair the spares but the more I think about it, the more I can see it. I mean, they have been with Shepard for years and I can totally see them building a bond. I would also be completely down for a Garrus/Tali slow-burn where Shepard/Garrus was a thing and now Garrus needs to find a way to conduct his life in a world without her being the pendulum on which his orbit revolves.

And I feel like Tali and Kaidan/Liara to a lesser extent are the people who would understand what it’s like trying to live in a world without her larger-than-life presence. I am also 1000% open to the idea of Garrus/Kaidan finding second chance love with one another with them grieving together over the loss of Shepard and HAVE in fact read some really awesome fanfics with that theme.

I’ve been reading SO MANY FANFICS during this playthrough and I have a shit ton of pairings, both crack and otherwise. I’m compiling a list of ME fanfic recs right now that I will gush about in ad nauseam later.

I got boned because I didn’t import from ME1 onwards so it felt like a personal attack and failing that Eve and Miranda died. I also didn’t have access to Kasumi or Zaheed which made me sad.

I just don’t think I’m up for sinking another 100+ hours into this series right this moment. I am debating buying Andromedea but the amount of bitching and whinging I’ve heard about it, I don’t know if it’s just fandom being a whiny titty baby because they ‘broke it’ or if it’s legitimate criticism.

I’m darkly amused that I am 2/2 in the talking at people long enough they would rather shoot themselves than listen to me pontificate any longer. First Saren and now the Illusive Man, Shepard really do be talking people quite literally to death with her care bear stares Paragon energy. 🤣 And yes I am dating myself horrifically with that reference.

I’m also debating picking up Dragon Age. I bought it on disk for PS3 I think but I’m not breaking that shit out to play a horrifically grainy near 20 year old title. Hopefully it has a remastered edition.

I’m glad I finally finished this series. I’ve legit been picking it up and putting it down for like 10 years at this point. Do I think it’s worth the hype everyone has given it? Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhh no? It’s serviceable and definitely a fun ride. I am super both confused and impressed with BioWare rehauling the gaming mechanics THREE DIFFERENT TIMES. Like, I respect the grind but why? I know everyone hated the Mako and none of use were sad to see it go but jeeze. I’m assuming there was a gaming engine difference between the three of them but still it’s not usual to have the gaming mechanics changed three different times and it gives it a bit of a haphazard vibe because of it.

I actually REALLY MISSED the hacking games in ME3. I suspect I’m prolly in the minority there but I would much rather have that fun code matching/icon matching memory style game over mashing buttons in ME1 or just having to sit there watching Shepard wave her hand around for 10 seconds while bypassing doors in ME3.

I hated only having access to three/eventually four weapons in ME2 but I liked it’s leveling up system the most. Class restricted weapons just didn’t do it for me. Being able to build your paragon/renegade level in ME1 is just weird and I’m glad they got away from that. I do feel like ME1 and ME3 were more similar in how they did their level scaling and I really liked being able to earn a special ability from one of your teammates if you invested enough time and effort into building a rapport with them. Whereas you could just buy it in ME2.

NGL I got Flare and didn’t look back at all. LMAO. What a stupidly OP ability. Banshee and Brutes? Eh toss some grenades and Flare at them and it ain’t a problem anymore.

There are other things but I think I’ve spazzed out long enough over this stupid video game trilogy.

[ohheyitsokay]

Oooooooooo I'm excited! I love a good soulmate AU and I love your writing!!! Here's what I'm feeling - choose your own adventure.

-The first time you touch your soulmate, you have to relive both the best and worst day of their life with Ezra

-Soulmates are rare/special with Ezra

-Marcus Moreno and sharing a heartbeat

❤❤❤❤❤

V, absolute light of my life, you're really going to give me 3 great ideas and expect me to choose just 1? Cruel

Thank you, really, and I hope you enjoy!! (And thank you for your patience!)

wordcount: 1.4k

warnings: mentions of trauma and violence (Ezra's arm, it's a rough life okay?), a little yearning, mostly massive quantities of fluff.

>>

Once, when he was on one of the more populated planets, Erza had seen an ad for a game wealthy children played on their monitors. There was a flash of a scene where he could see a man-like creature displaying tools and resources and gems for the hero, and he'd been dumbfounded. When he had expressed his bewilderment to his companion at the time, they had been mockingly amused. They told him that it was a side character’s job to bend down and peddle away the best of their lives to the hero for cheap return, to further the good of a greater, more interesting life.

Ezra had scoffed and scowled and swallowed hard before pushing the concept to the back of his mind. Because in truth, when he was young, he had always fancied himself the hero of his story, one of the few adventurers who still saw beauty and excitement in the gathering and the travel. His upbringing was mediocre at best, but he knew he was skilled on a number of fronts, and that alone should have set him up for grandness. Maybe his sense of justice was balanced out by his need of survival, but with his flare for drama, he hoped at least he would be one of the few the universe would bless with a soulmate. It just felt right, like a bird singing from the a branch at the top of a tree or a flower that bloomed without puffing poison into the atmosphere - beautiful.

He would dream of who you would be, how you’d find each other and he spent extra hours prospecting, hoping to save up to give you the life you'd surely deserve.

That was years ago.

He wasn’t sure at which point he became a side character in his own life, but it certainly happened at some point. Exciting things in his life always seemed to be more on the unfortunate end of the spectrum, rather than the heroic and fantastical. Cee was a main character, he thought, she certainly had as much adventure as he did, the little spitfire, and still had both arms and her youth, to boot. But him? Ezra? Not so much.

Maybe he could've been content with it, happy to live and even thrive, at times, if it weren’t for you.

Because stars, moon, and heavens above, you were beautiful.

The first time he'd seen you his mind had only supplied a single word: enchanting. Which was strange because he could barely see your form through the lumpy suit you wore, and the glass over your head was smudged with mud. Actually, all of you was smudged with mud. And you were pointing a thrower at his head.

But still, you were enchanting.

Ezra could help himself - he told you so, wondering if it would be his last gift before you took your shot. He thanked the stars Cee was off on her next chapter, because your clear, beautiful eyes might be the last thing he ever saw.

Instead, you had laughed, and his heart sung. Old books described the laugh of heroines like bells or music but yours was hearty and rich and genuine and it made him want to whisk you away to a safe, dreamy planet. Your thrower lowered and beyond all his reasoning you decided to trust him.

Traveling with you was like a dream. Plenty of things went wrong, as they always did, but you worked well together, playing off each other like you actually cared about him, which was new. And you let him talk, more often than not, and would even talk with him, sharing stories of your own and stringing words together in ways he'd never thought of. He adored it, adored you, and made it his mission to stay by you as long as you’d let him. It wasn’t an easy task, especially on so hostile a planet, but quite worth the effort.

The sound of you alone could keep him going for days, the tilt of your smile when he'd been particularly clever at least a few weeks. Ezra liked your brain, the thoughtfulness of your conversation, and the way your mouth formed the words he so cherished. Maybe the universe didn’t give him a soulmate, and maybe he couldn’t really do heroic things for you, but when your eyes were on him, did he want to.

