#even if it isn’t sasha i think it’s possible for it to be the last archivist

[stardustravens]

What if whoever (or whatever) was in the Archives at the end of Episode 10 is TMAGP Archivist Sasha??

Even Gertrude thought that Sasha would replace her as Archivist - and the Alexandria episode/season 5 Archivists suggest that it’s very hard to kill an Archivist fully, so it’s entirely possible for the current Archivist to have survived the Institute fire in some capacity…

[jeankirsteinsgrlfrnd]

how would the girls feel about their so participating in no nut november

no nut november, according to your aot girlfriend!

18+ | MDNI | NSFW

(pretty tame but still, also ymir & historia are vague but written with female readers in mind, no i won’t change it and no i won’t apologize.)

mikasa thinks you’re idiotic for wanting to do something like this. not that she thinks you don’t have any self control, more or less she knows you don’t want to have any. she’s pretty blunt about the whole thing, telling you you’re going to fail. she puts money on it.

sasha mainly knows about nnn because of connie and his incessant blabbing. she wants you to ‘win.’ but per her rules, that rules out any act of sex. she can’t possibly be the reason you lose! its the ultimate mind game. you bust a nut or you don’t get close at all, there’s no in between.

annie, like mikasa, bets against you. she berates you and laughs at the idea but ultimately encourages you just so she can prove you wrong. there’s no way you’ll last the month. she’s just waiting to catch you slacking so she can shove it in your face.

historia’s got the wrong idea but she’s got the right spirit. she wants you to, like, ‘better’ yourself and practice self discipline but you can’t expect her to keep her hands to herself. she encourages you verbally about lasting the month but her actions are a direct contradiction. she’s a sweet teaser, nothing extreme, just enough to make your mind wander.

ymir takes it as a personal challenge when you announce your participation in nnn. it’s the ultimate opportunity for her, to get you off as many times as she can. she’s a wonderful girlfriend, always respecting you when you say no to her advances. but that never stops her from teasing you.

hange surprisingly has never heard of the challenge but she encourages you to take part in it if you want. she’s curious too, about how long you’ll last and what will make you cave in. she decides to join in on your challenge, determined to beat you even if she isn’t entirely clear on the rules.

pieck giggles at you and pokes fun at the ridiculous idea. she doesn’t believe in you, whatsoever. she doesn’t even have to worry about purposefully trying to make you lose, she knows your willpower is weak when it comes to her. so, she enjoys the ride and waits for you to beg her to help you out.

[dream-a-little-bigger-x]

New Romantics | Spencer Reid

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: After a bad breakup, Reader and her friends go out to party where she meets one young FBI agent. Suddenly, she'd forgotten her ex even existed and was more interested in getting to know the stranger.

Warnings: alcohol use, reader is drunk for half of this, mention of puking, not proofread, it's generally just not really good but it's the best I can do.

Words: 1.4K

It had been ninety-two days to be exact. Ninety-two days of crying into tubs of ice cream, not wanting to admit that it was over and partying non-stop. It was day twenty when her friends had had enough of her wallowing and forced her into a little black dress and heels, and took her out to party. 

Ever since that day, the partying hadn’t quite stopped. 

Her heart had been broken in a thousand pieces, smashed to a pulp and stepped on by one person alone. The one person she once loved but now absolutely loathed. Charlie Denisco. Now the most hated person in her friend group. 

The partying did help a lot with working through the heartbreak. She didn’t know if it was because she wasn’t holed up in her apartment underneath every possible blanket she had or because of the alcohol, but whatever it was; she felt herself slowly healing. 

“We should find you a new love interest,” Sasha, one of her best friends, stated as she hooked an arm of hers with y/n’s. 

Scoffing, y/n shook her head while Lila voiced her thoughts. “This isn’t a romantic comedy, Sash.”

“What if we made it to be?” Sasha shrugged, earning raised eyebrows and glares from her friends. “Come on! Think about it! We’re out, partying, looking hot as shit, most of us single as shit. What if we romanticized our life and pretend we’re in a rom-com? It could be so fun!”

“Okay,” Ella indulged. “If we do this, what’s gonna happen?” 

Sasha’s face lit up, glad her friends were indulging in her delusions. “Okay, so, we’d be The New Romantics, a group of fun-loving twenty-something teenagers who go out to party, on the road to ruin. We play dumb, but we know exactly what we’re doing.” Her friends chuckled. Sasha had clearly thought about this before. 

“Sounds good to me,” y/n mumbled with a shrug, watching as Sasha’s smile widened even more, taking over her entire face. 

“Should we have, like, our own personas?” Florence suggested with a mischievous smirk on her face. 

Her friends’ smiles mirrored hers, all four of them almost excitedly about the idea. On their way to the bar, the girls started thinking up their New Romantics personas. Flo started, seeing that she was the one who came up with the idea. 

“My name is… Paige Gallagher,” she started. “I’m twenty-nine and a kindergarten–no, primary school teacher. And I enjoy talking to men the way I talk to my students.” The girls all burst out laughing at Florence’s idea. 

“Okay, okay,” y/n then giggled. “My turn. I’m Astrid Wright. I’m twenty-eight and I’m a… coffee shop owner. I like to pick up men when they pick up their coffees.” 

And just like that, Paige Gallagher, Astrid Wright, Nadia Hernandez and Taylor Bates were born from the imaginative minds of four best friends who had dubbed themselves the New Romantics that night. It was a lot fun, at first, with each of them flirting with the men at the bar, getting free drinks from each of them. It was all fun and games until y/n found herself all alone with all three of her friends chatting up the people in the bar. 

Suddenly, her heart plummeted at the feeling of being completely left alone. The memories of her and Charlie flooded back in her mind, shattering every last piece of her heart she had so carefully glued together again. Feeling the tears prick her eyes and the ground behind her sink away, she stumbled outside the bar where she crashed onto the floor, sobbing. 

“Woah, hey,” she heard an unfamiliar voice. “Hey, are you okay?” 

She looked up through her tear-filled eyes. Her sight was blurry, but she could make out the outlines of his curls and sharp jawline. “They left me alone,” she cried. “They left me alone but I can’t be alone right now.” 

“Hey, hey, sssh,” he shushed her, hoping it would soothe her violents sobs before offering his lime soda. “Here, drink this,” he said. “We need to get you a little sobered up.” For a moment, he watched her as she gulped the drink, which stopped her crying. “I’m Spencer…” 

“I’m Astrid–” she stopped herself, then shook her head. “No, that’s not right. I’m y/n.” 

Even in her drunk state, she wasn’t going to lie to this guy who was helping her out. She’d been doing that to everyone in the bar, but she didn’t want to do it to him. He seemed genuinely nice. 

“Okay, y/n,” Spencer said and grabbed her upper arms cautiously. “Can you stand? We gotta get you inside. It’s way too cold out here.” The girl nodded her head and let him help her up to her feet. She stumbled ever so slightly in doing so, but Spencer quickly regained his grip and kept her steady.

She didn’t even know where they were going. All she could focus on was his face. From where she was staring up at him from underneath his arm, she had the perfect view of his sharp jawline and adorable nose. A hiccup escaped from her throat as he gently put her down in one of the booths in the back of the bar. 

“Stay here,” he ordered. “I’m gonna get you some water.” Nodding her head, y/n let herself fall back on the bench, much to Spencer’s dismay. Within a second, he was back by her side and helped her up again. “No. No, no. Sit back up, please,” he ordered and forced her to turn so she was sitting with her back against the back of the couch. 

“But I’m so tired,” she whined, but Spencer was already gone. 

It didn’t take Spencer too long to get the girl sober again. A good five glasses of water and some sobering questions did just the trick, something he had learned from taking care of his many drunk friends. But the more sober she became, the more embarrassed she became. 

“I’m so sorry,” she cried out, fresh tears running down her cheeks. 

Spencer reached over and clutched her hand in his. “Hey, no, you don’t have to apologize.” 

“Yes, I do,” she whimpered, her bottom lip quivering. “Because I’m a drunk, blubbering mess and you’re so nice and so pretty and I just– I’m not normally like this.” She hiccuped before taking another sip, missing a light pink dusting Spencer’s cheeks. 

He himself took a sip from his water, debating whether or not to say the next words brewing in his genius brain. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Okay, then show me who you normally are. We’re gonna sit here, you’re gonna drink your water and we’re gonna talk until you’re sober enough to go home.” 

And so they did. For hours, the two sat in the booth, chatting about seemingly random stuff while drinking one water after the other. Spencer managed to keep the girl awake to the point where she really had to go to the bathroom, having drunk too much water. 

The bar was pretty much empty at this point. Even her friends had ditched her for the people they’d picked up that night with their ‘personas’. So much for the New Romantics, y/n thought. But she was grateful for Spencer that he wanted to take the time to sober her up and get to know her. 

And it had worked, too. The room wasn’t spinning when she sat on the toilet and she didn’t feel like puking anymore. All good signs that told her she was, in fact, sobering up. 

“I can’t believe my friends just ditched me,” she muttered as she slid back into the booth, rejoining Spencer. “We’d actually pretended to be other people all night long.” 

“Why’s that?” Spencer chuckled. 

“Well,” y/n scoffed and rolled her eyes at how ridiculous it all sounded now. “I’ve just come out of a pretty brutal breakup and they’ve been trying to cheer me up. When we came out tonight, we’d decided to use different personas to try and create some sort of mystique, I guess?” She took another gulp of water. “I don’t know, it sounds stupid.” 

“Did it help you get over your ex?” Spencer then asked, to which y/n nodded. “Then it’s not stupid.” 

As y/n looked into Spencer’s eyes, she noticed the golden specks in his irises and she realized she could see her whole world in them. With just one simple look, one simple smile, he had turned her life upside down. Charlie, who? She had forgotten all about them. That night had felt like a dream. 

“I’m not sure it was that, what made me forget my ex…” 

Everything taglist: @calamitykaty @littlemissaddict @n0wornever @wanniiieeee @unnowhatthisistbh

Criminal Minds Taglist: @boimlers-gonna-boim @samsbirks @tinaasthings @dysphoricsanity @love4lando @elenamoncada-ibarra @r-3dlips @magstheslayer @astess 

[multifanrae]

Reasons why Tim and Sasha’s friendship is so fucking important to me. (An appreciative essay to the Magnus Archives and also a mostly related rant on how media usually portrays relationships)

#1 and also the most important, their friendship is just so GOOD. Like yeah what we see is mostly just joking around and a bit of poking fun, but it’s so completely free of malice which is actually really hard to achieve. Because that’s what my friends and family do to each other but it always seems like there’s some deeper undertones that end up at least slightly hurting someone, but from the intonation and the small insight we get into their relationship, that harmful part seems to be absent and like it really is just fun to pass the time and make conversation. And in order for that to work, the relationship has to be really deep and vulnerable to negate that kind of preying on insecurity which just shows how close they really are

#2 having a man and woman just be really close friends for some reason just means a lot to me personally. I know they allude to past relations, but the core of it is they both recognize and respect that they’re really just good friends, and even though they explored a sexual/possibly romantic avenue, they both concluded it was really just platonic, and it’s agreed upon and respected enough to the point where it can be joked about without discomfort. I just love that they get to be so close and important to one another without the romantic element because I’m so tired of seeing m/f relationships only being romantic and/or sexual especially from an unrequited standpoint. (Specifically when the man, despite many objections and boundaries, continue to see her as a sexual object or conquest)

#3 just having good platonic representation. Don’t get me wrong I’m a slut for romantic subplots. (Mostly when they’re gay because I’m a lesbian deprived of representation but still) I think platonic relationships are incredibly important to represent because they’re so often shown as less significant than a romantic one and that’s not true and not fair. Platonic relationships are incredibly important and incredibly meaningful. In some cases I’d even say more than romantic ones, because there isn’t the expectation of sex (assuming it’s an allo relationship). And friendships tend to last longer than romantic affiliations anyway, so it’s stupid to assume that just because you aren’t romantically or sexually involved that the relationship is inferior

#4 I just fucking love their dynamic. I really think they actually just bring out the best in each other. They’re both smart in similar but different enough ways and they seem to just fuel the best aspects of each of their personalities, even if the teasing may seem crude at first glance

#5 I’ve just been watching the RQGG20 stretch goals with Mike and Alastair and the “hello, my name’s Timothy Stoker, you killed my brother and my best friend, prepare to die” fucking TOOK ME OUT. I know it’s a Princess Bride reference, but the delivery and the fact that the stranger took the two most important people of Tim’s life was a realization that felt like a fucking knife to the chest. (Yes I did only realize that just now). They were seriously such best friends and the fact that Tim was living and interacting with someone he didn’t know wasn’t Sasha is just hurting me all over again. Because the pain I’d feel if my best friend was switched out with a monster and I didn’t notice (even tho that’s literally the point) like the guilt and pain that cause

[johnwickb1tsch]

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) Part 5

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4

PART 5.

“I really hate this building,” he grouses as you push through the security door without challenge. He sounds grumpy, and it’s almost…cute. You’re not used to having anyone worrying after you like this.

“I’ve never had a problem here,” you try to assure him.

He gives one last hostile look over the street like he expects a horde of marauders to come charging after you. But there’s just streetlights, and the few harmless hipsters who are still out and about on a Friday night. This city never really sleeps.

“Do you at least have protection in your apartment?”

You reckon he doesn’t mean condoms.

“What, like a gun?”

“Yes.”

“No,” you laugh. “I have a bat under my bed?”

He makes a sound through his teeth that indicates that is not the answer he wanted to hear. Again, you stumble on that stupid odd riser, and again he grabs for you, holding your waist with an arm that feels like steel, practically carrying you up the next three steps. He is tense, on edge after the fight, his eyes sweeping the shadows of your stairwell.

You hope that once you get him inside your apartment, he might calm down. For once the tumblers yield without a fight, and you pull him inside, locking the deadbolt again behind you. “Come sit down. Let me look at you.”

Instead he strides to the window, looking out over the street with a suspicious glare. He is manic, going to every window that faces the street and closing blinds and curtains. Then he stands vigil again, looking out through a crack in the blinds, his jaw clenched. He stands like that for a good minute before you insist, “John.”

He reminds you of a hawk, the way he turns his head to look at you without moving the rest of his body.

“It’s ok, honey. Do you want a drink?”

He lets out a deep breath, maybe relaxing a tad, though he’s still grinding his bottom teeth. “Sure.”

You know his poison of choice now. It’s possible you picked up a nicer bottle of bourbon than what you had on offer last time, a small batch vintage.

“Sit,” you insist, pointing at one of your chairs in the living room. You know it sounds like a command, but it seems like the only way to get through to him in this hyper-fixated state. After a long moment he finally obeys, lowering himself down into the cushioned seat with the weariness of a man ten years his elder. He seems as though he has done this all before—and he doesn’t like it anymore.

“You’re taking all this rather well,” he remarks, gratefully accepting the cut crystal glass from you, slugging back half of it.

“Well...that guy was an asshole.” You shudder as your think about what Sasha intended to do to you, and how he’d undoubtedly treated other women before you who didn’t have someone like John on their side. “A knife in the leg was the least he deserved. You taught him a lesson he won't forget.”

“Yeah. Too bad these guys aren't big on self-reflection. They prefer revenge.”

