#formatted this way because flashing images no

[hanyou-inu-yasha]

This would be my results... RIP

[lovelettersfromluna]

͙⁺˚*･༓☾　Sink my teeth in you　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

{Ellie Williams x Reader}

Summary: One stupid dare had changed Ellie’s life forever, and the person she cared about the most was suffering because of it.

an: Shes baaaackk!! The amount of feedback you guys gave me for Still Alive had my jaw on the floor, so here’s part two! This will most likely be the last part of the Still Alive story that I’ll be doing, but if you guys do want more of angsty, hot, demon Ellie, please let me know. I also changed my format a little bit, so let me know if you guys prefer this or how I was writing before. I hope you all enjoy this one as much as you enjoyed the last. (Also this one isn’t proofread either sorryyyy)

Warnings: smut! Will be a lot softer and more loving than last time but still…smut. Mentions of blood (don’t worry I don’t get too graphic I can’t handle that shit either), Ellie smoking because bby is stressed and having an identity crisis, angst, use of strap (r!receiving), pet names, shy!reader standing up for herself, Ellie is shamelessly in love with reader, mentions of…spells and rituals?? It’s mainly from memory of Jennifers body and things im making up myself, let me know if I missed anything pleaseee.

You can read part 1 here!

Ellie Williams was fucking dead.

At least she was pretty sure she was dead, she truly couldn’t tell. She felt…different, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t put her finger on what had changed. She was so out of tune with herself, and her thoughts and her actions, it was like she was standing behind a wall while someone else controlled her, and it was fucking scary.

She did know however, that she sure as hell wasn’t human anymore.

It was fucking ridiculous, and she felt like she was losing her mind, but she was pretty sure she knew how this all happened.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

It was her typical Friday night, hopping from bar to bar with a group of her party friends. They were drinking too much, smoking too much, and she felt herself slowly slipping away from reality with each sip of her drink that she took. She fucking needed it, classes were kicking her ass, and her grades were dropping..

And it was becoming harder and harder to pretend like she wasn’t in love with you.

It was fucking pathetic, because you’ve been her best friend since you guys were like…8 years old, and she’s always felt butterflies whenever she was around you. But she let it go on too far, her feelings settling in the pit of her stomach every time you laid your head on her shoulder, or held her hand whenever you were nervous, and before she knew it she wasn’t 8 years old with a crush anymore, she was well into her 20s and falling in love.

She hated it because she felt selfish, she felt like she was taking advantage of your kindness, of your friendship.

So, she went out with her friends and she got drunk, as one does when they’re hopelessly in love with their best friend.

She was following behind her group of friends, already visiting the fourth bar of the night, and Ellie was mindlessly staring at her shoes hitting the ground, her fists balled up in her pockets, images of your pretty face flashing through her head, when Dina spoke up.

“Let’s go into this one! I think there’s a live band here tonight” She gasped, squinting her eyes as she tried to read the horribly written sign outside. Ellie frowned softly as she tried to as well, leaning in a bit to get a better look at what it said.

Live performance tonight! Violet Skies!

Ellie furrowed her eyebrows as she read, blinking a few times before she sighed, noticing that her friends were already stumbling into the bar without any further questions. “Corny fuckin’ band name…” she mumbled our, taking one more look at the sketchy looking bar before she walked in.

Whoever the hell it was, sure as hell wasn’t popular. The bar had ten people max, and most of them were already too belligerent to even comprehend that there was a live performance. She sighed, making her way to the bar and ordering herself a glass of whiskey.

Her friends were crowded near the stage, creating some what of a make shift audience for the band that would be playing soon. Ellie was miserable, she was getting to a point where she wasn’t even having fun anymore.

She just wanted you, in your comfy little home with your comfy blankets and your sweet smelling lotion that you wore every night. She wondered time and time again why she chose a cold, empty bar over your warm inviting home and even warmer embrace.

She was a coward, that’s why.

She was more than half way done with her drink far too quickly, when the band began to set up for their show. She turned her attention towards them, squinting her drunk eyes a bit as she watched them all tune their instruments and adjust the microphone.

Before she could even realize what was happening, she was being tugged throughout the bar by her arm, by Dina. Ellie let out an annoyed groan, letting the girl drag her around like a rag doll. Once Dina had brought her with the rest of the group in front of the stage, Dina gave her a gentle nudge. “M’not letting you sit at the bar all night like a creep…maybe these guys are good!” She beamed, causing Ellie to roll her eyes gently.

Dina smirked gently as she leaned into her a bit, her voice dropping. “I caught a glimpse of the lead singer…she’s hot”. Dina’s words made Ellie scoff, because Dina knew that she was sulking over you right now. And there wasn’t even any reason to, Ellie was simply the queen of self sabotage.

Ellie opened her mouth to complain, but before she could, the show was starting.

The bright lights that settled onto the stage hurt Ellie’s head, and they weren’t even directed at her. She was just fucking annoyed and she wanted to leave but she also didn’t know where to go because she couldn’t escape her fucking thoughts. And now this godforsaken band was walking on stage and she couldn’t care less and..

Her breath gets caught in her throat, because Dina was right. The lead singer is hot.

Because she reminds Ellie of you.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d think this girl modeled her entire appearance after you. She’s got the same pretty hair color as you, and the corner of her lips turn up the same way yours do when you’ve got that cute little smirk on, and it’s making Ellie feel warm inside because she’s bringing her the same comfort that you bring. Ellie finds that she can’t take her eyes off of her.

The band sucks, and they’re out of tune and the songs are cheesy and it sounds like radio music, but Ellie doesn’t fucking care, because you’re literal twin is standing in front of her on a stage, swaying her hips in a tiny skirt, and she’s too drunk to apply any common sense she has in that moment. She pretends it’s you on stage, putting a show on for her.

It doesn’t help that she’s eye fucking Ellie the entire time.

It burns her because she wonders what you’d look like if you looked at her that way, not some carbon copy, but you, her best friend, her girl. She’s licking her lips, her eyes burning from a lacking of blinking as she stares at your clone, and in that moment she feels like this is the closest she’ll ever fucking get to the real thing.

Dina notices immediately, and she smirks gently. She’s just as drunk as Ellie, and her better judgment has flown out the window far too long ago, so she doesn’t stop herself when she leans into Ellie again towards the end of the set and whispers to her.

“I dare you to try and get it in with her”

Ellie truly didn’t need to be told twice, because adrenaline was already pumping through her veins and she was fucking horny, and she seriously had nothing to lose at this point.

Or so she thought.

She smirked softly as she eyed the lead singer, downing the rest of what was in her glass and passing it to Dina.

The bands set had ended a few minutes after that, and the little smirk that the lead singer gave Ellie, followed by the silent calling with her fingers when she walked off was all she needed to carry out the dare that she was given.

The bar was small, with little security, so it was fairly easy to navigate her way to the backstage area. She made her way out of the bar, the warm breeze wafting onto her face as she circled around the bar so that she was at the back of it.

And as if they shared a brain, there she was. She looked even more like you in the moonlight, and it made Ellie’s heart beat faster. Her back was pressed up against the brick wall of the bar as she brought her cigarette to her lips, smirking the second she saw Ellie making her way over to her.

“Didn’t think you’d come…” She purred out, trying desperately to sound sexy. If Ellie wasn’t so gone, the attempt would’ve made her cringe. But the alcohol and weed in her system made it so that she even sounded like you, so she took it.

Ellie smirked softly, leaning against the wall as she stood next to the girl, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as her eyes shamelessly roamed down her body. “With that little show you were putting on for me? I’d be crazy not to come…” she sighed out, her voice raspy.

The girl giggled softly, her cheeks turning pink as she turned her body so that she was facing Ellie before she nodded her head towards the building. “Wanna see my dressing room?” 

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Ellie had the girl pressed up against the dark walls of the dressing room, if she could even call it that. It was a small room with a couch against the wall, a make shift vanity and a tiny rack with a few hangers on it, but Ellie didn’t care.

Because in her drunken state, a pair of soft lips and a warm body pressed up against hers was just what she needed. The little moans and whines that came from the girl were urging her on, and it was finally giving her the distraction from you that she needed so badly.

“Fuck…you taste so good..” she moaned out. Ellie knew she was lying, she tasted of weed and whiskey and her kisses were harsh. It made Ellie wonder how many times she’d told someone these things before.

Ellie groaned, gripping the girls waist and walking backwards until they had reached the couch. The girl pressed her palms against Ellie’s chest, pushing her back to lay on the couch as she straddled her.

Without missing another beat, her lips were on Ellie’s again. Ellie placed her large hands on her hips as she began rocking her back and forth, letting her grind down on her body. The moans that she let out were sinful and Ellie wanted more, she needed to hear more.

When the girl broke the kiss, she expected her to take her top off, or stand up to take her skirt off, or anything other than what she actually did.

She was straddling Ellie, and Ellie moaned out softly as she let her hand trail up her body, grabbing and squeezing as she waited for her to do something else. The girl opened her mouth and she began speaking, but Ellie couldn’t understand what she was saying.

Her words sounded like they were in a different language, one Ellie couldn’t quite pinpoint, and it made her furrow her eyebrows in confusion. She sat up a bit, proving herself up on her elbows as she stared up at the girl. “What…what are you doing?” She mumbled out, but she was only met with a hand pressed to her chest and pushing her back down to lay on the couch.

The girl continued speaking, reaching behind her and grabbing a small dagger, and Ellie’s heart began beating faster and faster.

The girl got louder with each passing word she spoke, and Ellie was starting to think for a moment that this was all a bad dream and she’d wake up soon.

But she never did.

The girl inhaled deeply, holding the handle of the dagger with both hands before she lifted it over her head, biting her lip almost nervously as she stared down at Ellie.

“We won’t make it on our own in Hollywood…you’re our ticket there…sorry” she mumbled softly, and Ellie’s eyes went wide.

“Are you fucking crazy!? What are you-“ her words were cut off by the dagger piercing her through her chest.

She doesn’t remember anything after that.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

That night was the last normal night of Ellie’s life.

Because after all of that, she woke up gasping for air in the woods. She had no idea where the fuck she was or how long she had been there, but she did know that whoever the hell put here there, thought that she was dead.

When she got up, she had the worst headache of her entire fucking life. The throbbing was so loud, she was sure if anyone was standing next to her they’d be able to hear it too. And she was so fucking hungry. She placed a hand on her stomach to try and calm the pain she felt, but it didn’t help.

She felt empty, drained, like all of the life had been sucked from her body, and she was merely a corpse left to rot in the woods.

Corpse…death…dying.

That girl tried to fucking kill her.

It was all coming back to her, but when she looked down at the area of where the girl had stabbed her, it was completely gone.

And Ellie was sure she was having a bad fucking trip at that point.

All she knew, was that she needed to get home and fucking eat something.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

It was like she was suffering the worst hangover of her entire life.

No matter how much she ate, she couldn’t shake the empty feeling that settled at the pit of her stomach. She tried everything, cleaning out her fridge, her pantry, she even splurged and bought food from her favorite fucking take out place.

And nothing.

She felt like she was going to pass out every time she stood up. She was weak, and frail, and there wasn’t enough medicine to get rid of the pain that riddled her entire body.

And to make things worse, she couldn’t stop thinking about you.

She always did, you were almost always on her mind, but this was all different.

The hunger she felt in her stomach was almost identical to the hunger she felt for you. It was like she couldn’t separate lust and basic human needs, and she felt like she was going to lose her mind if she wasn’t able to touch you soon.

But she couldn’t, not in this state. She had to wait to see you.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Ellie learned a lot within the week that she took off of school.

She learned that food wasn’t enough. After about the third day of trying to satisfy herself with the second set of groceries she went through, she was convinced that food just was not going to cut it.

Then what the hell would?

Her answer came to her when she was at the store, trying to buy more medicine for her everlasting headache.

The fluorescent lights in the pharmacy were making her dizzy, everything around her just entirely too loud, and it was making her angry.

But for a moment, it was all clear.

The girl standing next to Ellie was so unsuspecting, bending down a bit to find whatever medicine it was that she needed, living her life just as everyone else was doing in the store.

But Ellie couldn’t ignore the way that her mind was clear, and for a split second, her headache was gone and the hunger she felt subsided.

Until it all came rushing back again once she stepped away.

She wasn’t sure what it was that ignited her to follow the girl, or what it was that was even prompting her to continue doing so outside of the store. But before she knew it, her new instincts were taking over and she was pouncing the girl outside of her car in the dim parking lot.

So yeah, Ellie finally figured out what it was that she needed to satisfy her hunger.

Because after she finished the girl, she felt stronger, like she had been born again. Any pain and suffering that she was experiencing had disappeared the second her teeth sunk into the girls skin. It was like euphoria, and she wanted more.

That week was spent entirely by herself. Researching and trying to understand what the hell had happened to her. She figured she wasn’t a vampire, because she’d watch those twilight movies with you and she was pretty damn sure she wouldn’t turn into stone if someone killed her, and she was breathing and walking around just as much as any other living person so she wasn’t necessarily dead.

But she was stronger, radiant, she was sure her skin even had a new fucking glow to it that wasn’t there before. So something had changed.

After digging through countless libraries, she finally found a book on spells and rituals. That’s how she settled on the fact that she indeed was used as a sacrifice.

A fame spell to be exact. Ellie couldn’t decipher what spell it was exactly that had been used on her, but from what was physically done, and the final words that the girl spoke to her, she narrowed it down to that.

Dealing with…her new way of life was..strange.

Because her strength would last for a few days after she…ate, and she would feel like she was on top of the world. But then, she’d crash.

After reading further, she figured out that she had to feed every other day now. She tried her best to put it off as much as she possibly could, but Jesus was it hard.

The books she had about the spells and rituals also told her, that her hunger could only be satisfied when in the presence of her true love, and that made Ellie’s cold, dead her skip a beat.

Because she knew it was you, and she knew that she needed a lot of time before she could face you again. The hunger for you was still there, no matter how much she fed on others, she only wanted to be with you, and that scared her.

Ellie wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she ever hurt you.

And that’s why she waited so long to see you, wanting to be at her strongest before she was setting foot in your home and into your embrace. She told herself she could do it, that it would all be easy.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

She was wrong.

Because come Monday and you’re sitting in the courtyard, the sun dancing on your pretty skin, soaking it up beautiful, your skirt flowing in the wind, and Ellie just wants to whisk you away and keep you in her bed until the end of time.

But she gets closer and she notices that you’re sitting with Amber.

It was stupid enough that Ellie had gone too many days without feeding, and she was already irritated to begin with, but now you were sitting there looking like a fucking goddess and it wasn’t for her, you weren’t waiting for her and it made her want to rip someone’s fucking throat to shreds.

Ellie finds that she can’t really control herself or her actions these days, especially when it’s been a while since she’s gone��hunting..it’s like she’s suddenly seeing red at any minor inconvenience and she’s too weak to even care about the white hot rage that’s surging through her body.

And that’s how you end up crying in front of her in the library, and Ellie feels like fucking shit about it.

Once her head is clear and she isn’t tucking starving, shes texting you and she’s trying to apologize but it’s all left in vain, because she’s sure at this point you’ve either muted her messages or gone all out and blocked her, and it’s making her want to cry because don’t you know that you’re all she fucking wants? Can’t you see how she feels about you? She’s suffering without you and it seems like you don’t even fucking care.

Ellie finds herself getting upset again, and the worst part is, is that you aren’t even there to defend yourself.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

It had been a few days since the party, and Ellie was once again suffering.

You’d gone completely silent after it all. You gently pushed her off of your body, put your clothes on and walked out of the room to go home.

Ellie had sat there with a confused look on her face, scurrying around to grab her own clothes as she kept trying to talk to you, see what was going through your head, anything.

But you said nothing, you simply got dressed and left, and it left Ellie panicking.

Because she felt as though she just got you back, and she finally felt okay with herself and with you when she was around you, kissing you and holding you. But you were slipping through her fingers just as quickly as you were falling into bed with her, and she didn’t know what to do.

So, she gave you space.

She ignored any impulse that she had to text you, to show up at your apartment with your favorite flowers and a stuffed animal of the stupid cartoon you like, but it was fucking hard, and she couldn’t help but feel like this was the end between the two of you.

She started taking things a lot more serious when you didn’t show up to school.

Never in all of your friendship did you let anything make you miss school. Even when you were 11 and Ellie gave you strep and you almost passed out during gym class, or when you refused to miss a final even after a dentist appointment and you were all loopy on laughing gas, to this day Ellie doesn’t know how you passed a test in that state.

But bottom line was, you never let anything get in the way of your education. So Ellie was really fucking worried when her first lecture of the day was going on and all she could focus on was your empty seat that was next to her.

After class, she had raced to your apartment. She had given you more than enough time to figure out what you wanted from her, and she decided it was time you let her know.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Her hand was banging on your door, the same exact way it was the first time she revealed herself to you after she had…changed.

She knew she had to be persistent, she knew that the sudden silence from you was only going to grow more space between the two of you if she didn’t do something about it.

So she stood there for about ten minutes, knocking on your door and calling out for you until you’d decide to call the cops, or open up for her.

“Baby come on…we…fuck, we need to talk. Either you let me in or I’m letting myself in” her tone was stern, and from the other side of it you stood there, staring at it, and you knew you should take her seriously.

Ellie almost passed out when she catches sight of you, and it feels like she hasn’t seen you in years. Your eyes are puffy, and your lips are swollen from all the times you’d rub your sweater sleeve against your nose, and as sick and twisted as it may sound.

Ellie thinks you look so fucking pretty.

But she can’t ignore the way her heart tugs at the tiny sniffle you let out. You’re standing in front of her, and you have that cute little pout on your lips, and your arms are wrapped around yourself like you’re protecting yourself from her and she feels like she’ll break at any second because this is her doing, she’s the reason you’re like this.

She let out a soft sigh and she’s pushing the door closed before she’s pulling you down to sit on the couch to sit with her. She winces slightly because you still won’t look at her, and she feels like she’s already lost you.

Her voice falls lower, just above a whisper as she brings her hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Bambi…you’ve gotta talk to me…we…we can’t just…do what we did and not talk about it”

She feels like the worst person in the world because the second she speaks, she can already see your chin wobbling and she hears the way your breathing becomes uneven and she knows it’s coming, and she wishes she can do something to stop it.

When you finally look up at her, your eyes are red, eyelashes clumping together from your wet tears and it looks like you’ll crumble at any second.

“You’ve changed Ellie…you’re not the same and I…I want my best friend back”

Your words hit her deep within her chest, like the dagger the girl at the bar drove through her, but worse. Because you’re pleading with her for something she can’t give you, and it’s the first time in her life and in your friendship that she feels like she can’t provide you with everything you’ll ever need.

She inhales deeply, her hands dropping to take yours in her own before she gives a slight nod. “I have changed…and I…I’m not sure if I can go back to the way I was before baby..” her voice is low, and her words make you scoff.

“Typical, you’re just dancing around my words at this point Ellie. What is going on with you? What are you not telling me?” You whimper out, your voice breaking between the sobs and tears you’re holding back for your own sake, and her own.

She sighs, because she knows she can’t keep this up anymore.

With a deep inhale, she give your hand a squeeze, and she’s telling you everything she’s experienced within the past few weeks.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

You’re slowly pulling your hands away from hers when she finishes, eyebrows furrowed as you stare at her as if she had three heads.

“Is this a fucking joke?”

Ellie felt like she was going to cry, and you were staring at her with furrowed eyebrows, looking so fucking angry. For the first time since all of this had happened, she realized that everything she was telling you probably sounded like a load of bullshit.

“Look, I know it’s hard to believe and…and I know you probably don’t trust me all that much right now. But I don’t even fully understand it all myself I just…” she stuttered out, feeling more and more hopeless the longer you stared at her with that dumbfounded look on your face.

Your best friend was sat in front of you, telling you that within the past two and a half weeks, she had someone been used in some…fame ritual, and because it went wrong, she was now some…some monster.

You let out a tired sigh, you were over it, all of it. You didn’t know what to think or what to feel, and in all honesty, you felt like the stories that Ellie were feeding you were all a sorry excuse to get rid of you.

“Look Ellie, I’m not an idiot…okay? And I’m not a child..if you…if you don’t wanna be friends anymore you can just say that. You don’t have to make up some elaborate story to try and soften the blow” you sighed out, your voice barely above a whisper. You slowly got up, letting her hands fall from your lap as you made your way to your bedroom, leaving her behind.

Ellie panicked, the tone in your voice told her that you were tired, and you were over her. The fact alone that you thought she could ever end your friendship made her heart tug.

The only reason she’d ever do that, is if she ever grew the balls to tell you how much she loved you.

She quickly got up from the couch and followed you into your bedroom. You were laying there, cuddling with Angel as you turned on your TV, acting as if Ellie wasn’t even there.

Ellie frowned, crawling onto your bed grabbing your thigh gently so she could spread your legs, settling between them as she stared into your eyes desperately.

“Im not lying! I wish I was fucking lying but I promise you I’m not” she groaned, grabbing your hand and holding it against her chest. “What can I do to prove it to you?” She mumbled out, staring into your sad eyes.

Angel caught her attention, and she noticed the way the cat that was curled into your side stared at her, eyes slanted and hair puffed up.

And it gave her an idea.

Her eyes widened a bit before she pointed at the cat. “Angel! She used to love me, and now she won’t even step near me. Don’t you think that means something?” She pleaded.

You frowned softly as you looked down at your cat, realizing then just how strange she had been acting.

Angel loved Ellie, she actually went with you to the adoption center to get her when she was just a baby. She crawled towards the both of you, meowing happily the second Ellie brought her hand down to pet her, and you knew that she was the one you’d take home with you.

Even when Ellie would visit, she’d be eager to jump into the girls lap.