So his personal mission became being the most outstanding partner you’d ever had, like a knight slaying dragons, he wanted to show you he was worthy of your hand. It was crucial to make his intentions clear - it wasn't about confidence or carnal needs, although both were present, he wanted you to know how seriously he considered the gift of you in his once work-a-day life. This was achieved, or at least attempted through filling the lulls with declarations of your beauty. What more romantic way to show you how magical he thought you were, than to compare the hue of your cheeks to foliage and the depths of your eyes to precious gems?

He didn't mind that you called him a liar, at first, he was used to that. But when he filed through the piles of poems in his brain to pick the ones he thought fit you, he didn't like that you brushed them aside. It made him worry, initially that you weren't impressed by him, and then frightened that you actually didn't see how ethereal you were.

When you explained, that it was hard to see when you were decked head to toe in the blandest, most frumpy survival gear, he thought he understood, though he still didn't like it. The conversation did provide a wonderful opportunity for him to press close to you, and tell you sometime he'd just have to see you without it, and enjoy the flush on your face. But it bothered him that you wouldn't just let him adore you.

The mission evolved, which was more work than he'd expected. It was hard, to slow himself down, to keep himself in the balancing act between ‘clearly interested’ and ‘respectfully trustworthy’. Less flowery language, more heartfelt explanations. More acceptance of your expertise, less showing off.

And it paid off, when you finally, finally allowed him to enter your pod, bashful and excited, and allowed him to enter your story, for real.

He all but begged you to help him take off his suit first, so he could behold your unfiltered form, and you obliged, laughing a little at his logic.

When you sloughed off your outer layer for the first time in his presence, he thought he would soak in your form with his eyes for hours. Instead, his body moved of it's own accord, his heart singing again as you reached for him as well. Ezra's hand found your cheek, touching you at long last, and for a moment, he thought he had died.

But no, he was seeing your first day prospecting, feeling your despair as you gasped for breath with a broken filter, and his hand clung to yours, confused, but wanting desperately to save you. The universe was sharing something of yours, with him, and it was strange - overwhelming. Then he was reliving the day Cee cut of his arm and as he turned his head away from the pain, he saw you next to him, tears in your beautiful eyes. You were experiencing his worst, day, as well, and he understood that such a jarringly beautiful phenomena could only mean one thing. 

In the present moment, his forehead was pressed against yours, his arm wrapping around your head, holding you to him. Your hands were gripping his wrist, and clinging to his shirt and you were whispering that he was your soulmate and that you knew it. Ezra’s mind was reeling, grasping for his words to respond to you, desperate to tell you more than just yes, yes you were soulmates. Of course you were. He didn't find them, but the universe provided another gift.

The best day of your lives was the same moment, seeing each other caked in mud as you pointed your thrower at him. Eyes holding each others, abruptly, blissfully in love.

Ezra saw in that moment that he was wrong. The best of his life was coming, now, and he need not peddle it away. You were sharing with him a greater and more interesting life.

<<

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @princess76179  @mrsbentallmadge

[meyerlansky]

since I watched u play thru marble nest and you had all those withheld Thoughts and Opinions can I ask ur thoughts on one aspect of the story: the way everyone in town seems to disagree on what kind of person dankovsky is, what he wants to do, etc.? it feels to me like it's meaningful on a story and meta level that he's so built up by others to be whatever they want to see?

admittedly most of those went unsaid because i’m inarticulate as shit when i can’t write my thoughts out and i lost my train of thought talking to npcs, and also all of them basically just end in "godDAMN i love him"

BUT YES oh man i definitely agree, daniil is on the receiving end of a TON of projection and assumptions, and i think the thing is, he sort of... cultivates it? like artemy gets people's assumptions projected on him too, but he's MUCH more vocal about correcting it when someone's expectations of him don't match up with how he sees himself. daniil, on the other hand, tends to wear people's perceptions of him like a second skin, and doesn't push back nearly as hard or as often when those perceptions don't sync up. i will be nice to my dash and put my rambly bullshit under a cut, but tl;dr i think daniil finds value in finding out how people see him and utilizing that perception to get what he really wants, and he's willing to play the villain in particular because a. negative perception is as useful as positive perception if you're clever enough to use it to your advantage, and b. based on some stuff in artemy's route but especially based on the particular circumstances of marble nest, he thinks that, to some degree, he deserves to be thought badly of.

so i realized halfway through writing this you probably meant marble nest's story specifically, but i think it's relevant to his characterization in artemy's route too, because... marble nest daniil is not that different from artemy route daniil, as far as i'm concerned—he's just more desperate and more beaten down. as for the actual question, overall i get the vibe that daniil's used to leveraging how he's perceived to get what he needs out of a situation, and he's waaay more comfortable playing the villain than, say, artemy is, if that's what people are putting on him from jump. it's less work, right? correcting people's assumptions is a waste of valuable time and energy, and people are hard to convince once they've set their mind to something. why bother when you can just play along and, if you're clever enough about it, get what you need out of the interaction anyway? he gets built up into so many different versions of himself by different characters because he's willing to be different things to different people without it eroding his goals or his sense of self. he has a flair for the dramatic, obviously, but i don't know how much of it is innate and how much of it is cultivated in service of that kind of perception leveraging. like, prime example, the day 1 conversation with artemy reads as EXTREMELY performative—from his word choice to his demeanor to the exclamation points in the dialogue to the fucking LIGHTING, he comes off like he's playing a role, and not a new one. and when the conversation's over, he's learned some things about what kind of person artemy is, what kinds of things get a rise out of him, all without really revealing too much of his own hand. but the front sloughs off the closer he gets to artemy, and it sloughs off QUICK, to the point that A DAY AND A HALF LATER he's gone from saying "you owe me" in the most facetious way possible to "i need your help" and "if this goes badly, i'll take the consequences" completely unselfconsciously, and subsequent conversations with artemy are complete turnarounds from how he approaches artemy and their relationship on day 1. on the whole, i think he cares way less about his reputation than he does about Getting Shit Done, and he's surprisingly willing to be the scapegoat for other people's fears and other negative emotions, as long as the end result doesn't hamper his goals. which makes some sense considering his corpus of research involves spitting directly in the face of natural law and the people who consider themselves responsible for enforcing it. you don't do that kind of shit if you care about being well-liked. so i think 99% of the time, daniil gets read multiple ways—often incorrectly—because he finds more value in utilizing those perceptions than he finds in correcting them and Being Known. as far as characters we see in the game go, artemy's the exception, which might change once daniil's route is out, but every comment everyone else makes to artemy about daniil leans on their assumptions about him, which means he's not going around showing anyone else what he really thinks.