“You think they’ll come after you?”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

You digest this, chewing on your bottom lip. “I can’t imagine how they could even find me,” you try to assure him. “It’s a huge city.”

The look he pays you isn’t exactly condescending, but it definitely makes you feel like he finds you naïve.

“Did you pay for your first round of drinks with cash?”

“No, credit card.”

He nods, like that’s all they would need.

“Seriously?”

“They have their ways.”

“Who are they, exactly?”

“I feel like it would be better if you didn’t know.”

“Oh no, we’re not doing that,” you say with your hands on your hips. “If someone’s coming after me, you’re going to tell me who.”

The wistful smile that twists his lips unexpected. “What?” you ask, unable to mask your annoyance.

“It’s just…I feel like I’ve had this conversation before.”

You realize you must remind him of Helen, with your no-male-bullshit attitude. It makes your heart ache at the same time it fills with pride. “Well, I learned from the best.”

You stare at each other for a long moment, and you feel your annoyance melt away as you study this man, so forbidding and yet beneath it all, a little fragile. You see it in his eyes, and there’s still blood on his brow, and you decide you want to patch him up more than you want to argue with him.

For now.

Maybe he feels some obligation to take care of you because of Helen, but it goes both ways. You know Helen would want you to make sure he’s taken care of too. You feel a little guilty that it’s taken this long.

“I’m going to go get my first aid kit. We’ll clean you up, then you can decide what you want to tell me. FYI, the less you know the better is not acceptable tonight.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You cannot tell if he is amused, exasperated, or maybe both.

You return from the bathroom with your medicine chest, thunking it down on the coffee table. “Want another?” you ask, gesturing at his empty glass.

“Yes, but I shouldn’t. Good stuff.” You smile to yourself, wondering if your previous offering had been closer on the scale to paint thinner, remembering how he’d drank it anyway because he was a sweetheart. He was a conundrum, was what he was. This man was dangerous, and after what you’d seen earlier, you suspected he was possibly a killer. And yet, he was sweet. So sweet, at least to you, and those he considered friends. The warmth that bloomed in your chest for him was alarmingly not exactly—or not exclusively—lust related.

“Ouch,” you sigh, inspecting his brow. It’s a deep cut, and might actually require a butterfly. You won’t know until you clean it up.

You actually possess a passable first aid kit. Sometimes, art projects involving blades go awry, and you are in the habit of taking care of your ailments yourself. The cost of healthcare is utterly obscene, and until recently, out of your budget.

John lets you fuss over him, sitting still as a statue as you cleanse his wounds with saline solution then slather him with some antibacterial goop. Though you still feel a bit sick, and a bit giddy from the adrenaline, luckily your hands have stopped shaking. You do affix one butterfly closure to his noble brow, just in case. His eyes are closed, almost as though he is enjoying your ministrations, even though you know it can’t actually feel good.

“I’m not sure what else to do for this,” you say, touching his split lip lightly with a gauze pad, dabbing away the blood.

“It’s fine,” he sighs. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” you say.

This could be an excellent window for him to really tell you what’s going on. You suspect he’s purposely distracting you when he reaches for you, tracing the line of your waist before his large hands settle on your hips, pulling you closer between his manspread legs.  

“I’m feeling better now.” He looks up at you with those soulful dark eyes, and goddammit they should be considered an illegal weapon.

You know you should insist on answers before giving in, but your resolve utterly dissolves under his touch and that longing look, replaced with heady desire. This thing between you is a force to be reckoned with; it obliterates your good sense, your sense of propriety, your loyalty to your late sister. Anything that might have stopped you with anyone else ceased to matter with this beautiful man.

You are not sure if he pulls you, or if you just melt down into his lap, straddling him. His long fingers splay on your legs, pushing your skirts up your thighs, sliding higher and higher until he cups your ass with only your panties between you.

“My knight in shining black armor,” you sigh, touching his cheek lightly, wary of causing him pain. You think you see a bruise forming beneath the scruff of his beard.

“Hmm. It’s nice to be the hero, for once.” 

“Are you usually the bad guy, John?”

His touch is feather light down your legs again, then up your spine and the backs of your arms, causing you to shudder uncontrollably. “You have no idea, sweetheart.”

“I think I’m forming an idea,” you admit breathily.

“My clever girl. What ever shall I do with you?” You’re not sure why his praise makes heat and slick pool between your legs, as though you are melting from the inside for this man. His hands are in your hair now, his touch still so gentle, but oh so maddening. Your skin feels like its on fire.

You kiss him gently, because of the split lip. He is the one who deepens it, with a growing desperation and a disregard for his own pain that you find insanely titillating. His mouth travels down your neck, trailing kisses and grazing with teeth as though he means to eat you alive.

You would let him, gladly, and you writhe against him, grinding on the length of his hard cock beneath you. You didn’t even get to see it last time. Tonight, you determine you will remedy that.

Fingers hooked in the straps of your dress pull down, down and down until you are bared before him. His hand in your hair pulls, gentle but exacting, guiding you to arch your back, offering up your breasts for his delectation. His mouth on your nipples is pure magic, sucking and biting and flicks of tongue that drive you to the absolute brink. He could make you cum just like this, you think, with his mouth on your tits and riding his rock-hard cock through his pants.

It hardly seems fair, considering last time, you somehow manage to think through the fog of desire that has you so tied up in knots. You push against him, sliding down his body until you are on your knees before him. He watches you with such blatantly raw hunger it makes your legs weak; he knows exactly what you’re doing, and doesn’t have the will to tell you no. He watches you intensely as you reach for his belt, flipping it open. There is a weight on the belt that confuses you for a moment, until his hand goes behind his back, catching something.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, and you can’t think straight enough to even entertain it. He pulls out a small black blocky object—it takes you a moment to realize it’s a gun. You've never really seen one in real life until tonight, just in the movies. You are more curious than fearful as he sets it gingerly on the table. The possibility does not even register that he could be a threat to you. After everything you’ve seen tonight, this is just par for the course, and you return to your task with gusto, whipping his belt from their loops with a satisfying snap.

You cannot hide the fact that you are utterly pleased with yourself, and the corners of his mouth twitch, his hand caressing your cheek. You finish undoing his pants with your eyes half closed, so entranced by his light touch, until his manhood springs free into your hand, hot and velvety and oh my he is large. You roll your eyes up to meet his before descending upon him, slowly taking his swollen glans between your lips, swirling him with your tongue.

“Fuck, baby…”

The hand in your hair is not so gentle now; you don’t think he realizes he’s pulling, as you slowly take his length into the back of your throat, toying with the vein with your tongue. You slide more of him into your mouth, knowing you'll never be able to fit it all, but so willing to try. You bob up and down slowly, grazing him very carefully with your teeth, winning the most delicious moan from this man who is usually such a bastion of self-control. 

His fingers comb through your hair, sending chills all down your body as you work him up and down. The tips of your bare breasts brushing his tautly muscled thighs sends spears of longing to your loins, and you press your legs for some relief.

It doesn’t work, but you are enjoying this, and you want to treat him, the way he treated you so generously before. He’s taken a beating for you, fought and bled for you, protected you, and you want to thank him in the most primal way you know how. You take him deeper into the back of your throat, as deep as you can go, savoring every thick inch of this magnificent cock. What a thing of beauty. He groans, and you would have smiled if not for the mouthful.

“Baby...so good to me.” His hips rock against you of their own volition, his grip tightening in your hair. “Touch yourself for me. I want to feel you cum with your mouth sucking my cock.”

He doesn't have to invite you twice. Your fingers find your weeping slit, toying with your clit while you go down on him. You find a rhythm like this, sucking him in time to touching yourself. Maybe it’s a little self serving, but then again...there is something cosmic in this. Something timeless and primal and he seems to be enjoying it all the more with your participation, the vibration of your moans teasing his hard shaft.

You feel that scintillating pleasure gathering in your loins, know you are close. Your pleasure almost takes you by surprise, it is so swift and violent, your body spasming with the mindnumbing explosion inside you. After last time, it’s almost the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. You take him into your throat fully and he cums with you, no warning, just the hot spill of his seed down your throat, filling your mouth. You swallow it greedily, only withdrawing when he stills beneath you.

You nearly collapse against his lean legs, your cheek resting on his lean thigh. This man is made of muscle and sinew. Through hooded eyes he caresses your face, toying with your hair. You shudder with aftershocks that are almost as pleasurable as the orgasm itself. You feel triumph as those burning dark eyes slide closed, overcome by afterglow, and maybe something else you don't care to name now.

“My sweet girl. You...are a marvel."

Something inside you blooms at hearing those soft words from him.

Slowly you sit up, stretching against him, using his hard body to help push you to your feet. Without a word you step out of your lacy pink panties and stick them in his jacket like a pocket square. He glances down with a lifted eyebrow, a small smirk pulling the corner of his mouth.

He’s so beautiful you could scream. 

“Something to add to your collection,” you quip, alluding to the fact that even though he practically fled last time, you know he took your undies with him.

“I will treasure them as much as the last pair,” he admits with a woebegone smile that crushes your heart.

Your legs are trembling beneath you, and you hold out a hand to him, inviting him to follow you. “Snuggle with me?”

A few long moments pass, until you think he might reject the idea, but then he takes your smaller mitt in his and tugs you down into his lap. It is silly, how secure you feel curled up in this man’s arms, your head finding the warm crook of his neck. His masculine smell is utterly divine, and you could fall asleep there, with his long fingers stroking your hair. You snuggle in the quiet aftermath, spent and ever so content.

This might be what heaven feels like.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, when he brushes his lips against the top of your head and asks, “What would you say to packing a bag and coming to my place for the weekend?”

The suggestion takes you aback. Heat floods you as you think about just what you would get up to on a long weekend away at Casa Wick.

It certainly wouldn't be innocent.

Your little bubble of carnal pleasure bursts when you think of everything that happened outside your apartment, before you pleasured each other into a mind-numbed stupor.

“I would say I feel like you have an ulterior motive besides enjoying my company.”

“I do enjoy your company.”

“And I think you think I'm in danger. Are you ready to talk about that?”

“Am I allowed to say no?”

“No.”

He huffs with laughter, clearly amused with you. But behind it all, you see the shadow of worry in his eyes, a tension at the corners of his mouth. “Come home with me, and we can talk about there.”

You tilt your head, wondering if he would be so diabolical as to fuck you into a blissfully complacent stupor so he didn’t have to answer your questions the whole weekend. You’ve never been good at taking orders—or hell, even advice—at face value. You like to make decisions—read mistakes—for yourself. But maybe, just this once, you could have faith that someone has your best interests at heart. He’s older than you, maybe wiser, and seems to know a little something you don’t about the workings of the underworld of New York City. As surreal as it seems...you could actually be in serious danger.

Seeing that you are still thinking, he sweetens the pot, nuzzling the shell of your ear with his nose. “I will cook for you and spoil you rotten.”

You can only imagine what carnal delights spoiling implies with this man.  

Well…fuck.

“Fine. I’ll pack a bag. But we are just postponing this Q & A.”

“Fair enough.” You extricate yourself from his lap with a stretch, and he gives you a light smack on your rear as you make your way for your bedroom. When you turn to look at him with a raised eyebrow he pays you a panty-melting (if you’d been wearing any) smirk that turns your brain to mush.

This man.

It occurs to you that this man is, in fact, dangerous to you. Not in terms of violence, but…you sense in yourself that if he asked nicely, you just might give him anything. You understand more than ever how and why Helen fell so quickly for John Wick, as you find yourself surrendering to your addiction to him with a secret smile.

<<PART 4 PART 6>>

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

Happy Jmart-iversary!!! Have some S1 annoyances-to-lovers (or, well, annoyances-to-mutual pining) Jmart to celebrate their day!

Martin usually has more shame than this.

Despite what certain Archivists might think, he isn’t oblivious. He knows Jon doesn’t like him, and while Jon seems to think that Martin has made it his mission in life to bother him whenever possible, Martin usually does his best to avoid Jon as much as civility and his job will allow.

But the thing is, Martin is lonely.

Worse than that, he’s 1 AM Lonely.

Martin has become something of an expert in loneliness, over the years, and he can confidently assert that 1 AM loneliness is the absolute worst. 7 AM loneliness is rough. 8 PM loneliness can be dire. But 1 AM loneliness is utterly, entirely hopeless. If he felt this way while the sun was still up, he might be able to find an excuse to call Tim and Sasha that wasn’t just, “I wanted to hear your voice.” If nothing else, he could walk to a library, or a coffee shop, and remember that there were other people in the world. But at 1 AM, he has nothing to do but sit with the yawning, aching emptiness in his chest, and feel like he is the last person left on the face of the earth.

Except for Jonathan Sims. 

He’d always sort of suspected that Jon had a deeply unhealthy work schedule, but he was still surprised at how often he wandered out of Document Storage after midnight, expecting to have the Archives to himself, only to run into Jon in the breakroom. He’s always more irritable at night – which Martin wouldn’t have thought possible, a month ago – but an irritable Jon is better than nothing, which is how Martin has found himself standing outside Jon’s office in his pajamas, socked feet barely keeping out the chill of the scuffed linoleum floor.

There’s still time to change his mind. He could still turn around, go back to the cot in Document Storage, and sit in his insomnia with some semblance of dignity intact.

He knocks. 

There’s no response, but Martin’s used to that, so he lets himself in. When the door opens, Jon lifts his head from his work to stare daggers at him.

“Yes?” he snaps. “What do you want?”

“Just– J-Just checking in. Do you need anything?”

“No,” Jon says with a finality that borders on rudeness.

“Right.” Martin can take a hint, so he starts backing out of the door. “I’ll, uh… I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Jon purses his lips like he wants to say, See to it that you do, but is aware that that would be rude even for him, and says nothing. Martin winces as he pulls the door shut behind him.

Well. He did achieve what he was setting out to. He no longer feels like he’s completely alone in the world – there’s at least one asshole here with him.

Somehow, that thought comforts him enough that he is finally able to sleep.

*

The next few days, Martin manages to sleep a bit better. The Archives are remarkably empty on the weekend – not even Jon is working Saturdays, this week – so he has to contend with 3 PM loneliness (and 4 PM loneliness, and 5 PM loneliness…) but by 1 AM he is sound asleep. When the work week starts again on Monday, Martin is feeling almost well-rested.

Jon, it seems, isn’t.

He hasn’t stayed late at the office for the past few days, but whatever he was doing away from work, Martin feels confident that it wasn’t sleeping. He’s in an even worse mood than usual, and chews Martin out for a full 5 minutes about a simple formatting error that Martin has seen Tim and Sasha make before. 

(Tim used to work in publishing, he thinks but does not point out, he built his career on finding formatting problems, so if even he screws this up occasionally, I’m pretty sure it’s not a huge deal. But of course, when Tim makes a mistake, he gets a note on his report asking him to revise it, not a 10-minute lecture in which it’s implied that he doesn’t take seriously the historic institution for which he works, and that he may as well be spitting on the grave of Jonah Magnus with each misused semicolon.)

Which makes it all the more embarrassing when 1 AM rolls around and Martin once again hesitates outside the door to Jon’s office. He’s got tea this time, which is a pretty feeble excuse to barge in at 1 in the morning, but it’s a better one than he had last time. He has to shift both mugs to one hand to get the door open.