But that had all gone through the window, and you started to think about when she started acting this way, but you were only left with the night that Ellie had came to you after her disappearance.

You blinked a few times in thought as you stared at your spooked cat before you shook your head, looking back up at Ellie.

“That doesn’t prove anything, she could just be…going through a phase or something” you shrugged, and Ellie was letting out a frustrated groan.

She looked down at her body, trying to find anything that she could physically show you that would prove to you that she wasn’t lying, and that this was all the truth.

Then she remembered. Her fucking fangs.

They freaked her out when she first realized she had them, and the sort of weighed in on the whole vampire theory that she had at first, but she remembered that she had them.

And that was all the proof she could give, so it had to be enough.

She inhaled deeply, staring down at you before she rested a hand on your soft thigh. “I’m going to show you something, but I need you to know that I’m not going to hurt you, and you don’t need to be afraid of me…okay?” She nodded slowly, trying to get you to understand that she was serious with what she was.

You furrowed your eyebrows as you stared up at her from your spot against your plush pillows, rolling your eyes as you shook your head. “Ellie I don’t have time for this, and really tired. Maybe you should just-“ she quickly cut you off.

“You know my better than anyone else does…please…just give me five minutes” she begged, her big green eyes staring into yours.

Your heart skipped a bit as she stared down at you, and you felt like you had no choice but to hear her out. You inhaled deeply before you gave her a gentle nod, urging her to carry on with what it was she had to show you.

She nodded with you, sighing gently before she closed her eyes, and focused. She had only tried pushing them out on her own once, the times before that her body simply took over and did it for her. She found that she had to make her mind completely blank, only focusing on bringing the new set of teeth that she had down.

Soon enough, her gums began to feel sore, and she felt her teeth shift a bit as the sharp fangs pushed out and settled where her canines would be. Once she was sure they were down completely, she opened her mouth for you to see.

Your eyes widened as you stared at her, sitting up a bit to get a closer look. The memories of her on top of you came flooding in, and what you wrote off to be a drunken hallucination was sitting right in front of your sober eyes.

Ellie Williams had fucking fangs.

You couldn’t stop yourself from crawling closer to her, settling on your knees as you reached out and grasped her chin gently, a soft gasp leaving your lips as you stared into your friends mouth.

“They were real…” you whispered out, more so to yourself than to her. Ellie furrowed her eyebrows in confusion at your words, letting you stare into her mouth for a moment longer before she grabbed your wrist and closed her mouth. “Wait, you saw them?”

You nodded slowly as you stared at her. “At the party..when you…when we finished…I saw them. But I just…assumed I was just seeing things because of how drunk I was” you mumbled out softly before you licked your lips, staring down at her hand wrapped around your wrist.

“Okay fine…so what if you are telling the truth. What does this all even mean? What are you trying to tell me?” You sighed out, your voice soft and tired.

Ellie sighed, her thumb rubbing your soft skin gently before she shrugged. “I’m not totally sure what it means…but I do know that I feel…I feel better when I’m with you…I feel normal, like I don’t even need to do any of that stuff to feel okay…” she sighed out, staring up at you. Her green eyes sparkled against the dark light in your room, and the sight alone had you in shambles.

She sighed out gently, her hands cautiously going to hold your waist gently before she continued on.

“I’m tired of pretending..I know I’m different now but I…..I…” she stuttered, her heart beating a mile a minute. She was scared, scared that she’d lose you forever.

But it was worth the fucking risk.

“I’m in love with you.” She confessed, her voice low as she stared up at you, hands massaging your waist gently as you stared down at her.

And you realized there were two things you had thought you imagined, but were real.

One, your best friend had fangs.

Two, she told you she was in love with you.

You froze, because you didn’t know what to say. In all the years of knowing her, you’d dream about being with her in this very moment, wishing she’d utter those words to you every night before you went to sleep.

But now that you were here, you didn’t know what to say.

Ellie continued massaging your skin, giving you as much time as you needed to respond to her. When a few seconds passed and you were still silent, she continue giving your waist small, reassuring squeezes.

“Don’t worry if you don’t feel the same way Bambi, we can still be friends-“ she was cut off by your lips pressed against hers.

Ellie groans softly, her eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. She has yearned for it the moment you broke apart the last time she was with you, and having you there with her, pressed up against her, it was like having her air fill up with lungs again.

You moved to straddle her lap, your tongue pushing into her mouth in a passionate kiss as you wrapped your arms around her neck and held her close to your body.

Ellie feels the best when she’s pressed up against you, but you haven’t said a word since she’s confessed, and she can’t let this carry on if you don’t feel the same way.

It takes everything in her to pull away from you, and the little whine you let out when she breaks the kiss doesn’t make it any easier, but she’s pulling you away by your waist and she’s staring up at you, trying to catch her breath.

“Baby…baby wait I…I can’t…I can’t keep going if you don’t feel the same way..” she breaths out, and she thinks you’re going to come to your senses and tell her to go home, that you were done with her nonsense

But you’re not, your smiling softly down at her and she swears she can see the hearts floating around in your eyes. They’re twinkling and glowing and they look like pools of love and you honestly don’t even have to say it back, but she’s desperate to hear those words fall from your lips.

“You’re such an idiot…of course I love you too Els…always have…” you whispered out, toying with the soft ends of her hair at the nape of her neck.

You hum softly, one of your hands coming from around her and tracing her features, dancing over her freckles as if they were tiny constellations, there just for your viewing and no one else.

“I…we need to talk more about…what happened to you…but I believe you” you nodded, affirming to her that you truly did believe her.

And she feels her heart beating out of her chest, because not only do you believe her, but you loved her, and she feels like it’s all she needs to keep her going for the rest of her days.

She’s nodding eagerly, pulling you closer as she agrees. “Anything, I’ll tell you anything you want. I promise” her words were genuine, and you’re smiling softly as you stare down at her, feeling so comfortable and at peace in her lap, with her arms wrapped around you, you can’t even think for another minute that the story she’s telling you is far fetched.

You nod with her before leaning in and pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips. “Before we do that…I’ve missed you, Ellie..” you sigh out against her ear, and she feels a chill run up her spine. Her hands are roaming your body in an instant and she’s nodding eagerly, almost looking silly as she gently lays you down into your bed.

“Fuck…please…let me show you how much I love you baby…come here…” she moaned out, already far too eager to touch you, feel you, love you.

You whine softly underneath her, staring up into her eyes lovingly before she leans down, catching your lips against hers in a loving kiss. Her hands are traveling up your body, slipping under your shirt and cupping your boob, twisting your nipple between her calloused fingers, and it’s pathetic but you’re already a moaning mess.

Her other hand comes up to grab both of your wrists, pinning them above your head. She breaks the kiss, staring down at you and moaning softly, she sounds so pretty you think you could cry. Your last memory with her like this was so fuzzy, and rough and hard to see through.

But this is all crystal clear, and it’s making your heart burst with love. The way she’s staring down at your body as she pushes your sleep shirt up to get a good look at you is so intense it almost makes you shy away, but this is Ellie, your Ellie, and you don’t trust anyone as much as you trust her.

Ellie bit her lip softly as she stares down at you for a moment longer before she’s helping you sit up, tearing off both your clothes and her clothes and tossing them in different directions of your room until your both naked and pressed up against one another.

You feel something press up against your soaked core and you furrow your eyebrows as you look down, only to see Ellie’s pink strap pushing against you. You look up at her, opening your mouth to ask her about it before she’s cutting you off with an answer.

“I…was hoping I’d be able to make love to you tonight…wore it just in case you didn’t kick me out…” she mumbles out sheepishly. And once again, your heart is bursting with love with her because she’s such an idiot sometimes, but it’s okay because she’s your idiot.

You pull her closer, pressing your lips to hers before your hand is trailing down between you and you grab the base, pushing it towards your soaked entrance with a soft hum.

“Shut up and fuck me already..” you moan out, and she doesn’t need to be told twice.

She pushes into you, and the moan you let out is enough to have her moaning with you. Her tattooed hand comes down to grip your hip gently as she steadies herself before she falls into a slow rhythm, moaning at the way her strap is rubbing up against her clit, and at the way that you’re moaning beneath her.

“F-fuck! Ahhhh Ellieeee…mmm-oh my god!” You whine out, and she’s nodding her head to urge you on further, her own words cut off by her moans and hissing.

“That’s it…that’s my fucking girl…o-oh fuck! My good girl…god I love you…fuck” she’s just as much of a mess as you are, and she’s positive she won’t last long. You’re staring up at her with those big heart eyes and she knows she’s a goner.

Because this is what she’s always wanted, to make you hers, show you how much she loves you and that you were it for her, you were her endgame, forever and always.

Her eyes are hungry and they’re eating you up, because you look like a work of art to her right now and she doesn’t even want to blink in fear that she’ll miss a fucking second of you.

“Love you so much…mmm fuuuuckk…gonna cum Els..please…please make me cum” you’re begging her, and it’s making her moans grow louder, the two of you babbling incoherently as you both confess your undying love for one another.

Ellie nods, speeding up her pace. “That’s it baby, such a good girl for me- fuck! I’m gonna fucking come. Oh my god I’m-“ she moans out, and just from the look of her throwing her head back, her fucking fangs on full display for you, looking like the prettiest goddamn demon you’ve ever seen, you cum with her.

There’s little sparkles dancing around you, at least that’s what it feels like. Ellie tossed her strap to the side once you both caught your breath and cleaned you both up, and she put you in your favorite sleep shirt, and a pair of spare boxers you had for her laying around, and you both simply lay there, holding each other in your dim room.

And it feels complete, because it’s the first time that you can actually feel her there with you, and not just pretending to be there. And Ellie feels it too, she feels satisfied and she feels like she’s normal again, even though she knows she’s not.

A few moments pass as you’re pressed up against her, your fingers tracing small shapes on her collar bone before you break the silence.

“So…are we talking like…resident evil vampires? Or…Edward Cullen vampire?” And your words makes her chuckle softly before she sighs, finally giving it some thought for a moment before she hum.

“We’ll find out together baby…”

[xenosagaepisodeone]

For the last 2 weeks I've been transfixed on a strain of lost media I've come to call "bad memory induced media", where the supposed media in question does not (or at least more than likely does not) exist, but there are swaths of people convinced that they have definitely seen it at some point. There is rarely anything more to go off of for the hunt than a vague summary outlined in a post on some forum, but the lack of specificity allows people to fill in the blanks with similar types of media that they've seen, giving them the impression that they've already experienced it. I've found that this is extremely common for alleged lost shock media in particular, which isn't surprising. I talked a little about this on my LOL SUPERMAN post, and I get the impression that a similar strain of logic applies on a smaller scale.

Anyway, 2 major cases I have been looking at for a while are Saki Sanobashi/Go For A Punch and Evil Farm Game. Saki Sanobashi in particular fascinates me because an urban legend like this should have crumbled to the wayside by like 2018 at the latest, since that's when anime more or less became demystified to normal people. The basic premise is that it is an 80s/90s horror anime about anywhere from 4-8 girls trapped in a bathroom. The girls talk about their lives, hopes, dreams and philosophies before slowly going insane and dying one by one. If you like horror stuff you probably are already getting the vague impression that it sounds familiar- which could be influenced by any swath of media artifacts from Saw to the Russian Sleep Experiment creepypasta to the Ikea SCP to ClockUp's Euphoria to snippets of Battle Royale to that one Grisaia no Kajitsu arc. OP insisted he found it fully subbed on the deep web (omegalul) and hasn't found a trace of it since, implying some kind of murky origin or legal status (the OVA is not pornographic btw). As you can probably tell, I think this is silly. Like, so much goes into anime production that it would be difficult to hide any traces of this thing's existence. Someone had to voice act those girls. Someone had to sit hunched over a desk and draw that settei. OVAs were such a new thing in the 80s and 90s that both sfw and nsfw series were advertised in magazines. The only way that this could be so lost that not even a MAL entry remains is if it had been a student/indie production or something made for a single comiket event...but even at that....you're telling me that someone still managed to rip this from a vhs and subtitle it? And then chose to upload it to the deep web instead of youtube? even the title sounds like something google translated but didnt format correctly ("Saki Sanobashi" being gibberish while "Saki-san no Bashi" translates to "Saki-san's Bridge").

And yet there are people who will say "I definitely saw this at some point" because they saw a reaction image similar to the alleged scene where the protagonist smashes someone's head into a mirror. "The neck scratching death sounds familiar...." because you watched a higurashi amv! And OP did too, and thought it was so creepy that he involved it in his fake story. It's almost grating how much you have to suspend your disbelief to embrace that something like this exists in the exact way that stories like this insist. While many people have accepted that the series is likely not real in the last 4 or so years, there still persists a cohort of people hunting for Saki Sanobashi, likely because they are kids who are now too old to believe in Squidward's Suicide.

Evil Farm Game gives me a chuckle because it goes like this: a redditor posts to r/tipofmytongue about an old flash game where you play as a farmer who kills his wife and then has to hide her body while going about his farm tasks. The setup is completely fine and actually kind of reminiscent of a few story driven flash games I played on newgrounds as a kid. Many people came forward insisting that they had played this as well, one person even producing a link to a file from their hard drive that they couldn't open, but strongly believed that the game was there. A subreddit was even created to support the search. The twist is that it was a misremembered joke from a vinesauce stream.

Everyone knows that memory is an extremely fallable thing; people can be coaxed into believing that they did or saw things that they didn't with the correct prompts. What gets me is that a lot of people on the hunt for "bad memory induced media" seem to largely be hyping themselves up. They want to believe there is something that exists against all reason no matter what. It's chuuni in nature. Do not get me wrong- the interest in finding a cool, mysterious, haunting piece of media isn't lost on me, but dog, the dopamine hit of finding a previously lost 1985 commercial for almonds in a box of vhs tapes you got from eBay is the same.

[upon-a-starry-night]

Number Neighbors Pt.15

Natasha Romanoff x Fem! Reader

Natasha Masterlist Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary:  When you catch sight of the newest trend going around you know you’re all but bound to at least try it, it was harmless anyway. What could possibly stem from something so little?

----

Natasha was right that you would be upset at her leaving. You always were. But this time you assured her you’d send her lots of messages and pictures even if she didn’t respond. 

And she admitted to you that she liked having something light to come back to. 

It was another typical night for Nat sleeping in a dingy hotel with three of her fellow Avengers who tended to snore. She wasn’t getting much consistent sleep which wasn’t unusual for her but she’d already had a bad evening. She and Steve had gotten into a pretty bad argument with Tony over some stupid government thing. He knew they wouldn’t want to do it but Nat could see that deep down he was scared so she understood him.

She just couldn’t go back to being anyone’s puppet again.

When she’d finally managed to dose off her mind was plagued with flashes of red and little girls and rows and rows of women standing in formation. A familiar face among them that she wasn’t ready to process just yet. 

Springing up in bed, she clutched the blanket at her chest, her breaths coming out in quiet but rapid succession. Guilt wracked her body and at times like this, she’d usually seek comfort in Clint or even ask Wanda to help her sleep but when the panic settled she felt the person she was seeking out the most was… You.

Although she didn’t know what you looked like, she pictured your rainbow pajama pants and your favorite duck socks. She imagined soft arms wrapping around her and urging her back to bed.

A sleepy soft voice talking to her about anything and everything until she dozed off. 

When she lay back down it was with the image of you next to her, and she fell asleep with you on her mind. 

It was the quickest she’d ever recovered from a nightmare and the best sleep she’d ever had while on a mission. 

The next day she finished her mission earlier than usual and if her fellow Avengers commented on it then it was simply because she wanted to get home faster and not because she’d dreamt of you all night and wanted to text you back immediately.

~~~~~~

You understood Nat still had work to do and thus would leave you for long periods again, but it still left ample time for your anxiety to creep in.

What if she did see you that night at the restaurant and this was her way of cutting you off because she thought you were ugly?

What if she was bored of your conversations and decided you weren’t worth it anymore?

At this point, you were waiting any day for the blocked notification to come up when you sent her pictures throughout your day.

So who could blame you if you were using dates with Leon as an excuse to get her off of your mind? 

Even if lately you didn’t feel anything with the guy you were with…

It was your third date of the week and honestly, you were a little bored. You’d been walking around New York listening to Leon talk for nearly an hour and the charm was starting to wear off. But anything was better than staying in your apartment all day refreshing your phone and overthinking everything you’ve ever sent.

When you rounded the corner arm in arm with Leon you were surprised to see a large crowd gathering a little further ahead. You didn’t know there was any kind of event happening today but to be fair you’d spent all of your time either with Leon or waiting for Nat to text back. Social media had been pushed to the back burner for a while, and if you were honest- your obsession with Black Widow had dwindled sufficiently in the last month. It was probably for the best, your mother was tired of constantly getting updates on where she was spotted in New York or what happened on their latest mission.

Now you had real people to focus on, like Nat, and Leon, and even one of your coworkers started asking you to hang out. 

Life was starting to feel a little less dull and you felt like you owed a lot of that to Nat.

Shaking your head you gripped Leon's arm a little tighter, there you go again thinking about Nat. It was impossible to get her out of your head when every little thing reminded you of her.

As Leon steers you in the direction of the gathering crowd you find yourself becoming anxious. Crowds haven’t been your specialty, especially not after-

A body bumps into yours as they push past you to run towards the crowd and suddenly you're thrown back to that moment four years ago when you were rushing out of that building.

You hear the sounds of people screaming which in reality is people cheering but your brain can’t tell the difference right now.

You look down at your hands and see your own blood staining them- the same way from that day.

The sound of alarms and hurried footsteps mix with the smell of sweat and dirt and suddenly you’re unable to catch your breath.

Another person bumps into you and you flinch, you're sure your eyes are wide with panic but you don’t know what to do. You hadn’t had an episode like this in a long time. You thought you’d finally gotten over it.

Slipping your arm from Leon’s you find you’re uncomfortable touching anyone and you can’t focus.

You try the different breathing and counting exercises your therapist taught you. 

It only helps a little.

Someone on a stage in some direction drops a microphone and the sound reminds you of the crumbling building next door. The ring of it is the ringing in your ear from the head trauma and loud explosions. You didn’t even realize your hands were covering your ears until you felt something pulling them away. You flinch at the contact, the voice is fuzzy and it’s hard to focus on the words.

“Hey” 

“Y/n?”

“Can- you he- me?”

“What's- Going-”

When the ringing stops and you hear someone laugh out an apology over a speaker system things get a little less cloudy.

Your eyes shoot from the ground into dark brown concerned eyes and you feel wetness slipping down your face.

Embarrassment floods your system and you find yourself unable to make eye contact

“Can we just get out of here please?”

Leon observes you for a second before nodding his head, slipping his hand into yours, and pulling you away. You don’t comment that you don’t feel like being touched. You don’t have the energy to. You just need to get far away from here.

“I know this really great ice cream place?”

You nod your head and let him lead you. You weren’t really hungry but you’d take any quiet place right about now.

Two blocks down you can still hear the crowd but it’s a lot quieter than before, Leon opens the door to a Mint and Salmon-colored Ice cream shop and you walk in. The sound of the bell drowns out the sound of the announcer before the door shuts to blissful silence.

~~

“Okay, everyone! Now what you’ve all been waiting for- The Avengers!!”

Nat fakes a smile as she walks out onto the stage. She was going to kill Tony for stealing her phone and putting a firewall on it to blackmail her into doing this event. It wasn’t like she hated doing these things but they’d only just gotten back from their mission and they only had the chance to shower and change before they came here. 

Tony truly was the asshole of all assholes. 

She had been scrolling through the pictures you’d sent when Tony snatched her phone from her hands, dangling it in front of her and telling her she couldn’t text her “new boy toy” until she smiled for the press and signed a few autographs.

Crowds were also notorious for crimes, and although Tony had security stationed everywhere that didn’t mean it still wasn’t easy to commit a crime in this environment- it was a hotspot for pickpockets and some adult fans could get a little too aggressive or handsy. Anyone could be dangerous- she would know, she’s been ‘part of the crowd’ plenty of times.

Still, the little hopeful faces of all the children in the crowd were part of the reason she hadn’t murdered Tony on the spot for making her do this. The kids looked up to her like she was the greatest thing in the world, the ones who saw her as a hero and didn’t know about her past.

She wonders how many of those kids will grow up to read about all the red in her ledger and despise her for it.

So she wasn’t having the best time. She’d much rather be coddled up in her room reading a book or training in the gym.

For a second she wonders what you’re up to today, if you’ve texted her any pictures since she checked. It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon, perfect weather, the kind of day you’d want to spend outside. The kind of day she’d spend convincing you to go outside and laughing when you sent her a frowny face you’d made out of fallen leaves.

She would get more time to text you or listen about your more than odd work experiences if Tony wasn’t constantly bugging her about this government thing.

You seemed more occupied in the days she was gone. You sent her more pictures of things outside than of your coffee table and TV screen. She would take you anywhere you wanted if she ever met you. 

She’s glad to see you’re getting out more on your own though, and if it has something to do with this Leon guy…

Scanning the crowd she observes all the women she can see. Most are ogling Steve and Tony, some of them are looking at her with jealousy over how close to Steve she’s standing. She nudges him in the shoulder just to rile them up and she swears a few of them breathe fire. It makes her chuckle.

A few of the women look at her with awe, and she wonders if maybe one of those faces is you. You did say you were a fan of hers. 

Would you be at an event like this?

With that in mind, she begins analyzing every single woman in the crown. Searching for your favorite colors, your favorite shows on any shirts, any sign of you in every woman.

But for some distinct reason, she gets the feeling that you’re not there.

~~~~

“Why are you always taking pictures while we’re out?” snapping another cute picture of your ice cream you put your phone down and turn to Leon. You had been snapping plenty of pictures of random things to send to Nat while you’d been on your dates with Leon. You were honestly surprised he hadn’t asked earlier.