i also think daniil has sort of... internalized that he's Unlikable, on a personal level. he doesn't walk into a single situation in p2 expecting to be liked, or willingly helped, or for his presence to be wanted beyond the utility he can provide. he relies almost entirely on his ability to deliver solutions [with, uh, declining success as the game goes on], the respect his reputation and his status as the kains' guest confers, and on the rumor that he's willing to get violent if things don't go his way. i think he's utterly convinced his ultimate goals will benefit humanity as a whole and therefore are fundamentally good, but i don't think he thinks HE'S good. there's a couple of moments in marble nest where he can pretty explicitly shoot down people saying nice things about him, and the "i guess i had to prove them right" and "do you condemn me?" lines in the shelter convo do not read to me like the words of a man who thinks he's 100% in the right in the way he's gone about achieving his goals. so like as much as i think he does have a very solid sense of Who He Is, i don't think it's a very generous self-image, and i don't think it's entirely accurate either, because i do think he's fundamentally a good person, despite people [in the game and out of it] not really bothering to push past whatever front he's put on. artemy pushes through it, and the kids in marble nest push through it, and i think it's somewhat telling that the kids in marble nest are... the only real people IN marble nest. georgiy undermining his authority as soon as he's indisposed is part of the fever dream; the soldiers and orderlies believing he's the one giving the okay to kill kids and civilians are part of the fever dream; the clerk assuming daniil will agree with his racist bullshit is part of the fever dream. all these negative images of himself are in his head—based on previous conversations with the real people, but at the time of marble nest, in his head. they're all things he, somewhere in his mind, expects people to think of him or expect of him, and to me, that's not the kind of stuff someone as arrogant and convinced of his own awesomeness as people seem to think daniil is would think about himself. but the kids worrying about his health and taking care of him while he's infected are real, and for whatever reason they think he's worth trying to save. THAT'S the reality, THAT'S who he really is, even if he can't see it himself, and i don't think he can.

so ANYWAY i think the multiplicity of daniils in marble nest in particular is to some degree a manifestation of the fact that he IS willing to be different things to different people, that he knows this about himself, and that he has SOME level of anxiety over the thought of the various masks becoming the reality, and him losing control over who he ACTUALLY is, not just how he's perceived. i think this bothers him in artemy's route as well—the last thing he says to artemy translates to "the greatest power is to have power over oneself" and i do not think he's talking about himself. i think he's talking about artemy, and the fact that, ESPECIALLY from daniil's perspective in artemy's route, artemy very much controls not only his own narrative, but at the very least strongly influences daniil's and everyone else's too. [there are also layers and layers with that line and the doll narrative but i am too tired to get into it right now and also the doll narrative fucks my feelings up in so many ways.] i have no idea if any of this makes any sense, but here it is /gestures weakly at All This

[radiantmists]

Title: all bets are off

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Jon/Martin

Rating: Gen

It may be the end times, but it's still a road trip of sorts, right? So, in grand tradition, Jon and Martin make up silly games to entertain themselves.

technically inspired by this post

"Bet you five quid that Flesh domain we're avoiding wouldn't have been as gross as this," Martin grumbles, wrenching his feet out of the oozing black mud trying to swallow him.

Jon pauses up ahead, not even out of breath; the ground isn't trying to eat him. Maybe, like Helen, it thinks the smug little bastard would give it indigestion.

"I'd say I'd feel too bad to take your money," he says, tone playfully superior, "but honestly it isn't as though it would be much of a loss nowadays."

"You’re not wrong," Martin allows.

Then he yelps as he realizes that he's been stood still too long, and the mud has crawled up to his shins, seeping over the tops of his boots.

"Of course I'm not," Jon replies as he doubles back to offer a hand. Martin huffs and rolls his eyes, but reaches back, even though Jon definitely isn't strong enough to actually pull him out. It's probably the only leverage he's going to get in this sea of sludge, after all.

"Don't fall in too, or we'll never get out," Martin warns anyway.

Jon sets his jaw stubbornly and grabs his forearm; as soon as his hand touches Martin's skin, before he can even pull, the ground... spits Martin out, he supposes, pushing up under his feet and sloughing off his boots, solidifying as soon as he's emerged.

Unprepared for the lack of resistance, Jon reels backward; only Martin instinctively clutching at his hand saves him from falling on his arse. Instead he stumbles forward into Martin's chest, and without thinking Martin curls his other arm around his narrow shoulders, steadying them.

After a moment, Jon draws away slightly, letting his hand slip down Martin's arm to interlace their fingers instead, and together they stare down at the ground beneath their feet.

It doesn't look any more solid than before, and the way their shoes remain above it despite the shifting, sucking ooze of it is actually vaguely disquieting.

"I suppose there have to be some perks to dating the Antichrist," Martin manages after a moment, and Jon snorts.

“Ye of little faith,” he says, tone wry, “why did you doubt?”

Martin opens his mouth-- it's not like Jon had been expecting this either-- then stops. "Wait, is that-- Jon, is that the Bible? Are you quoting Jesus?"

Jon smirks.

"Well, I guess I already knew you had a savior complex," Martin replies, and delights in the way the smirk melts instantly into a catty glare.

"If you can make antichrist jokes," he says sulkily, and Martin laughs.

"Fair enough," he says, and Jon uncurls a bit. "I do remember quite a bit in those bits about 'not being afraid', though."

Jon sighs and starts them walking again, still clutching Martin's hand. "Yes, well, Matthew is the only one where Peter tries to get out and walk on the water too, so it fit better for a number of reasons."

Martin smiles as he follows. He doesn't remember a whole lot from Sunday school, but putting aside the unfortunate associations with a certain Lukas, Peter was one of the better disciples, right? Upon this rock I will build my church, and all that.

"Well, I could hardly let you walk across alone," he replies. "All-powerful-archivist or not."

"I suppose not," Jon agrees, glancing down at the sucking mud. "Maybe I should have gotten us a boat or something..."

Martin stops short, pulling Jon up as well. "Could you do that? Just... manifest a boat?"

"I... " Jon trails off, eyes going unfocused. "Maybe?"

Frowning, Martin nearly crosses his arms before he remembers that he's not just holding Jon's hand because it's fun. "No, see, that's the tone that means you're not telling me the answer because you think I'll find it upsetting. I won't be upset if your powers don't extend to creating boats out of nothing, Jon."

Jon is silent for a long moment. Martin squints. The light here is the sort of dull, oppressive red Martin might actually have expected from an apocalypse, but as in most places it's enough for him to study the slight sheepish hesitance on Jon's face carefully.

"Or... you could have," he realizes. "Seriously?"

"If I'd thought I needed it, I think," Jon says uncomfortably. "If I were trying to cross actual deep water or something, not just..."

"Man-eating mud."

"Yes."

"So I waded through-- through hours of this sludge, because you didn't feel like it was inconvenient enough?" Martin realises. Jon shrugs jerkily.

"In my defense, rowing a boat through this probably would have been frustrating too?" he replies, kicking at the mud; his toe drags through it slowly, like a knife through thick honey.

"That's-- well, that's true, I guess," Martin says, deflating slightly. "It would have been less gross, though!"

"Probably," Jon agrees. "We're close to the end, anyway."

So on they go.

  An hour or so later, at least to his puny mortal perception, Martin contemplates the shifting, multi-colored mass of what looks like squares of cloth before them.

"Bet you a piggyback ride through this domain that the avatar here used to be a stage magician," he says.

"I-- what?" Jon sputters, breaking away from when he'd been staring at the swirling colors to stare at Martin instead.

"I mean, it looks like that trick where they pull a million handkerchiefs out of their sleeve, doesn't it?" he explains. "Like, if it had gone really wrong."

"No, I mean-- what did you say you'd bet?"

Martin finds his cheeks heating despite himself. "I mean, it's like you said back in that Buried place, right? Neither of us cares much about money, at this point."

"I... suppose," Jon says slowly.

"Capitalism defeated," Martin rambles on, looking forward again. That's going to be a delight to get through; he can already feel the headache coming on. "Only took an apocalypse."