“Tea?” he asks in lieu of a hello. “I was making some for myself and figured you might want some.” (It’s a bald-faced lie, but Jon doesn’t need to know that.) When Jon doesn’t respond, Martin trips over himself to fill the silence. “It’s, uh. I-It’s herbal. I hope that’s alright. Thought caffeine was probably a bad idea, this time of night.”

“Hm,” is all Jon says in response, but he still takes a sip.

Martin settles into the seat opposite the desk. Jon eyes him suspiciously, but once again says nothing. He turns his attention back to his laptop, and they drink their tea in silence. 

It’s almost pleasant, somehow. The tea is delicious, in Martin’s completely unbiased opinion, and Jon relaxes enough to become a reassuring presence. He doesn’t speak, but he’s a living, breathing human in the same room as Martin, and that’s all Martin needs right now. Jon sighs and coughs and taps his foot, and whenever he notices a mistake in whatever it is he’s reading, he gives an irritable click of his tongue and starts typing furiously. At one point he even laughs. It’s not much – a quiet little bark of a laugh, barely any louder than his sighs – but it still comes as a surprise.

“What?” Martin asks, and Jon startles as though he forgot Martin was there.

Jon looks vaguely mortified to have done something so human and unprofessional as to laugh, but he explains, “Tim’s report on the Ramao case. His methods for obtaining Ramao’s marriage license were… very Tim.”

“Ah.” Martin has a few guesses at what that could mean. “B&E, bribery, or flirting?”

“Flirting,” Jon confirms. “Honestly, I’d prefer a good B&E. At least then I wouldn’t have to explain to Elias why dinner for two at Frescobaldi counts as a business expense.”

“Always happy to do my part,” Martin grins, but his smile droops as he adds, “Though my last break-in didn’t quite go to plan.”

Jon’s face grows serious as well. “Right. How, uh, h-how are you… adjusting?”

“Fine,” Martin says, and it’s not the biggest lie he’s told in his life, but it’s close.

“Right,” Jon says again. He doesn’t ask any follow-up questions, and Martin can’t help but be relieved to let the subject drop, even if the rest of the conversation drops with it. They go back to drinking their tea in silence, and soon enough it’s time for Martin to collect their empty mugs and slink back out of the office.

This time, at least, Jon says good-bye.

“Good night, Martin.”

Martin’s lips twitch upward, just a hair. “Good night, Jon.”

He sets the mugs in the sink and heads back to Document Storage, and he’s asleep within minutes.

*

Tuesday night he manages to fall asleep at a shockingly reasonable hour. Which is wonderful, right up until it isn’t.

He wakes up in a cold sweat from a nightmare that is already fading from his memory. His dad was in it, which is rare. He tries to recall what his face had looked like, but it’s gone. Maybe he hadn’t even had a face – dreams are like that sometimes – but he can still feel it at the edges of his memory, slipping away with each passing second.

He does his best to remember what the dream had been about. He was back in the apartment he used to share with his mother, the tiny, dingy place that forever smelled like mildew and cigarettes even though neither of them smoked, and his father was there. Then he left, again, and his mother was furious. She didn’t need to say that she blamed Martin, he could read it in her face, but she told him anyway. And then the apartment was a hospital room, and there were nurses yelling at him, too – how could he upset his mother at a time like this? Didn’t he know how ill she was? And then the hospital was his new apartment, and the mildew smell wasn’t mildew at all but worms, worms and rot, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks, and no one had thought to check on him, and the only one in the world who cared whether he lived or died was the woman trying to break down his door and fill him with worms.

So not the best dream he’s ever had.

He checks his phone. 12:22. Great. Too late to talk to anyone, too early to just get out of bed and start the day.

He stares out at the dark room. Document Storage has no windows, and with the hallway light off, there isn’t even any light spilling in under the doorway, so his eyes have nothing to catch on. He can do nothing but sit in the dark as the afterimage of his bright phone screen gets swallowed up by the gloom.

It’s not as though the dream was real. He’s safe for now; the worms can’t get to him here. And he’s not alone in the world. He’s not. His coworkers didn’t just abandon him to die – he’s seen the texts, he knows they had every reason to think he was safe.

Still, if Tim had been out for two full weeks with a stomach bug, Martin would have been on his doorstep with soup and ginger chews and an offer to drive him to the doctor any time he needed. He would have checked up on him. So would Sasha. So would Jon, probably – as much as he likes to present himself as aloof and coldly professional, Martin knows he cares about Tim and Sasha a whole lot more than he lets on. There’s only one person in the Archives who could disappear without being missed.

It isn’t that his friends don’t care about him. He knows they do. But he also knows, with bone-deep certainty, that they don’t care about him as much as he cares about them, and that’s a very lonely feeling.

Martin pushes himself out of bed. He doesn’t know what to do, exactly, but he’s had enough nightmares in his life to know that getting out of bed and away from the room he woke up in is a good place to start.

There’s a light on in Jon’s office. This time, Martin can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed when he steps inside.

Jon is sitting behind his desk, like always, scribbling furiously in the margins of some document Martin doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t even glance up when Martin enters the room this time.

“Yes?”

“Do you–” Martin’s voice is hoarse and rough – he hadn’t thought to get anything to drink when woke up, and now his throat is painfully dry – but he clears his throat and pushes through. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Right.”

Martin takes a seat in the chair beside the desk. He doesn’t try to make conversation. He doubts Jon wants to hear it, and he isn’t feeling up for it, anyway. He just sits and listens to the scratching of Jon’s pen.

He’d be more than happy to sit in silence all night, but Jon keeps pausing his work to shoot suspicious glances Martin’s way, and Martin knows he ought to say something, so he clears his throat again and asks, “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

He sounds more than a little irritated. Martin should definitely take that as a sign to leave, but he isn’t ready to go back to sitting in the dark in Document Storage just yet.

“I could make tea?” he offers. “It’s no trouble, really.”

“I don’t need tea,” Jon snaps. “And I don’t need help, and I certainly don’t need a nosy coworker barging into my office every five minutes to try and guilt me into leaving work.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Jon insists. “And it’s none of your business how late I work–”

“I don’t care how late you work! I mean, I think you could stand to get some sleep once in a while, but that’s not–”

“Then why are you always hovering around any time I work late?”

Martin is too tired to think better of it before he snaps, “Because I’m lonely, Jon! Because it’s one in the bloody morning and I can’t sleep and everyone else I know is already in bed. Believe me, if there was a single other person I could be talking to right now, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh.”

That’s all Jon says. Martin isn’t sure what he’s going to say if he stays in this room any longer, so he stands up.

“I’m going to make tea. Do you want any?”

Jon nods.

When Martin comes back with two perfectly-brewed cups of camomile-and-vanilla, Jon has set aside his pen and his notes and is fidgeting at his desk. Anxiety and shame flicker across his face when he accepts the mug that Martin offers him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking. I thought you just wanted me out of the Archives.”

“Yeah, well. Not everything’s about you.”

And Jon laughs at that – the same soft, barking laugh he’d given to Tim’s report – and Martin feels a strange sort of affection flood through him at the sound. Pretty inconvenient, given that he was just getting used to being irritated with Jon.

“I suppose I deserve that.” Jon smiles, and it’s somehow worse than the laugh. There are a few more minutes of silence before he speaks up again. “Have you, um. Have you ever tried lavender?”

“What?”

“Whenever I tell people I have insomnia, they always recommend lavender – lavender essential oil, lavender tea, lavender eye masks…”

“Have you tried it? Does it help?”

“Not in the least,” Jon says. “Not for me. But maybe it would help you.”

“Maybe,” Martin agrees, more out of politeness than any real hope. “Never hurts to try.”

Jon nods. He looks for a moment like he’s debating with himself whether to say anything else, then he clears his throat with an awkward little grimace and says, “If– i-if you ever need to talk… I can’t promise I’ll be very good conversation, but I can promise I won’t yell at you next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

*

Martin’s insomnia doesn’t get any better. Breathing exercises don’t help, and neither does the white noise app he downloads. A box of lavender tea mysteriously appears in the break room, and it doesn’t make him tired, but it does leave him with a warm, fuzzy feeling that can’t be entirely explained by having drunk a hot beverage.

Jon starts staying late more often. Some nights, just knowing that he’s there is comforting enough to stave off the worst of Martin’s loneliness, but some nights he finds himself once again sitting in the chair in Jon’s office while Jon sits across from him with his nose buried in a statement. Jon never asks for an explanation anymore, just nods at Martin when he comes in and then gets back to work.

They don’t talk much on nights like this, but they do talk. Mostly it’s just chatter – how was your day? Did you see what Tim was wearing today? How long until they fix the aircon in this building? – but some nights the conversation opens up to the kind of vulnerability that only 2 AM can bring.

“I wish I was as close with Tim and Sasha as you are.”

It’s not a complete non sequitur – they were just talking about their coworkers – but Martin can still feel the tone shift between them.

Jon just blinks. “What do you mean? I’m certain they like you more than they like me – The three are always going out to lunch–”

“And we always invite you!” Martin reminds him, “You just never come! And anyway, you three go way back, you all know each other so well… They don’t even know me well enough to know if it’s me texting them or some evil worm woman.” He’s gotten to know Jon well enough over the past few weeks to know that, supportive or not, Jon’s never very quick with words of comfort, so he goes on. “I can’t complain – I mean, they’re nice! They’re really nice! It’s just… it’s not fun, feeling like the odd one out.”

Jon flashes him a grimace that Martin thinks is supposed to be commiserative but mostly just looks awkward. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I also wish I was closer with Tim and Sasha. Things haven’t been the same since we transferred from Research. And it doesn’t help that they both know Sasha should have been promoted over me.”

Martin wants to reassure him, tell him that Elias must have promoted him for a reason, but he’s the last person who can argue that Elias always hires the most qualified person for the job.

“Anyway,” Jon says, “I know for a fact they like you. Have you just told them how you feel?”

“Have you?”

Jon smiles. “Alright, fair enough.”

The conversation moves on to lighter topics from there, and Martin almost forgets about it. But the next time 1 AM loneliness hits, it’s a relief to know that he isn’t the only one in the Archives who’s lonely.

*

Jon stays late every night the next week. 

Martin knows Jon doesn’t want anyone chiding him, but he worries. He looks more and more worn out by the day, and Martin’s pretty sure he’s getting less work done for all the time he’s spending in the Archives.

When Martin wakes up from another nightmare (just a Prentiss nightmare this time, not a Prentiss-and-his-mother double feature) he doesn’t have to question if Jon’s around. When he checks his phone and sees that it’s well past 2 AM, some small, optimistic part of him thinks Jon might have gone home by now, but he isn’t at all surprised when he sees light spilling in from under the door in Jon’s office.

Jon doesn’t look up when Martin enters the room. 

He looks rough. His head is resting in his hands, shoulders slumped, fingers wearily massaging his temples. When he hears the door click closed behind Martin, he finally looks up, and Martin can see that the dark circles under his eyes have gotten worse.

“Go home, Jon,” he says, and Jon shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

“You need sleep.”

“I doubt I could get any sleep tonight regardless,” Jon says. “Insomnia, remember?”

“Well, try,” Martin says, patience waning. “Go home.”

“I can’t.” Jon’s voice is small and hoarse, and he sounds more vulnerable than he ever has in all their late-night chats.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

 “You were alone for two weeks, Martin,” he says, voice hushed as though he’s confessing something. “I can’t leave you alone like that again.”

Oh. Martin puts some pieces together. His boss has been running himself ragged, staying at work past 2 in the morning most days, because he’s convinced Martin can’t handle being alone at night. He thinks that Martin is a child in need of a security blanket, and has decided that the best course of action is to simply never leave work. It is, unfortunately, very sweet, but it’s also utterly humiliating.

“I can handle being alone!” he sputters, mortified beyond belief. “Believe me, I’ve had plenty of practice. I don’t need you to always be around. I-I know I said I get lonely sometimes, but, God, I’m not that pathetic.”

Jon frowns. “I don’t think you’re pathetic,” he whispers. “Believe me, Martin, that’s the last thing I think. I know I haven’t always been… fair to you. Or kind. Or even civil. If I had been fair to you, you wouldn’t be living in this basement.” He drops his gaze and addresses his next words to his hands. “It’s my fault you have to stay here,” he murmurs. “The very least I can do is ensure that you don’t have to stay here alone.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that. His brain cycles through several options and discards them all as insufficient. In the end, he decides to forgo words altogether. He stands up, reaches over, and pulls Jon out of his seat and into a hug.

Jon startles, and for a moment Martin thinks he’s made a horrible miscalculation, but then wraps his scrawny arms around his middle and squeezes tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I forgive you,” Martin says. “Now go home.”

*

That Friday, the four of them go out for drinks after work. It’s Martin’s idea, and he insists that they invite Jon. Tim and Sasha tell him it’s a lost cause – Jon’s never agreed to get lunch with them, he certainly won’t agree to drinks – but lo and behold, Jon agrees.

It’s awkward. Martin hasn’t left the Archives much since Prentiss, and he’s on high alert for worms, but he can’t deny that having his coworkers with him is a comfort. Sat around a sticky high-top table in a pub that smells like stale beer and fresh sweat, the conversation simply flows. Every now and then, the other three will laugh at some inside joke from their research days, but Jon always makes a point of bringing Martin up to speed.

Afterwards, Jon walks him back to the Archives. Martin is floating in a warm, hazy middle ground between ‘tipsy’ and ‘drunk,’ and Jon seems to be feeling much the same.

“I could stay, if you’d like,” Jon says.

“I’ll be fine,” Martin says.

When he makes it to the cot in Document Storage, he’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

*

It would be nice, Martin thinks, if getting closer to people were the straightforward antidote to loneliness – if making friends were enough to stop him feeling so utterly friendless. But loneliness is never a simple thing, and some nights he still finds himself lying awake at night feeling like the last man on earth.

He checks the time. 1 AM. Naturally.

For the second time in a week, Jon doesn’t look up to see Martin when he enters the room. This time, he’s slumped over the desk, dead asleep.

He looks smaller, somehow, when he’s sleeping. His face is slack, the perpetual furrow in his brow is gone, and his hair is falling across his face in a way that leaves Martin itching to reach over and tuck it behind his ear. He looks cute, if Martin’s being entirely honest, but Jon’s only started being mostly-nice to Martin in the past two weeks or so, so Martin isn’t ready to be that honest with himself quite yet.

He reaches out a hand and gently shakes Jon’s shoulder.

“Jon.”

Jon stirs but doesn’t wake, so Martin shakes harder. 

“Jon,” he repeats. No luck.

He sighs. He’s still wide awake, and he doubts that’s going to change any time soon. At least one of them should get some use out of the cot.

It’s surprisingly easy to pick Jon up. Jon stirs slightly as Martin scoops him into his arms, and for one terrifying second he thinks he’s going to wake up in Martin’s arms, but he doesn’t. Opening the doors to first the office and then Document Storage is more than a little tricky with his hands full, but he manages.

He sets Jon down on the bed as gently as he can, but Jon finally rouses as Martin tucks a blanket over his shoulders.

“Martin?” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

“Go back to sleep, Jon.”

It doesn’t seem like Jon needs any encouragement. His eyes are already slipping closed again, but he manages to ask, “Will you be alright on your own?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, “I’ll be alright.” 

And he means it.