Maybe he thought it was a girl thing.

“I’m just sending pictures to my friend” The word feels weird in your mouth for the second time “We don’t hang out much so I send her updates of what I do all day” You frown as you see the 'seen' notification on your other messages but no bubbles pop up “honestly I think she’s getting tired of it…”

A hand on your shoulder makes you jolt and you try and relax when you realize it’s only Leon again. His hand rubs circles on your shoulder and you're surprised at how irritated you are at the action. The Y/n from a few weeks ago probably would have been giddy at all this physical affection but lately, it just doesn’t feel right. You don’t have the heart to tell Leon that though

“I don’t think anyone could grow tired of you, maybe she’s just busy?” Slipping his hand from your shoulder to your hand he begins tugging you out of the ice cream shop and into the busy sidewalk. Whatever event was going on earlier had died down and you’d finally recovered from your attack.

Leon begins lightly swinging your arms back and forth as you walk back in the direction of your apartment

“Does she live nearby? If she’s busy at work maybe we could surprise her?”

The idea of surprising Nat puts a smile on your face but you don’t even know where she lives, or if she’d even want to meet you. The smile slowly slips off of your face and your stomach turns with anxiety and disappointment

“No, she… you’re right she’s probably too busy”

When you get home you schedule another appointment with your therapist for the anxiety and PTSD… and for the excessive overthinking.

~~~

A few days later the doorbell rings and you internally cringe. Opening the door you're not even surprised when you see the third deliveryman this week. You accept the bouquet of roses with a half smile and then shut the door in his face. 

You’ve been declining dates with Leon ever since Nat came back from work and he seems to think you’re mad at him or something so he’s been sending you bouquets of roses every few days to ask you out.

You know it’s not fair to him when he doesn’t know why you’ve gone quiet all of a sudden but you can’t help the fact that you wished you were on dates with someone else.

Someone you’ve never even seen or met but desperately long for.

The first time Leon got you flowers in your relationship was cute and had you blushing for days. Although you were a bit embarrassed opening the door in your sweats and hoodie, the delivery kid didn’t seem to mind as he handed you a large bouquet and a cute little handwritten note. 

You were so excited about it that you texted Nat to gush right away.

     Nat🔪:

Y/n🍦:

He got me roses!!

The response was immediate as always.

Nat🔪:

But…Y/n,

Roses aren’t your favorite flower?

Nat didn’t mean to kill your excitement but she couldn’t help but feel a little upset that you were getting so excited over a bouquet of flowers that weren’t even your favorite.

A few irrational minutes later her thumb hovered over the ‘purchase order’ button on her phone. Finding some kind of satisfaction in knowing you better and one-upping his gesture. 

But she came to the unfortunate realization that she wasn’t supposed to know where you live. And it wasn’t like she could have you thinking he got you those flowers. So she canceled the order and settled for the hesitant excuses you made for him not knowing your favorites.

That in and of itself should have brought her at least some satisfaction but instead, she just found herself angry that you weren’t being treated as well as you should be. She knew she could do so much better. She could treat you so much better than him.

But she was a coward.

~~

You put the flowers on the counter, not bothering to find another vase you knew you didn’t have. Whatever initial excitement you’d had when you first met Leon had vanished and you think it was because of Nat.

She’d taken over every single aspect of your life and you didn’t really mind, because you liked Nat… A lot.

Shit.

Pt 16

-Sorry to whoever's favorite flowers are roses they were just the most generic flower I imagined a guy would pick~ Starry

---Taglist--

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[she-is-a-weapon]

Michael and Cote's interview for La Gazette de Monaco (translated from French)

The Paramount+ spin-off will be filmed in Europe, and more specifically in Budapest. After so many years, why is it finally coming to fruition?

Cote de Pablo: I think the stars have aligned in a way. We've been nurturing this idea for a very long time, so we're very excited. We're thrilled to be shooting this spin-off in Europe and embracing the lifestyle that goes with it. It's a huge gift as actors because we come from a very different machine...

Will there be any similarities, or not, with the NCIS mothership?

CdP: There won't be a flash image with a corpse at the beginning. We won't have to solve a crime and then in the end everything works out and everyone goes back to their dysfunctional families! (laughs) We wanted to take our two characters away from the agency and have them evolve in an international context. The other main difference is the format, since we're doing 10 episodes instead of 24. And we’re shooting ten hours a day!

One of the main characters in this spin-off is your daughter Tali. Have you found the actress to play her?

Michael Weatherly: We've just completed the casting process. The series should really be called "NCIS: Tony, Ziva & Tali", as their child is at the heart of their concerns. In NCIS, our characters didn't have this, so they acted very personally, according to their desires. When you have a child, you have to figure out what's best for them. At the same time, Tony and Ziva also have to save the world. Tali is the perfect character to introduce new sources of trouble.

Your on-screen chemistry is just as real in real life. How do you preserve this 20-year friendship?

MW: Our friendship began under President Bush... and continued through the administrations of Obama, Trump, and Biden! The truth is, we talk a lot. Friendships can be difficult in show business, where there's not always a sense of durability. It's a bit like the friends you make at summer camp and never see again!

CdP: Except that you never got rid of me! I'm your forever summer camp buddy (laughs). You and I, we laugh a lot, and there's this truly wonderful thing that happens over time, where friendship deepens as we say in Spanish. If there is a problem, I can count on our 20 years to get through it. That doesn't mean there won't be conflicts, because we're both passionate creatures, but our friendship has been through a lot, not just professionally.

Source: https://lagazettedemonaco.com/actualites/art-culture/ncis-apres-le-1000e-episode-place-au-spin-off

[cultivating-saplings]

In honour of 4/13x15 I'm posting (a very slightly edited version of) the paper I wrote on the Unofficial Homestuck Collection for one of my classes last term. The language/tone is a bit more academic than what I would usually put up on here, but it's exam season so... 

Don’t Turn Your Back on the Body:

The Resurrection of Homestuck After the Death of Flash

Digital media is, broadly speaking, very difficult to preserve. The rapid pace of technological development means that obsolescence and decay present a consistent threat to the availability of natively digital works. Most computers produced in 2023 no longer have built in CD drives, and I feel fairly confident in asserting that none are being produced with floppy disk readers outside of hobbyist spaces. Issues with the accessibility of physically stored digital media can be mitigated (at least for now) by the use of external readers, but the preservation of fully digital media, born and hosted in its entirety on the Internet, is a different beast entirely.

This is, in part, an issue of pure volume; no one organization could ever hope to archive the vast amounts of stuff that the Internet is constantly producing, let alone organize it into a resource that could be used effectively. Like Borges’ cartographers who created “a Map of the Empire whose size was that of the Empire,” to fully archive the Internet would be to replicate it in its entirety. Thus scope becomes a central question of fully digital archiving. 

The Internet Archive, which also operates the Wayback Machine, answers that question with a resounding and all-encompassing ‘yes’ — their stated goal is to “provide Universal Access to All Knowledge,” but even this comes with caveats. The organization freely permits members of the public to upload files to the archive and save pages on the Wayback Machine, but the work carried out by its official volunteers is more curated, and prioritizes webpages which have been identified as particularly important.

The Internet Archive is very effective within its own space, yes, but it has its limits. When the piece of work you are trying to archive is composed of not just static text and images, but longform animations and complex browser-based games, where do you put it? What do you do when the software necessary to access these elements of the work has been taken offline? And what happens if the people who were supposed to safeguard it fail to do so?

These were the issues that the fans of Homestuck faced in 2020 as the impending deactivation of Flash loomed on the horizon.

But first, before I properly explain what the Unofficial Homestuck Collection really is and why it is so effective as a digital archive, let me tell you about Homestuck. 

Frustrated with the poorly implemented official preservation of the comic, and with a lot of free time on his hands, one fan began the Unofficial Homestuck Collection as a personal project during lockdown, during the “depths of 2020.” As the project changed hands and more fans became involved over the following years, its true scope came into focus: the Collection would preserve not only Homestuck itself, in its entirety and with its Flash-dependent pages intact, but also as much of its contextual material as possible, thus making it a prime example of the effectiveness of fan-driven digital archiving and preservation. Because the people who created the Collection are long standing fans of Homestuck, they know which pieces of peripheral material will provide the context the comic demands. The Collection preserves Homestuck as a text in a way that would be impossible in an analogue format, creating an archive both of the work and of the experience of reading it in a serialized format.

Andrew Hussie began* Homestuck on April 13th of 2009, and published it serially on mspaintadventures.com, his personal website at the time, until its conclusion on April 13th, 2016. Prior to beginning Homestuck, Hussie had been publishing short webcomics and pieces of fiction for several years on his older website, Team Special Olympics, since 2004, which had gained him a small but very loyal following. This following was centered mostly around the forum attached to the TSO website, which hosted the first of Hussie’s ‘MS Paint Adventures,’ Jailbreak, in September of 2006. Jailbreak was a short comic which Hussie produced as a collaborative writing game on these forums, in the style of early text adventures.

Beginning with the prompt, “You wake up locked in a deserted jail cell, completely alone. There is nothing at all in your cell, useful or otherwise,” Hussie then wrote the rest of the comic according to the first comment posted after every page. This, perhaps predictably, resulted in a barely coherent mess of a story.

Following the conclusion of Jailbreak after a short 134 pages, Hussie would produce two more comics prior to beginning Homestuck: the unfinished Bard Quest (June-July 2007) and Problem Sleuth (March 2008-April 2009), which was his longest work so far at the time of its conclusion. Problem Sleuth in particular represented a substantial increase in production quality and general coherency over Jailbreak, as Hussie gained experience using the MSPA forums as tools for collaborative storytelling, reigning in the meandering narrative by allowing himself to be more selective about which forum responses he followed.

Hussie would continue this more controlled style of forum collaboration throughout the first three Acts of Homestuck, which followed a much more focused story than any of his prior work, thanks to his decision to use reader input only in specific parts of the comic. In the introduction to the print edition of the first Act, Hussie described his own role during the production of these first Acts as “dungeon master, a game engine responding to input, and an improv comic all in one.” During the process of writing Act 4, Hussie stopped taking prompts from readers entirely, and would construct the rest of the comic ostensibly as its sole author.

‘Okay,’ you might now be thinking, ‘you’ve given me the context, but what the hell is Homestuck? And what’s it about?’ Well, to wildly oversimplify a very complex piece of media, Homestuck is a webcomic about four young online friends who play a video game that causes the end of their universe and grants them the power to create a new one as they see fit. It is a story about growing up and realizing you’ve been forever changed by your experiences, a story about leaving behind the life you knew and constructing a new one. It is also a story about time travel and paradoxes, genetics and cloning, a large number of aliens, a possibly larger number of puppets (at least one of which is sentient), and an unfortunate amount of clowns. 

This story slowly unfolds over the course of 8126 pages, 817,929 words, and 166 animated panels, 95 of which contained some degree of interactivity and all of which total over four hours in length. Most of the comic’s pages consist of a main image, usually a short looping gif, accompanied by a text description or dialogue, which is almost always written in the format and style of online chat-logs between characters. As mentioned previously, however, these simpler gif-and-description pages are interspersed with longer videos, animated in Flash and soundtracked by one of Hussie’s several collaborators.

The first of these animated panels was uploaded a few weeks into Homestuck’s publication — an animated opening title-card for the comic, scored ominously with sounds of howling wind and windchimes. This first Flash panel was relatively simple, but the next would introduce a bespoke soundtrack (“Harlequin” by Mark Hadley), and the third would include simple interactivity. These soundtracked animations and interactive segments increased in scope and complexity over the course of the comic’s run; the final animated page in the comic, “[S] Collide,” comes in at nearly twenty minutes in length, and some of the larger interactive segments can take upwards of two hours to fully explore. 

While some of the later interactive pages were developed in an engine based on HTML5, most of Homestuck would be built using Adobe Flash, and would depend on the program for basic functionality. This would prove disastrous for the comic’s long term preservation. Flash was very popular, and had become ubiquitous by the early 2010s, but it had security issues which were easy to exploit, its range was fairly limited in terms of what kinds of animations it could produce, and, as its most fatal flaw, it couldn’t run on mobile. Thus with the expanding use of smartphones and tablets, Flash became less and less practical as a tool for web developers, and Adobe began slowly preparing to kill it. On December 31st, 2020, Adobe sent Flash off to the farm where it could frolic and play in the digital sunshine, leaving many online communities facing a crisis. How do you preserve a text when its foundations have crumbled?

With Homestuck using Flash in such an integral way, the issue of preservation was an important one. After the finale, Hussie would post some short post-credits stories to Snapchat from October 2016 to August 2017, as well as a longer epilogue in April 2019, before stepping away from any formal involvement with the comic in 2020. In 2018, Hussie had given the distribution rights for Homestuck to VIZ Media, which primarily handled the English-language publication of several manga series, and had left the rights to the IP and the freedom to produce new work to former collaborators. Thus it was VIZ who took on the task of officially preserving Homestuck against the death of Flash.

To say their efforts were unsatisfactory would, I think, be paying them too great a compliment. The complex and highly detailed Flash animations were replaced with embedded YouTube links to low-quality screen-captures of the originals. The hours-long walkaround games were not translated at all, replaced with ‘choose your own adventure’ style pages of text and links. The official version of Homestuck as it currently exists fails to capture a lot of what made the comic work, because it removes a lot of the gamified elements of the comic that are so integral to its storytelling.

There are many snapshots of the website from before the walkaround games were taken down on the Wayback Machine, but the Flash emulator that archive.org uses is very inconsistent, frequently becoming stuck on looping loading screens or failing to process assets correctly. While the dubious preservation of the long Flash animations is a real issue on its own, the lack of any attempt to replicate the format of these longform games represents the loss of something essential to the comic. Homestuck is, throughout the whole of its story, intertwined with the visual and cultural language of video games. The loss of the complex interactivity of these panels fundamentally changes how the reader is permitted to engage with them and, by extension, with Homestuck’s narrative as a whole. The official version of Homestuck that exists online is no longer complete. 

This incredibly poor preservation was the impetus behind the creation of the Unofficial Homestuck Collection. In its most basic form, the Collection is simply a preserved and restored version of Homestuck, intact and in high quality, accessible through a downloadable client, rather than online — reducing the Collection down to this basic description does it a disservice. The Unofficial Homestuck Collection includes not just Homestuck, but all of Hussie’s prior work: Jailbreak, Bard Quest, and Problem Sleuth are in there, but so are the full contents of his first website, Team Special Olympics, alongside archived versions of his now-deleted accounts on various social media platforms, and copies of threads from the MSPA forums that he would later reference in the main comic. The Collection also includes material that Hussie released alongside Homestuck, like the in-fiction blog of one of the main characters, various short comics written by guest authors, and a full episode of an in-universe childrens’ cartoon.

These peripheral materials are interesting and provide context for some of the more obscure references throughout Homestuck, but many of them were not produced until well into the comic’s run, and assume an audience that is caught up with the most recent update, making them dangerously full of spoilers for the unaware new reader. This issue is solved by the appropriately named ‘new reader mode.’ One of a variety of useful accessibility tools included in the Collection, the new reader mode tracks which page a user has reached, and implements a universal spoiler cloak over the whole program, hiding all materials that were released after their most recent page’s publication. This tool is what transforms the Unofficial Homestuck Collection from an archive of a text, into an archive of an experience.

De Kosnik argues that fan-driven archiving serves as a way for fans to mediate their own temporal experience of a text, describing websites hosting fanworks as mechanisms which “maintain the possibility of individuals joining fandoms… long after a media text has ceased to air.” While De Kosnik’s focus is on archives of fanworks and their function in ongoing fan spaces, I would argue that this framework, which centers the impact of serialization on the dynamics of fan communities, fits extremely well when applied to the Unofficial Homestuck Collection. Homestuck was published serially over the course of seven years, accompanied by blog posts, side comics, music, and other pieces of peripheral media that were released in tandem with the comic itself.

Updates were highly anticipated events, and fan communities were structured around them — one user on Tumblr found an unlisted part of the MSPA forums where Hussie posted new pages before they were published, and this “MSPA Prophet” became a fixture of the fandom for their ability to predict when the next update would come. The event that was an update (or upd8, after the typing style of a popular character) was a central aspect of the experience of reading Homestuck during its publication, and it is one that is very difficult to recover now that the comic exists as a static, completed work. The Unofficial Homestuck Collection, through its new reader mode, functions as a solution to that absence. It does more than safeguard the reader against unwanted spoilers: it temporarily transforms Homestuck back into an incomplete text. 

Homestuck makes use of the assumed preexisting knowledge of the reader, and their “intuitive familiarity” with various types of digital media and culture, especially ones which are inherently participatory. The story’s use of narrative motifs and referential easter-eggs allows Homestuck to function, in Hussie’s own words, as “both a story and a puzzle,” but that “There [are] a range of ways to interface with it[…] Failing to grasp everything shouldn’t preclude basic enjoyment, nor is it a symptom of failure by either the reader or the story.” In the most frequent example of repeated symbology in Homestuck, Hussie peppers the text with references to the number ‘413,’ simplified from April 13th, the day the comic began.

The story follows four friends who are all thirteen years old, many of the songs on the comic’s soundtrack are exactly four minutes and thirteen seconds long, and the timestamps on chat-logs show that characters frequently begin important conversations at precisely 4:13, to name just a few of the number’s appearances. The combination of puzzle and story in Homestuck extends beyond these kinds of motifs, however, and into the way Hussie employs referential humour.

Some of these references are fairly easy to catch; in Act 4, one of the main characters is gifted the Warhammer of Zillyhoo — a brightly coloured weapon which originally appeared in Problem Sleuth. Others, however, are much more obscure. The older brother of another main character runs a business creating bizarre, semi-ironic puppet pornography. Most of the audience read this as an absurdist joke about the internet’s love for offputting porn; the subset of fans who had been following Hussie for several years, or those who looked into Hussie’s early activity on the MSPA forums, however, would find themselves with new understanding of a long-running joke. This element of the experience of reading Homestuck is something that the Unofficial Homestuck Collection not only preserves, but makes readily accessible to the comic’s readers in a way that would not have been possible during the comic’s publication.

On a purely theoretical basis, I would argue that the Unofficial Homestuck Collection is valuable not just in the context of contemporary fan activity, but as a potentially valuable resource for future research. Homestuck is a foundational piece of the current cultural landscape, its influences permeating both digital and analog media in subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) ways.

Undertale, titan of online culture that it is, was created by Toby Fox, who was the composer behind a large amount of the music in Homestuck and was, during the game’s production, living in Andrew Hussie’s basement. Tamsyn Muir, author of the Locked Tomb tetralogy, began her writing career as a prominent figure in the Homestuck fandom on Tumblr and Archive of Our Own. Although the reach of her original work has thoroughly outgrown her fandom roots, Muir includes sly references to Homestuck in several places in her books. Hell, one of the animators working on Bluey, a cartoon aimed at very young children, included references to Homestuck in the backgrounds of episodes they worked on, as easter-eggs for the benefit of parents in the know. All of this is to say that Homestuck has its hooks deep within the culture of the Internet, and its impacts will, I think, be felt for a long time yet.

The Unofficial Homestuck Collection is certainly not immune to digital decay or link rot, but it is resistant to them, since it is hosted on a large and well established website (GitHub), and, once downloaded, can be accessed without an internet connection, and shared freely. For the hypothetical future researcher, the Collection contains resources to mitigate the frustration of trying to hunt down pieces of contextual or peripheral material by packaging them with the text itself — it functions like a sourcebook. 

Bibliography

Bamboshu, and GiovanH. The Unofficial Homestuck Collection. 2020. https://bambosh.dev/unofficial-homestuck-collection/ 

De Kosnik, Abigail. Rogue Archives: Digital Cultural Memory and Media Fandom. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2016. https://doi.org/10.7551/mitpress/10248.001.0001.

Glaser, Tim. “Homestuck as a Game: A Webcomic between Playful Participation, Digital Technostalgia, and Irritating Inventory Systems.” In Comics and Videogames. Edited by Andreas Rauscher, Daniel Stein, and Jan-Noel Thon. 96–112. Routledge, 2021. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781003035466-8.

Hussie, Andrew. Homestuck. MS Paint Adventures, 2009-2016. https://homestuck.com. 