"A real bargain," says Jon, arch, but with a note of tension.

Not in the mood for apocalypse jokes, then, Martin supposes. He tries to imagine what sort of suffering is going on ahead of them-- other than aforementioned headaches, he supposes-- that have triggered the guilt again. It might not even be something there, though; Jon's perfectly capable of spiraling without outside influence.

Right now, though, he seems unwilling to dwell on it.

"What would I give you if you're right?" he asks thoughtfully instead. "I don't think I could carry you for more than a few steps. I mean, I could try--"

"No, god, your poor back would probably snap like a twig," Martin cuts in, half teasing, half genuine concern. Jon glares.

"I'm not quite that fragile, Martin," he says frostily. His tone and face together are enough to give Martin a moment of dissonance, imagining having anything like this conversation in that first year in the Archive, and he suppresses a snort.

"Well, you can..." he thinks for a moment. Something a bit silly, but something he actually wants... "You can tell me the story behind that one picture of you in steampunk costume you refused to explain."

Jon blinks, and then a flash of embarrassment flits across his face before he covers it up. "I-- I suppose that's fair enough."

"I mean, don't let me force you," Martin teases. "You don't have to tell me your deepest, darkest secrets, this isn't fifth grade truth-or-dare."

Jon smiles, the sharp-cornered one he gets when he's being sarcastic.

"Hardly the darkest," he says, and then the smile goes softer, his eyes flitting to lock gazes with Martin for a moment before they jerk away, so Martin knows whatever's coming next is going to be incredibly sincere. "You already know all of those, I think."

"Yeah, I do," Martin replies, reaching out to brush Jon's cheek with his fingers. That impossibly soft gaze returns to his face, the smile trembling as it grows, and Jon leans, ever so slightly, into Martin's hand. He tries not to shiver, then can't suppress it when Jon's hand comes up to cover his own.

They stay there for a long, taut moment, before with a deep breath Jon pries Martin's fingers far enough away from his skin to hold his hand instead.

"I love you anyway," Martin says then with a squeeze, "so I'm sure I won't leave you in shame over your secret cosplay phase, or whatever it was."

Jon snorts. "'Cosplay phase?' Really?"

Martin grins back. "If not cosplay, then what?"

"You haven't won yet," Jon points out. "And my feet are getting tired..."

His eyes go distant and intent for a moment before he's back with a smirk.

"Seriously?" Martin whines, but he starts to take off the rucksack. "What were they, then?"

"Military sergeant," Jon replies smugly, slinging the pack over his own back. "Those are flags, not handkerchiefs."

"Oh, well, next time tell me that before you take the bet!" Martin replies, offended. "What's the fear, then, rabid patriotism?"

"Something like that," Jon agrees, the smile audible in his voice as he places his hands on Martin's shoulders. It takes a moment for Martin to recall the mechanics of doing this without some kind of step up, though he remembers quickly enough when Jon makes a little jump and Martin has to grab for his knees.

"Oh-- joy," Martin huffs as Jon's arms come down to lock around his chest. The back of his neck warms under the breath of Jon's answering laugh. "How far is it to the other side again?"

"Well," Jon begins, the crisp tones right in his ear making Martin suppress another shiver, "technically--"

"I bet," Martin says, cutting Jon off by hiking him up on his back and making him gasp, "that you can't go ten domains without making a pedantic comment about spacetime."

He manages not to drop Jon in the flag realm despite the hellishly flashing colors, and then wins the bet four domains later by tempting Jon with an 'innocent' question about birthdays. After some grumbling, Jon fesses up to having 'participated in a band' in his uni days, and then is so flustered by Martin's delighted follow-up questions that he admits to being the lead singer and even explains a bit about his character before going totally red and clamming up when Martin asks him to sing something.

 It becomes a bit of a game after that, embarrassing stories and feats of strength turned into currency for bets on silly things like whether that coffin would stop moaning if Martin banged on it like an irritated old man living above partying uni students (terrifyingly enough, yes), or whether Jon can climb to the top of the impossible card-tower before it collapses (no, but only because Martin distracting him with a startled Holy shit, Jon after he'd scrambled halfway up in twenty seconds flat didn't technically count as cheating), or what those Extinction-Stranger yard-decoration flamingos would do if Jon yelled at them to get off his lawn.

(Neither of them win that one; the flamingos neither fly away like startled geese, as Martin had suggested, or try to attack them like angry  startled geese, as Jon had contended, but instead blink their creepy plastic eyes, ruffle their painted-aluminum feathers with an awful metallic scrape, and obediently fold up their single iron-stake legs to float ominously and impossibly above the radioactive-green grass.)

Martin manages to convince Jon to wager the performance of one of his band's songs by offering, in balance, the recital of one of the poems Martin had written about him. He congratulates himself on the agreement when it turns out Jon getting into character and singing about hellfire is actually really hot. Then he regrets it when he loses the next bet and has to endure Jon dissolving into laughter as soon as he's finished the poem, despite what appears to be a genuinely heroic effort to keep the sound in.

"I'm flattered, really, Martin," he gasps out, but it's hard to believe considering he's almost literally rolling on the ground.

Martin, hiding his burning cheeks in his arms, manages an agonized, "Well, I'm not, Jon, oh my god!"

Jon takes a deep breath, audibly pulling himself together as he sits up.

"I'm sorry," he says gently, pulling Martin's hands away from his face. "I didn't mean to... it was sweet, Martin."

Martin flops back on the strange, barren in-between-place ground with a huff.

"You get that the fact that that's the nicest thing you can say makes it worse, right?"

"Well, I'm not very nice," Jon says defensively from above, making Martin snort. "I'm sure it's far better than anything I could write?"

For a moment Martin's breath catches as he imagines Jon writing love poetry about him, and then he remembers Jon's best efforts at describing his own emotions ('very sad', really) and the catch turns into a snicker.

"That's no high praise either," he points out, and Jon sighs ruefully, admitting the point as he lies back down next to Martin.

They sit in silence for moment, gazing up at the all-seeing sky as it stares back down at them, and then Jon takes a breath.

Martin tenses, and when Jon begins, "I think your 'fathomless orbs' are lovely too, and your--" he's cut off by Martin's palm over his mouth before he can get any further, and then they're both giggling uncontrollably and curling into each other.

If this were a story, Martin finds himself thinking as Jon continues to snicker into the hollow of his throat, this moment would be enough to defeat the Eye.

After all, how long had he spent terrified that Jon might find some scrap of that poetry, that he'd see how ridiculously gone Martin was over him and be disgusted? To be able to laugh over it and know Jon loves him anyway-- loves him because-- should have been... toxic, or something, to a creature that feeds on the worry that no one who knows him the way Jon does could ever keep caring.

Of course, that isn't how it works, but Martin holds onto the thought anyway, thinks of every shared story and moment of laughter-- rare and inappropriate as they sometimes are-- as winning a forfeit from the thing that thinks it owns the world, thinks it owns Jon.

So when they walk into the Panopticon and he sees that terrible look on Jon's face, the one that makes a deep part of Martin whisper he's found something he wants more than he'll ever want you, he only lets the panic seep in for a second.

Then he slings off his rucksack, pulls out one of the unlabelled cans he'd gotten from the tunnel cult, and turns to Jon.