(View this story on AO3)

[may-nr1rooftoptriodefender]

What comes next

pairing: Levi Ackermann x f.reader/kinda oc

(it’s supposed to be reader but there are a few things important for the story… Nothing is mentioned in this chapter but for it to make sense in later chapters Im gonna say it. She has no first name bcs I suck at names but she has a last name. Her family and her background is already set. Hair color is black)

summary: When Yelena and her people arrive at Paradis, Levi finds himself in a tricky situation.

warnings: might contain Spoiler for Season 4!, set during 4 year time skip, ooc Levi?, kinda explicit (mentions of sex and vague descriptions) <- it’s not filthy hardcore but it’s there,…

(if i forgot anything I’m sorry, it’s 4am rn)

notes: Hi! I’m back y’all. First published Levi story, yay. Soo before we start, there are going to be more parts. This is just a little intro and the moments described happened in the past, next parts ain’t going to be flashbacks. English isn’t my first language so if you find any mistakes pls let me know🙏 tips are always appreciated.

Lastly, this is kinda smutty so I’ll put a MDNI here. You have been warned, if you still proceed to read, it’s on your own risk. I cannot stop you from reading anything but at least be aware of what you’re reading! (this is like the first smutty thing I published so bear with me..)

masterlist

part I

Seeing the outside world- the ocean, finding out about the enemy- Marley, the truth about the titans,.. it was hard to process. they needed new plans- new strategies to defeat Marley. Eren was their ultimate weapon. With him on their side they had to win. But how?

When Marley send out one of their ships to Paradis, it was like a gift. The second ship marked the arrival of their new accomplices. Yelena and her people were more than helpful. But Yelena wasn’t the only one. Onyankopon, Niccolo, and her.

Normally, he wouldn’t care. A soldier from Marley is nothing special. But she was so different at the same time. It was strange that all of them wanted to help Paradis. They betrayed their own country for them.

In order to come forward with their research, they accepted Yelena’s help. They started to build outside the walls. The titans were all gone, no need to worry now. Some were forced to help, some wanted to.

Niccolo wasn’t very impressed at first. He was complaining nonstop while cooking the seafood for the scouts. After Sasha took the first bite, he shut up quickly. He was quite flustered actually. She and Yelena were there too. She found it hilarious.

Laughing loudly with a quiet ‘I told you’ at the end.

Just like Yelena and Onyankopon, she never seemed to hate the Eldians of Paradis Island. He hated it. Thinking about her. She wouldn’t leave his thoughts. He tried, he really did- she was the enemy after all. But he couldn’t. He tried to see something he wouldn’t like. And maybe he didn’t like talkative people. Or people who invade personal space. But at the same time, she was a bit shy. She would give space if he needed it.

She was the only one who dared to come closer than the rest. Even if he was supposed to be enemy. This conflict was going on for years now.

Even if he didn’t really show it, he didn’t mind her tired eyes looking into his. Or how she sometimes followed him like a lost puppy. How she always greeted him when he entered the room. The way she says his name…

‘Good morning Levi.’

‘How are you Captain Levi?’

‘Do you need anything Levi?’

‘Levi.’

But is he really that special? It’s not like he’s the only one she’s friendly with. She greets everyone. She talks to everyone the same. She always smiles when someone said something funny.

But not everyone gets a knock on their door at every possible hour of the day.

‘Could we have some tea together Levi? I think I have a few more ideas regarding…’

‘Hanges the commander, You should go to her.’ , is what he should say. But he lets her in. Every time. Conversations are nice, if it’s with the right person. He isn’t talkative, so she does the most of talking. He normally would prefer it quiet, yet he doesn’t mind the conversation. She’s always calm, it’s never about difficult topics, she stays polite,…

He wants to hate it. They notice. Everyone sees that she spends more time with Levi. But that he actually likes his time with her goes unnoticed. And it’s not like she tries anything with him. Hange said to him once that she probably tries to befriend everyone. Showing that she isn’t the enemy.

‘And you know, it’s so hard to read you, she wants to make sure that you two are on the same side!’

Hange didn’t help his problem.

He genuinely thinks that those are her true intentions. There’s this other side though. What if she’s a spy for Marley. What if she’s trying to get more information. What if she wants us to trust her so she can betray us.

But she wouldn’t do that, would she?

No.

He still has to be careful. Actually, he fucked that up too. It’s too late for being careful.

He couldn’t resist when she looked at him with those eyes. These damn eyes. And her smile. How could someone look at him this way? No one ever did. He can’t believe it. But he wants to. He wants to be selfish for once.

One evening, she would come to his door again. With two teacups in her hand.

‘Would you mind if we talk?’

He could never say no to her. So she comes in. She sets the two teacups down and starts to prepare everything. Levi just sat down. He wanted to help her, but every time he tried she refused. He doesn’t like how other people do his tea. This was his room and she, a prisoner from Marley, tells him what to do?

He accepts it. When everything is ready, she sits down with him and they drink their tea. She starts talking, he replies sometimes. It’s nice.

Somehow, their usual routine changed. She did nothing wrong. One small slip up and it was over. He was listening, until she stopped talking. Looking him directly into the eyes. The smile from before slowly fading. Did he do something wrong? Well fuck.

And then the unexpected came. She complimented his eyes. He expected everything, but not that.

‘What.’

‘Your eyes. They’re beautiful. With the grey and the little blue sparks… You don’t see that often.’ Her smile was returning.

‘Why would you say that.’

‘Huh? Because it’s the truth?’

Not a lot people made him compliments. He has gotten love letters before, or weird request. But not compliments. They either found him to scary to say that to his face, or they simply didn’t find anything to compliment. Well maybe expect on the battlefield. On how he did a good job or something like that. But not about his appearance.

They loved to comment on his height rather than his other features.

And that was his moment of weakness. He didn’t know what to say. And he didn’t. He grabbed the base of her neck and brought her forward to his face. He kissed her. He didn’t know why he did it. He didn’t know why she kissed him back, bringing her hand up to his cheek. This was his sign to stop. He pulled back and stared at her. His eyes were wide because what the fuck just happened. Why did he do it. Shit she’s going to slap him now.

She looked at him. Not one word came out. Levi did the only rational thing.

‘Don’t take that personal.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Okay.’

…

‘Will you take it personal if I do it again?’

He should’ve said no, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t say anything, so he shook his head. A tiny smile formed onto her face and she pressed their faces against each other. He didn’t mind, even if he should.

She also didn’t take it personal when they left the kitchen. Or when she sat on the bed, when he followed soon. Or when he undressed her. She didn’t mind him seeing.

He didn’t take it personal when she whispered his name. It was so different compared to the other times. Only for him to hear. It felt good.

He didn’t take it personal how she let him do things he could only dream of.

How it could even get to this point. They shouldn’t have. The only thing he could focus on was the way she looked when he touched her. This beautiful face still looking at him this certain way.

No one could know. This intimate moment together. How she moaned his name. How he held her even closer every second. How good they looked together. How good they felt.

It was so against the rules. They were from two different worlds. Their countries were at war, yet they decide to forget all that for what? The world was cruel. He wanted more of that.

No one really knew what to say afterwards. Both in his bed. He felt filthy. Not because of what they had done, but because of what he had to do now.

‘You should clean up and then go to your room again. It’s getting pretty late.’

He couldn’t even look at her. But he saw the nod in the corner of his eye. She stood up and fuck- he might do it again. It wasn’t only the sex, her in his room, his bed, he wanted that. She looked so beautiful like this.

She started collecting her clothes and just as she was about to put them back on-

‘Clean up here. You can’t go back like this.’

Only a nod again. She looked guilty. A bit sad even. Before she could really disappear in his bathroom she turned around.

‘Levi-‘

‘That wasn’t personal either. No one can find out about this. We would get into trouble, you hear me?’

It was harsh, but he had to set boundaries. This went too far already no need to make it worse.

He could only dream of what was about to come.

———

I almost forgot- Happy Birthday Levi!!

requests are always open (I need ideas please🙏🙏)

Song recommendation - White Dress by Lana Del Rey

[cosmicheartz]

More in-depth details abt Crystal and Clems falling out that happens in my hc/au along with a couple hcs

CW for mentions of suicide/self harm, parental abuse/neglect, bullying and toxic relationships

So in the post I made abt my hcs for older Crystal and Clem I mentioned they had a falling out during Clems last year at camp and I thought I’d talk about how it happened

Before I talk about that I wanna talk a bit about my hcs/speculations on both of their home lives bc it does come into play

CLEM: so its heavily implied on his campster that he and his dad don’t have a good relationship along with his dad being verbally abusive to him

We don’t have any info on his mom but I think she either A. Is out of the picture ( death, divorce etc ) B. Similarly abusive or C. Enables her husbands abuse towards his son ( either due to not caring or fear of also being abused )

I also feel like his dad would be physically abusive too ( to what severity I’m unsure )

When Clem gets older he’s either kicked out or he runs away. A scenario I have in mind that would lead to that is that he finally retaliates against his father ( most likely with psi powers and possibly leading to his fathers death or injury )

I think that Clem is also extremely envious of the campers who have happy ( or presumably happy ) home lives, it could be somewhat implied depending on how you interpret the tone on this post on Elton’s campster

So yea he has a really rough home life

He also most likely barely has any friends in his hometown too.

CRYSTAL: we don’t really have any canonical info on her home life so I’ll just talk about my personal interpretation

Compared to Clem her home life isn’t as “ bad “ but is still shitty. I feel like her parents could neglectful/distant and would dismiss their daughters clear mental health struggles ( ie oh it’s just a phase/I’ve had similar issues when I was her age but I pushed though it )

I’ve also seen some interpretations of them being very religious which I im not sure if I hc that but it’s interesting to think about.

Personally I think the major factor to her depression is that she’s severely bullied/ostracized at school ( especially if she’s in an area where there’s little to no psychics )

Another thing I’d like to note is that compared to Clem it seems that some of the other campers are genuinely worried about her mental state

I excluded Elka, Kitty and Nils bc they didn’t seem all that geniune/had ulterior motives ( I also omitted Chops replying to Bennys comment bullying her bc idk if that would fully count but I personally think he’s concerned for her well-being )

Clem doesn’t exactly have this on his campster

Sure he has positive testimonies but none of them seem to be concerned about his mental state compared to Crystals

^ This is the closest thing we have and even then Milka doesn’t seem to be all that concerned but moreso confused on why he was stealing the drain-o

I think that ends up affecting Clem and causes him to become jealous of Crystal but bottles up those feelings because he doesn’t want to bother her with his issues.

Anyways after the events of psychonauts 1/the campers having their brains stolen/Crystal and Clems “ project “ Crystal starts to be like “ oh shit maybe I should try and better my mental health “ it’s tough at first for her but she does genuinely wanna get better. She starts reaching out to the counselors ( both the canonical ones like Milla and some personal oc counselors since I hc that there’s more counselors than Sasha Milla and Coach ) along with the other campers ( Phoebe I think is one of the campers she starts to hang out with more often )

Clem however doesn’t hold the same viewpoints and throws himself in the cycle of faking positivity and partaking in self harm/planning his next “ project “. Eventually he stops the faking positivity altogether and just becomes incredibly withdrawn and kind of rude/snappy to the other campers

Crystal tries to help him but she can only do so much. It’s also pretty mentally/emotionally taxing for her bc Clem tries to drag her down with his cynicism so she starts to hang out with him less ( she still makes sure he’s not harming himself )

Clem takes notice of the fact Crystal is less keen on hanging out with him and it makes his jealously worse. It gets to the point where he can’t bottle it up anymore and he starts to become kinda cold to her? Also manipulative to an extent bc he notices that regarding their suicide pact she’s been “ flaking out “ along with making her promise to not tell anyone about what happened during that one summer.

It causes Crystal a lot of distress and her mental state starts to regress. Someone notices ( ie a camper or counselor ) and asks if she’s ok to which she tells them everything ( the suicide pact she and Clem had and how she’s concerned for his mental state ). Crystal also begs them not to tell Clem that she said that if they end up deciding to confront him about it.

When someone inevitably confronts Clem about what Crystal told them ( ie his suicidal tendencies and he and crystals attempting a suicide pact that one summer ) he immediately knows that Crystal blabbed.

This results in a huge argument between them with Crystal trying to reason with Clem and him finally spilling out his bottled up feelings towards her. He says some pretty nasty things to her in an attempt to make her feel worse and Crystal ends up saying some choice things too.

Afterwards Clem gives her the cold shoulder ( even when Crystal tries to apologize for what she said ) and basically becomes reclusive. He’s just waiting to get out of this stupid camp.

So Clem graduates from whispering rock without so much as a goodbye to Crystal

Crystal feels so awful about it which results in her going through a really bad mental health situation. Luckily she has a support system to help her get through it even if it’s only at camp.

Her home life is still pretty bad but she does end up getting a therapist ( though her parents aren’t exactly thrilled about it ) and she starts to hone her skills in levitation along with learning mental projection and psi punch. She also becomes pen pals with some of the former campers including Phoebe, Quentin and Lili ( she doesn’t fully reconnect with Raz until she starts her internship )

Crystal starts her internship at Pyschonauts when she’s around 15 and reconnects with her camp friends including Raz. She often hangs out with Lili so she and Raz end up becoming pretty close ( she ends up gaining a small crush on both him and Lili and maybe Phoebe later down the line bc I think they’re cute )

I haven’t decided on who her mentor would be yet though. Maybe Gisu or Morris bc they seemingly specialize in levitation? I’ll need to continue watching Holly play pyschonauts 2 to know for sure. I love @/doodle17s idea of her having psyball rollerblades/roller skates so I’m thinking of using that idea for her

Meanwhile Clem is in spiral which results in him hating humanity and starts to become a villain. At first it was pretty minor/petty crime things but as he got older it the crimes became more serious to the point he’s getting involved with the psychic mafia ( ran by Maloof )

Crystal does still attempt to check in with Clem though to usually no avail ( the only reason she knows he’s not dead is bc she’s in contact with Mikhail who has contact with Clem along with him occasionally responding though it’s very rare for him to and if he does it’s very a short/blunt conversation )

I’m still trying to hash out on the details on when they “ reunite “ ( deciding between when she becomes a junior psychonaut or when she ends up tagging along on a mission with Raz and co )

[rainbowchewynuggets]

TMA Encore #13b

Jon is plunged head over heels into nothing. He’s falling. He must be falling. He just can’t see. The pulsing burn on his right hand and his reeling inner ear drown out any remaining sensations that could give him context. He is left to wait. His mind retreats inward.

He retraces his steps, running back over every pitfall that brought them here. He recounts how his denial, paranoia, self-destruction, and need for control were exploited–but also his concern, his caution, his dedication. His team’s best efforts. How it had been just the same the first time through. The great and terrible change still came, only faster. He was supposed to be better than this. He didn’t believe what he told Jonah in their last encounter, and he doesn’t want to believe it now. He can’t just give up, wherever he’s going.

Jon hits water. It’s thick and warm. He drags himself what he hopes is upward. His lungs ache as liquid trickles in.

He breaks the surface and coughs hard. The air overhead is suddenly freezing. He pushes himself forward, still unable to see. The water drags at his skin. Something grainy and squishy sits on top of it and washes over him with each stroke. It smells fungal. Rotten. Jon tries to keep his head above the water as much as possible as he swims through it.