Nakhaie, FS. “Reproduce and Adapt: Homestuck in Print and Digital (Re)Incarnations.” Convergence, 2022. https://doi.org/10.1177/13548565221141961.

Read MS Paint Adventures. “Statistics.” Last modified April 7, 2018. http://readmspa.org/stats/.

Veale, Kevin. “‘Friendship Isn’t an Emotion Fucknuts’: Manipulating Affective Materiality to Shape the Experience of Homestuck’s Story.” Convergence 25, no. 5-6 (2019): 1027–43. https://doi.org/10.1177/1354856517714954. 

[loversj0y]

our young nation

wilbur soot x gn! reader (note: pronouns are gn but reader is afab)

TWs: WAR, DEPICTIONS OF WOUNDS, BIRTH, PREGNANCY, ONE LINE ABT PERIODS, TALKS OF ILLNESS, MENTIONS OF DYING, SEMI-REALISTIC APPROACH TO WAR

word count: 10.7k

note: this has not been edited at all. i dont know a lot about war, but i do know hamilton and mockingjay, so. theres that. there's a playlist for this fic as well if you want to listen to what i listened to (also if this formats weirdly lmk and ill post it on ao3). have fun reading :) title is taken from dear theodosia from hamilton fic playlist

taglist: @l0veb0mb1ng / @core-queen / @zooone / @melunnek

Doing new things was never easy. There were always some hiccups, some strifes, some things that just kept new things from working out just as perfectly as you’d hoped. Not all these hiccups were bad per se, but they were there. Occam’s razor be damned, sometimes things are harder than they are easier. 

Those hiccups might be the death of one Wilbur Soot. Mostly because, in this case, the things occurring lean far more toward the “strife” category than the “hiccup” category. 

Literally. 

The newness of his formed country was refreshing, L’Manburg was already growing to become a beautiful nation, just from the camaraderie seen within its walls. But the beauty of their forming country was contrasted by the growing issues of war and hardships afflicting his citizens. 

So yes, war was hard. New things were hard, but they were often necessary and they often brought new, better things. 

And then, of course, there was the flickering candle light in the middle of the destitute tunnel that categorized war: Love. 

You weren’t originally planning to be involved in the war at all. When Wilbur had come to your door, asking about volunteering for the war, you’d politely turned him down. You made it very clear how much you supported the war efforts, and how, though you couldn’t fight, you’d be willing to help out the war efforts in any way you could. 

Wilbur gave you a charming smile and let you know that your support was greatly appreciated. 

Which was how you became his aid. For the leader of the rebellion, he was rather disorganized, in a literal sense, seen in the numerous papers and half-finished rations littering his desk, as well as a figurative sense, with the desk becoming a mirror image of his own mind. You helped clear the scatter, in both senses. When he’d pass out writing his pages and pages on new injustices committed by the Greater SMP, you’d be there to save his place and clear the desk. 

Eventually, you were able to do far more than just clear the desk; you were able to clear his mind. 

It started in conversations, when he’d ask questions aloud to himself without realizing you were in the room. 

“… and the infractions pushed upon us by the members of the Greater SMP have found my people destitute, destroyed, and… deprived? No, not deprived-“

“Disregarded?” You spoke up from your place standing next to him, where you’d been carefully sorting through old unfinished drafts of his own works. 

“Disregarded?” He looked up at you, giving you a flash of a smile, “Do you feel disregarded by the Greater SMP, Y/N?” 

You flushed a bit under his gaze. You hadn’t actually meant to offer the word, but it had slipped out before you could stop it, “Yes.”

His smile underwent a simple change, one you’d noticed after observing his speeches and public appearances. His smile went from congressional — purely political and for show — to harboring a sense of community. It was the smile he used when he asked for volunteers. It was the smile he used when he asked people for their grievances. It was the smile he used when he listened to his citizens. It was a smile that could make you feel safe, make you feel heard. “How so? In what ways do you feel disregarded by the Greater SMP, Y/N?” He asked. It was subtle, the way he tried to say people’s names as often as possible when he spoke to them. There was something in it you recognized; a urge to get the person on your good side and the need to be liked. 

You honestly couldn’t place the words that escaped you next. You had never been particularly political, but there was something about Wilbur Soot that demanded elegance and intelligence, and you felt yourself falling into line with easy compliance. 

“Well, I feel disregarded in the way they command us. They have hurt our people numerous times without giving a second thought, yet they praise kindness and claim to want a peaceful end to this fighting. I feel disregarded in the fact that they claim to understand us, yet they have never spoken to me, let alone the majority of our citizens. I feel disregarded because they don’t even know my name, yet they have burned down my land. I feel disregarded because they refuse to listen to our grievances,” you took a breath as you continued, setting down the pages you’d been shuffling through. “I feel disregarded because even before the war, they did not respect us. I feel disregarded in the ways that they would bring us into their conflicts while they sat there. And most of all, I feel disregarded in the ways they have hurt my people without a care in the world, as if our lives do not matter.”

There was a moment of silence when you’d finished, and you looked back to see the leader of the rebellion giving you a look that you had never seen before upon his face: adoration. His smile fell into something softer, one that you’d seen only in short bursts, reserved for quiet moments Wilbur shared with himself in dark nights alone when he’d finished a piece he was proud of. 

“Well, then,” he smiled at you genuinely, and it was the most gorgeous thing you’d ever seen. “Disregarded, it is.”

From there, you went from being his aid to his advisor, helping him hone his perfectly crafted speeches. You helped clear his mind. His air of regality as leader of the rebellion kept people from feeling comfortable reaching him, yet you shared none of that sense of bravado. You didn’t want to. People came to you, told you about how they felt as citizens, and it was the biggest help to Wilbur, who no longer felt like he was grasping at straws to make sure his citizens were being heard. 

Throughout it all, the best thing you offered Wilbur was not your mind, but rather your company. 

There were a lot of long nights that Wilbur was used to braving alone, and yet now, you were there to provide him companionship and cure the thoughts that plagued his mind about the future of the war. Wilbur loved watching your mind work on these nights. He would throw up a question into the air, something simple and philosophical, and he would watch as you’d chip away at the question and his subsequent arguments to your own positions. In any other case, it’d have been annoying, but for the both of you, it was akin to mental exercises, a game the two of you shared to keep sharp. It made for a kind distraction over the sounds of silence that plagued empty battlefields still wet with blood. 

These nights were also some of the only nights you’d be able to get Wilbur to take care of himself. Usually, it was after a glass of wine softened him up enough for you to convince him to finish his rations. He had a habit of leaving half, just in case someone else needed something, and he’d been hungrier before so he was sure he could brave it. These were the nights when he’d finally let his wounds show. 

Every battle, regardless of how bad off he was, he would hide any wounds that he couldn’t personally classify as fatal. And he would continue hiding them until they faded, though they never fully did. He always cared so much about appearances, how he needed to look pristine and confident to keep morales high. 

But he didn’t care about that with you. With you, he cared about wit and vulnerability, despite the two having always fallen on opposite doorsteps in his persona. So he’d take off his uniform, leaving him in a simple white undershirt and the slightly baggy black pants he wore underneath. It was the biggest form of physical vulnerability he’d allowed himself in years, and you never overstepped. You’d ignore the bruises and scars littering his arms and faintly poking out from the collar of his undershirt. 

But veiled ignorance could only last so long, and your own care for the man overtook any sense of social conventions. 

“Wilbur,” you looked at him abruptly. You’d been sharing a bottle of wine like you often ended up doing these nights that neither of you could sleep. With each sip, you feel your mind grow anxious at what you’d noticed. Right when he’d taken this uniform shirt off, you quickly noticed the slash in his bicep, crusted with blood and dirt. And while you planned to ignore it like usual, usually he’d at least have cleaned the wound before, and you couldn’t ignore how clearly unattended this wound was. “Did you visit the medic after today’s battle?” 

Wilbur snorted into his glass of wine as he took another sip, “No. No, I did not.” 

“Why?” 

“Because,” he started simply, “they had far more pressing matters.” 

You didn’t see the battles. You’d be on the sidelines, with prepared speeches for Wilbur to give in case of any major developments. You always had to be ready, but it came at the consequence of never knowing what truly happened on the battlefield. Wilbur never liked to recount it either, only sharing essential information to save you from hearing about the ways your people were injured. 

But tonight, you wanted to know. His safety was something that concerned you, and if it was so bad that he would threaten his safety, you needed to know. “What was it like today?” You asked quietly, standing as you spoke. 

He watched you as you flitted around the room, pacing the floorboards languidly. “I told you. We lost, but we were able to leave a-“

“No, I know what you told me. ‘The battle was lost, but there were effects put into motion that will be able to help us in the long run.’ I know that. I meant- the- the other stuff, those ‘more pressing matters’ that the nurses had. Stuff like that.” You couldn’t bring yourself to say the word ‘casualties’ so casually, as if it was not one of your neighbor’s lives your were pushing into a single word. 

He frowned, “I don’t- I really don’t think-“

“Tell me, Wilbur. I need to know.” 

Wilbur sighed slowly, nodding, “Everyone was injured. Some of us less so than others. It… it was Eret. Eret betrayed us, so they knew where we were, they knew we’d be unprepared. It’s better that it’s now, so early in the war, that the traitor is gone now, but… it was at a heavy expense. All of my friends, the ones I dragged into this, they- some of them are still there, in the infirmary. Tubbo nearly died. He-“ Wilbur took in a breath, shuddering, “They said he’ll be okay, but if he was hit any higher, they would’ve punctured his rib, and we would’ve lost him. And- I- We almost lost my brother. Tommy, he-“ there were tears in Wilbur’s eyes as he recounted it, “he took a knife straight to the shoulder. For me. He pushed me out of the way. And it was so close, if he’d been a second earlier, it would’ve gone through his heart.” Wilbur was crying now. It was the first time you’d seen him this vulnerable, this affected by what he’d seen. The horrors that plagued his vision every time he’d close his eyes, yet he closes his eyes now, as he speaks, as if he would find some epiphany lying behind them and not the images of his brother and his brother’s best friend clinging to life. 

“I- I couldn’t visit the medic after that. For this?” He gestured to the slash on his arm, “It felt unworthy of their attention when so many had nearly lost it all.” 

He was still crying, his eyes pressed tightly together as if doing so would click some button to erase the memories of what he’d seen on the battlefield. You moved forward, pressing his head into your stomach and wrapping your arms around him gently. He cried against you, soft and shuddering as if his body was still afraid to acknowledge or speak about what he’d seen. 

“I- I watched someone die. Someone on our side, I-“ he sobbed softly, “I held him as his breathing faded. His last words, he-“ Wilbur buried his face further against you, “He told me ‘Wilbur, make it worth it. If this is it for me, do not let it be in vain. Free our country and win.’” Wilbur panted quietly as he let the final words of a fellow solider fade into the quiet of the night. “I just- I can’t let him down. I let a man die for my cause. His blood is on my hands. And Y/N… it doesn’t look good right now. I know I said Eret’s betrayal is good for the future since the traitor is gone, but I- I don’t know what he knows. He could guide them back here tomorrow and slaughter us all in our sleep. So I- I don’t know what to do. I can’t let our people down, they- they didn’t ask for this. I keep- I keep wondering if I just should’ve kept quiet. If we could’ve been happy just living under SMP’s rule.” His admission did not escape him easily, echos of gasping sobs filling the room as he clung onto the fabric of your shirt. Neither of you spoke at first, letting his tears slow to a near stop in order to help him preserve the fragility of his mind. 

“Wilbur,” you spoke softly once you felt the moment was right, “No one was happy before. You cannot fault yourself for giving us a chance. I know you feel responsible for the bloodshed, and I know how it makes you feel like you’re clinging onto some shadow of death that follows you. But if you were the only one who wanted freedom for our country, there would be no rebellion. You’d just be another man standing on the end of a street, searching for someone to listen to you. We support this cause because we not only believe in the importance of our freedom, but because we believe in you, Wilbur. We cannot have our leader be made a martyr because where would that leave us? This cause would fall apart without you. And I know you are afraid, but we are all afraid. You are allowed to be afraid of uncertainty. Your people are putting their lives on the line’s because the believe the end, even their ends, will justify the means. You cannot consider falling back onto your fears now. I’m so sorry for what you saw. I know how horrifying it must’ve been. But that man let you hold him as he died, you brought him comfort in those final moments because you promised a better future for his family, his people. You have inspired people, Wilbur. You inspired me. You took a single thought, an idea, and you turned it into something real, something tangible, a cause that we not only believe in, but one that we fight for, and we will continue to fight for.” You let out a soft sigh, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the crown of his head, “Wilbur, I know you feel like the world is crumbling around you because of how scary everything is right now. But you are not alone. If your world is crumbling, it is crumbling for me too?” you sighed once more, “this is all just a long winded way for me to ask, Wilbur, please, will you let me patch your wound?” 

He didn’t reply to any specific part of your response, just giving a curt nod and lowering his arms. You both knew that you didn’t just mean the wound on his arm, but that you were attempting to reach out and help him patch the rifts in his mind. 

You grabbed the spare first aid kit, returning to your place in front of him as you set down the kit.

“It’s really not that bad,” he sighed, and you rolled your eyes.

“Wilbur, I have always trusted your judgement for everything, but I think we have finally found the exception,” you chuckled softly, gently taking his arm in your hands to inspect the wound. It definitely wasn’t a pretty sight, but it could certainly be worse.

“Really? This marks the exception? Not the hundreds of times I’ve asked you if something sounds right or if people would agree with something I’ve said?”

You nodded, taking a cotton ball and soaking it in alcohol, “Yep, this is it. Uncertainty is not having bad judgement, it’s just the acknowledgement that you can’t do things alone. Which is true, none of us can.” You smiled lightly, pressing the cotton to his arm to clean the wound. 

He hissed softly in pain as you cleaned the wound, speaking only once you’d finished, “I can’t,” he spoke quietly. “I can’t do things alone. I’m very grateful to have you.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks as you reached for a salve to spread onto his wound. “I’m grateful as well. You keep me stable with all this craziness going on.” 

He watched as you opened the salve, getting a generous amount onto your fingers to lightly spread over the slash, “I can say the same. I would’ve fallen into disarray by now without you.” 

Your flush darkened, and you started to wrap his arm quietly. You didn’t speak until you’d finished wrapping his arm completely. 

“There,” you spoke softly, tying off the bandage, “Now, you won’t get an infection and fall ill. Goodness knows we don’t have the medicine for preventable illness anyways,” you chuckled, trying to make light of things.

Wilbur smiled as well, but he seemed a bit further in thought. You grabbed the kit once more and went to return it to its place, but Wilbur’s hand wrapped lightly around your wrist and kept you from turning. 

“Wilbur?” you asked softly.

“I-” he had a flush on his cheek, and there was a beat of waiting before he finally looked up at you. He had a look filled with adoration and appreciation. But there was something else in his gaze, something softer. More warm. Something you would come to know as love. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asked softly, his thumb lightly caressing where it rested on your wrist. 

You had to refrain from gaping at him as you processed his question. You had always found the rebel attractive, but you’d never considered the legitimacy of pursuing a relationship with a man who seemed far out of your league. With bated breath you nodded, and he leaned up to pull you into him.

The kiss felt far more gentle than it should have. For all the desperation and wanting that lived within it, the kiss was soft and slow, familiarizing one another with each crack in our lips. It didn’t develop further, there was no rapid increasing of intensity, the kiss remained as gentle as the glow from the candles around the room until you pulled away slowly. 

You both stared at one another for a long moment, attempting to memorize each freckle and blemish that adored war-torn faces. He was the one to speak up first.

“Y/N? Would you stay with me? Just for tonight?” 

You nodded your agreement, and you both shared a mutual understanding in the lie he allowed spill from his lips.

As the war continued, you found yourself making a permanent residence in Wilbur’s bed and home. The war was taking longer than anyone expected, a double-edged sword in the how our troops still lived, yet so did Greater SMP’s. Morale was low for everyone, but you kept your spirits high in fire-warmed rooms in Wilbur’s arms. 

“Do you think our people need something to boost their spirits?” He’d asked one day, your head resting on his chest and a hand loosely playing with your hair.

“Hm,” you thought, looking up at him, “I think it would be good, yeah. What are you thinking? A festival?”

He hummed, and as you inspected his face, you noticed the nerves lining his expression. It wasn’t an uncommon sight these days, his worries about the war leeching into every moment of the day. But usually, the anxiousness was far more faded by this time of night, even if it never fully left his gaze. 

“Not a festival,” he spoke, shifting and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small black box, speaking softer, “I was thinking a wedding.”

You sat up, gasping softly, “Will-”

“I was going to wait until after the war,” he spoke, sitting up across from you. “But I’m terrified that I won’t get to. I’d rather die knowing you were mine than knowing I never got to at least ask you.”

“Wilbur,” you grabbed onto both of his cheeks, pulling him into a deep and loving kiss. You understood where his fears came from, and you would be lying if you didn’t admit that you shared in the same sentiment. Every day that the troops returned, your heart waited to beat in fear until you saw his face. You didn’t want to wait either. 

You pulled away, wrapping arms tightly around his neck as you rested your forehead against his. 

“Is that a yes, then?” He asked, a grin ghosting over his lips.

You laughed, holding onto him tighter, “Yes, Wilbur, absolutely.” 

He laughed as well, his arms coming to wrap tightly around you. He kissed the side of your head as he spoke, “We- it probably won’t get to be a big wedding because we’re so low on resources, but if you want something big, we can absolutely have a second ceremony after, and-”

“Wilbur, our wedding could be in a mud field in our pajamas with a chicken, and I would still be satisfied. All that matters to me is being able to call you mine forever.”

He gave you a grin like you hung the stars in the sky before pulling you in for a loving kiss and putting a small ring onto your finger.

The wedding planning went over quickly. You weren’t planning anything fancy whatsoever, but it still needed to be enough of an event for your people to have time to relax. Everyone wanted to help out as well. Once you woke up the next morning after Wilbur’s proposal, it seemed as if the whole country knew already, with people coming to congratulate you and Wilbur as you both walked through town. Just the sense of community in everyone’s offering to help out with the wedding seemed to brighten everyone throughout the country. 

You and Wilbur actually had two ceremonies. The first one was for the two of you and your families, a small dinner and ceremony to allow you to have an intimate and private wedding. It was gorgeous, and so incredibly worth it. The second one was the ceremony for the people. It wasn’t a lavish affair, though your wedding attire was some of the most beautiful things either of you had seen in months. It was a subdued wedding, but it was making the most out of what you had. Lots of fresh cut flowers from the countryside, Niki baked a cake, and a real, full meal made for everyone. 

You felt tense in your fancy wedding outfit. Even if it wasn’t the height of luxury, it felt more stiff than anything else you’d worn in months. But there was a point to all of it. It was an event, something for people to care about. Something to get on their minds instead of residual fear about the next battle. You were glad for private affair you’d been able to have the night before, because this felt more like playing the role of the Leader’s Partner rather than actually being his partner. 

“Hey,” you heard softly from behind you, turning as you watched Wilbur sneak in. He paused when he saw you, staring in awe.  “You look so lovely,” he smiled, walking over to you and taking your hands in his.

“I could say the same about you,” you smiled, pulling him forward for a short kiss. “You ready to get betrothed a second time?”

He laughed, holding you a bit closer, “I am. I’d marry you every day if I could.”

You smiled shyly up at him, moving to wrap your arms around him and hug him tightly, “I love you so much.”

He kissed the top of your head, smiling, “I love you too, darling.”

You sighed and relaxed into the hug, letting your eyes slip shut. You moved your hands down to his sides, frowning when you felt a small box in his pocket. 

“Wilbur,” you started, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the small box of cigarettes, “What are you doing with these?”

He frowned, a shameful look on his face, “I haven’t smoked any, don’t worry. I’m just- I’m anxious, so I got them in case.”

You nodded, biting your lip with a frown, “If you’re anxious, you know you can come to me.”

“I know, I know, I just-” he sighed, “I’m anxious about you, is the thing.”

You frowned, setting the cigarettes down on the table behind you, “What do you mean?”

He sighed, sitting down on a small stool across from you, “I’m nervous that when word travels about the marriage, they’ll look down on the legitimacy of our country. I think it’s good, I think they’ll think we’re less concerned than we really are, however… I’m worried I’m placing a target on your back.” 

You nodded softly, “Wilbur, I’ve had a target on my back since I chose to stand with our country,” you moved forward, giving him a gentle kiss, “I understand the concern, and I know the risks. But I’m not letting those risks outweigh the joy of being married to you. If they go for me, I can handle it. I know I’m not much of a fighter, but I can hold my own. Plus, they won’t kill me. If I’m valuable to you, they wouldn’t dare.”

He took your hand in his again, squeezing it gently, “thank you, darling,” he sighed, holding you close. “I won’t let them take you anyways. You’re too precious to me.”

You chuckled softly, lightly pressing your forehead against his. “Let’s go get married, then. The best fuck you we can give them is our love.”

He grinned and chuckled, nodding softly, “Let’s go get married.”