"Bet you another love poem I can bean him right in the back of the head," he says, hefting it in his hand experimentally.

Jon blinks, the faraway look disappearing from his face as he tears his eyes away from Magnus, and the sharp, delighted grin Martin adores appearing there instead.

"You're on."

[the-ipre]

Fantasy High TMA AU for @rabdoidal, happy birthday! can be read here on ao3

half human

“End recording.” Adaine put the statement she had been reading back on the desk, pushing her glasses up as she rubbed at the bridge of her nose. The statement had been about a man who had collapsed into a pile of bones when a book he carried everywhere was stolen, and she could almost feel the flesh sloughing off of her own skeleton.

That had been happening more often as of late. Not specifically the feeling that she was going to lose all her skin, although that did sometimes happen, but more that strange sensation that she was taking on the stories that she recorded. Vertigo and the tickle of legs crawling on the back of her neck and a dozen other things really didn’t help lessen her anxiety, and she found herself getting even less sleep than she had before.

Adaine knew that the dark circles under her eyes had just been getting worse, and she had her meds but they weren’t as helpful as they used to be and that was just one more thing on the list of things she had to do, but instead she just picked up the next statement to record.

She heard her recorder click on, but before she could open the folder her eyes were drawn to the doorway, a moment before a figure stepped into it.

Fabian was pinned in place by her gaze for a second, and then he visibly shrugged it off and sauntered into the room. “Hello, Adaine,” he said, dropping himself in the chair across from her. “Why haven’t you replaced this yet? I swear, it’s poking into me in at least three places.”

“Hi? And usually it’s just me, people don’t usually stay here for longer than just dropping things off.” Adaine let her unspoken question hang in the air while Fabian adjusted, crossing one leg over the other and avoiding her eyes.

He lifted a shoulder up in a shrug and put on that sharp smile he wore when he needed the world to believe he knew what he was doing. “It is your lucky day, then, because I am not just here to drop something off.” Fabian paused, and Adaine folded her hands and raised her eyebrows, waiting to see if he was going to actually tell her what he was doing. When she didn’t say anything, he sighed, floating a hand in the air in what was probably exasperation. “Fine, I was talking to Kristen, and she told me that I needed to give you a statement, which is honestly ridiculous, but now here I am, so.”

Adaine blinked at that. Fabian talked a lot, blustering with enough stories to fill the archive by himself, but he hadn’t given a statement before, and he seemed heavily opposed the times that she had asked. “You want to give a statement.”

“I don’t want to, Adaine, but Kristen told me to, and if I had stayed and argued she would have, I don’t know, tried to make me actually deal with the issues she says I have and I know I don’t have, so. Here I am!” He smiled, put his hands on his knees as he leaned forward. “I am Fabian Aramais Seacaster, and I have a story to tell. Look, your recorder is already on, might as well!”

“Oh, it is. Huh.” Adaine pushed up her glasses and locked eyes with Fabian. “Statement taken directly from subject, February 29th, 2016. Statement begins.”

Fabian seemed to sit up straighter, dramatic movements of his arms becoming more intentional, pointed, even though they wouldn’t be caught by the tape recorder. “So, this particular story takes place in high school. Junior year, if my memory serves.” The tone of his voice said of course it serves, with the constant undercurrent of because I’m Fabian Aramais Seacaster . “It was Christmas Eve, and my buddy, Ragh – Ragh Barkrock, if you need his full name for research – called me up, and asked if I wanted to go fuck shit up. I said yes, of course.”

Fabian sighed, lowered his voice. Adaine did her best to keep her face neutral, because for the moment, his posturing seemed to be slipping away. It usually did when she took statements – for some reason, people seemed to want to tell the truth when the recorder got turned on – but Fabian was a fan of stories, especially ones that made him look good. From the hunch of his shoulders, she didn’t know if this would be one of those.

“My parents were, ah, what’s a good word. They were difficult to be around, sometimes, and the holidays didn’t exactly help with that. So when Ragh gave me an out, I grabbed my letterman jacket and left. We were on the football team together, and we weren’t really friends, because who has friends in high school, but it was, again, high school , so we both had a lot of unresolved issues. Easier to not discuss your unresolved issues together, you know? “ Fabian huffed out a laugh, but it wasn’t the kind that he usually threw around, the one that was all show and look over here . It was just a self-deprecating huff of breath, and Adaine nodded, encouraging him to keep going.

Adaine hadn’t had quite the same high school experience – also bad, but in a different direction – but she let him keep talking. She wasn’t a therapist, despite once thinking that she might like to help people like that. Instead, she just listened, and recorded, and gently encouraged Fabian to keep talking.

“We met up at the old arcade. It was locked and dark – I don’t think that I had ever seen it open the whole time I lived in that town – but Ragh had a scowl on his face and a crowbar in each hand, so when he tossed me one I took it. See, football is a good way to get out your aggression, but there are still rules to it. You have to play by them, even if you don’t play fair , but for all of the tackling it is still so…” Fabian ran his fingers through his carefully styled hair. “It’s so civilized . What happened that night- well, football can’t really compare, can it?”

“We broke in – I was kind of surprised that there wasn’t an alarm, honestly, but by the time I was worrying about that Ragh had already broken the glass of the door and we were inside. It was- have you ever been in an abandoned place at night?” Adaine shook her head. Her high school experience was much more along the lines of staying home and barricading herself in her room as best she could. “Well, the only light came from the street lights outside and the flashlight on my phone, but the colors of the carpet were still garish. The glass and plastic of the games reflected light that I wasn’t able to see the source of, and it felt like the whole place was just, I don’t know, holding its breath.”

Fabian flexed his hand like he was remembering the feeling of a crowbar in his hands, and Adaine realized that she hadn’t blinked since Fabian started giving his statement. She did, just to show that she could, and that this was normal, and that Fabian was still just Fabian .

“I realized that neither of us had said anything yet. It’s a strange thing, to just accept a crowbar from someone and break into an abandoned arcade, but I suppose that’s just what it’s like to be in high school. Well, it was all so quiet, and then, suddenly, it wasn’t. Ragh let out a scream, smashing his crowbar against one of the games, and there was no point in asking how his day was going then , so I took a swing as well.”

As Fabian lifted his chin and grimaced, Adaine almost thought that his teeth were more pointed than they had been when he first came into her small office. “At some point one of us broke into the money collector of one of the games and there were quarters rolling across the floor. Honestly, most of that night was a blur, but there was...there was this one game that I stayed away from, at least at first. It had a little pixie on it, a tiny dude with a weird grin and big glasses, and above the screen were the words ‘Beat Biz.’” Fabaian cracked his neck, barked out another laugh. It seemed like there was an energy crawling under his skin as he spoke, fingers starting to move restlessly, twisting in his pressed pant legs or tugging at the air.

“The vibes of that game were just putrid , so I stayed away, and I’m pretty sure that together Ragh and I pushed over a different game. But then, it was the only thing left untouched in the whole room. It almost looked like it was, I don’t know, glowing, or something, but there wasn’t really much light coming in from outside at that point, and I didn’t know where my phone had gone. I turned to look at Ragh, and I was pretty sure that he had started crying at some point. Then, something in his eyes...changed.” At that, Fabian stood up, paced a few steps, and then returned to stand in front of the desk, casting a shadow over the tape recorder and Adaine’s hands.