His hands graze something too rough and hard to be soil. More like cement. He climbs up to his feet on dry land and wicks the bad water off of his skin with his hands. Even after it feels like it should be off, his skin feels slick and tingly. The cuticles of his nails and the corners of his eyes sting.

A gunshot rips his attention away. At least, he thinks that’s what it was. It came from somewhere parallel to shore. He stands stone still and listens. For a while, there is only the quiet lapping of the water. Then, he thinks he can pick out footsteps on wet ground or a wave plunking against a foot. He calls out as loudly as he can, the cold squeezing at his chest.

Jon: Hello?

Nothing.

He starts to walk away from the water, uphill slightly. Branches–numerous and wiry–brush roughly at his arms and legs. He walks right through one as he keeps moving blindly on. It hisses. He extends a hand to guide himself. Something tells him not to make any more noise. His throbbing hand passes a shriveled tree. The impact is dull. A sign of damaged nerves. But against something steady, he can feel just how much he’s shaking from cold and fright. He rubs his arms to try to warm up and calm down. More bushes. Another tree. He picks his way through with his fingertips.

There’s definitely something behind him. The hissing isn’t just his.

He doesn’t hurry himself. He knows what this is. The Hunt can’t have him. He can still find a way out.

Their footsteps tap along to each other on the concrete ground.

There’s a noise in the distance. A voice. Its source is hard to parse as it bounces off the trees. The sound centralizes as he comes closer. Off to the left. It’s distressed. It’s Martin. He lets himself walk a little faster. The pursuer does too. Further on, he hears Tim and Sasha’s voices come into focus, off in different directions to his right. He hesitates over which one to follow. Whatever’s behind him stirs. He keeps following Martin, so as not to appear to change course. The rustling and hissing of bushes rings clearly ahead of him.

Jon: Martin? Can you hear me?

Martin: Yes! I hear you. I can’t see anything.

Jon: I know. Stay there, I’m coming.

Jon thinks he should almost already be there with him. However, he encounters nothing as he reaches out.

Jon: Keep talking so I can find you.

Martin: I’m right here, Jon.

It sounds wrong. Out of focus again. How did he miss him? Part of Jon screams that it’s a trick, but he can’t ignore the possibility that it’s not. He doubles back, and his face hits hard wood. Not a tree. A door. Its finish is oily, and the surface is wet. He can feel the peephole and the smooth silver knob. He backs away from it, nearly tripping over a small bush in doing so.

Jon: Martin!

Martin’s voice is far away now. Tim’s is closer. Jon has a harder time following. Tim is moving fast, as if running from something. His cries are as aggravated as they are fearful. Jon worries the man might be deceived into doing something dangerous. He sprints in cautious bursts to keep up, but he can’t seem to catch him or call loudly enough to be heard. His skin itches.

Tim’s voice leads Jon to turn sharply, and he slams into the oily door. Jon scoffs in disgust and pushes off of it. He stumbles over the little bush again.

Sasha is the nearest. He approaches her at a walking pace. When he calls, there are cavernous gaps between her answers. Her short hitching replies suppress a quivering terror that lies beneath. It sounds like she’s choking or coughing up water like he was. He tries to tell her it’ll be okay, but she doesn’t acknowledge the words.

The voice evenly rises to meet him until it’s too much. It’s high and tinny, like it’s coming out of a can. It’s so clear, she’s practically in the same space as him. He reaches out and feels nothing. Jon understands with deep dread that these are not his friends.

Sasha: What have you done, Jon? Did we mean that little to you?

Jon’s heart threatens to crumple. He talks past her, to the one he knows is watching.

Jon: I don’t have to explain myself to you. You did no better. At least I’m still human.

Sasha: And now, you’re blind. You’ll get tired of it eventually.

Wait. He’s lost track of the footsteps.

Jon turns reflexively and feels something sharp slice his left arm from where Sasha should be. He blenches and grips the wound, but forces himself not to run. That’s what it wants. He feels another cut at his leg. Then his shoulder. Then, a long sharp object invades deep into his back, grating on bone before retreating. His resolve leaves him. He bolts. The shades of his friends keep attacking him as he flees through the forest. Slashing. Clutching. If he pivots the second he hears them speak, he can hear their weapons whistle by his ear. He tries to direct himself between the trees without losing momentum. The bushes claw at his legs. Whatever’s on his skin has gotten into the cuts. The pain sears into numbness.

He runs into the door again.

Tim: Stay still.

Jon: ENOUGH.

A thud buries itself in the door, an inch from his neck.

Jon ducks away and tries to get as far from the door as possible. He runs and runs and runs. He’ll never escape if he doesn’t keep moving.

He loses heart. If he goes too far, he might not be able to reach that door again. Its location burns in the back of his mind with the part that always burns now. Where the two Eyes can see each other.

No, he has to throw away the guaranteed exit. He’ll find one on his own terms.

That is, unless there isn’t one.

A tugging at his side draws him back into his body. He slows down. His sleeve must have gotten snagged. He pulls and feels a faint response from a nerve ending behind him. It occurs to Jon that he can’t feel most of his limbs anymore. If it weren’t for the weight of his own body in his feet against the ground, he would have almost no frame of reference for where he is in space. He must have been tearing himself up the whole way. The responsive parts of his skin are wet. He smells blood. His mind leaps to picture what he must look like. The last of his energy leaves him. He has to stop to cough up a lung.

Something cuts his face. He falls backward. A pang of cognizance shoots up from his right hand as his palm wraps around metal. Momentum opens the door and draws Jon through, but Jon himself shuts it.

It’s like walking into a wall of water. Moving takes effort.

He gradually turns around.

Feeling returns to Jon when the bullet pierces his breastbone. A shockwave of pain and surprise radiates outward. Warm liquid runs over his hand as he holds the wound. He’s still in darkness, but there’s a light up ahead. His legs move toward it. Soft dirt passes under his feet. His body grows heavier with each step. 

Heavier.

Heavier.

He might not make it to the light. Cold creeps through his chest, laboring his heart.

His limbs feel like stone.

His heart is still.

He might not make it.

…

He might not make it.

…

…

…

————

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Index

[gigi-does-art]

I’ve been thinking about this idea for a while and i just have to make a post about it, so im comparing the lyrics from No Longer You from Epic the Musical to re characters that i think fits them.

Specifically this part of the song:

(It got a bit long so comparisons under the cut)

So the first line could definitely fit a lot of characters but I feel like fits Sasha/Buddy and his fiancé from re damnation more than other characters. Because their relationship is quite literally a past romance. While there isn’t a lot to go off due to us knowing barely anything about Sasha’s past, we can assume that they both loved each other. They loved each other enough that Sasha was willing to go to such lengths in the movie to seek some sort of justice for her death.

Second line fits many characters, especially those in the bsaa and dso, as well as terrasave. Characters such as Claire, Leon, Sheva, Helena, Chris, Rebecca, Moira, etc, are actively putting their lives on the line for others. They’ve sacrificed their livelihoods and dreams they may have once had for the greater good, some more at their own choice than others however.

The third line is Wesker. It’s absolutely Wesker. Whenever I think of major betrayals in resident evil, it’s Wesker’s betrayal throughout the games he’s in- such as in re1. His many betrayals have such a domino effect on the series that I immediately think on him for that particular line. I picture this more with his betrayal in re1 more though, as it’s his most well known with betraying STARS.

Fourth line fits Piers the most, and for re6 specifically. Because his last and final stand is in re6. Despite being infected during his last few moments, he did everything in his power to see that mission through to the end with Chris. Even using his infected state to his advantage as much as possible before he ultimately dies.

Fifth line is Ethan, and mostly towards the end re8 in his final moments. At that point in the game, it was his final standoff with Mother Miranda and most notably, he was on the brink of death. Even though he was already “dead” due to being infected with the mold he wasn’t dead, dead. I envision this being right at the moment before he detonated Mother Miranda and himself.

Luis fit the sixth line the most, and especially during his final moments in re4. He’s on his final breathes but yet does everything in his power to still help Leon out, even in death. We see him use the last of his energy to get Krauser away from Leon by shooting at him before Leon is skewered. Then we see him actually take his final breath, through the final smoke that he has which Leon gives him.

The last two lines could fit a lot of the characters in re as well, but I think they fit Jill the most. Because ultimately, she isn’t the same person she was before the events of re5. She was being experimented on by Wesker for three years after she sacrificed herself to save Chris. While she did survive the experimenting done by Wesker and was ultimately freed from said experiment by Chris and Sheva, she made it home alive, she’s no longer the person she once was before. She now has the scars and memories of being experimented on from her last encounter with Wesker. So i think this particular part of the song resides with her the most.

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 118: May 2018

For several long moments—moments they probably, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t have—nobody moved. Martin felt as though he had fused both to the floor and to his family, numbed by shock and a renewal of the grief he’d buried at the age of nine and never, until this moment, realized he hadn’t dealt with. Melanie clung to his right side, Jon to his left; he felt the chill emanating from Gerry at his back mingling with Tim’s warmth. Even Daisy, tentatively, had found his hand and squeezed it in a silent sympathy that told him she’d never dealt with her own grandfather’s death either.

The words that broke the silence were not ones Martin would have expected to say, nor were they particularly important. “I still can’t remember what he looked like.”

“I bet there’s a picture in the employee records somewhere,” Sasha said. “Even if it is thirty years out of date. We’ll find one when…when we have time.”

Martin exhaled heavily. Right. There was a crisis going on. “Yeah. Speaking of…” He extracted himself, as gently as possible, from the cluster of a hug—which fell apart easily enough—and picked up the tape recorder. “Is there any chance you know where they are right now?”

The recorder rumbled for a moment, like it was fast-forwarding, then clicked softly. Peter Lukas’ voice came through the speaker. “Are you going to bring that with you?”

“Not unless you want a record for later.” Basira’s voice was, if anything, even less emotional than usual.

“You don’t want Daisy to hear it?”

“Should I?”

“My, you are good at this.” The proud, pleased note in Peter’s voice made Martin feel sick, and he noticed Daisy curl her hands into fists momentarily. “Anyone else would have wanted their partner to know what happened to them.”

“Don’t have a partner. Haven’t for a long time.” Martin could hear the shrug in Basira’s voice. “Anyway, there’s no point, is there? I’ll leave them the tape that tells them we’re going. They won’t try to interfere, and they’ll know I’m not coming back.”

“Perfect. Well, we’ll just put this away then.”

The recorder clicked off. Martin sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

Tim put his arm around Daisy’s shoulders and hugged her; for a wonder, she accepted it, and even hugged him back. To Martin, he asked, “Do we have a chance of finding her? Or getting ahead of her?”

Martin hesitated. “We…have a chance, because there’s always a chance. It’s just next to zero. The only reason Jon and I were able to map the upper levels of the tunnels as well as we did was because Leitner was bullying them into submission—under ordinary circumstances, they change on a whim, probably to keep people away from the Panopticon. Add that to the fact that we don’t know how much of a head start they’ve got—and my little, uh, field trip probably put us at a disadvantage there—and it’s just…it’ll take a miracle.”

Melanie put her hands on her hips. “Got one of those handy?”

Under other circumstances, Martin might have said something saccharine like I’ve got you, isn’t that enough? It didn’t feel like the right time, though. “Best I can give you is a last-minute million-to-one desperate chance.”

Melanie touched the lilac behind her ear briefly, but didn’t say anything. He knew what she was thinking without having to resort to the Eye. Daisy squared her shoulders. “It’ll have to do, right? We know they’re…probably going to that Panopticon thing, so all we have to do is find that.”

“Is that all,” Sasha scoffed.

“We still need a key. A map. Something.” Martin squeezed the recorder briefly. “Granddad, I don’t suppose Granny Robinson would have committed anything like that to tape, did she?”

Tim choked. “Granny Robinson?”

“Uh. That slipped out.” Martin could feel himself blushing.

“I think she’d appreciate that from you.” Gerry managed a small half-smile. “But I’m guessing either there’s not a tape out there or it’s not easy to get at.”

Martin sighed. “We’ll have to do this the hard way, then. If we’re doing it.”

“What do you mean, if?” Daisy scowled at him.

“You know Basira better than anyone,” Martin said, meeting Daisy’s eyes. “What she said about us not interfering. Was she just saying that to placate Peter Lukas, or as a warning to us?”

Daisy wavered briefly. She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled more deeply. “You going to force me to answer?”

“I could,” Martin said, as calmly as possible. “But I won’t.”

Daisy stared at him, then at the tape. Her shoulders slumped, and she sighed deeply, suddenly looking tired. “If it’s one of those, it’s to placate Peter Lukas, but I don’t know. She’s got…tells when she’s just telling a superior what she thinks they want to hear, but I don’t know if I’m not hearing them because she isn’t or because she’s got good at covering it up.” The Welsh in her voice was beginning to come out a bit, a sure sign she was under stress. “It could be she genuinely doesn’t think we’d bother.”

“Good enough for me,” Melanie said. “She’s not telling us not to go down there, so we need to find the Panopticon.”

Jon gazed out over the Archives again. “Where do we start?”

“1800s,” Tim said unhesitatingly. “We found that one letter from Smirke, remember? If we’re going to find anything else useful, it’ll be there. Damn, I wish there were actual blueprints of the place in those drawers.”

“The Panopticon wouldn’t be on it,” Martin said with a flash of insight he really would rather not have had, thanks all the same. “Smirke didn’t want it, said it was cruel and unusual—and it was—but more than that, Jonah Magnus altered the original plans. I—” He broke off and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples briefly to ward off the nascent migraine. “Fuck, I didn’t need that right now.”

“I don’t want to ask you to fall deeper into the Ceaseless Watcher—” Sasha began.

“Then don’t,” Jon said sharply.

Martin put a hand on Jon’s shoulder and tried to give him a comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry about it, Jon. Even if she asks, I can’t.”

“Damn right,” Melanie muttered.

“No, I mean literally, I can’t.” Martin glanced at the trapdoor. “You know how hard it is for me to See down there? The deeper I get, the worse it gets. I…maybe if we were actually down there, I could See part of the way they went, but not the whole path. And there’s…” He hesitated. “Maybe a seventy-two percent chance it’s been too long and the trail will have faded too much for even me. I’m not saying I won’t try. I’m just saying it won’t be easy.”

“Don’t know how much help I’ll be,” Daisy said. “Not without going too deep. But it’s Basira, so maybe I can—” She suddenly froze. Martin swore her ears pricked up.

He was about to ask what was wrong when he felt it—a stabbing pain where the sliver of metal from the accident with the seal in the Library was still embedded, nearly drowned out by a wave of awareness, alarm, and protectiveness that suddenly washed over him and nearly engulfed him. Intruders! Invaders! Encroachers! Something was breaching his—the Institute.

“Fuck,” he said tightly, fighting the urge to let the Ceaseless Watcher have some control and see if he could use it to fight this threat—whatever it was—off. “Peter’s gone. If he was the only thing stopping the Institute from—”

A sudden booming crack, muffled but distinct, echoed from somewhere above them, and Martin jerked his head upwards. The desire—the need—to Look was almost too strong to resist, but he didn’t need to, because he definitely recognized that sound.

Gunfire.

Someone was shooting in his Institute.

Gerry’s entire body went rigid as more shots rang out and faint screams began emanating down from above. Daisy cursed in Welsh. “Different guns. There’s more than one person up there.”