The wedding was a bright affair. The actual marriage part was quick and sweet, vows that you had both prepared together, nothing as genuine as the words spoken the night before. It was sweet regardless, promises of loving each other in the darkest of times that rang true in an audience of war-stricken dreamers. The best part of the wedding was the reception. Everyone was up, dancing and singing along to the music being shared, and the entire tarp over the field was covered in the most beautiful lights and flowers. You had a proper first dance with Wilbur before the dancing became more lively. You spent most of the night sitting with Wilbur and watching your people dance and laugh and drink. 

“It’s gorgeous, don’t you think?” You smiled, looking over at him.

He nodded, “It is. I’m glad to see everyone smiling and happy.” “And drunk.”

He laughed, leaning his head on your shoulder, “Yeah, that too.”

You smiled, holding his hand quietly. You stared at the ring on your finger. It was simple, but it was absolutely gorgeous. A simple gold band with a small chiselled diamond in the centre. The diamond was crafted from a piece that had chipped off of Wilbur’s sword when he taught you the basics of parrying hits. The engagement ring lay below it, a thinner silver ring with a small emerald that you recognized as coming from one of Wilbur’s ventures to a further village. The rings weren’t lavish, but you preferred them more like this. They were far more meaningful like this. Symbols of your love both in their meaning and their crafting. 

“Can I ask you something?” You asked him softly. 

“Of course, darling.”

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “In our vows, we both mentioned honesty, so I want you to be honest with me right now. I know this isn’t the place to ask, but… what do you think our chances of winning are?” 

He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb caressing the back of your hand, “I don’t think it matters how big or small our chances are. I think what matters is that we have a chance. If we didn’t, we would’ve failed a long time ago.”

You nodded softly, “You see it, though? The future where we win?”

He looked over at you, a wide smile on his face, “I see it as clearly as I see you now. I see our fields free from the blood they currently harbor. Instead, they’re filled with flowers that grew up from the bloodshed. Crimson turned crimson. The kids run around, free of fear of an incoming bomb. My brother runs with them, and he no longer acts so grown up; he’s allowed to be a kid again. I see a memorial for those we lost, for all that was sacrificed. I see our citizens in parades, every year for our independence, they sing and dance, just like this. It’s like… the war is the night, the cold and harsh conditions that brutalize us and break us down into nothing more than human. But independence? It’s warm. It’s laying in the sun in a field with you. It’s our flag waving high on a summer day. It’s the laughter of children, it’s the joy of the future. It’s us. Our future. A memory garden adorned with flowers and the knowledge that we will never return to the Great War because we not only survived, but we persisted.”

“It’s daylight,” you smiled, and he gave you a grin so bright it felt like basking in it.

“It’s daylight.”

The weeks after the wedding remained lively for the most part. The morale boost helped the troops improve, and the battles didn’t seem as tough. There was an underlying fear that the SMP troops were holding back for some reason, but for the most part, everything seemed to be going good.

Until one morning.

Winter had begun, and with it, hardships improved. Illness was rampant, and while no one had fallen fatally ill yet, everyone was afraid. 

Wilbur didn’t expect you to be next on the list of ill. 

He was in the living room when you woke up that day. You stood slowly, but as you stood, you were hit with a wave of nausea and vertigo. You nearly collapsed before making it to the trash to throw up the contents of your empty stomach. You leaned over the trash and within moments, Wilbur was at your side, keeping your hair out of your face and rubbing your back.

“Darling? Are you alright?”

You coughed weakly, spitting into the trash, “Do I seem okay, Wilbur?” You huffed, before sighing. “Sorry, I just- I hate throwing up.”

He nodded softly, “It’s alright, I get it, here,” he carefully helped you up back into bed before rushing to grab some water. He handed you the glass, and you drank it quickly, sighing softly. 

“Did something happen?” He asked, moving to your side to wrap an arm around you.

“No, I just stood up and- yeah,” you sighed, leaning your head against him, “You shouldn’t be close, I may be sick.”

He frowned, kissing the top of your head, “I’ll be alright. I’m going to call for the doctor, okay?”

You nodded softly, and he was rushing to get the doctor within seconds. They came back a few minutes later, and the doctor was quick to check over you.

“Your temperature is a bit high,” they hummed, “But other than that and the throwing up, I’m not seeing any other major symptoms. It could be stress. I would take it easy for the next few days, see if it improves. If nothing’s changed in a week, we can check for more, alright?”

You nodded softly, sighing quietly. Wilbur grabbed your hand gently before walking the doctor out, sharing hushed words.

When he returned, he got back into bed next to you, “They don’t think it’s anything serious. They said it’s likely just a mild fever, not like the flu going around out there.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, “I’ll be alright.”

“You will be,” he nodded, kissing the top of your head. “I can’t stay to watch you too much this week, but I can get Niki, if you want.”

“Wilbur, I don’t think I need to be watched,” you chuckled.

“I know you don’t need it,” he hummed, “but I want someone to be here with you. I don’t want you to collapse and have no one be here for you.”

You sighed softly, nodding, “Okay. If you don’t need her for anything this week, then I don’t mind. I like spending time with Niki.”

He smiled, squeezing your hand gently, “Alright. I’ll let her know.”

The same thing happened throughout the week. Wilbur would help you in the morning when the nausea hit, and then Niki would swap out with him when he had to go help out his people. The nausea usually lasted the whole day, but the vertigo and lightheadedness only seemed to last in the morning. You managed to eat small meals, and with Niki’s baking, she brought you a lot of small snacks. 

It was one of these days that you had a theory. The final day of the week, there was a major battle, so Niki would spend the whole day with you while Wilbur went out to fight. It was nerve wracking knowing that he would be out there and you were stuck in your bedroom, but you figured it wasn’t that much different from the other days, you supposed.

“Niki,” you spoke up from your place on the bed. She was sat across from you, working on a small knitting project. The troops had just head out for the battle. 

“Yeah, Y/N?” she asked, looking up at you.

“Did a doctor stay behind? Or did all of them head out?”

She thought for a moment, “There’s two here with us. One for the ill, and one preparing things for when the others return.”

You nodded, staying quiet for a moment, “Could you call one of them here for a moment?”

She frowned, concern lacing her brow, “Yeah, of course, but, why? Are you not feeling well again?”

“It’s not that,” you bit your lip quietly, looking away for a moment, “Can you keep a secret, Niki?”

She nodded, “Of course.”

You fiddled with your fingers for a moment, trying to think of the best way to phrase your next statement, “I… skipped this month.”

She gave you a look of confusion, before her eyes widened as realization hit, “Oh. Oh! Do you think-?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want to get my hopes up yet. And I don’t want to get Wilbur’s hopes up either, just in case. But… I think so.”

She gave you a grin, nodding quickly as she stood, “I’ll go grab one of the doctors, I’ll be right back!”

She rushed out, leaving you alone with your thoughts for a moment. You were nervous about the implications. You wanted to start a family with Wilbur, of course, but neither of you were planning for it to happen yet. You’d agreed to wait until after the war. War is no place to raise a child.

The doctor came in, and she gave you a gentle smile. Niki waited outside as you spoke with the doctor, and you did a quick exam. 

“Well,” the doctor gave you a soft smile, “I think your theory may be correct, Y/N.”

“You think?”

“Well, I know. You’re correct. You’re pregnant.”

She had a soft grin on her face as she confirmed your theory, as if it was not news that changed the entire trajectory of your future. 

“Thank you, Doctor,” you gave her a soft smile right back, trying to let your worries ease into the back of your mind until Wilbur returned. 

“Of course. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. For the next few months, just try to relax. I know it’ll be tough given our circumstances, but you have the support of the entire country holding you up, alright?”

You nodded silently. 

“I’ll do another exam in a month to make sure everything is going well, and we can arrange for monthly visits. If you have any questions just let me know, and so other than that, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you smiled softly, and she left soon after. 

Niki returned, a subdued smile on her face, “So?”

You bit your lip and nodded.

She grinned, rushing to your side and taking your hand in hers, “Oh, that’s lovely! Wilbur’s going to be so excited, are you going to tell him tonight?”

“I think so,” you smiled softly, “I imagine it’d be hard to keep it from him.”

It was hard to keep it from him. But not through your own admission, rather because news of the doctor visiting your home traveled quick among those who’d stayed behind. That night, Wilbur rushed in to see you.

“Y/N! Are you okay?” He called out, rushing up to see you and hold you in a tight hug. He looked worse for wear, his hair a ruffled mess and his cheeks stained with dirt. 

“Yes, love, I’m alright, why?” You hugged him back tightly, nerves and knowledge filling your chest.

“I- I heard a doctor came in today,” he pulled away to inspect your face, holding your cheeks gently, “Did something happen?”

“No, no,” you smiled softly, “I’m okay, I’m good, actually. We figured everything out, and I’m going to be okay.”

He let out a breath of relief, pressing his forehead to yours gently, “Darling, you scared me.” 

“I’m sorry,” you chuckled softly, “How was the fight?”

He tensed, and you frowned.

“It was… it wasn’t good,” he sighed, and your heart dropped, “We ambushed them like we planned, but they were stronger. We didn’t get to take out as many of them as we wanted to before they noticed us, so we were outnumbered.”

You nodded softly, “Were you successful in stealing supplies, though?”

He nodded, and the smile on his face didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Not as much as we wanted to, but enough to make it hurt.”

“That’s good,” you smiled back at him, “Are you injured? Did you see the medic?”

He shook his head, “a few scratches and a burn from a flaming arrow, but it’s not bad. It’s on my shoulder.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, “Go take a bath, and I’ll wrap it. And then, I have something important to talk to you about.”

He tilted his head, “What is it?”

“Nope, not yet. Go clean up first,” you chuckled softly, “That takes priority.”

He rolled his eyes, grin falling on his face easily, “Alright, alright. I’ll be right back.”

You nodded and watched as he went to go clean up. You could have told him then, but it was more for your sake than his that you wanted to wait. You had to get your mind together first, especially now knowing he was okay. 

He returned not long after, face and hands scrubbed clean of dirt and soot. He was wearing a white tank top with his sleep pants, and he had the med kit in his hand as he sat down next to you.

You hissed softly as you saw the burn, gently taking his arm in your hand, “Wilbur, this is worse than you described.”

He waved it off, sighing, “It just got irritated from the water. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

You gave him a look of disbelief as you stared at the burn. It was bright red and angry, skin slightly charred and bubbled. There was a slight cut in the middle of it from where the arrow must’ve passed through. You sighed sofly, grabbing the disinfectant. 

“Hold onto my arm, this is going to sting,” you told him softly, and he did as you said. Once you passed the disinfectant over the burn, he hissed in pain, squeezing your shoulder. You continued cleaning the wound until it was satisfactory, You grabbed the burn cream and delicately spread it over the wound, and slowly, his pained noises lessened. 

“I’m not going to wrap it just yet, it needs to breathe for a while, okay?”

He nodded, sighing and pulling his hand away, “Will I be able to cover it tomorrow?”

You frowned, “You shouldn’t. But I know you will, so I’ll wrap it tomorrow.”

He nodded again, grabbing the med kit and returning it to its space in your bathroom.

“So,” he said, sitting down in front of you, “You said you have something important to share?”

“Yeah, so,” you sighed softly, taking his hand gently, “It’s about the doctor visit. I had the doctor come over today because I wanted to talk to her about us starting a family.”

He nodded, eyebrows furrowing slightly, “Okay. I thought we were planning to wait, though?”

You nodded, “I know, but… would you… be upset if we didn’t?”

He chuckled, “Not at all, darling,” he smiled, “it wouldn’t be ideal, but that’s more due to my own selfishness. I want to be here for every second of it, and I don’t know if I can right now. But I wouldn’t be upset about it. Do you… want to?”

You bit your lip, taking his hand and placing it over your stomach. “Wilbur,” you looked up at him, “I don’t know if we have much of a choice anymore.”

He gave you a concerned look, frowning, “Why not? Did- did something happen? If you’re not able to, we could always look into adoption, or-”

“No, Will,” you chuckled softly, shaking your head, “It’s not like that. It’s, uh, it’s the opposite, actually.” You gave him a soft grin.

He looked confused for a moment longer before a wide grin crossed his face, “Wait. Do you- do you mean?”

You nodded, “Yeah. I had a theory with all the sickness in the morning. So, I talked to the doctor, and… I think our family will be coming a lot sooner than we’d planned for.”

He grinned, tears springing to his eyes, “You’re serious? You’re-”

“Pregnant. Yeah.” You were grinning as well, and finally getting to tell him felt like the first breath of air after diving into the deep end.

“Oh, darling,” he spoke, pulling you into a tight hug, “Oh, I- we’re going to have a kid.”

You nodded, chuckling through the tears of joy that hit your cheeks. “Yeah, we’re going to have a kid.”

He grinned, holding you tightly, “Fundy’s going to have a sibling! Darling, this is amazing. I know we wanted to wait, but I don’t care. I have so much more to fight for now. So much more to come home for.”

You kissed him, holding onto him like a lifeline, “The war’s not done. But this. This is why we fight. As long as you’re home at the end of the day, that’s all that matters to me.”

He grinned at you, “I love you so much. I am so lucky to have you. We’re so lucky, even if it’s just being alive right now. This is all we need.”

You smiled lovingly at him, “We are so fucking lucky. And I am so excited for this. They’re blessed to have you as their father.”

“They’re blessed to have you as well,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

That night, neither of you went to sleep concerned over a failed fight. Instead, you dreamt of the bright future you’d be bringing your child into. 

Family and close friends were the first to know. You told them two days later, during an impromptu family meeting that Wilbur had called. Everyone was incredibly elated, though Tommy’s excitement probably took the cake, as he was practically screaming his congratulations. 

The rest of country learned fairly soon after. About a month later, even though you’d only slightly began showing and could certain continue to hide it for a while, neither of you wanted to. It was a joy to share with the country, and the celebration that followed was bright and lively, a night-long glimpse into a wonderful future. 

It wasn’t always easy, though. Wilbur hated how he couldn’t stay by your side, taking care of your every need. You hated how lonely some nights were, when the battles lasted longer than usual or they had to prepare for a midnight ambush. The worst part of those nights was the fear, overwhelming and keeping you stationary in Wilbur’s office or your bedroom. Not knowing if your husband would return hurt more than anything else in the world. 

You were six months in when he came home exhausted in early morning light. He didn’t speak to you at first, giving you a kiss before going to wash up. You waited anxiously for him to return, and when he did, he returned shirtless with a med kit in hand. He sat down in front of you with a sigh, turning around so you could see the large gash running down his shoulder. 

“Wilbur,” you gasped softly, “this is really long.”

“It’s not that deep. Didn’t even realize it was there until I went to wash up.” He sighed.

You frowned, starting to patch him up quickly. 

He spoke to distract himself, “Do you think we’re going to have a girl or a boy?”

You shrugged softly, “I’m not sure. They could be nonbinary as well.”

“True,” he hummed, “if they do come out as nonbinary, we’ll let them choose their own name. But we do still need to choose a name.”

“That’s true,” you hummed, carefully disinfecting his wound, “We should prepare for both.”

“I agree,” he responded, though his words came out through a clenched jaw. 

“So what are you thinking, then?” 

“Hm, I’m not sure about for a boy. But I do have a name picked out for a girl.”

“Oh, yeah?” you smiled, starting to carefully apply the salve to the wound, “What is it?”

“Tallulah,” he smiled softly, “What do you think?”

“That’s gorgeous. I love it.” You set the rest of the salve down, picking up the bandages. 

“I’ve always loved it. I’m really glad you like it as well.”

You directed him to hold his arm up so you could wrap his wound, “It’s beautiful. What about a boy?”

He hummed, “I’m not sure.”

“We could always do Wilbur Jr.”

He snorted, shaking his head, “God, no. I’d sooner name them after Tommy.”

You laughed, shaking your head, “I mean, Thomas would be a good middle name.”

“It would, actually,” he smiled softly. “For a boy, though… Julius could be nice. Or maybe Cornelius.”

You hummed, “Those have a good ring to it. Julius Thomas Soot. Cornelius Thomas Soot.”

“They do. We can think more about it, I suppose. We have time.”

“We do have time,” you hummed, pressing a kiss to the top of his shoulder as you finished the bandage. 

He turned, wrapping his arms around you and laying his head on your chest, pressing a kiss to the baby bump. You moved a hand to gently play with his hair. 

“It was bad today?” You asked softly.

He sighed, “Bad would be an understatement.” 

You nodded softly, kissing the top of his head.

“Do you think we’re bad people? For bringing a kid into this?” He asked softly.

You frowned, “No. I don’t.”

He nodded, holding you a bit tighter. After a moment, he spoke softly, “I’m really scared for them.”

You brushed through his hair with your hand, “Why?”

“I’m going to be honest, it… it doesn’t look good right now. They keep getting stronger and smarter, and I don’t know how to fight them. I’m scared we’re bringing our child into a failing country, and I’m scared I can’t protect you or them if worse comes to worse.” 

“I understand. I’m scared too. But, love… we can’t really do anything now. We just have to try to give this child the best life we can, no matter the circumstances. Even if they’re the worst case scenario.”

He sighed, nodding, “I know. I just… I feel like I fucked up with Fundy. I was too young at the time, and I don’t want to make the same mistakes. And if I’m focused on fighting a war, I won’t be able to be there for them, the same way I wasn’t there for Fundy. I’m scared of being a bad father again.”

“I don’t think you will be,”  you spoke softly, “and you’re not alone this time. You have me. They won’t be alone if you’re not there. I’ll be here.”

He nodded softly, looking up at you, “Thank you. I’m sorry, I’m just…” He trailed off.

“I get it. I’m scared too. I’ve never done this before. I have no clue what I’m doing. Not to mention I’m terrified of giving birth. But I’m scared of making mistakes because I didn’t know until I met you if I would ever have a kid. I’m glad I am, don’t get me wrong, but I never expected to be ready for something like this. Honestly, I still don’t know if I’m ready. I’m terrified, Wilbur. But I have you. I’m not alone.”

He smiled, leaning up to kiss you gently, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, darling,” you spoke softly, kissing him back gently, “Let’s get some rest, now, okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded softly. With how exhausted he was, it didn’t take long before he fell asleep, leaving you alone with thoughts of uncertainty until sleep took over.

As you entered the last month of the pregnancy, things were starting to look up. 

Kind of.

While the recent battles had been lost, Wilbur had a plan.

“Darling, I think I’ve figured it out,” he grinned, standing from his desk and walking to the couch you sat on.

“What is it?” You smiled, looking up at him.

“I’ve figured out how we win. Tubbo’s been spying for us, as you know, and he brought me this document yesterday, and I couldn’t see the significance! I was being an idiot, but I knew it didn’t make sense for them to have an entire document detailing how they make their uniforms.” He grinned, and you tilted your head.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a cypher. Darling, it was a code! And I- I figured it out. I know their plans.” He had a manic look in his eye, and you couldn’t help but perk up at the excitement in his tone.

“Love, have you slept?”

“Barely, I couldn’t sleep much because I kept thinking about this stupid fucking document. But darling, we know everything now. We know exactly where they’re going to be and when. We can win, we- we can do this.”

You grinned, but the anxiety still filled your chest at the idea, “You’re sure about this?”

“I- I mean, I think. I figured out the code, and it all makes sense.”

You bit your lip. You didn’t want to think of the most likely possibility. That they knew. That this was a fake document.

“Darling, I thought you’d be more excited,” he frowned, catching onto your anxiety. 

“No, no, I am, just… Wilbur, what if they did it on purpose? What if they let him get a document planted just to feed you incorrect information?”

He nodded, thinking quietly. “I trust in it. And I think it may be a risk we have to take.”

You gaped at him, “Wilbur, you could be marching our troops directly into a trap.”

“I know, I know, but,” he sighed, “I have a good feeling about this, I promise. Honestly, I don’t think we have any other choice. Without this, we have nothing.”

You nodded softly, “... you trust it? That- that this isn’t a plant?”

“Yes.”

“And how certain are you?”

He bit his lip, “Mostly certain. It’s the best chance we’ll have, and we have to move fast, their plans start tomorrow.”

You nodded, pulling him in for a tight hug, “Okay. If-if you’re sure. I trust you.”

He hugged you back tightly, and you tried not to think about the fact that he hugged you like it may be the last time, “I love you so much, darling. Don’t worry, okay? This time tomorrow, we’ll be free people.”

You nodded, closing your eyes to focus on the feeling of his arms around you, “I love you too.” You pulled him in for a loving kiss, sighing softly. 

“Go rally your troops.”

Wilbur did just that. He left shortly and brought the plan to all the generals, all the soldiers, everyone he could. He was buzzing with excitement when he returned that night, holding you close as he lied with you in bed, one hand gently resting over your belly. 

“We’re leaving before the sun is up,” he told you softly.

“Will you be back when I wake up?”

He shook his head, “No. But we’ll be back for dinner for sure.”

You smiled softly, holding him closer, “We’ll have a celebratory dinner. Extra special.”

“Oh?” He chuckled, “Extra special?”

“Absolutely. Because we won’t just be celebrating the win. We’ll be celebrating your new role as President.”

He flushed softly, “You think?”

You nodded, “I’ve heard the people speak. They trust you, Wilbur. And I know you’ll make a great president. You’ll create a great place for our child to grow up in.”

“Thank you,” he smiled softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your belly, then your cheek.

“Plus,” you hummed, “President Soot does have a good ring to it.”

He smirked, blushing once more, “Oh? You think so?”

“I know so, Mr. President,” you grinned as he leaned up, lips hovering above yours. 

“That does sound nice. Though I may be biased,” he pecked your lips gently, a smirk still ghosting on his lips.

“How so?”

“Well, I think any words that escape your lips are just as gorgeous as the lips they escape from,” he spoke softly, pulling you into a languid and loving kiss. You kissed him back just as passionately, letting the intensity quell your fears about his return tomorrow. 

Wilbur was gone when you woke up the next morning, which you expected. What you didn’t expect was for lunchtime to have been such a bleak affair. You expected much more liveliness from your people, especially given how much Wilbur believed in the plan. But the streets were quiet. There were only hushed words as you walked through town to find a meal, and it seemed as if many people were directing those hushed words towards you.

“Did something happen?” You asked the merchant after you finished your meal.