“He ran past me, and he swung his crowbar into the screen, and there had been a lot of noise in that arcade that night but that one seemed to break through everything else.” Fabian exhaled, crossed his arms, and looked at the wall over Adaine’s head.

“The game screamed .”

With that he started pacing again, steps growing less and less measured and more movement for the sake of moving, letting off energy, chasing without running and the barely contained need to sprint. “He went crazy, hitting it again and again.” Fabian’s voice grew quiet. “I helped him push it over.” There was a tension in his shoulders, and his hands were flexing, and all Adaine could do – wanted to do, if she were honest, and she really didn’t want to be in this moment – was just watch. “I looked down, and there was blood on my sneakers. It was- the broken screen had shattered inwards, and the glass was stuck in some sort of meat , and the game was oozing blood onto the floor, and it was soaking into my socks , and Ragh was still there, crying and screaming and attacking the thing with a crowbar.”

All the energy seemed to leave Fabian at that, body tense and hands curled at his sides as some horror played out before his eyes again. Adaine glanced down at the recorder to make sure that it was still recording. It was.

“I went home. I couldn’t stay, and I knew that if I tried to get Ragh to stop he would attack me just as brutally as he had that machine. Don’t ask me how I knew, but I did , and so I just went home. My papa saw the blood on my shoes and he congratulated me.” Fabian sat back down. “Ragh was back at school in January, but something was different. He seemed...hollow. After that night, he didn’t invite me out again. I think...I think I’m glad that he didn’t. I don’t know if I would have gone, or if I would have been able to escape again.”

Adaine spoke, throat dry even as her voice was clear and even. “Statement ends.”

When Fabian blinked, he seemed to come back to himself, and he drew his shoulders up. Those layers of defenses rose again, and hidden was the high school boy who had been lost to that destruction of the arcade. “Well, that was, ah-”

Adaine clicked her recorder off before she spoke. She wasn’t a therapist, she was just someone who was supposed to listen and watch and record, but this was her friend. She didn’t want to be someone who only wanted to observe. “Fabian, are you okay?”

Fabian shook his head and took a breath, and for a moment Adaine thought that he was actually going to process an emotion for the first time in his life. Then, she smelled the copper tang of blood, faint but unable to get away from in the small room, and Fabian lifted his chin and put that smile back on again. “Tell Kristen that I gave a statement so she gets off my back about it.”

With that, he stood up and left, taking the smell of blood with him.

Adaine was left alone in her small office, surrounded by files and dust and stories that were not her own, and she had the sinking feeling that she wasn’t going to be getting much sleep that night.

[blustersquall]

58 for Isabel and Arthur. Please!

Moving Around While Kissing, Stumbling Over Things, Pushing Each Other Back Against The Wall/Onto The Bed - kiss. Finally getting around to this. I’m so sorry for the long wait!

This got so long. Some spoilers for later in the game. Especially pertaining to Arthur’s past. And some light n-s-f-w content. Nothing horrifically graphic.

Probably not what you wanted, Nonny. I apologize. T-T I will try harder.

@ineedpeetalikehekneadsbread @rdr-oc-appreciation

Micah’s voice grated on Arthur’s last nerve. Accompanied by Bill guffawing like a sycophantic fool, it was a wonder Arthur hadn’t shot the both of them yet. He didn’t know why he agreed to the small stagecoach job Micah mentioned. Probably because of his stubborn pride, and it was something that got him out of Shady Belle and away from all the tension. 

The job wasn’t hard, and the take wasn’t worth putting up with Micah and Bill for an afternoon. It definitely wasn’t worth it when Micah began making comments about Isabel and the other women in the camp. How they were “unwilling to fuck you even if they had a gun to their head”. That was his exact phrasing, and it put Arthur’s teeth on edge just to think about it. He didn’t like Micah thinking about any of the women in camp in such a way, let alone Isabel. 

He must have given his inner feelings away because Micah spent the time waiting for the stage and the ride back to Shady Belle talking about Isabel, and what he wanted to do to her. None of which was pleasant to imagine or listen to. Not that Arthur could really say much about it. He and Isabel agreed to keep things between them as private as possible. He didn’t want to paint a target on her back and they were already the topic of camp gossip - no need to add more fuel to that fire.

As Micah crowed to whomever was nearby about the success of their job with Bill garnishing the story with extravagant details, Arthur went into the old, dilapidated building. It was late-evening. Pearson had served the evening meal and most everyone was outside, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the company of each other. Arthur was hungry, and planned to join them once he was changed and a little calmer. 

The stairs creaked beneath his feet as he ascended and he glanced through the broken wall boards into the room where Abigail, John and Jack were staying. It was empty. In his own room, he closed the door and leaned against it, releasing a long, heavy sigh when the world was finally shut out. 

“That’s a big sigh.” Arthur opened one eye and peered to the other end of the small room to where his bed was. Isabel was sitting on it, a closed book between her, and her dark hair loose from its usual braid. The lamp in his room illuminated her with a soft, haloed light which seemed to move with her when she rose to her feet and began to approach him. “Long day?” She put her book on the table covered with his map.

“Micah an’ Bill.” Arthur said. He removed his hat and shucked off his jacket. “It ain’t worth talkin’ about.”

Isabel smiled, “then don’t talk.” She closed the space between them, sliding her fingers beneath his shirt collar and rising onto her toes to kiss his forehead. Arthur automatically offered his temple to her affection, his hands finding their home on her hips. The kiss on his forehead was followed by several more, on the bridge of his nose, the end of his nose, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth. Soft, feathery kisses that made his skin tingle pleasantly and his stomach knot like a young, inexperienced man with his first love. 

In private, Isabel gave her affection with such freedom and unabashed joy, Arthur wasn’t sure how best to react. He didn’t know if he should reciprocate with as much willingness, or if he should let her take the lead, and remain more stoic. He was still finding his feet with her. Mary was never hugely affectionate towards him, and her upbringing meant that it was Arthur’s responsibility to offer his arm, or initiate a kiss. Isabel... Isabel was so different, and unique to many women he’d met. She kept him on his toes, that was for sure.

When she finally kissed him on the mouth, her lips molding seamlessly against his, Arthur all but melted. It was amazing and a little alarming how such a simple gesture could so easily cause the stresses of the day to slough off him. All the lewd and distasteful things Micah said became nothing more than white noise and Arthur’s tiredness receded. Pressing his hands into Isabel’s hips, Arthur stepped further into his room, away from the door. He held her steady, his voice rising into an appreciative murmur when she parted her lips and the kiss deepened. 

She rose her arms, draping them around his neck and shoulders, stumbling back when Arthur moved them into the room a few more steps. Isabel hit the the dresser, and a few objects toppled on the shelves. He squeezed her hip in one hand, the other snatching at the fabric of her shirt and pulling it up from where it was tucked in. Dragging her away from the dresser, Arthur caught himself before he toppled back onto the table covered in ammunition, knives, and arrows. The edge of it pressed into his lower back, and Isabel pressed her body against his.