“We need to get out of here.” Tim reached for Gerry’s arm. “Come on—”

“We can’t just leave them!” Melanie cried, looking at the door that led to the main part of the Institute.

“Look,” Tim argued, “when there’s an active shooter situation, you either hide or you get out if you can. We’ve got a clear escape for now, and we can’t do anything about—”

“Go,” Martin, Daisy, and Gerry all said in the same breath.

Naturally, none of the others did. They all just looked confused and a little alarmed. Before Martin could put a bit of compulsion into his voice—he didn’t want to, but if it was the only way to get them all out safe he would force them to go—the door to the Archives burst open as someone rammed it with a shoulder. There was someone over their shoulder with a drawn gun, and the first person quickly straightened and raised a gun too.

Behind the guns were two of the last people Martin wanted to see right about then.

“Hello, lad.” Trevor Herbert’s smile was noticeably less friendly than the last time Martin had seen it, not that that was any surprise.

“You miss us?” Julia Montauk leered at him.

“Not remotely.” Martin kept his voice calm with an effort. “Wouldn’t have thought there was anything for you here.”

“Oh, didn’t you?” Trevor said coldly. “You’re here. Somehow.”

Julia sighted her gun. “Wonder if you’re still human enough to bleed?”

Before Martin could react—pushing Jon and Melanie away, shoving in front of his people, calling on the Ceaseless Watcher to defend them—Daisy stepped in front of him. “Get away from him.”

“Oho, what’s this?” Trevor bared his black and yellow teeth in a malevolent grin. “Got yourself a guard dog?”

“Woof,” Daisy snarled.

Jon took a quick breath, and Martin knew what he was going to do before he did it but wasn’t fast enough to stop him. “Drop the guns and get out.”

It almost worked…for about half a second. But Jon’s connection to the Web was nowhere near as strong as Trevor or Julia’s connection to the Hunt, and from the appraising looks they gave him after shaking off his attempt at compelling them, he had just made one of the biggest errors he’d made in…well, at least three days, if Martin was being honest.

“You really think it’ll be that easy?” Julia sneered.

“Fucking try me, bitch.” Melanie yanked free of Sasha’s hand. From the way her leg dragged as she lunged forward, Martin could tell her Slaughter Mark was hurting—his own twinged in sympathy—but it didn’t stop her.

Martin was going to need to, though. She and Jon were both preparing to fight Trevor and Julia—to protect him—and they would lose, they would die immediately, Martin would be forced to watch the two people he loved most in the world bleed out right in front of him and Know there was nothing he could do for either of them, and no matter if he lived until the world ended, he wouldn’t survive that. He couldn’t let Daisy fight them, either, she’d worked too hard to get away from the Hunt and if—

“Lucky Strikes?”

The words caught Martin off-guard, not because he’d forgotten Gerry was there, but because he was sure he would have either left or been incapacitated from not taking someone’s life. But he was still there, standing perfectly still, expression completely neutral. His eyes were fastened on Trevor’s front pocket.

“Well, well, look who’s here,” Trevor said with a curl of his lip. “I owe you something as well, you little bastard.”

Martin would swear for the remainder of his existence that he didn’t see Gerry move. One moment he was at the back of the group, looking over Tim’s shoulder, and the next he was stood in front of all of them, directly in front of Trevor and Julia, arms stretched out to either side like a stained glass window depicting the Ascension of Christ. From the way Trevor swore and raised his gun, Martin guessed they hadn’t seen him move either.

“You should have quit smoking years ago.” Gerry’s voice resonated with the same hollow echoing Martin had heard only a couple of times before—in the House of Wax and at his mother’s bedside. The air around him practically crystallized as the temperature dropped. His eyes turned pure white, as did his hair, which stood out in a halo around his head. He raised his arms slowly, long slender white fingers flexing, then reached towards Trevor and Julia and made a pulling motion.

Both their eyes widened. Julia made a gakking sound as something black and ichorous flowed from her throat; Trevor wheezed once as something similar was extracted from his lungs. Gerry held the long strings taut for a moment, then flicked his hands upwards. The black ichor dissipated. Trevor and Julia both seemed to fade slightly, like a photograph put under a grey filter, and then dropped to the floor with dull, wet thuds, guns clattering away.

Gerry’s hair settled against his shoulders. The white sucked out of about two thirds of it, replaced with a mottled orange and black like a monarch butterfly’s wing, and the hazel returned to his eyes as he lowered his hands.

“Those things will kill you,” he completed, staring down at the corpses at his feet.

There was a moment of utter silence, which was something of a relief. It was broken by Daisy pulling out the pack of Airwaves gum Basira had evidently left for her and silently passing Jon a piece. Jon took it even though Martin knew damn well he didn’t like blackcurrant.

Sasha took a deep breath, obviously preparing to say something. Before she could do more than open her mouth, however, there was a sudden explosion of wood that made Jon almost leap into Martin’s arms. Splinters rained around them, and Martin whirled around to see what fresh hell was raining down on them now.

His lungs flattened against the back of his rib cage. The thing that had erupted from the remains of the trapdoor to the tunnels bore, at the very least, a superficial resemblance to Rosie Zampano, or at least the Rosie Zampano that Martin remembered, but…taller, somehow. Thinner. Stretched out. With too many joints in its limbs.

And that smile…if you could call it a smile…

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Melanie burst out, her voice shrill. Martin could hear that she was at least as scared as she was angry. “Anything else?”

“Don’t even joke, Melanie.” Martin was already running scenarios in his head. None of them ended well, but there was one thing he knew—whether it was the Beholding giving him that knowledge or just training and an educated guess, he wasn’t sure, but he did know it—and that was that Peter Lukas had let it out. Jurgen Leitner had trapped the Not-Them in a wall to save Jon, using a copy of The Seven Lamps of Architecture to do so. Peter must have somehow obtained the book and used it to free it from its prison.

Which meant he was trying to keep them distracted. Which meant there was a good chance they could get there in time to stop him.

Daisy rolled her shoulders, took a deep breath, and turned to Gerry. There was something in her expression Martin couldn’t read, but at the same time, it felt oddly familiar. “Promise me something,” she said in a low voice. “When this is over, you need to find me. And kill me. Promise.”

Tim made a strangled noise of protest, but Gerry gave a single nod. Daisy whirled around and hunched her shoulders as the Not-Them charged towards her, and Martin opened his mouth to object, to step in, to take the battle on himself, something, it was too late for him but it didn’t have to be for her—

There was a sort of twisting of reality, something warping in front of them, and then a door—not a trapdoor but an actual wooden door—appeared on the floor directly in front of the Not-Them. It swung inward, and the Not-Them, unable to stop its headlong rush, screamed with fear and rage as it fell into the door, which slammed shut behind it and vanished.

Gerry and Tim both put a hand on Daisy’s shoulders, and she blinked, her breath ragged as she struggled to come back to herself. Before Martin had time to even think the words “what the fuck”, let alone say them, the door reappeared and the Distortion stepped out, smiling.

No. No, not the Distortion. Martin took in the pansy blue eyes, the tilt to the chin, the erect but relaxed posture, and said, “Michael.”

Michael’s smile widened—not the preternaturally outsized smile of the Distortion, but an almost roguish grin. “Sorry that took so long. I wasn’t sure I could do it if it wasn’t near a wall, but, well…”

“Where did it go?” That probably wasn’t the most important question right about now, but Martin didn’t think he could move on from this point without knowing the answer.

“I gave it a door out. It…might have been near the top of an oil derrick in the middle of the ocean.”

Daisy shook her head and croaked out, “Why?”

Michael’s expression grew serious. He stepped all the way through the door, but didn’t close it. “I heard the tape—the ritual. I think Alastair’s spell might have protected me, too.”

Melanie started and looked from Martin to Michael and back. “Fuck, does that mean you’re siblings?”

“No,” Martin said. Realization hit him all at once. “Granddad named her as Gertrude Robinson, the Archivist, and asked protection on her and her ‘line’. Because he invoked the Archivist name, it protects her line in that sense too. So anyone who ever worked under her—or under any subsequent Archivist—falls under its jurisdiction.”

Michael nodded. “Emma never liked the tape recorders and Sarah thought they were archaic, but Ms. Robinson used them, so I did as well. I had one with me when I went to Sannikov Land, so I could record my progress. It must have given me…something. Easier to fight when you’re around, but…I’m still here.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Daisy asked. She sounded like she was getting her bearings back.

“When the Throat of Delusion Incarnate asks you if you really believe something, or if you’re certain of it, it’s a safe bet that the answer is ‘yes.’ It’s just very good at making you forget that.” Michael looked over his shoulder at the door, then back at Martin. “I—I know where she is. Their path intersects with m—with the Twisting Deceit’s. I can get you…maybe not all the way, but close. I don’t know how long we’ll have before it comes back, so we’ll have to hurry.”

Martin should probably have hesitated. He didn’t. “Let’s go.”

“Can you take all of us?” Jon asked. He put a hand on Martin’s chest, obviously to forestall the protest he had to know was coming. “No more solo adventures, remember? Where you go, I go. That’s the deal.”

“That’s the deal,” Martin agreed. He raised an eyebrow at Michael. “Can you?”

“It might affect how far we can go, but yes, you’ll all be safe as long as you stay together.” Michael pulled the door open. “Come on, then, let’s hurry up.”

Daisy was first to move, Tim and Gerry less than half a step behind her. Martin started to follow, but Jon held him back. Martin turned to face him, prepared to remind Jon that they had to do this, when Jon took his face in his hands, pulled him down, and kissed him.

It was at least as intense as their first kiss, at least as desperate and messy, and if Jon wasn’t already crying he was barely holding back tears. Martin felt a lump rise in his throat as he realized that they had no idea what lay ahead of them, and this might actually be their last chance for this. He tried to give as good as he got.

It was another moment they probably didn’t have, but if there was any moment he was willing to sacrifice the world for, it was this one.

“I love you,” he murmured when they at last pulled away.

“I love you, too,” Jon said quietly. He pressed his forehead to Martin’s, then drew back reluctantly.

Evidently their kiss hadn’t lasted as long as they thought, because Melanie and Sasha were just passing through Michael’s door. Michael winked at them as Jon and Martin followed, then pulled the door shut behind them and got out in front. “Follow me. Stay close. We’ll get as far as we can before it comes back.”

Martin had had his eyes shut the last time he’d gone through these corridors; he’d heard Helen Richardson’s description of them, and Michael’s as well, but he wasn’t so foolish as to think they’d look the same. Which was good, because they didn’t. The walls, floors, and ceilings were all painted eye-bleeding stripes of black and white in random angles and thicknesses that made it difficult to judge distance or perception. Without Michael to guide them, they’d never get far. As they started off, he got as close to Michael as he could. For a while, they hurried in silence at somewhere between a fast walk and a run.

“I’ll do what I can to help get you free of it,” he said at last. Declaring that in the Distortion’s corridors was probably dangerous, but something told him this was the safest time to bring it up. “I don’t know what I can do, but there’s got to be a way. At least to have less time that you have to be the Distortion.”

Michael glanced at him briefly, eyes sparkling. “If anyone can figure it out, you can. The grandson of Alastair Koskiewicz and Gertrude Robinson? And, I’d suspect, the best damn Archivist the Magnus Institute has ever seen.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s a compliment.” Martin caught Jon’s arm to keep him from tripping over his own feet. “Speaking of, I’m almost afraid to ask how badly the time’s being distorted here.”

“I’m…maintaining it. I think. The Twisting Deceit likes to make days seem like minutes, but I’ve sort of learned to work with it over the years. Normally I can fight it and make time pass normally, but I think    that—” Michael pointed at the pocket where Martin had secreted the tape recorder and continued, “—gives me a little bit of an edge, and I found another path.”

“A shortcut?”

“Some shortcut,” Sasha gasped out from the tail end of the group. Melanie was dragging her along to help her keep up.

“Mm, how do I explain this?” Michael paused, then shifted direction. Martin bit back a grunt as his shoulder hit a wall that looked further away than it was. “The Spiral plays with everything. Distance, perception, time. They don’t behave the same way here. We’re not exactly following their path in terms of distance. It’s the space between one minute and another. Which is why it’s winding like this,” he added as he turned a corner that almost had them doubling back on themselves. “I had to direct us back to six hours ago when they came through the Archives, and then take you down the path between six hours ago and now.”

“Thanks,” Martin said. “That’s even more confusing.”

“Yeah, well, Eric always said I was rubbish at telling a story straight, so I can’t even blame the Spiral for that.”

They ran through a few more twists and turns. Martin hadn’t bothered trying to keep track of them. He knew that no matter what they looked like, or seemed to look like, they would never be the same twice. Gertrude Robinson’s map wouldn’t work a second time, nor would he want it to, and anyway, navigating through time wasn’t really something Martin wanted to make a habit of. It had too much potential for even worse misuse than the rest of the Fourteen’s powers, and the last thing he wanted to do was relive some of the years he’d had to go through. Or skip any of the years he had coming up. Tempting though it might have been to avoid the bad parts of his life, even the potential ones in the future, he would put up with them if it meant not missing the good ones that he had to have faith were yet to come.

He still had Jon with him, and Melanie, and Gerry, and all the others. There was no way the future could be anything but good.

Michael suddenly pulled up short, his face crunching in an expression Martin knew only too well—he was pretty sure his own face crumpled into that same shape when he was trying to fight the Ceaseless Watcher on occasion. “It’s coming back. You need to go. I don’t know how close you are, but—”

“We’ll find her,” Martin promised. “And I’ll—I meant it. I’ll do what I can to help.”

Michael straightened and looked up at Martin, and his smile was the one he remembered from the man who’d come to the library, warm and kind and full of humor. “You already have. If you three can fight back against what you’ve become, so can I.” His eyes flickered, and he jerked back, then pointed a finger that seemed to flash back and forth between a normal digit and a preternaturally elongated spike of bone. A door suddenly appeared in the wall. “Go. Quick.”

“Go, go, go!” Martin shepherded the others through the door, nodded his thanks once more to Michael, and leaped out of the Distortion’s corridors just before the laugh began.

They found themselves in a roughly hewn stone tunnel that felt at once familiar and strange to Martin. Something about it itched, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“I’ve never been here before,” he said quietly, “but I know this place.”

Melanie nodded absently. “Yeah, same. I don’t like it.”

Daisy went still for a moment, looking back and forth, then pointed. “This way. They’re close. I can sense them.”

“Go easy,” Tim cautioned. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like this.”

“I know my business, Stoker,” Daisy said, but she went carefully.

They hadn’t gone far when the tunnel curved and suddenly emerged into an open stone chamber, round and barren. Other tunnels were spaced evenly around the room, and at its center was a round stone tower with open windows on all sides—the Panopticon, high enough that they couldn’t see what was inside it. There was an opening just ahead of them, gaping wide to display a set of remarkably intact stone steps.

Gerry suddenly stiffened. “We need to hurry. Someone is about to—”

The loud report of a gun came from the tower above them, followed less than a second later by a second gunshot. Right on the heels of that came a scream—a loud, sharp cry of pain and fear.

“Basira!” Daisy charged up the stairs at a dead sprint. Gerry was only a half-step behind her. Martin cursed and waved to the others as they all took off running.