She gave you a frown, a tense look appearing on her brow, “You haven’t heard?” You felt your heart sinking as you shook your head. 

She sighed, looking down for a moment before looking back up at you, “I’m sorry, uh…” she took a deep breath before speaking, “one of the generals was supposed to come back to check in at noon. They haven’t returned.”

Your eyes widened slightly, but you nodded quietly, “Well, that- that doesn’t mean anything specific yet. Have we heard anything at all from the battlefield?”

She shook her head solemnly, and you nodded once more.

“Alright, well, ah, thank- thank you,” you stuttered out, before rushing away to find the basecamp quarters. You started feeling a pain as you walked, but you didn’t allow yourself to focus on it as you ripped open the tarp to the camp, finding the entire place… empty. It felt like a ghosttown.

You swallowed down the bile that rose in your throat, rushing back home. The pain continued as you walked, and your legs shook stubbornly as you trekked home. You couldn’t tell if the pain was even real, or if it was a side effect of the desperation and doom that filled your heart. As you reached your home, you collapsed against the front door, holding onto the door frame as a groan of pain escaped you. Before you knew it, the ground was rushing up to meet you.

When you woke, you weren’t on the ground. You found yourself in an uncomfortable cot, pain wracking through your body as you failed to sit up.

“Hey, take it easy, it’s okay, you’re okay,” the doctor spoke, coming to help you sit up. You were sweating, and she carefully placed a cold wet cloth to the top of your forehead. 

“What’s- what’s going on? Where’s Wilbur?” You stifled a groan as you spoke. 

“He’s not back yet, none of the troops are. And you’re okay, you passed out when your water broke. You’re going into labor.”

“Fuck,” you hissed out, panting softly. You noticed now the dressing gown you wore, your original clothes laying folded in a pile in the corner. 

“Take some deep breaths for me, you’re doing great, okay?” She instructed, and you nodded, taking a moment to just focus on your breathing.

“What- what time is it?” You asked in between breaths.

“It’s about to be seven.” She told you, turning as she sorted through medical supplies. 

Wilbur should’ve been back by now. You didn’t know if you could do this without him. 

“Your contractions are coming in about every five minutes, and they’re lasting about a minute. You’re not quite there yet, so you have time, alright?”

You bit your lip and nodded, placing a hand over your belly as you prayed to any god that would listen that your husband would be returning to you in one piece, in time for him to meet his child. You’d never felt so alone at such a worse time. You had no midwife, no friends, no husband, just your doctor to guide you through this. 

It was another hour before it was time. You didn’t want it to be, you wanted Wilbur. 

“You’re dilated,” the doctor informed you, grim as you shared a thought on the lack of troops returning, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to start pushing.”

You shook your head, “No, I- I need to wait, please.”

“I’m sorry, I know.” She took your hand in hers, “We still have time, but you need to start.”

As much as you wanted to argue, you knew you couldn’t.

The sound of you yelling in pain during the next contraction was masked with another sound.

Yelling, first. 

Then, the singing. 

And finally, cheering.

It was only a minute later when heard the sound grow, of your people, cheering and singing in the streets outside. It was two minutes later when a medic rushed in, a smile on their face.

“They’re back!” They announced, before rushing to tell whoever they could.

You fought through another contraction as your heart lifted, panic filling you.

“Wilbur,” you spoke weakly, “Wilbur, please, please, find- find Wilbur.”

The doctor looked at you in concern, biting her lip for a moment. 

“Okay. Okay, yes, hold on, let me- I’ll go try to find him, just hold on.”

You nodded rapidly as the doctor rushed out, going to find Wilbur. You gripped the sides of the cot as you groaned in pain, trying desperately to focus on your breathing. 

When she returned, she was alone, “I-I couldn’t find him, but they’re saying he’s alive, don’t worry, okay?”

You let out a breath of relief, head falling back for a moment as you relaxed just as much as you could. She guided you through a few more contractions before you heard the most beautiful sound. 

“Darling?!” You heard Wilbur yell, and you heard his voice get closer with each word, “Excuse me, please, hold on, Y/N!” He ripped open the door, gasping in relief once he saw you.

“Darling, oh my god,” he rushed in, coming in quickly to hold your hand tightly and place his other hand on your cheek. You leaned into his touch as he turned to the doctor, “How far along are they?”

“Breached,” the doctor informed, “Should be any minute now.”

He nodded, and you looked at him, “Will, I was so- fuck- I was so worried.”

He cooed, brushing your hair back, “It’s okay, I’m alright, I’m here now. Darling,” he grinned, eyes filled with tears as you squeezed his hand and groaned in pain. 

“Darling,” he spoke again once the moment had passed, “We- we did it. We won. We’re free.”

You gasped, pulling him into you, “Oh, my god,” you couldn’t fight the tears that fell from your cheeks, “We won?”

He nodded quickly, kissing the top of your head, “We won.”

You let out a sob of relief and joy, but it was quickly masked by another yell of pain.

“You’ve got this, darling, I’m here, we’re free, you can do this,” he told you, holding you close. 

“It’s a girl,” the doctor spoke softly. Wilbur was with you on the cot now, and you both were exhausted for different reasons, but both with joyous outcomes. She brought your daughter over to you, the newborn swaddled carefully. 

You gasped quietly when you saw her, taking her gently in your arms as you leaned against Wilbur. You looked up at him, tears in both of your eyes. He kissed you gently before looking back down at your daughter.

“Tallulah Soot,” he spoke softly, “Welcome to the free nation of L’Manburg.”

You chuckled, though it was slightly muffled from your tears. “The first citizen to be born under a free rule,” you spoke softly, a finger gently stroking her cheek, “Because we won.”

“We won,” Wilbur parroted, disbelief clouding his voice. 

She woke both of you up early with her cries. You held her in your arms as the early morning light poured in slowly, and as you rocked her, Wilbur sat next to you, an arm around your shoulder. 

Her cries softened, and as her big eyes stared up at you, you decided to tell her a story.

“Now, Ms. Lulah,” you spoke softly, “You won’t know this for a few years. But you were born during a very special time. Your father was amazing, he commanded a whole army of people.”

Wilbur chuckled softly, kissing your head, “You were born to two amazing people. One a commander, and one his political advisor who won his heart with their wit and brevity behind closed doors.”

You chuckled, smiling warmly, “Yes, even though he was a disorganized wreck when I met him. Every year, Ms. Lulah, there will be a parade on your birthday. Do you know why?”

Wilbur smiled fondly, “I don’t think she does.”

“Well, then I’ll tell her,” you hummed softly. You looked up, staring out in an empty field, filled with beautiful red flowers as the morning light softly reflected on dew drops that slept on grass. “Because, you, Ms. Lulah, were born on the day your father and our people fought to ensure your freedom. More importantly, you were born on the day they won.”

She let out a soft giggle – the most beautiful sound you’d ever heard – and you grinned lovingly, staring out at that field once more, that never again, would harbor the same bloodshed. As the sun poured in, you could see in your mind, her running in that field, picking those red flowers, and never once knowing of the same hardships that allowed crimson blood to pour on your land.

All she would know is the daylight.

[poems-of-the-anentomologist]

Pride Poems Day 11 (BONUS POEM) A special thank you to @leafgorge, and you, the reader, for reading my works! Note: also attached is the original poem as an image, because Tumblr fucked up the formating

(me.)

i forgot my name, and i dreamt of that place again last night.

was it victoria or victor? i was in a women’s bathroom, blood everywhere. or was it alex or alexandra? i start crying, i cant recall, i dont know why,

i dont want to remember anymore, my tears just came unbidden

i woke up this morning and my name was different.     i feel a hand on my shoulder

once more, and       they smile, and i didnt want to say

“my name is different every day, and i have only seen your face in the news”

i stare across the mirror at the boy with hollow eyes looking back,         and i cant say their name

or is he a girl? i dont want to say their name

their eyes trace my mouth, my jawline,     and their face shifts,

the brown eyes warm and                     one moment i see then it’s cicada, his face covered in cuts,

i want to know what it’s like to be       grasshopper, their hair matted with blood-

or to be a girl, or to be dead, or to not be human because

then its moth, dead eyes weeping dead tears

i still dont know who i am stumbling back, crying

but the colors the dead seem to give me to wear seem good enough,

i suppose its not real,

black jacket, yellow boots, white gloves, and purple pants flash across my mind

“wake up, wake up!, its not real” they smile a slow, sad smile as i say that.

is my reflection ashamed to be looking at itself? nothing stops it from feeling so

in the same way i do? these thoughts jump into my mind without warning i want to ask them all, “who am i?”

yell at the world, “will i end up like them?             i cant die, not yet,” but how can i do that without waiting,     

not until after they are gone, and im just a soul filled with despair,

waiting for my stupid head to tell me

this is me.

[bi-bats]

trick or treat <3333

TAURIA MY BELOVED!!! HAPPY HALLOWEEENNNNNN!!!!

In the spirit of the season (and giving out full size candy bars) you get a snippet from an idea that I have not talked about on Tumblr yet!! Everyone say thank you to Tauria and go read a bunch of her fics on Ao3 her stuff is so good!!

ANYWAYS this is a snippet of a DamiTim piece I've been working on in the vein of Now Kiss! It's probably going to be a oneshot with multiple little scenes, and it's an urban fantasy fic that's not a no capes!au. It's based off of this one super short tumblr post (that I cannot find ughhh) about magic in the modern era between a self-taught sorcerer and a classically trained one arguing about the ways that they do certain thins, and I saw it and was like "I have to hit that with my DamiTim beam rn" soooo more urban fantasy from Misha for you all!!

(stealing your formatting Tauria because this is too long to indent the whole snippet)

~ ✨ ~

“Why are you keeping the sample in here?” Damian asks, his voice losing just enough of its edge for Tim to answer him sincerely. 

“It combusts at room temp. That’s how the fires are catching so fast and staying lit for so long. You know, B didn’t have to send you to come get it, I could’ve just—” 

A small, glowing portal opens up at the next snap of Damian’s fingers, deep green sparks lining the image of the fridge in the Batcave on the other side.

Yeah, that. 

Tim rolls his eyes as Damian’s eyes flicker over the contents of the fridge. 

“It is unbelievable that you’ve made it this far in life without accidentally drinking your work,” Damian scoffs at the rows of bottles on the shelves.

“Hey, glass can shatter and plastic doesn’t! Besides, I’m recycling.”

“Is that what you call it?” Damian mutters as he pushes aside a gatorade bottle half full of a deep red, viscous liquid. “Which one?” 

“The caps are labelled.” 

After a few moments of watching Damian rifle through the bottles, Tim scoffs and pushes away from his desk. 

When he gets to the fridge, he slides in front of Damian — which infuriatingly, reminds him of the inch of space between the top of his own head and the tip of Damian’s chin — and grabs the Power-C Vitaminwater bottle that has a few tablespoons of an orange, oily liquid pooling in the bottom.

He slips his hand through the portal and drops it on the shelf on the other side before pulling his hand out. 

At least Damian’s spell doesn’t singe him at the fingertips the way his magic used to. 

It’s still a near thing, though.

When Tim turns back around, he almost flinches at the realization that there’s only a few inches of space between his nose and Damian’s chest. He looks up at him — ugh, who let the demon brat get so tall? — and raises an eyebrow. 

In the time it takes for Tim to let out his breath, Damian glances down at him. His eyes flash with something, pink rising to his cheeks again—

And then he’s stepping back, out of Tim’s space entirely, a scowl carving across his features as he looks around Tim’s study.

“You know—” 

Great, here we go, Tim thinks. 

“—there are cleaning spells you can employ to prevent your space from looking like this.”

“Again, Damian, just because I’m mostly self-taught doesn’t mean that I’m stupid.” 

“I was not—” Damian scowls, his voice gruff, defensive and god, here we go for real, Tim thinks.

But Damian doesn’t continue. He breathes out slowly, his voice coming out softer when he finishes his thought. 

“I apologize. I was not trying to insult your intelligence. I was merely suggesting that you may want to employ one of those spells before you trip over a stack of reference books or…” Damian kneels down to pick up a receipt off the ground. “Slip and crack your head open on something. Do you need this?” 

The urge to snatch it from Damian’s hand rises up in him, but he pushes it down.

He apologized, after all. 

“Yes.”

Damian raises an eyebrow at him before flipping the receipt over. 

“Is that… a spell?”

Tim snatches the receipt from his hand.

“Yes. Not all of us have time to copy our spells into a book—”

“Why don’t you just spell your pens?” 

Tim stops mid-step to frown at Damian, the receipt crinkling in his hand.

“Spell them how?”

Damian’s other eyebrow rises to join the first. 

“With a mirroring rune? It will copy whatever you’re writing into your grimoire as you write it.” 

Damn it. Fucking runes. There are just so many to keep track of, and Damian always seems to know them. 

“Here. Where’s your ritual knife?” Damian asks, striding past Tim to his desk, looking around for a pen. 

“I just use a batarang.” 

“You what?” 

“Yeah, anything sharp will do the trick.” 

Tim pulls one out of a drawer and passes it to Damian, letting himself snicker at the displeased look on his face. 

“You have the money. Buy a ritual knife, I am begging you,” Damian scoffs. 

“I don’t need one — don’t argue with me about it, I’m begging you. The rune, come on.” 

He watches Damian’s thick fingers curl around the pen as he carves the rune into the plastic with smooth, precise motions. He means to be following the lines of the rune, but his gaze catches on the scar on Damian’s knuckle, and before he knows it, Damian is handing the batarang back to Tim and muttering, “Grimoire?” 

“Oh, uh…” Tim moves a few piles of papers around, looking for one of the dozens of notebooks lying around this place. 

Okay, maybe Damian has a point. 

He gives up searching manually and waves his hand through the air, waiting for a notebook to soar from somewhere random in the room.

Nothing happens.

Why is nothing happening? 

Tim looks around, waves his hand again and with a little more sass, and then there’s a crashing noise as a pile of books collapses to the floor, his notebook responding to the summons and flying into his hand. 

He flips it open to a blank page and ignores the heat on his cheeks and the look Damian’s giving him as he passes it over. 

“Is it a time constraint preventing you from maintaining your space?” 

Tim scoffs, paying attention to the lines of the rune this time instead of Damian’s fingers. “Yes, Damian, it is pretty clearly just another thing I don’t have time to do.” 

“You could ask for help. I’m sure Jason would love to teach you some cleaning spells.” 

“He’s banned from my study for that exact reason. I still haven’t figured out where he put everything last time. Does the direction you draw the rune in matter?” 

“It’s a rune, Timothy. It always matters.” 

“Fucking runes,” Tim mutters, rolling his eyes. 

Damian laughs a little, and suddenly Tim realizes that this is the longest amount of time they’ve spent together when they weren’t in masks in… 

Well. Since Tim moved out, probably.

They get along fine (comparatively) these days, but it’s not like they spend time together unless it’s for a case, and they haven’t worked a case together since… last year? 

Which is probably why he’d forgotten how Damian’s laugh isn’t the same condescending noise he remembers from when he was a bratty little tween.

Or why the low, warm rumble of it catches him off guard, makes something in his stomach squeeze. 

“Here,” Damian says, jotting down the directions for the rune on the same page. “I can’t help you with organizing it in the notebook, especially since you have more than one, but—” 

“Oh, that’s not a problem. I just use summoning spells anyways.” 

There’s a silence long enough for Tim to look up at Damian’s face. 

Is his eye twitching?

[ystk-archive]

“I feel like we released a party-in-a-box album” (Nakata)

He makes music for Perfume and MEG, created the soundtrack of the TV drama “Liar Game,” and wrapped up an album with Sakai Kate as part of the unit COLTEMONIKHA. The number one producer on the cutting edge of now is unmistakably Nakata Yasutaka, and his main project capsule released their eighth album “Sugarless GiRL,” followed it with a remix best-of compilation called “capsule rmx,” and are already set to release their third album in a single year.

“Up until now, I’d been sort of following the oldschool pop format to a certain extent. I think my songs until the ‘Sugarless GiRL’ album were easy to listen to, but I don’t feel like they need to be that way anymore because capsule isn’t the type of unit that would appear in music programs on TV. I’ll leave the karaoke-friendly songs to idols and pursue creating something with capsule that can only be done in the kind of environment we exist in. Our remix album that came out in October falls in line with this: it’s a collection of tracks that we use often, so there is the implication that it’s a best-of album, but I wanted to refresh the sound instead of just re-releasing the songs as they were. It takes the ‘party’ feeling and packages it up all neatly, like a party-in-a-box. But I do fundamentally want people to listen to our newest album first and foremost.” (Nakata)

“We’re having fun creating things that we think are interesting.” (Koshijima)

That new album is “FLASH BACK,” their ninth overall and first original release in ten months. It breaks from their previous works in that it isn’t like the soundtrack to a film that doesn’t exist; “FLASH BACK” instantly conjures up images and memories from the past in the way that a movie inserts a literal flashback sequence. It doesn’t use a story or specific pretense to do this — instead, particles of sound flood out from the listening device (whether that be speakers or headphones) and form intense, hard-hitting electro music, bit by bit.

“I thought it was interesting to have several moments in time playing simultaneously, like I’d cut out scenes from a movie. There isn’t a pattern to how it changes; the entire album is constantly shifting. I thought it’d be good to have a strong contrast like that. My mental image of it is a sort of inner dive. I made it with a clear contrast in sound so that the listener can really delve into it, and I think if you sync up with the music, you can get into the album quite easily. However, I did think it would be kind of tacky if the album was too trendy-sounding. It’s perfectly situated in that space where you can’t decide if it’s cool or not.” (Nakata)

“During recording, we’d get all excited like ‘this is SO lame!’ (laughs). But we’re really into just making whatever we feel is interesting to us right now, so we hope everyone will enjoy listening to it.” (Koshijima)

from spring magazine・scan & translation by ystk-archive・HD download (Google Drive)

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - "No More Scars", Part 3 (and final)

I can't believe I never tried my hand at the 'Jon rescues Sansa from King's Landing' trope before this because, damn, this was fun. And refreshing. Hope you enjoy it just as much. :)

(Also, tumblr's formatting has my fuse shorter than a flea's asscrack but hey, at least we out here.)

No More Scars

Chapter Three: Salving the Cut

"This is as far as we go." - Jon and Sansa. After rescuing her from King's Landing, they have a long, winding road to Riverrun before them.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 fin

* * *

“You never told me what happened,” Sansa begins, as she starts to wrap his wounded arm with one of the last strips of cloth they’d torn from her robe, “After you came back.” 

Jon glances up at her from his seat along a fallen log. 

“After you died, that is,” she clarifies softly, carefully, eyes fixed on her wrapping. 

She changes his bandage every morning now, and he sits patiently as she mends, becoming more and more at ease with the closeness between them now, the unspoken intimacy, the casual touches.  It should unnerve him, he knows, were he a proper lord – the way her knees press against his as she stands close to him, wrapping his arm.  It should feel shameful, to be bare-chested before a lady, before Sansa .  It should be many, many things that simply... aren’t. 

Perhaps this distresses him the most – the way he cares less and less for propriety around her. 

“What happened to the men that... that did this to you?” she asks, a thrum of anger lining her voice as she knots the bandage closed around his arm.  She meets his gaze finally. 

Jon blinks at her when he meets her eyes.  They’re not apprehensive or cautious.  There’s no uncertainty in them. 

Only fervency. 

“They, uh...”  He clears his throat, licks his lips as the memory overtakes him.  “They hanged, at my order – for their mutiny.”  He swallows thickly, a sigh leaving him.  “I swung the sword that cut their ropes myself.”  His words are rough in his throat, the image of their swaying feet still etched behind his eyelids when he closes his eyes. 

Sansa keeps her mouth pursed closed at his answer, but after a time, she raises a hand, slowly, to the deepest wound, just over his heart. 

He startles at the touch, blinking up at her, his hands bunching into fists along his thighs. 

She keeps her eyes along his gashes, her fingertips grazing the dead edge of his heart-wound.  Wetness dots the corners of her eyes, a quiver of anger bunching her brows together.  “I’m glad they hung for it,” she bites out, voice scraping from her. 

Jon’s mouth tips open as he watches her. 

Sansa presses her hand against his wound, palm over his heart.  There’s a ferocity to her features when she raises her gaze to meet his.  “What they did to you –”  She stops, heaves a single, ragged breath.  “I’m glad they’re dead,” she seethes. 

A heat spreads through him at the words – a thrill, a dangerous quake. 

She seems to recognize the words a moment after they leave her.  She blinks away the sudden flash of anger, her hand tearing from his chest, a croak of embarrassment leaving her.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, that was – that was unladylike of me,” she rambles, pulling from him. 

He catches her hand before she can move away fully. 

She stills, eyes flicking back to his. 

“No, it’s... it’s okay,” he breathes out, a thumb arching over her knuckles in reassurance. 

Her shoulders sag a bit with the relief, easing back into their closeness. 

Jon looks up at her from his seat, the rest of his words suddenly failing him.  And all that makes sense – all he wants to do is –  

Sansa sucks a thin breath through her teeth when Jon brings her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the heel of her palm, her pulse thundering beneath his calloused touch. 

Jon never releases her gaze, his eyes still dark on hers, peering up at her through the fringe of his curls as he presses his mouth to her skin.  He releases her slowly, his lips still hovering at the edge of her trembling hand.  “Thank you, Sansa,” he exhales against her wrist. 

She only nods in response, a sound brewing in her throat, and then she pulls her hand away nervously, offering him a reassuring smile. 

The taste of her lingers on his lips well until the sun is high that day. 

* * *

“How was my mother, when you left her?” Sansa asks him, turning slightly in her seat to glance at him over her shoulder. 

Jon keeps their horse trotting along, a furrow lining his brow at her question. 

She gives him an imploring look.  “Please, Jon.” 

“She was not well,” he sighs out. 

Sansa frowns, turning back to face the road ahead.  “She must be a wreck, separated from all her children but Robb.  And then father...” 

Jon stays silent at her back. 

After a while, Sansa looks down at his hands resting atop her thighs, the reins bunched in his grip.  She covers one of his hands with her own.  “I’m sure it was a great comfort to her – knowing you set out to bring Arya and I home.” 

Jon snorts at her shoulder, but it’s lighthearted enough not to irk her. 

(She wonders at how easily she can read his mannerisms now, even when she isn’t even watching him.) 

“I doubt anything I do brings your mother comfort.” 