Burying one hand in Isabel’s hair, Arthur guided her to tilt her head back. His lips on her neck, he grabbed one of her thighs and pushed against her; the two of them stumbling back until they clattered into the table covered with Arthur’s map. They were both laughing, Arthur’s muffled by Isabel’s throat under his mouth as he lavished her skin with kisses and soft bites. He hoisted her up onto the table, slotting between her legs. Isabel’s fingers made quick work of the buttons on his shirt, undoing the top five before Arthur even realised she was doing it. He yanked his suspenders down his arms, eyes squeezing closed when Isabel guided his lips back to hers, and the kiss she greeted him with was searing and desperate.

“Is--” Arthur groaned against his mouth. This was not what he had in mind for when he returned to Shady Belle. In fact this was not something had in mind with Isabel for some time. His gun belt hit the floor with a loud ‘thud’ - loud enough that it shocked Arthur away from Isabel’s lips to check it wasn’t someone at the door. 

As he peered over his shoulder, waiting for another potential knock, all he could hear was Isabel breathing fast beside him and his heart crashing in his ears. His cock was hard, and for the first time in... he didn’t know how long, Arthur wanted to enjoy himself. It wasn’t something he did. He wasn’t like Lenny, or other  members of the gang who would go with a girl for a night... But right then, with Isabel and the heat between them, he wanted to.

“Everythin’ okay there, handsome?” Isabel ran her fingers back through Arthur’s hair, bringing him back to the present and to her. Satisfied that there was no-one demanding his attention, slid Isabel down from the table and led her the small distance towards his rather simple, and sad looking bed. She deserved more than this. More than a rough cot and blanket. More than a broken down old plantation house. More than him. But it was all he could offer. He was all he could offer. And, for some unknown reason, she decided he was enough for her. He was what she wanted.

She sat, and he stood, curling his hands around her face and kissing her soundly. The frantic need of before cooled somewhat. He did not want to rush this. Her. Them. He was out of practice and, he realised with some amusement, worried. 

“I’m fine,” Arthur brushed his nose against hers, back and forth enjoying the small hum of contentment and appreciation he heard from her. He undid the knot in her neckerchief and let the material fall to the floor. Perching one knee on the edge of the cot, sharing soft kisses and breaths that were starting to quake, Arthur unbuttoned the top few buttons of Isabel’s shirt. Her exposed skin was flushed red, and she lay back winding her arms up over his shoulders and beneath his own shirt. Her palms lay flat on the top of his back, moving to push the material off him. He rose one arm, then the other, laughing at the struggle Isabel had to remove the garment from him.

Her legs parted invitingly, Arthur settled over her, wrapping both arms over Isabel’s back. Her kisses were heated, and she nipped at his lower lip while her hands explored. He could feel her touching him, mapping the muscles in his back, the dip of his spine and the broad stretch of his shoulders. She twisted his hair in her fingers, swallowing an involuntary moan when Arthur rocked his hips forward to grant himself some kind of respite from the confines of his jeans. 

“Arthur,” Isabel murmured, arching her head back and biting her lip into her mouth to muffle her own groan. Her hips moved, meeting Arthur’s slow and steady rhythm and the staggered sigh that escaped her only spurred him on, “oh God, Arthur...” It sounded like she was whining. Her blunt fingernails pressed into the top of his back, and she arched up into him, her body quivering.

Burying his face into the curve of her neck, Arthur rutted at a steady pace, grunting and groaning, his skin humming under Isabel’s touch and the excitement she brought out in him. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, pulling at her shirt to expose more skin to his exploring lips. He wanted to know her. To map the unknowns of her body before him, and learn them by heart. 

Her voice rang in his ears, and then another. A second voice. A woman’s. A voice from his past. Younger. Feminine. As breathless and as heated as Isabel’s was right then. A voice he knew, yet thought he had forgotten. It all flashed before his eyes. The ride to the house, and the dread that filled his whole body. The image of the two crosses. One large. One small. Their names carved in the wood by hand. 

Eliza Ingram.

Isaac Morgan.

The consequences of his actions. The actions of a young, rash, angry young man. A son he was never there for. And a woman who was still much a child herself, who became a mother to a son of an outlaw. Two deaths on his conscience. Two people who needed him, and who he failed. The blood of innocents on his hands. Lives ruined by him and his reckless, selfish behavior. 

What if the same happened again? Now? With Isabel? Could he risk it? To have another child only to potentially lose them? This life was dangerous. They were hunted at every turn and the world was closing in around them more and more each day. Could he risk a life time of danger and the burden of a child, all for a moment of bliss? What would Isabel think of him if a child was the outcome of his loving her? What would she do? What would he do?

“Arthur?”

Isabel was beneath him, her hands braced on his bare shoulders and her hair spilling out around her like a dark halo. She was beautiful. Her lips parted and reddened. Her cheeks flush with a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, her neck and her chest. She stared at him with wide, confused eyes. Watching. Waiting.

Arthur’s stomach twisted with the regret and the guilt that now threatened to swallow him. “M’sorry.” He heaved himself up to sit and grabbed his shirt off the floor. He rose to his feet as it pulled it on over his arms, feeling small and ashamed. 

“Did I do somethin’ wrong?” Isabel’s voice was quiet and feeble, and that only served to make Arthur guilt increase. He turned and watched her button her shirt avoiding his eyes.

“No,” he went and knelt before her as she sat on the edge of his bed. “It ain’t you. You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” He sighed and bowed his head until his forehead touched her knees. Isabel slid her fingers back through his hair. “I need t’tell you somethin’...”

Yay - emotional trauma?I just don’t see Arthur as being comfortable moving onto a physical relationship with someone without being honest about Isaac. I think he would have a lot of reservations and be worried about the same thing happening. Not just the chance of a child being conceived and born, but also the child being killed. 

Uh... happy valentine’s day???I hope you enjoyed - please let me know what you think in comments/reblogs/rags. Or you can message me if you prefer.

[violetsystems]

#personal

There’s a point where you are pushing a boulder uphill where you actually think you’re pushing it over the top.  You look up.  You look down.  There’s this exact even point between joy and dread where you don’t know which way it will go.  Seeing as how it’s an exact middle point you expect it to pass.  Like this whole process goes on for a year and you emerge mentally “over it.”  You expect something to change outside of your skill at rolling the boulder.  You say to yourself that you can keep doing this all day like some juiced up eighties American action hero.  And then you look up and down again to observe your process.  It’s still limbo.  You might even become strong enough to maintain this mirage of an ascent while doing other things.  Watching a movie or a television show.  Play a game on your phone.  But the boulder is always there.  The positioning is different these days.  It feels like I keep pushing the boulder and the hill keeps stretching.  Like there’s a bulldozer dumping other people’s shit onto the incline.  Which makes it seem I’m climbing up a relentless garbage pile of other people’s baggage, perceptions, and detritus.  This is essentially true particularly in the city I live in.  Which mind you living in a city is much closer to the edge than where I came from.  I lived in the suburbs for half my life.  It felt like the bottom.  An Irish and Italian Catholic suburb plagued by hard drugs and abuse.  I eventually found a job in the city through my friends at the time.  And later I eventually found a place to live.  And I have lived in this city long enough to know there isn’t really something wrong with me.  The incline is easy enough but sinking in other people’s shit seems to be the norm.  Around here whether it’s Chicago or America, people like to disarm you by making your priorities seem selfish.  We’re all in this together after all.  In times of crisis, we pull together and help our own.  Which is a reminder that for about a year I’ve been isolated taking care of my own.  I spent about as much time per day trying to engage people on LinkedIn without any real success.  It is place where I feel I’m successful at showing the professional side of me.  Sort of like Tumblr is a place I feel like I’m successful showing the human and empathic side of me.  Which one feels like the boulder?  After all the years I’ve spent writing to the void here, I’ve seen a connection.  Expecting too much is what shatters hopes and dreams.  But I have spent a really long time expecting the very least and being given less.  In a twisted turn of fate, I have a lot more financially than I may have in my previous life.  To have to label it previous is a sure sign I stopped pushing that boulder a long time ago.  I was forced to.  Left with a realization that the world is bigger than this and yet I can’t seem to escape it.  I played a game of magic yesterday online.  Sometimes lately the player names are a little too telling.  I had just built a Tiamat deck so I tested it out in Standard Ranked.  The username popped up as “Escapeurf8yt.”  I quit Hearthstone for less.  The last two games I played in that Blizzard game were so sus that the player names were meant to trigger me.  That last match was against a player named “Imcomingforyou.”   Nerds aren’t the most delicate when they have their chance to wield power.  I won the Tiamat game without even having to play Tiamat.  But it left me with a similar feeling.  Why do I try to be part of things that don’t have any real modicum of respect for other people’s feelings and identity?  