The steps spiraled upwards, following the circumference of the tower, and finally stopped at a rusted metal gate, which had been shoved aside, admitting them into a flat, empty space with walls around the edge that ended at waist height while somehow keeping anyone below from being able to see past them. The smell of gunpowder still hung in the air.

In the center of the room was an ornately carved chair, in which was seated an eyeless, practically mummified corpse in an expensive but faded Victorian suit. A few feet away from it, giving the impression they had been facing the tableau, two far more recent bodies were sprawled on the ground. The first, lying on his back with a bullet hole in his heart and an expression of surprise and anger on his face, was a man in an expensive but unremarkable blue suit; Martin had never seen his face before, but the family resemblance was unmistakable—he looked enough like Evan that this had to be Peter Lukas. The other, face down in a remarkably large puddle of blood, was wearing the grey trousers and jumper that were standard issue for a prisoner, but even without being able to see his face, he was recognizable as Elias Bouchard. Between them, directly at the feet of what could only be the original Jonah Magnus, on her hands and knees with her head hung down, was Basira…winded, beaten, obviously injured in some way, but still, thankfully, alive.

“Basira!” Daisy started towards her, expression tight with concern, but Gerry threw out an arm to stop her. She turned on him with a snarl, then checked at his expression.

The door in Martin’s mind, the one that he used to keep back the ocean of knowledge that could overwhelm and drown him in an instant if he let it, strained hard against his efforts to keep it closed, but a few drops squeezed past—a sense of dread, and an awareness of something wrong about this scenario. Not just that Elias/Jonah was here at all, but the two bodies, Basira’s scream, the fact that…

There had only been two gunshots.

Martin swallowed hard and had to try twice before he could say, “Basira?”

Basira began to laugh. He’d never heard her laugh before, she was always so serious, but this laugh didn’t sound like the kind she would make if she did laugh, and the way Daisy suddenly tensed and flinched back told him that it really wasn’t normal.

She raised her head and looked at him. It almost appeared she had a concussion; her left eye was so dilated her pupil almost swallowed the brown of her iris, whereas her right eye was completely, one hundred percent normal…except for the fact that it was a cold, eerily familiar grey.

“Hello, Martin,” she said, in a voice that was both hers and carrying an undertone of authority and malice he’d never heard there before. “Apologies for the deception.”

[nightly-ruse]

Okay fine I’ll make a Mothwing post

<no one’s forced me I just think about the all the time and need to :))))>

So Moth is the loner kit of a runaway kittypet and literal war criminal, she has two siblings being Hawk and Tadpole. As a kit Tadpole drowns. After this Sasha finally brings her kits to Riverclan where she plans to stay with them but runs away after being confronted by her friend Feathertail for mothering kits of Tigerstar and learning of his death.

This already sets up pretty clear lasting effects on the remaining kits being Moth and Hawk. It’s pretty easy to infer that some form of survivor’s guilt could start here and I think in Moth’s case it works well. Also a very rocky kithood as they traveled a lot, lost a sibling, were brought into a new group and then lost their mother. They grew in post-Tigerstar Riverclan where it’s likely a lot of cats held a harsh resentment towards the guy plus any of his kin, especially those directly effected by his actions like Feathertail, Mistyfoot, Stormfur.

She was trained initially as a warrior by Mistyfoot who was the current deputy and pretty harsh, stubborn, but willed. This rubbed off on Mothpaw herself becoming strong willed and independent though far more open minded. As she neared the end of training she felt a call to be a healer and tried to take up the path but was rejected by Mudfur, even though he needed a apprentice he wasn’t going to let a cat be his apprentice without assurance they were chosen by starclan’s paws for it (possibly also fueled by a initial distrust for her being a tiger spawn with outside roots)

But she was finally accepted after Mudfur found a sign, a torn moth’s wing. Such a clear sign. She was trained like she wanted and named Mothwing for the sign that let her be a healer.

As a character I’d say she’s independent and goal focused, definitely loyal to those she fully trusts but not able to easily trust many. She also has the most clear visage into the biases of the clans for her obvious outside roots and in clan blood. Her sibling dies from a attempt to try and cheer up their momma leaving her with survivor’s guilt. Once finally having a real home she is pretty regularly treated still as a outsider beside her brother Hawkfrost as the kits of Tigerstar. Her own mentor being rather short tempered to both of them because Mistyfoot’s brother Stonefur was killed by Tigerstar. Her and Mudfur probably weren’t incredibly close as he was so distrustful of her before having a sign. She becomes a healer and opens herself up for starclan to be the best healer ever.

<TNP>

Around now she meets a new cat on her first journey to the moonpool being Leafpaw. Leaf is a gifted and cute little apprentice and the two got on well even if they didn’t get the most time to talk. Mothwing is still learning and it’s tough. She doesn’t know if she really fits into it well. But Leafpaw helps her the whole way. The two bond a lot and Mothwing goes out of her way to help Leafpaw back teaching her a lot of things.

And then Sasha comes back. Their mother who left as they were but kits. Begging for them to rejoin her as Kittypets instead. Mothwing harbors no anger towards her mother just sadness. She doesn’t know why she left so early on in their lives. But this is her home now. She declines and Hawkfrost does as well though he’s a bit more aggressive about it. Sasha also reveals for a fact that Tigerstar was their father but they both pretty much already knew it, mostly just revealing it to every other cat.

The clans pick up and start the journey to the lake. The clans are closer then ever before, Mothwing grows closer with Leafpaw, Tawnypelt, and many others. She wonders.. maybe the clans together isn’t so taboo. It’s so much nicer this way. No laws that cause pointless battles, prey stealing isn’t a thing, she can just be friends with cats. But she doesn’t bring it up much, just in a few passing words to Leafpaw occasional when they’re alone.

But her brother has been so distant. She goes to him and asks what’s with him. She’s made friends with other cats yes but his bonds are different, she’s seen him egg on things he didn’t need to, his temper higher then ever. A confrontational while their all alone and he reveals the thing she never would believe. The sign that made her a healer? He did it. He ripped the wings off that moth and planted it there for Mudfur to find.

Suddenly the spot she always tried to fill is shattered, she wasn’t chosen by starclan. She wasn’t ever meant to be a healer. She was a fraud. She’d fooled every cat into accepting her as one of their own. While a more strong headed cat would have snapped at Hawkfrost for planting the sign she turns on herself. And starclan itself. They hadn’t ever given her a dream like every other healer had described, they didn’t send a sign for her even her brother had done it. They hadn’t cared for her at all. They let her father get into power even giving him lives despite being a murderer. They promoted the bloodshed and anger the clans festered especially towards outsiders.

Mothwing renounces, to herself, the starclan side of her role and focuses on the healing part instead. At least that side was in her own paws and real. She COULD heal the sick and injured. They couldn’t do anything to mend any cat they just supposedly took them from the living.

But Hawkfrost did still plant that sign. She said she’d turn him in for what he’d done and he turned around and said if she did that she wouldn’t be a healer would she? Pressured into faking a sign to get rid of Stormfur and Brook, just like he did, she feels even more tied to his secret keeping.

Paranoia is at a peak here from hiding the fact she had no sign plus her brothers actions. When the elders get poisoned from her actions she breaks down and spills her distrust of starclan to Leafpool who is shocked but doesn’t freak out too much, acknowledging the skills Mothwing does have instead of the skills she doesn’t. When Willowpaw is made her apprentice she does worry as to how she’s supposed to fake teach her apprentice about starclan but her friend comes in and says she’ll help. The two train Willowpaw, Mothwing doing the real healing part while Leafpool trains her in star reading.

Despite it all her worlds finally slowing down more. Until she wanders across the beach like she had grown accustomed to for a meeting with Leafpool and finds her brother’s dead body, stake through the heart his blood making the waves scarlet in color. The final stray light from the sun showing her the murder before darkness fell over it all. He hurt her, but they were siblings. They had always been together. And now they weren’t. While a weight of paranoia fell of her back the sadness that tugged on her heart made it seem like just pebbles. All alone she buries him facing the water in a place no cat would easily find, stalks of blue forget me nots flowering his gravesite. She’d learn just a few days later the role he’d had in so much more, the Windclan rebellion, Mudclaw’s turn, Tigerstar’s ghost.

One day as she fell asleep at his grave she dreams into the dark forest and sees him again, with their father. The place dark and gross a spot on her soul. But as they tried to pull her into their madness she declined and turned back. She loved Hawkfrost and would always grieve her brother, but she wouldn’t do anything either asked. Those cats weren’t her brother or father.

The survivor’s guilt before now a pit. She keeps living while everyone dies. Why does this keep happening to her?

<POTS and OOTS>

It’s settled more. She trains Willowpaw, helps Leafpool, grows plants. It’s simple. It’s just another moonpool meeting when she meets Jaypaw, the fiesty little tom makes comments and she just laughs them off. She’d never pressure her friend but she can feel something different with Leafpool, the way her round amber eyes always worriedly look to Jaypaw or windclan during gatherings. Their usual chats somehow sadder. But she tries to help where she can.

She names Willowpaw to Willowshine for the light she always had to her and smiles as her former apprentice giddily rests by the moonpool. A part of her remembers when she had been so excited to speak to the stars but never getting a answer. That was so long ago now.

Times passes and at the gathering she notices a tension in Leafpool she’s never seen, and then Hollyleaf announces the truth about her parentage. Mothwing hisses as she curls around her friend. The young apprentice she used to know in Hollyleaf gone. She remembered when Hollypaw trained as a healer, she remembered how much the black cat padded after her own apprentice. That wasn’t the burned angry cat before her now.

OOTS comes around and Leopardstar dies, she takes Mistyfoot to the moonpool to become Mistystar but when her now leader jumps up from her sleep she stares at her with icy cold eyes. When they get back to camp Mistystar does her first action as leader and forces Mothwing to tell everyone before closing their borders. Despite being explicitly told she wasn’t to help any cat Mothwing runs to Thunderclan and talks to Leafpool and Jayfeather telling them not to put so much trust in starclan. Jayfeather tells her of her brother’s actions, and she breaks more. The memory of him coming to her as a ghost fresh like it had just happened. She shakes it off and denounces him again.

Then the great battle. Where spirits crossed into the living. She watches as her brother runs in and attacks their own, as if he had no care for them at all. Dapplenose dead at his spirit claws. Mothwing can’t stand for it anymore and chases him away as he turns to her. And yet she can’t let him go. She chases after into the real battle but finds him just as he’s killed the second time, gone again before she could ever see him. She’s truly alone now. The battle left so much broken and torn back open. Old wounds freshly scratched again. She just tried her best to fix it.

<Between Arcs>

The battle ended and it was still rough. The clan’s life changed as they knew the balance between life and death wasn’t so clear as they thought. Mothwing acknowledges yes Starclan exists but it isn’t as knowing or powerful as they think. A dead cat isn’t suddenly smarter then they were before. Many just as they were in life except put on a pedestal for no reason. It was hard.

After Mistystar revealed her sign being fake to the whole clan many gave her looks. But she didn’t try to think about it much. She still healed her clanmates and collected herbs. She still had Leafpool at least. And then, she wasn’t there. A gathering again as Bramblestar pulled himself onto the tree and announced the death of her friend, killed in a battle. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t bear it. Mothwing traveled over and begged for something more, no cat would answer her, beside Squirrelflight. The two had talked occasionally but not much more than that though they held strong respect for each other. The real truth came out. Leafpool killed in a pointless battle protecting a pregnant queen, one done purely to get her by her mate.

Just like before. Someone she loved gone without her being there. Over nothing. A cat everyone loved and cared for, who’d been with her for so long. Her anger towards the clans grew here. A survivor’s guilt and long set trauma twisted into a fiery rage to the cause of it. Battles, fruitless disagreements that lead to death, a constant judgement for no reason.

<TBC>

As winter comes around it’s stronger then before. Her held anger a ember kept under her tongue. As she travels to the moonpool it feels different, walking up with no cat by her side, no silly jokes or whispers in her ear. Even more as she walks up and sees that pool frozen over. The last remnant of her. Even as the chilling breeze feels like shards hitting her she feels the flame inside grow setting her mind on fire.

And then Shadowpaw, the newest apprentice, calls her and Jayfeather codebreakers. She can’t believe it. What has either of them done? She may not side with the grumpy tom much but Jayfeather was one of the most stubbornly loyal cats she’d ever met and nothing near a codebreaker. And yet as she turns to Mistystar for her leader and former mentor to disregard the apprentice’s words she doesn’t. Pushed even more by Bramblestar, Mistystar looks to her and agrees to exile Mothwing.

Outraged she denounced her leader, the thunderclan leader, Shadowpaw, every cat siding with them. She plans to just find some place but is taken in surprisingly by Shadowclan. Their leader Tigerstar far more disapproving of the other leaders decisions and unsure of her own kit’s visions. She joins the rebels and channels her anger to help them. When Mistystar begs for her back Mothwing doesn’t even hesitate as she chooses to stay in Shadowclan, welcoming both Icewing and Harelight to join her.

As a settled healer of Shadowclan she still distrusts and resents Shadowsight. The cat caused all of this and didn’t see the clear manipulation used on him. She tells Tigerstar that the healer needs more training clearly and both Tigerheart and Puddleshine agree. Her anger growing still. And then as the prisoner, being Ashfur, escapes and takes Squirrelflight with him into the unfrozen moonpool Mothwing grows scared. She knew where that led. She tries to stop Willowshine from going in but she couldn’t. And she dies. Another cat, gone, without her being able to do anything. Grieving once again. She’s shocked by Shadowsight wanting to go in even after a cat before him died, her disagreement with him dripping away. She apologizes for placing such blame on him and being so mean, giving him her hope that he’d come out safe.

And he comes back, Ashfur gone forever, Bramblestar back in his body, Squirrelflight safe, and yet Willowshine was still dead. And as she returns to Riverclan she still feels resentment towards Mistystar, and sadness as she takes her previous apprentice’s place as the mentor of the new Frostpaw.

<So far ASC>

She trains Frostpaw. The grief still fresh and hurting she tries to train Frostpaw but it’s hard. She cannot forgive Mistystar for what she did and no apology given. She can’t ever catch a break. Mistystar gets in another fight, the clan lost most trust in their leader after the events of TBC start turning on her and a argument against Duskfur takes too much and dies. And then Reedwhisker dies. Both gone- while they weren’t close it’s clearly something important and now Riverclan has no leadership.

It’s too much and when thrust into leadership from her apprentices strange sign Mothwing is overwhelmed. It feels like a curse has fallen Riverclan when Curlfeather dies barely after being announced as leader. Wrapped up in it all she feels it most when Tigerstar invades the clan over her kits death. Mothwing doesn’t blame her at all just grieves the lost life she could’ve saved, the one she could’ve actually stopped and she failed.

And yet every time she tries to help her new apprentice Frostpaw it just gets worse, but she can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right especially about Splashtail. He reminds her so much of… him.

[corner-stories]

warmth

Jean Kirschtein. Mikasa Ackerman. Morning After. Cuddling. Beards. Modern AU. 811 words. (ao3.)

Morning leaves her feeling disjointed. She’s not entirely sure if it’s the fault of last night’s wine or something else entirely. She’s not hungover, just tired and disoriented — and for a moment Mikasa contemplates the consequences of spending all day in bed. 