Sansa quietly revels in the fact he doesn’t pull his hand from hers.  She sighs into the comfort of it.  “Still, thank you.  I know it has never been easy between you two, but to know that her heart will be more at peace – because of you , Jon, because – ”  She catches the crack in her voice before it can surface.  “I just, well, thank you, Jon.  Thank you not just for me, but for my mother.” 

He keeps quiet behind her, his hand turning slightly beneath hers to thread a couple fingers through her own, before he tells her, “I suppose rescuing the firstborn daughter of Lady Catelyn Stark deserves some praise.”  He ends the musing with a soft chuckle. 

Sansa turns to fix him with a sardonic smile.  “A very little, good sir.” 

“I’d never expect more,” he mocks in good humor. 

She beams at him, before turning her gaze back north. 

* * *

It’s washing day, and by the time Jon comes back from the river, wringing the wet tunic in his hands, Sansa is seated before the fire, hands bunched together nervously.  She glances up at him upon his arrival, lip pulled between her teeth. 

He stops in his stride, shaking his tunic out, brushing the damp curls from his face.  “What is it?” he asks. 

She stands swiftly, smoothing her skirts out.  “There is... an issue.” 

He raises a brow at her. 

“If I wash my dress – which, yes,” she huffs out in exasperation, “I absolutely should.  It’s filthy, after all,” she explains, raising her skirts to show him.  “But if I wash my dress, then... well, I’ve only my shift until it dries.” 

Jon drops his hand from where it was shaking out his wet curls.  He looks dumbly at her.  “Oh,” is all he manages, eyes roving up her form. 

She presses a nervous thumb to palm, stepping closer toward him.  “I don’t... I don’t mean to be... improper.” 

“Of course,” he gets out, voice rough. 

She peers at him.  “Will that make you uncomfortable?  It would just be while we slept.  My dress should be dry by morning.”  Her voice trails off, eyes glancing toward the river. 

Jon swallows thickly.  “It’s hardly my comfort that would be compromised, Sansa.  Are you sure you’d rather not...?”  He doesn’t exactly know what alternative to offer her anyway.  They tore up her robe to serve as bandages for his wound, and they’d only gotten the one new dress when they’d gone into town before.  He’s certainly not keen to repeat such an incident, and they’ve steered clear of the main roads and towns in their trek north.  But that means hard living on the road.  Sansa’s made no complaints about the food, or the sleeping conditions, but he knows better than to think she’d continue on in filth if it could be helped. 

“I trust you,” she says in answer, the words seeming to stem the anxiety in both of them. 

Her thumb stops pressing into her palm.  His throat stops tightening. 

He offers her a faint smile.  “Alright, then.” 

She nods, giving him a smile of her own, before she makes her way to the river. 

Jon busies himself with cooking the rabbit he’d caught as they’d first laid camp, before he lays out on his bedroll the rest of the time she’s gone, arms braced behind his head, ears straining for the signal of her return.  The sun dips low beneath the horizon by the time she comes back, and Jon snaps his gaze up at her, rising up on his elbows. 

She stops just short of him, holding the bundle of her damp, cleaned dress to her chest.  Her washed stockings hang over her elbow and her legs are pale in the firelight. 

Jon clears his throat.  “There’s dinner,” he says, motioning to the skewered rabbit meat resting off to the side of the fire. 

She gives a grateful yet hungry moan in response, setting out her dress to dry beside his tunic and second pair of breeches.  She squares her shoulders, pulling in a deep breath, before she turns to join him before the fire. 

Jon keeps his gaze averted when she settles along the bedroll beside him, reaching for the meat. 

“Thank the gods for fire,” she mutters, tearing a piece of meat from the bone with dainty fingers.  She gives a slight tremble at the words.  “It’s getting colder.  Winter’s slowly coming south.” 

“Aye,” he says, glancing at her.  They meet eyes momentarily, before Sansa returns to her meal, and Jon means to lay back down, to close his eyes and beckon sleep but something catches his attention. 

The faint curve of her breast outlined by the fire’s light through the thin material of her shift.  

Jon freezes, watching her. 

She’s busy eating, her attention focused, and maybe he should be ashamed for taking the opportunity as he does, but he – he can’t stop his gaze from raking over her form.  The discernible curve of her breast, the faint line of her waist as it tapers down, the slight arch of her back, the smooth expanse of her bared calf beneath the hem of her shift. 

Jon sucks a slow, tremulous breath in, his eyes flickering up to her face, to the graceful line of her jaw, the pale expanse of her neck, her thick, damp hair brushed over her other shoulder, gleaming blood red in the firelight. 

Jon turns his gaze from her swiftly, meeting the fire’s blaze instead. 

A woman, he realizes, though he knows he should have recognized it sooner. 

Sansa Stark is a woman, now.  And a dangerously enticing one, at that. 

The kind that can spin a man mad, Jon’s sure of it. 

Because it must be madness that has him looking at her like this.  It must be madness that has his stomach clenching at the sight of her.  It must be madness that has his skin flushing hot, and his throat going dry, and a heat stirring low in his gut. 

It must be madness – to have him shifting uncomfortably in his breeches, to have him suddenly aching for his sister. 

(And he realizes, belatedly, how very little he’s even used the word ‘sister’ in the last weeks.) 

Jon grabs for the blanket covering his legs.  “Here,” he mumbles, stuffing it into Sansa’s lap unceremoniously, before turning over and settling along his bedroll with his back to her.  “You’ll get sick if you stay cold.” 

He tries to shut out any response on her end, tries to bite his tongue, to close his eyes and welcome the dark – to disconnect – from here, from her, from all of it. 

It works for a time, at least.  Until Sansa sets her cleaned skewer to the side and then shuffles down along her bedroll to lay comfortably.  She spreads the blanket out, covering the both of them, before turning into his back, her arms bundled into her chest, pressed against him, her nose brushing his shoulder blade. 

She sighs against him.  “Goodnight, Jon.” 

But he doesn’t sleep. 

He doesn’t sleep for hours and hours. 

* * *

“Tell me, though, do they really make you take those vows?” Sansa asks. 

The day’s conversation is mostly dominated by Sansa’s curiosity about his life at the Wall.  He tells her about Jeor Mormont, about Grenn and Pyp and Sam and Ed.  He tells her about Alliser Thorne and Qhorin Halfhand. 

He tells her about Ygritte. 

She lingers on that one for a while, but it’s easier to talk about than he’d expected.  Like a release.  Like a breath finally taken. 

Like coming over the Wall at dawn. 

Jon gives her a shrug, but she can’t see his face from where she sits before him on the horse.  “Which vows?” 

“The ones about not taking a wife, not fathering children.” 

It’s not the point of conflict he expects her to have with his history in the Watch. 

Sansa twists to eye him more fully.  “Surely, you can’t be expected to keep to that?” 

The question twists a wry smile from him.  “And why not?  You think me so weak-willed?” The irony of his response is not lost on him. 

“It’s not that, it’s just – "  She stops, pursing her lips.  “I mean, doesn’t everyone want a family of their own?” 

Jon doesn’t answer her immediately, his mouth forming a tight line. 

Sansa lowers her gaze.  “I guess I just figured... I mean...”  She huffs, her brows furrowing.  “It’s just cruel, don’t you think?” 

He raises a brow at her, his voice low and controlled as it leaves him.  “You think it’s cruel?” 

She twists in her seat to more fully face him once more.  “Don’t you?” 

Jon frowns at her words.  “For many of them, it’s rather a blessing.  I wouldn’t wish progeny on half the men up there,” he quips, a dark look overtaking his features. 

Sansa furrows her brows at him.  “But you’ve always wanted a family, haven’t you?” 

Jon rears back a bit, unable to mask the surprise he feels at her question.  “What makes you say that?” 

Sansa cocks her head at him, contemplative.  “But you have , haven’t you?” 

Jon glares at her for her stubbornness.  “And you haven’t?” he counters. 

“Of course, I have,” she answers simply.  “But then, it was expected of me.” 

Jon measures her words a moment, glancing out across the horizon, gauging the distance before they need to set camp.  “Seems to me that expectation is forfeit now.” 

He thinks of the white scar across the nape of her neck.  He thinks of all the ways he would kill Joffrey Baratheon, had he only the means. 

“Perhaps,” she says gingerly, turning away from him to face ahead.  “But Joffrey’s bile couldn’t taint such a dream.” 

Jon peers down at her, taken by her words. 

She nods to herself, eyes still ahead.  “No matter who I marry in the future, I know I’ll be a good mother.  I know I’ll love my children with all of myself.” 

“No matter who you marry?”  

Sansa dips her head.  “I haven’t the luxury of choosing a husband in the way that you may choose a wife,” she says simply, no ire to the words, but no cushion either. 

They burn all the same. 

Jon tightens his hold of the reins, gulping down the unease.  “Your lady mother would not choose poorly for you, I’m sure.  And with Robb as King now – ” 

“With Robb as King, I’m even more an asset for securing alliances, once the annulment of my marriage to Tyrion is put forth.” 

Jon bites back his words, the tartness of them smarting along his tongue. 

Because nothing she says is untrue. 

“Anyway,” she starts again, clearing her throat, “You can evade all you want, but I know you, Jon Snow.” 

He raises a brow at her in amusement, unseen.  “Is that so?” 

“I wasn’t the only one with dreams growing up.  And perhaps we weren’t close enough for you to share them with me like you would have Arya, but I also wasn’t simple, Jon.  I know you’ve always wanted a family.  Who could look at you all those years and not know that?” 

Jon steers the horse to a halt. 

Sansa glances back at him, surprised. 

“Aye, I’ve always wanted it,” he finally answers her after several moments of quiet, a sigh leaving him, the exhale hot along her cheek as she watches him.  “A lady wife, children, a lordship.  All of it.  I’ve wanted it for as long as I can remember.  Yes, even since we were children and you corralled me into playing knight for you.  Yes, since then.  I’ve wanted it.”  He swallows back the heated breath that fills his lungs, his gaze flickering from hers, off to the side, his throat clearing when he takes a steadying breath.  “But what does any of this matter now?” 

They sit in stillness for many moments, with Sansa still partially turned in her seat, with Jon’s hands still gripping the reins. 

And then Jon shakes his head, a hand pressed to his temple.  “I’m sorry, I just...” 

“I think you’d make a great one,” she interrupts him softly, turning back in her seat to face the horizon. 

Jon blinks at the back of her head, the breath tight in his chest. 

She fingers the edge of the saddle horn absentmindedly, a tender smile touching her lips.  “A father, that is.  And a husband.”  She glances at him over her shoulder again, barely meeting his eyes.  “I think you’d make a great one,” she repeats, voice sound, the words sure. 

Jon has no answer for her. 

She pats his thigh reassuringly, turning back from him, ready to continue on.  “I’m glad those vows can’t keep you from that anymore.” 

Something inside him clicks into place at the words, like a latch coming undone, a door swinging open. 

(A door he never truly learns how to close again.) 

* * *

“Ah! It’s slimy!” Sansa shrieks, laughing, the fish in her hands splashing water over them. 

Jon keeps her grip closed tight around the fish with his own large hands covering hers. “Here! Now toss it!” They throw the fish up onto the shore together, where Ghost gives it a vicious bite, and the thing twitches a moment before falling still. 

“Ghost, no, that’s dinner!” Jon scolds him, hands on his hips as he stands calf deep in the freezing river water, his breeches rolled up. 

Sansa giggles at the display, standing beside him with her stockingless feet scrunching in the riverbed, her skirts pinned up at her thighs. She puts her hand to her mouth to smother the laugh, before coughing at the smell. “Oh gods, Jon, I’m all fishy now!” she groans, shaking her hands out. 

Jon laughs at her. “Some Tully, you are. You’re the one that wanted me to show you how to fish.” 

“I didn’t think we’d be catching them with our hands.” She scrunches her nose up at her hands. 

“Well, I didn’t exactly pack a fishing pole, Sansa.” 

She gives him a playful glare. 

Jon shakes his head, laughing again. “Alright, come here. One more time. And then I’m getting you out of this water. It’s getting too cold to fish.” He settles next to her, their sides pressing together, as his hands go around hers, and they lean down, ducking their hands beneath the surface to feel for fish. 

“Easy. Wait for it. Just wait for it.” Jon’s voice is warm and steady at Sansa’s ear. 

She finds she could stay like this for hours, feeling the river flow beneath her hands, with Jon’s warmth pressed into her side. 

She could stay like this for days, for months, years even. Just like this. 

With him. 

Sansa catches herself, shaking the thought from her head. 

She returns to the task at hand. 

* * *

“I don’t see how this is supposed to help me,” Jon bemoans, turning the strands of her hair over in his hands. 

Sansa turns from the fire to look back at him from where she sits between his knees. “You said it yourself. You want a lady wife. And what if that lady wife needs help braiding her hair?” 

Jon gives her an incredulous look. “I highly doubt th – ” 

“Don’t you want to be able to help her?” she asks him primly. 

He only frowns at her. 

“Exactly.” She turns back, smiling to herself. “I’m helping you, Jon, believe me. You’ll thank me for it later.” She hears him huff behind her and it makes her smile widen, her cheeks tinging pink. She clears her throat. “Now, do you have the three strands?” 

“Yes?” 

She purses her lips at his uncertain answer. “That’s not a very confident yes, coming from a former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” 

“Sansa,” he warns. 

She turns back just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. “Oh, come now, Jon, I’m just teasing.” 

He turns her head back with a stern hand. “I’ve got them.” 

Sansa settles more comfortably between his knees now, her smile returning. “Alright, then remember what I said. Over, not under.” 

“Over, not under,” he repeats dutifully. 

Sansa beams. 

* * *

“It looks like it’ll rain,” Sansa says cautiously, watching the horizon. 

Jon hums his agreement, urging their horse faster. “We need to find shelter before the storm comes.” 

A flash of white appears before them in the fading light of sunset. A pair of red eyes gleam between the trees. 

“Ghost has found a cave,” Jon sighs behind her. He sets them to a trot, careful not to rush the horse through the forest in low light, watching the forest floor as they proceed. 

Thunder crashes sharply above them, and Sansa flinches, glancing up. “It’s closer than I thought.” 

Jon only grunts in agreement, continuing the trek. 

The first drops of rain are cold and gentle on her head, before a torrent comes down on them, sudden and vengeful. The sky opens up and howls at them. 

“Jon, I can’t see!” Sansa yells through the rainstorm, a hand going to shield her vision, a useless attempt. 

“Almost there,” he hollers behind her. 

The thunder booms high above the trees. A flash of lightning illuminates Ghost waiting patiently a short distance away. The hollow darkness of a cave stands behind him. 

“There!” Jon calls through the rain. And then their horse missteps, a hoof coming down along the edge of a fallen log, splinters crackling beneath its step. The stumble jostles them in their seats, Sansa gripping at Jon’s arms as she glances back at him. “”It’s not far. Help me down.” The horse whinnies in anxiety beneath them as Jon tries to settle her. 

“Alright.” He glances to either side of the saddle, taking in the muddy terrain beneath the downpour, before swinging himself off and settling on his feet with only the slightest waver. He glances back up at Sansa, finds her grimacing beneath the rain, her hair and dress completely soaked. He can already feel the rain soaking past his own tunic and breeches, water trickling down his spine. His hands go for her waist. “Come on.” 

Her hands slip along the saddle horn with her shivering, but she swings herself down easily enough, the toe of her boot touching ground, and she sighs out her relief, just before her other boot slips along the stirrup and she topples over. Jon catches her before she hits the mud, but her ankle buckles beneath the weight of the fall, twisting painfully, and she cries out, gripping at his arms as he hauls her back up. 

“What? What is it?” He shakes his drenched curls out, trying to focus on her in the storm. 

“My ankle,” she groans, reaching for something, a stone, a fallen log, anywhere to sit. 

Jon recognizes the motion, lowering her down to a nearby log as gently as he can. He crouches before her, rucking her skirts up to her knees to see the injury, tearing off her boot as she lifts the sprained ankle for him to inspect, but her stockings are in the way, and night is slowly falling, and the rain is hampering any vision he might have had otherwise. 

Jon curses beneath his breath. “I don’t see blood. Probably just a sprain.” 

“A sprain is good, right?” 

“It’s manageable, at least.” Jon glances around, finds Ghost standing stalwart at the entrance of the cave, not far off. “What’ll be worse is staying in this downpour. Can you walk?” 

Sansa nods, gritting her teeth as she grabs her loose boot. “If you can help.” 

Jon throws her arm over his shoulder, hoisting her up with his own arm around her waist.  

Slowly, they make their way to shelter. 

* * *

Jon manages to get Sansa into the cave without issue, setting her on her feet once they enter.  He goes back for the horse immediately, dragging it further in after he’s sure Sansa can stand on her own, and then he’s rifling through their packs, throwing the contents across the floor, cursing when he finds their bedrolls soaked through as well. 

“Is there – is there nothing dry?” Sansa asks through chattering teeth, her arms wrapped around herself in an attempt at keeping warm.  Ghost pads into the cave, trotting past them as he shakes out his fur, settling down along the far wall. 

Jon frowns at the beast, before glancing back up at Sansa, his mouth a grimace when he sees the way she’s shivering in her wet clothes. 

“Fire,” he says, looking around for anything to help.  “Let me build a fire.” 

He’s shaking, too, Sansa can tell, but he doesn’t complain when he takes her by the arms and settles her on the floor close to Ghost for warmth, before rifling through their pack once more to find the only semi-dry piece of fabric and laying out said bedroll beside the direwolf.  Then Jon gets to work on the fire, and Sansa cups her hands in front of her mouth, blowing hot air into them, alternating between that and rubbing up and down along her arms.  She rocks back and forth along the ground until the fire’s built up and Jon turns to her, a worried expression lining his face. 

“We have to get you out of these soaked clothes,” he says, singularly focused, ushering her up from the floor, mindful of her injury, and dragging her toward the fire.  He stops them just at the edge of it, the flames spitting at their calves, and she’s freezing, shivering, her teeth clattering in her skull when he turns her to him.  She draws her arms into her chest for warmth, but Jon pulls them away, tugging at her sleeves, dragging the dress down her form.  She follows his direction mindlessly, helping him push the rest of her dress down the length of her body before she kicks it away, leaving her in her shift.  It’s soaked through as well, and she instinctively wraps her arms around herself for warmth, pressing into him, seeking the heat of his chest, her face pushing into his neck with a pained moan. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he mumbles absentmindedly, running his hands up and down her arms, and then across her back.  He warms her like this for many moments, his chest heaving against hers, still in his own soaked tunic, the chilling tickle of his wet hair at her ear.  And then his hands bunch in her shift, moving to lift that, too, but he stills, breath hitching in his throat, suddenly frozen against her.   

She turns her face further into his neck, trying to burrow deeper into his warmth.  She moans her confusion at his inaction, shivering against him.  “I’m cold, Jon,” she breathes into his shoulder, urging him to continue. 

The tremble that racks him ricochets through her, his hands fisting in the material of her shift, held just above her hips, and the ragged expel of his breath against her cheek brings her mind sharply back into focus. 

Her eyes fly open, suddenly aware of the intimacy of their position. 

She can feel the steady gulp in his throat, before she pulls back just enough to meet his gaze. 

“Sansa,” he breathes lowly, eyes shifting between hers, his touch never leaving her. 

She stands there, pressed against him, their clothes soaked through and their bodies trembling – every breath of space between them swallowed up by a desperate need for warmth, for heat .  Sansa licks her lips, her chest rising anxiously, and her legs grow weak, her ankle giving out without warning.  She sags against him with a wince, a bitten off gasp of pain, her hands splaying over his chest, grasping for purchase, and he grips at her waist with strong hands, dragging her firmly to him, their hips pinned together tightly. 

Her mouth parts at their closeness, her breath splashing against his own lips.  She stares at his mouth for far longer than she knows is proper, her throat going dry, before she meets his gaze once more. 

He’s staring at her heatedly through a fringe of wet curls, his jaw clenched tight.  His fingers curl along the small of her back, possessively almost, even as he shakes his head, his gaze finally dropping with a look of shame.  “I... I shouldn’t...” 

“Jon,” she says, her voice finding air before she’s even aware of it. 

He stops, his tongue brushing out to wet his lips, his gaze still lowered, still fixed on her collar bone.  His hand stays pressed at her back, his chest still heaving against hers. 

Sansa pushes everything away. 

The things she knows she should say, the things she knows she should feel. 

The things she knows she should want. 

(Or rather –  shouldn’t want.) 

Her hands spread up his chest, anchoring at his shoulders with a surety that surprises even her. 

He blinks wide eyes up at her, a sharp breath sucked between his teeth. 

She swallows tightly, the cold stripping away all fear, all doubt, her hands steady on his shoulders now, her breath coming slow and even, until there is only this: 

“Please, Jon,” she whispers, eyes never leaving his.  “I’m cold.” 

He stays staring at her for long moments, eyes dark on hers. 

The flames flicker threateningly at their feet, the cold slowly giving way. 

She gives him a nod of reassurance. 

He heaves a single, quaking breath, his fingers bunching in her shift once more.  “Alright, then,” he says, a last look of warning passing over his features, a last intake of breath stealing past his lips. 

She only nods. 

Jon lifts the shift from her in a single, fluid motion, tugging it over her arms and tossing it aside, leaving her in only her smallclothes. 

The world rushes at her instantly – an unexpected whip of cold followed by the fire’s blaze of warmth, the sudden heaviness of her wet hair against her back, droplets of rainwater beading down her spine, the icy shock of her own palms pressed to her breasts in some modicum of decency , and his eyes – gods , his eyes – still fixed to hers, still dark and steady and halting. 

The hesitant brush of his fingertips along her bare hips before his hands wind more surely around her waist, instantly urging her toward the curled form of Ghost around the other side of the fire, near the cave wall. 

Jon clears his throat, averting his gaze.  “Here.  Ghost will keep you warm.” 

Her throat feels tight, her tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth, as she follows his direction, eyes never leaving his face, even as he takes pains not to look at her.  She stumbles over to Ghost, her ankle throbbing, Jon’s hands at her elbow and around her waist.  He helps lower her to the floor, and then brushes the wet hair from her face as she pulls her legs up to her chest. 

“Ghost,” Jon calls, motioning him closer to Sansa.  The direwolf curls more securely around her back, nestling his great head just past her shoulder. 

Sansa sighs at the sudden warmth, the relief fluttering through her, even as the cold still racks her bones.  She shivers suddenly, legs curled up, before she pushes up to a shoulder and glances over to her feet.  “My... my stockings,” she says unsurely, frowning down at them, her hands still covering her chest, protecting her modesty. 

Jon drops to a knee beside her, one hand going to her foot, the other to her thigh, just at the top of her stocking.  He stops suddenly, glancing back at her face.  “May I?” he asks, voice rough. 

She nods once more, still unable to trust her voice. 

It’s a whole new tremble that racks her when the heat of his knuckles brush against her thigh, calloused fingers slipping under the hem of her stocking, his other hand curling securely over her ankle before he drags the length of the stocking down her leg. 