That example could be chalked up as being a little too sensitive I guess.  Every time I walk around the neighborhood lately it’s like I have to tiptoe around people’s feelings.  I’ve gotten mad at my situation more times than I can count the last year.  Anybody would.  I lost all my ground.  I lost everything and yet gained something in the process.  People whispered behind my back and watched.  Looking for clues to pin the blame on my downfall on me.  And yet for all the new things I tried and did to survive, I’m still pushing the same generic boulder to most people.  I’m not even good enough to be recognized as a writer by the broad public.  I’m some sneaky individual that everyone feels it’s their duty to check up on at the expense of my civil rights and general mood.  The gaslighting is at the very center.  That nobody wants to address the elephant in the room.  They can’t really.  And maybe it’s for the best.  Because the way I see everything from the inside out is troubling.  Nothing has returned to normal.  People’s privilege has been laid bare and somehow everyone is looking for the scapegoat to deflect the blame.  I’m sick of it.  Everybody being so nosy and confrontational with nothing to offer expect a bad attitude and a jokey stare.  This is why I no longer go out for anything other than groceries.  Why I decide to have things delivered instead of having to participate in a clown show parade of well intended bullshit.  Why everybody speaks for me when no one has spoken a kind word to me at all.  Everybody expects me to reach out and fix the trust they broke with me.  And it gets sadder and sadder that people don’t understand that I’m pretty much a boarded up house at this point.  Living in a little shack enclosed by people’s expectations and barriers.  Time just keeps passing.  People do keep reading.  But here is where I feel people have the most context at how horrible I feel after all of this.  Some of it is for the best.  The community people ask for in the real world without deserving it is non existent or coerced.  I know this because I’ve been welcome down here in the bowels of the internet.  You don’t expect the community here to cross the line.  Even when it does, it is a more delicate and slow process how you let people into your life.  In the real world, it’s abrasive, clumsy and inconsiderate.  And I dance around it all just the same.  But there’s a point when it just becomes macabre.  People out there might say they know me.  But I’m the one out here alone constantly.  I have a full year to prove it.  More than that to be honest.  I just gave up on trying to figure out everything that happened before that.  I’ve lost my own history in that regard.  I will never reboot my dj career.  I will never be accepted as a writer.  I will never be good enough to be called an artist.  I remember this intense discussion I had with an ex during a break up.  We were living together at the time.  We had been together for about a decade at that point.  We lived in the eastern side of this neighborhood at the time.  It was designated by the developer as an artist’s neighborhood.  My girlfriend at the time was a photographer.  I was mostly her assistant.  I paid most of the rent.  We were at a crossroads.  She cheated on me in front of my face in front of our house.  Even after telling her to go, she wouldn’t leave.  She told me to my face that I didn’t belong there because I wasn’t an artist.  I also gave up my car in that breakup.  I’m realizing just recently the reason I never renewed my driver’s license was because I knew I would never afford a car again after I lost that one.  Which is a great thing to remember when State officials yell at you asking why you haven’t renewed it.

The world says it gives a fuck.  It doesn’t show it.  It doesn’t act.  If it did we would never be in this situation.  I know this because I was born to survive.  I have pushed many boulders up many hills.  So much so that I’m grey and over the hill.  And apparently completely fucking meaningless to most people.  Only good enough to speak through T-shirts and guerilla marketing.  There’s a level beyond that I know.  There are people that actually care but the situation is impossible at best.  I’m supposed to see this and accept this out of love, care and attention.  And for a few people I barely know, I do.  The person I care about the most probably knows this too.  But I don’t know anything.  It’s blind faith.  Which is saying a lot for spending two paragraphs saying I have faith in nothing around me.  I don’t,  That’s the curse.  Seeing it how it really is.  Knowing you’ve spent half your life pushing up a boulder for other people that wasn’t worth the slough.  I gained some muscle mass.  Some context to my backstory.  But my life is dead in the fucking water aside from having actual net income.  Kanye and Trump are cash poor.  This is just a fact.  I’m not.  And yet nothing has changed.  There’s no end in sight to where I need to be a year later.  Just the same disrespectful shit.  How I’m supposed to sacrifice my humanity for some rich people’s game with my emotions.  The world uses you, eats you up and spits you out.  If you are lucky to survive this you’d be me.  Has anyone out there really thought about how I feel after all of this?  How dark it must be to know the real truth and keep pushing that boulder just the same?  How tiring and exhausting it feels to be able to write it so delicately but still be so fucking misunderstood just the same?  Is my life just to be joked about backstage as some quirky subplot to steal ideas from?  You cannot be me after all of this.  I will remind you on my very last breath.  And every day that passes is a reminder that you’ve tried.  People have tried to say they know me.  People have tried to say they speak for me.  Understand my pain.  And yet I’m never good enough to acknowledge.  I’m invisible and supposedly this is my thing.  In that case it is.  From this day forward.  Let’s not beat around the fucking bush.  I got here on my own.  I bled, I cried, I screamed and I retreated into the inevitable.  How does anyone expect me to feel if I’m supposed to accept what I accept and know what I know.  I don’t really know.  I feel awful.  I feel broken.  And I feel like everyone who cares about me knows this by now.  And the stakes are higher than my personal feelings about it all.  But my words are meant for people who read them to understand me better for the love of it.  Not to get a jump on me.  Not to subvert me.  Not to teach me a lesson or use me as a stereotype.  Not to be a punching bag or scapegoat for communities who would rather burn me at the stake than hear what I have to say.  In that you will forever fail.  I love the culture that swirls down here.  I love how hardcore it is without pinging the radar for the vultures and the marketing teams.  And yet we have this power that still goes ignored.  Gets laughed at.  Joked about.  Talked over because people are vapid, bored and only succeed by watching other’s fail.  I dropped that boulder a long time ago.  It apparently has not smashed the opposition yet.  It is a long way down as it’s been a long way up.  Tough at the top for sure.  But there’s only room enough up here for two.  And that seat is taken.  <3 Tim