Half awake, she weakly pries her eyes open. She’s not sure what time it is and the sight of a cloudy sky outside her window does nothing to help. The weather at this time of year leaves frigid air in every corner of her bedroom, a day like today being no exception. 

So after letting out a yawn she remains where she is, enveloped by her blankets in a cocoon of heavenly warmth. Seeing no reason to leave the comfort of slumber, Mikasa closes her eyes and lets herself go back to sleep.

She only manages a minute of rest before she is greeted by another. 

When she feels Jean’s lips pressing against her shoulder, she cannot stop the slight smile coming to her face. His warmth is reassuring. When he begins to pepper gentle kisses onto her neck she’s reminded even more that last night was not a dream. 

In between work and everything else, Jean had asked her on another date — their sixth one, if she recalls. There’s a restaurant in uptown that he wants to take her to, and who is she to refuse? 

The details in her head are soft, mellow, and fuzzy, but in a good way — a way that leaves a gracious feeling inside of her heart. The combination of the wine at dinner, the nightly stroll near the river, and Jean walking her back to her apartment had brought a gentle smile to her face. One thing led to another and…

…now he is here, kissing her neck and sharing his heat on a chilly morning.

Jean fits against her easily, one of his legs hooking around hers as he holds her hand. He trails his lips onto her face, and by the time he’s kissing her eyelashes she can feel his stubble tickling her cheeks. 

He only takes a break from what he’s doing when Mikasa lets out a hum. 

“What?” he asks, his husky voice grazing her ear. “What are you thinking about?” 

Mikasa shifts in the bed and turns to face him, then reaches a single hand out from the blankets to stroke his chin. “How do you feel about growing a beard?” 

Jean lets out a chuckle. “I could give it ago.” 

Under her thumb his facial hair is soft. Nowadays, it’s been looking a little more unkempt — a little more like a short beard than plain stubble. It’s thickest at his pointed chin, but she can see some hair growing just above his lips. In between work and other obligations, he may have had trouble keeping up his usual grooming routine. But Mikasa doesn’t mind — she wonders what it’ll look like if it gets a bit longer. 

Feeling brave, Mikasa closes the space between her and Jean, pressing her lips against his with the gentlest touch. Underneath the blankets she can feel Jean playing footsie with her, a gesture that puts a plethora of possibilities inside her head. There are certainly many ways to kill time on a Saturday morning like this. 

But before anything can happen, the door to Mikasa’s bedroom bursts open. 

Sasha Braus enters the room with a groggy, exhausted look on her face. Her hair is an utter mess as she rubs her tired eyes, implying that she’s far from being in a state to even care or knock. 

“Yo, Roomie, I’m hungover as fuck, do you wanna-” 

She immediately stops speaking the second she realizes that Mikasa isn’t alone. 

A pregnant silence follows as three pairs of eyes awkwardly stare at one another — Mikasa looks at Sasha, Jean looks at Sasha, and Sasha herself can only look back like a deer in the headlights seconds before accepting its grizzly fate. 

After a few more moments of tense quietude, Sasha breaks the tension by letting out a sharp, piercing chuckle. 

“Ha! Good for you, Girl.”

Like an utter idiot, Sasha is smiling from ear to ear — in contrast, Mikasa wonders just how hard she’s blushing as heat rises to her cheeks. She hides her face against Jean’s chest, hugging him tight and pulling the blanket over both of them. 

Sasha leaves just as quickly as she came, slamming the door behind her to give the two lovebirds some privacy. 

Mikasa remains where she is, internally vowing to never leave the bedroom until the end of time. 

Fortunately, the tension in her chest and the heat in her cheeks slowly fades away as Jean begins stroking her hair. He presses a kiss to her forehead for assurance. 

“Well… let’s be real,” he starts, holding her close to him. “That could’ve gone worse.” 

“Shut up.” 

[pickalilywrites]

Modern 104th Christmas party on the sunny beach ☀️🏖️🎄🎅🎁

merry christmas!!

christmas on the beach

104th trainee squad. modern au. 1369 words. read on ao3.

This Christmas, Eren and his friends are celebrating the holiday on a sunny beach. It was an idea that Eren had thrown out right as final exams were ending and everyone, wanting to get as far away from campus as possible, quickly agreed. As soon as the last exam was taken, everyone packed their bags and drove down to the closest beach. Living inland, the closest beach was half a day away. Reiner complained about the length of the car ride, Marco had motion sickness and threw up on the side of the road, and Jean had gotten lost on the way there, but the group of friends eventually made their way to the beach and began their holiday preparations without any hesitation.  

“Check out our sandman!” Sasha calls, She pats the sandman’s head, smoothing out the curve of its head as Connie stuck a piece of driftwood into the side to make an arm. She looks proud of their creation, her lips spread into a wide smile and her chest puffed out proudly. “He looks just like a snowman with a tan.”  

“We shall call you Sandy the Sandman,” Connie announces. He has the same proud expression on his face that Sasha wears. He notices that Sasha has pulled out her phone and has opened up the camera app to take a selfie with their sandman. Connie throws up a peace sign and grins at the camera. 

“Perfect,” Sasha hums after inspecting the photo she had just taken. She lets Connie lean over her shoulder as she types out a caption for their selfie: Celebrating Christmas with our new friend! 

“Don’t get too attached,” Mikasa warns without looking up. She knows her friends too well. They’ll be devastated when they eventually leave the beach while Sandy will have no choice but to stay there and erode over time. Mikasa looks up briefly as she pats down some sand around the structure she’s making. “You should have stuck to sandcastles like Armin and me.”  

“Well, they’re supposed to be more like gingerbread houses, but it’s not like we have gingerbread and we can’t really eat these,” Armin mumbles. He’s startled when Connie plops down next to him, but he scoots over so that Connie can get a better look once he realizes that his friend is curious about what they’re making.  

Connie peers down at Armin’s simple sandhouse and then over at Mikasa’s more detailed castle. Mikasa has somehow mastered the art of sandcastle crafting in a short time and her sandcastle has beautifully carved details even though she hadn’t used a mold. Her castle has beautiful spires and carefully crafted windows. It even has intricate brick detailing. It looks almost like one of those tiny model castles you can find in stores only this castle is made of sand. Armin’s simple house, a structure with four walls and a lopsided roof and windows he had carefully punched out with his thumb, looks mediocre in comparison. 

“Mine isn’t as nice as Mikasa’s,” Armin says almost apologetically. 

Mikasa looks surprised. “I think yours is cute,” she tells him. 

“Yeah, you put in so much effort on yours, Armin,” Connie says. He sounds earnest when he compliments Armin and it makes the blond flush hearing Connie’s kind words. 

“I like the little starfish and shells you put on yours,” Sasha says, leaning down to take a closer look. She points at a starfish Armin had attached to the roof of his sand house. “Where did you get these?”  

“Just in one of the whirlpools. I’m going to put them back once we start our dinner, though. It’s probably not good to keep them away from their habitat for too long,” Armin says. 

Meanwhile, Jean is screeching as he tries to escape Eren’s wrath. When they had first arrived at the beach, Eren had expressed an interest in having a massive ‘sandball’ fight with everyone only for Jean to shoot him down immediately by pointing out that sand doesn’t clump together the way snow does. It had taken Eren a while, but he had finally perfected the ratio of water to sand to get it to stick together enough to make projectiles to hurl mercilessly at Jean. 

“Eren!” Jean yelps as he dodges another sandball. He’s been doing his best to avoid them, but he’s not quick enough to dodge all of them. His clothes are covered in wet sand. It’s a wonder how Eren can make these sandballs so quickly. “Eren, fucking quit it!” 

“Never!” Eren yells back before throwing a sandball directly at Jean’s back. It hits Jean with a satisfying thud and Jean goes down immediately. Victorious, Eren pumps his arms into the air and lets out a triumphant roar as Jean groans with his face in the sand.  

As the sun sets, the rest of the group prepares for Christmas dinner. Mina and Marco have already set up the tent and tables are now hanging up strings of lights to illuminate the dining area. They’ve brought Christmas lights, the ones that look like icicles to get everyone in a more festive mood even though it clashes with the beach setting they’ve chosen for this year. A few feet away, Bertholdt and Annie are decorating the ‘Christmas tree,’ but it’s just a mound of sand with a string of lights wrapped around it. 

“I don’t think this looks right,” Bertholdt murmurs as he observes the lump of a Christmas tree. No matter how much he and Annie had tried to reshape the mound of sand, it came out looking more like a large pile of sand instead of the cone shape they were aiming for. At least a cone would vaguely resemble a tree. This just looks like they had tossed a string of lights on the largest mountain of sand they could make.  

“Well, don’t look at me,” Annie snaps before pointing an accusing finger at Reiner. “He was supposed to be helping us, but he thought dressing up as Santa Claus would somehow be more helpful than assisting with decorations.”  

Reiner places his hands on his fake belly and lets out a jolly chuckle, undeterred by the glare that Annie shoots at him. “Ho ho ho, I’m just adding to the holiday cheer! How can we have Christmas without Santa Claus? We’re already having Christmas without snow!”  

Annie stands up, holding a string of lights threatening in her hands. She tugs at the string between her hands like she means to use it as a rope. “We can do Christmas without snow and Santa Claus,” Annie growls and begins to walk towards Reiner.  

“A-Annie, I don’t think we should use the lights like that,” Bertholdt stammers as he hurries to stop Annie before she strangles Reiner to death.  

The Christmas dinner is nearly done being set up. Although most restaurants were closed for the holiday, Historia was able to find a Chinese restaurant nearby that was operating and willing to deliver food to the beach. Chinese food is an unconventional choice of cuisine for Christmas, but almost everything about today is unconventional so it suits their Christmas celebration perfectly in that way.  

“Wow, we did such an amazing job with the food,” Ymir grins. 

“What do you mean we? You didn’t even do anything. I called the restaurant and paid for all the food,” Historia snorts, rolling her eyes as Ymir pats herself on the back. 

“But it was my idea to call the Chinese restaurant,” Ymir reminds Historia, and Historia can only shake her head. Ymir chuckles and then wraps her arms around Historia in a hug. “Alright, alright. I’ll call everyone in then. Aren’t you glad I’m contributing, Historia?” 

True to her word, Ymir calls their friends to gather under the tent they had set up for the holiday dinner. Even though the weather is far warmer than any Christmas they’ve celebrated together and they’re surrounded by sea and sand, the festive lights and Christmas music blaring from the Bluetooth speakers that Historia have brought really make it feel like Christmas. The friends eat and laugh and dance all night to Christmas tunes, enjoying their first — but surely not their last — Christmas on the beach.  

[tutuandscoot]

I think it was really interesting early in the interview Rod starts talking about the state of figure skating and a bit of the history of it and how it’s popularity has really dropped off and lost it’s wow factor recently both domestically and internationally and how VM really were the golden age where 🇨🇦 was so strong across all disciplines, and the generation/s before had these stars like Kurt and Elvis. Then Scott jumps in and asks quite broadly if FS is an accessible sport for the general public to watch and people to get interested/active in, and Rod starts to nod affirmatively like ‘yes absolutely it is’ and the way Scott posed the question was kind of rhetorical because straight away he says ‘no it’s not really’.

Now there are those who know far more about FS than me (and Rod) but as a sportscaster he had been around it for a long time whether he knew the details of it or not, he saw the evolution of it and more from a viewer/media perspective, but it’s just interesting those two very differing perspectives of Rod’s yes, it is accessible and Scott’s no it isn’t- but they need to make it accessible again.

It’s very obvious FS has dropped off the radar esp in the last olys the interest was way down and the only thing that tuned people in was the doping fiasco- which it’s never a good thing when it’s doping or judging or Nancy and Tonya that makes people watch the sport coz then it becomes not about the sport- it’s about the artificial headlines. There was of course many years of accessibility brought on the talent of skaters like VM, Yuna, Yuzu and earlier skaters like Michelle, Sasha, maybe even some of the Russian men..? and others also.

It’s the kind of thing where there’s got to be something truly interesting about it on its own- no scandals, for it to be accessible to casual viewers. There’s got to be the skaters with the excitement and wow factor that makes people who don’t know much about the sport and just see the jumps and the spins and the pretty costumes and thinks it looks easy when really it is one of the hardest sports you can possibly do, find satisfaction in watching it. This last cycle or so esp in ice dance I think that has become really obvious- singles has had the increase in the jumps which to laymen is pretty impressive, but ice dance doesn’t have that built in physical wow factor- teams have to create that themselves and this is kinda jumping off the post I wrote the other day about Canadian nationals that it’s just boring now for the casual viewer. It’s nice and pretty but there’s no wow factor. It was the same with the 2022 olys.

VM have their own way of justifying it in that the stories they tell are universal so people can relate to them but also people related to them coz they were two humans just dancing together, and also had this unbelievable athleticism. That’s one of the other things that puts them in that top echelon of skaters. They were different. At that top level all teams are nice and good but for the average viewer across the board there is no excitement there.

So when Scott says is it accessible? not really, I think he’s looking at it from both the inside workings of the judging and politics and the affect that has on an event’s legitimacy but also creating athletes that reach beyond the boards of a rink and make it interesting for the casual viewer. I think that’s gonna take a long time and very few will actually achieve it and blatantly I don’t think anyone will ever do it like VM.

I think the sport as a whole is really going through a period of redefining it’s self maybe like it never has before because of the change in media environment as well, you can watch stuff anytime any where/ some 5 second clip of a 13yr old doing a quad, but that’s all you get and that’s what today’s entertainment is designed for- you don’t have to put a full package together coz peoples’ attention spans don’t last that long- so to hold an audience for 4 minutes is getting harder and harder. (On this note T also made some great remarks on the entertainment environment being so saturated with options, there’s only so many ice shows you can go to- either Stars or Disney on Ice type shows before it just gets repetitive. That’s where they made a small indent with their tours but the industry needs more reinvention like that).

I just thought those were some interesting points and a really honest self-examination of the work he and the skating community has ahead of them.

Again just some of my own person thoughts I don’t claim to know everything about the inner workings of this sport

[creationfathers]

I hate to say this but it’s Alma’s own fault that mostly Misha’s fans follow her and engage. She’s been leading them on so to speak which is not the nicest thing to do. If you scroll all the way back on her instagram her writing is very very different and it has been getting sloppy again as of late too. I do think it’s possibly someone he knows or it’s a fan and I agree with your last anon that that is enough for Amber considering she even tried to talk to Sasha. (His brother). Thank Jack people warned him. I also agree that Alma has the power to say Hey I’m not Misha but she won’t because she knows she will lose most of her fans which are his fans. It is sad because her poetry is very good but it being good or not isn’t the reason people would unfollow. They’d unfollow because they were led on. And before anyone says well it’s people’s choice to believe she’s Misha, yes absolutely it is but let’s be honest that’s what she was trying to do and she hasn’t stopped people. Again that’s sad because her poetry is actually really good and she should believe in herself as herself not as Misha. What I’m about to say next is probably going to upset some people but I don’t think what Alma is doing is right. I feel very bad that she has acquired a crazy stalker and I hope Amber doesn’t hurt her in any kind of way and leaves her (and Misha) alone but again she has the power to stop it by saying who she’s not. Part of me wishes she would choose that instead of internet fame because I really do think Amber is dangerous and I’m now scared for both of them.

Thank you, you are very right anon.