She bites her lip to stifle the unexpected moan that brews in her throat, eyes squeezing shut as he does the same along her other leg.  There’s a tight coil in her gut, a hammering low in her stomach, and she shakes her head, tries to drown it out, eyes still squeezed shut.  She hears him shift along the ground and opens her eyes to watch him.  He takes her dress, her shift, her stockings, and lays them out along the ground on the other side of the fire, hoping to dry them through the night, but he’s trembling, obviously frigid himself, his own drenched clothes still sticking to him. 

“Jon, your clothes...” 

He stills with his back to her, crouched, his hands spread out over her dress. 

She swallows tightly, still curled into a ball, pressed back against Ghost.  She huffs.  “I know you’re just as cold.” 

“Sansa – ” 

“Come here, Jon.” 

He shoots a look back at her, almost a glare, his shoulders bunching tight. 

Her features soften.  She keeps her arms pressed against her chest, still.  “There’s nothing to be done for it.  Just... please, come here, Jon.” 

He stands, turning to face her. 

She raises a brow at him in challenge. 

He squares his jaw, hands going for his belt, before stopping.  He closes his eyes, a deep breath rattling from him.  His shoulders shake, but Sansa can’t tell anymore whether it’s simply from the cold.  “Sansa...” he gets out roughly – a pained exhale.  As though just the utterance of her name could undo this moment.  As though anything he could say could take them back from this path. 

As though it wasn’t always where they were headed. 

A calmness overtakes her then, unexplainably.  “Jon,” she calls, voice firm. 

When he opens his eyes to finally look down at her, she feels vulnerable beyond imagining.  But it isn’t the sort of vulnerability that used to have her shrinking in fear. 

No. 

It’s a thrilling sort of vulnerability. 

The kind that has her skin flushing, and her breath quaking, and her heart hammering.  The kind that has her meeting his gaze with unblinking eyes when she parts her mouth and tells him, in no uncertain terms, for the last time, “Jon, I’m cold.” 

Something flickers through his gaze at the words, at the even thrum of them, the veiled demand.  He licks his lips as he watches her, a single, uneven breath flooding his chest, and then his shaking fingers start unlatching the belt at his waist, tugging the tunic up from his breeches.  He turns his gaze from her when he lifts the material over his head, baring his chest to her once more, and his hands only hesitate briefly at his breeches before he tugs those down as well, kicking off his boots, and setting his clothes alongside hers by the fire. 

Something warms in her at the way he still tries to keep propriety between them, never letting his gaze linger on her naked form, turning to keep her shielded from his own indecency as best he could in his smallclothes. 

“Come,” she calls to him, a nod of assurance sent his way when he turns back to her after laying out his breeches. 

He swallows thickly, lowering himself to the ground beside her along the partly damp blanket, his arm halting in its reach around her waist, before he commits fully, sighing as he settles finally, dragging her up against his chest. 

She releases a shaky breath as she feels his warmth envelop her, her face pressed back into his neck, but this time, there’s not the heavy, wet barrier of their clothes between them.  There’s the cool press of his skin on hers, before their shared heat suffuses them.  There’s the firm line of his muscled thigh braced along her own, and the thick fur of Ghost at her back.  There’s the steady rhythm of his heart against the back of her hand, still curled protectively around her breast.  There’s the brush of his beard at her cheek, and the firm anchor of his arm around her waist, and the uneven lull of his breath at her temple, as heated and dizzying and untempered as her own. 

She knows she should feel abhorrent of their closeness, embarrassed at the inappropriateness of their embrace.  She knows she should feel disgusted and scared and ashamed. 

She knows she should feel a thousand other things than what she does feel. 

But oh, what she does feel... 

Sansa swallows thickly, steeling herself, before she peels one arm from her breast and moves to wrap it around Jon. 

He stiffens at her motion, and she presses closer, sure that there’s no way for him to mistake the feel of her breast against him now, but he doesn’t pull from her.  She grows bold, lets that boldness fill her, lets herself reach for more – lets herself reach for what she wants. 

She wraps both arms around him now, gripping at his back, sighing into his shoulder as her body becomes molded with his, a single line forming between them. 

He gulps nearly audibly, a hand going to her shoulder as though to pull her from him, halting there on a surprised inhale of her name.  “Sansa,” he begins, but never gets to finish. 

“Shhh,” she says into his shoulder, her lips planting there firmly, the heat of him branching through her, the frost finally weaned from her bones. 

He shudders beneath the press of her mouth to his skin. 

“I’m not cold anymore,” she says simply, her breath fanning over his throat, her hands grasping him more firmly to her. 

And that’s all she has to say on the matter. 

She nuzzles into him, unrelenting, and after a few moments, a surprised exhale leaves him, a broken off chuckle, the hesitant start of a laugh – fragile and new and tender. 

It warms her through and through. 

Until she’s sure it’s spring she feels. 

Until she thinks she may never be cold again. 

* * *

When he wakes, he finds she’s already watching him. 

“Good morning,” Sansa tells him, voice hesitant and thin. 

He takes in their forms, their huddle against Ghost, still in the same position as when they’d fallen asleep the night before. 

Jon swallows thickly. “Good morning.” His voice is rough, gravelly. He clears his throat. “Sansa, we should – ” 

“Shh,” she tells him, a hand raised up to trace his brow. Her eyes flicker over his face, searching. 

He’s acutely aware of her warm body still pressed to his, and his eyes flutter closed as he tries to push away the sensations her heat flares in him. “Sansa,” he tries again, voice still rough. 

She slides impossibly closer, her breath fanning his lips, and he stills at her proximity, eyes opening back up to hers. 

Her hand spreads over his cheek, her eyes shifting between his. “Just...” She takes a breath, licks her lips, and then her eyes dip to his mouth, and everything shifts. 

He sees it coming. He really does. But he doesn’t stop it. 

Sansa kisses him. 

And it tastes like salt. Like salt and rainwater, and he’s – he’s kissing her back, gripping her shoulders, and then his eyes snap open and he pulls from her, gasping. 

“Sansa, no, no we can’t – ”  

“Please, just – ” Her words die out, her eyes riveted to his, their breath mingling between them, and her hand stays braced to his cheek, like an anchor, like safe harbor in the storm. 

His words falter in his throat, his eyes shifting between hers. 

“Please, just...don’t say anything,” she whispers against his lips. 

He swallows tightly, his muscles bunching, the pit of his stomach dropping out. “Sansa.” Her name comes out more a plea than anything. 

He doesn’t think he meant to do that. 

Sansa licks her lips, taking a steadying breath. “If you don’t say anything,” she murmurs, fingers flexing over his cheek, “Then maybe this... maybe this...” 

Maybe this dream won’t have to end.  

Jon sighs at her mouth, unable to speak, even though he knows he should. 

Her hand curls over the back of his neck, bracing him to her, her forehead settling against his. “Please, Jon.” 

“Sansa,” he croaks out, swallowing back the rest. His eyes flutter closed and he breathes her in. 

Like salt and rainwater. 

Like a thunderclap beneath his skin. 

His hand loosens over her shoulder, spreading shakily over her neck, up her jaw, framing her face. “Sansa,” he breathes out, his chest heaving with it. 

(As though her name were the anchor. As though he could stem the tide. 

But he knows now, how foolish he’s been.) 

“Just...” she whispers. 

Don’t speak.  

So, he doesn’t. 

* * *

They’re silent for the next two days, journeying on in quiet unease. Riverrun is only days away now, and the nearness of it feels like coming up against a wall. 

Still, they don’t speak. Even when Jon hugs her from behind when she goes to unpack the horse, staying there with his nose in her hair for long moments. Even when she curls up between his legs as he leans back against the tree, watching the fire. Even when she wakes him with kisses, before burying her nose in his shoulder. 

Even when he winds his fingers through hers as they ride, their joined hands resting comfortably atop her thighs while she leans back against him. 

Even when he knows this cannot last. 

Even when he knows she knows it, too. 

They don’t speak. 

And somehow, that is both easier, and worse. 

* * *

“I know we shouldn’t,” she says on the third day, without warning or preamble. She’s staring down at their joined hands as they ride. 

Jon stays resolutely silent behind her. 

“I know we shouldn’t, and yet – ” She huffs, frustrated, a hand going up to wipe the tears from her eyes. 

Jon sits up straighter, brushing the hair from her shoulder to touch her cheek gently. 

She dips toward the touch, before shaking it off, grabbing for the reins and stopping them. She twists back to face him. “I don’t want to go home.” 

Jon stares at her, the breath raking from him. 

She looks at him imploringly. “Please, Jon.” 

“You don’t mean that,” he clips out. 

She squares her jaw. “I do, if it means going back to being your sister.” 

“You’re still my – ” He bites off the words, his teeth aching with them. He tears the reins from her hands. “This isn’t up for discussion.” 

“Jon!” 

“I’m taking you back to Robb and Lady Catelyn.” He steers the horse back on track, even when she struggles against his chest, trying to get him to stop. 

“They would never accept us!” 

“Then they don’t accept us!” he bellows at her, yanking the horse to a sharp halt. He stares down at her, finally noticing the tears in her eyes. 

She pulls her lip back, chin jutting high. “I was married off for political gain once before. Are you comfortable with it happening again?” 

Jon bites his tongue, his knuckles white where he grips the reins. “That’s not fair.” 

“No, it’s not,” she clips out, a scathing note to her voice. “But that’s what’s going to happen, regardless. You understand, don’t you?” 

He doesn’t answer her immediately. 

“Don’t you?” she presses, the tears brimming at the edges of her eyes. 

“I understand,” he seethes out, his throat tight with the words, his own eyes stinging with the wetness. 

She stares at him for many long moments, before she turns away, facing that red-lit horizon once more. “Fine. Then take me home,” she grinds out, wiping at her eyes one last time. 

She never turns back. And Jon cannot ask her to. 

So, he leads on. 

So, he leads them home. 

* * *

The night before they make it to Riverrun, Jon lays staring at Sansa’s back. Her outline is a haunting visage, a sharp line in the night, the flicker of firelight slowly dimming over her form. 

His eyes grow weak after a time, dawn slowly creeping over the hill behind them. 

And then he sees it. 

The slight shudder that racks her shoulders. 

Jon stays deadly still, watching her. A minute passes. Another minute. 

The fog comes in over the hill. 

But then – there, again. Her shoulders quake, her body curling in on itself. 

The realization hits him like a hammer to the heart. 

Jon reaches for her. “Sansa,” he breathes out achingly, dragging her back into his chest. 

She doesn’t smother her sobs now, crying freely beneath his hold. 

Jon presses his cheek to hers. “Sansa, please, I can’t stand your tears.” 

“Then don’t cause them,” she hiccups at him. 

He almost laughs, but the sound stops in his chest, rattling there with his pain. He hugs her tighter. “I only want to do right by you.” 

She grips at his arms, sniffling back her tears. “I know,” she says reluctantly. 

He holds her like this until the sun has well and truly risen, until its warmth blankets their forms. He would hold her for longer, if only she wished. 

If only he could . 

(He would promise so, so , much more – if only he could.) 

If only. 

If only. 

If only . 

* * *

Riverrun sits along the horizon like a jewel, like a shining promise. 

And Jon keeps his promises. 

Sansa sighs at the sight, the air filling her lungs, the tears sudden at the corners of her eyes. She pulls a hand to her chest, her heart beating wildly beneath it. 

It seems so simple, suddenly. 

Jon releases his hold of her other hand, drawing back with a resigned sigh, settling a perfectly appropriate distance behind her in the saddle. “This is as far as we go,” he says, and she knows exactly what he means. 

“No,” she bites out immediately. 

Jon peers at her. 

Sansa takes a steadying breath, her spine straightening when she looks out over the hills. “No, it’s not.” 

Jon almost shrinks beneath the weight of his pain, his regret. “Sansa,” he gets out roughly, a hand going to his eyes. 

She turns in her seat, meeting his gaze. 

It stops him short. 

“I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But I promise you, Jon, this isn’t as far as we go,” she says evenly, a finality to her voice that steadies her. 

The look that passes over Jon’s face sets a pang to her heart, but she continues on, her hand settling back over his, surely. “You will not be another one of my scars, Jon, nor will I be yours.” 

He blinks at her, his shoulders going slack. 

She gives him an honest smile – the most honest she’s ever given him.  “Because we deserve better than that,” she tells him. 

Jon hangs his head, a heavy breath leaving him. He pinches the bridge of his nose before looking back up at her. “It’s not that simple.” 

“It is.” 

He heaves a disbelieving breath.  

“No more scars, right?” she asks him, her hand gripping his tightly. 

She doesn’t let herself think about the hope she’s strung to those words, like a long-awaited salve. The thin, weak hope of a girl. 

Just a girl. 

Just the vestige of a once-hostage. 

Just a lonesome, needful girl . 

(A girl who once knew what kind of love she longed for, and knows it now, even more clearly.) 

Sansa shuts her eyes, the breath shuddering from her, ready for the break, ready for the letdown, but hoping, hoping, hoping – still –  

Jon’s hand grips at hers tightly, and her eyes fly open. 

And then he laughs. 

And then he shakes his head, a tight swallow stalling the words. “No more scars,” he agrees finally, voice cracking as he presses a kiss to her temple. 

Sansa very nearly crumbles beneath the affirmation. She sucks a tight breath in, a hand to her chest. “I told you I wouldn’t make it without you,” she gets out shakily, the tears hot along her lids. Her mouth is a trembling line, her sob swallowed back down. “I meant it,” she exhales on a breathless gasp, the smile finally breaking free. 

Jon brings their joined hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles with a fervency she’s never seen in him.  

The intimacy of it makes her laugh – light and teary and hopeful. 

When they finally start down the hill, Sansa knows for sure now: 

There is far, far more to go. 

[bottlesforbeasts]

The Old Web pt. 2: what's in a personal website?

The internet is full of possibilities.

This sticks out to you much more than usual when you start exploring the community of personal websites, many of which are hosted by neocities. With most social media, you have very limited customization of what your page looks like, what format of content you can post, and how users may interact with your posts. Personal websites change all of that and allow you to create something completely outside the box. You get to control every minute detail of how your website is viewed, from the fonts to the way the user's cursor looks.

For the sake of this post, a "personal website" is a website that someone created for their own personal use, not to promote a brand or sell a product. These websites are often made almost entirely from scratch using HTML and other coding languages. You can find many examples of these websites at this link. Warning: most of these websites are not meant to be viewed on mobile and might malfunction.

https://href.li/?https://neocities.org/browse

Personal websites are often a mishmash of different things the webmaster (the person who made the site) likes or finds important. Sometimes they focus on a single topic, a topic or fandom the webmaster is really into, or something they want to teach others about. While I browsed these websites I noticed a few tabs that often appear in the sidebars of these websites.

⋆｡°✩₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧₊ °✦Blinkies!⋆｡°✩₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧₊ °✦

Blinkies are little flashing images, usually with text, that are displayed on a website. There's a popular blinkie generator website called blinkies.cafe where you can make your own. Many personal websites have an entire page dedicated to listing all of the blinkies they've collected. It's hard to trace the origins of many because they can easily be downloaded and used without permission. Here are a few links to see some examples.

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○Webrings●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

Webrings are described by webmaster neonaut as "curated link chains, or tiny community-shared directories where links are shared one at a time by clicking through to the next website." So rather than using google to find old web websites (impossible) many will link to other similar websites, so you can discover new websites by clicking on links, kind of like if you've ever fallen into a wikipedia rabbit hole.

Webrings are like little virtual clubs, and can have any theme from queer people who code to the art of being funky. Websites will link back to a centralized page, like the one shared above, or the websites will link directly to each other, having a buttons page with every other webring member's button.

●～●～●～●～●～Buttons●～●～●～●～●～●～

88x31 buttons are how a person gets from website to website on the old web. They look a lot like blinkies, something I eventually realized after frustratedly spam-clicking blinkies expecting them to link me somewhere. These are just as decorative, except they serve as a sort of advertisement to get someone interested in their website. They may have tiny images, colors, or fonts that match the aesthetic of their website. Buttons can have their own devoted section, or be a fixture on the side or bottom of a site.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: Shrines / Collections :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

A shrine is something you dedicate to something you love, perhaps a deity or ancestor you want to honor. A web shrine is a page or collection of pages dedicated to someone's interest, obsession, hyperfixation, or hobby. It tends to have lots of information about the topic, relevant pictures or videos, and the webmaster's own personal ties to the topic. A fandom blog could in a way be considered a shrine. There are tons of interesting, niche, and obscure shrines out there, such as this one about an old product called WebTV. There are also fairly common shrine topics like pokemon and hello kitty. Many shrines are combined with a collections page, where a webmaster shows off their collection of items. This can be a group of pictures of the actual items, or just pictures of ones that a person wishes they had.

⟡⋆⭒˚｡⋆✧˖°⁺˚Pets, dollz, and toyboxes˖°.✧˖°.⟡⋆⭒˚｡

Pets are little png images you put on your site because you like the way they look. They can be commissioned, pre-drawn and put up for paid "adoption" by artists, or just right-click-saved from directories like this one. A toybox is a page dedicated to storing all these pngs, many of which link back to where the webmaster found them. Dollz are sort of different. Dollz are kind of like a DIY dressup game, where artists create a base, clothing, hair, and other accessories, and you can mix and match in order to create your own unique look. This website goes into a bit more detail about the history of dollz.

📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎📎

This is just a quick summary of all the things I've most commonly seen on personal websites, you can learn more by browsing the websites I've linked or browsing through all the different websites neocities has to offer. One of my favorite websites on neocities is called Lizzie Smithson, a webcomic detailing the adventures of a stylish cat thief who lives in the city.

Neocities is great because it offers a more intimate glimpse into someone's mind than you could ever find on mainstream social media. People who create personal websites do so just because they want to. They're not looking for likes and followers and validation. Maybe part of the reason personal websites have been on decline so much is that making content for the hell of it isn't all that common anymore. Capitalism tells us that we should try to monetize everything we do for enjoyment, it's not enough to just create something because we feel like it. And if you can't monetize it, you should seek some sort of validation through interactions, numbers created to hack our brains into churning out content that people want to see, regardless of if it's something WE want to make. This system, this Web 2.0, is what spawned the Old Web Movement, which is dedicated to creating an online space free from monetization, free from algorithms, where people can be truly creative and make great things. The Old Web movement and manifesto is what part 3 will be all about.

[yossipossi]

what was your main inspiration/reason to write 5001?

Well, the reason is pretty obvious: I wrote it for the SCP-5000 contest. I intended to write an article to win, but it was my third article and so it wasn't particularly great, especially in comparison to the winner, but ah well.

As for the inspiration, I had a few sources, but my main source was Evangelion. Specifically, the scene in the first rebuild where they fire the energy weapon through Ramiel's core. That was such a tense scene and was so cool, and I wanted to recreate something along those lines. Even before I conceptualized all the details about the article, I knew I wanted a scene where a laser fires something into the center of something really big.

I actually remember where I was when I came up with the basic idea for SCP-5001: I was in the middle of my prayer services before school (I'm Jewish, to be clear), and I suddenly had a flash of inspiration: the theme was mystery, so what if there was an anomaly in a containment chamber that the Foundation found, and they had no idea what was inside of it until it breached? At the time, the placeholder images in my mind for this idea were "facility that contained something akin to Gears' Proposal, and it nearly breaches at the end before somehow being recontained, without anyone actually seeing the anomaly and living." It was a cool idea, but not really what I wanted.

The inspiration from Ramiel's death in Evangelion comes into play now, since I realized I didn't just want to anomaly to be never seen, but also be really fucking big. I knew that whatever was in this facility needed to be powerful and ancient, and I knew the Foundation needed to barely be able to recontain it through some last-minute ditch efforts using the most powerful weapons available to them. This is how I came up with the idea for HECOR (the High-Energy Concentration Orbital Railgun), and how I conceptualized the climax of the article.

As for what was actually inside the facility, I still had no idea. In fact, I didn't even come up with the Broken God connection until I was a ways into the article. I just had the basic idea and started writing. I did a bit of research into strong materials and came up with a general design for it, and decided where to put it. I chose the Russian wilderness at the time because it was unlikely to cause of Veil breach if big shit happened there, but it kinda made sense later for the Broken God connection.

Still, the article mostly shaped into its current form as I was writing it. A big part of my philosophy for writing SCPs specifically is using the format to my advantage by trying to make the document as clinical as possible. I included a history section for realism and to provide additional context for the circumstances of the object's history, and talked about all the technological discoveries due to SCP-5001 to help add some gravitas to the anomaly's function.

I think it was while writing the section on "OMEGA" that I finally realized this would be a perfect Broken God article. Not only that, but I realized it would be really interesting if I made SCP-5001 the heart of the Broken God that was missing from Kaktus's second SCP-001 Proposal. That's the idea I was working with as I went into the final section of the article.

I actually remember when I wrote that. I think I had a short break from high school, so I stayed up all night writing the final addendum in a fervor. I was listening to this cover of "In My Spirit" the entire time (like, six hours total), which also meant that the beginning of the Zuriel fight from the Evangelion rebuilds played a role in shaping the way the incident log escalated. (I highly recommend reading the incident log with the song playing in the background, btw!)

As for the ending... well, I'm kinda shit at writing endings. Anyone whose read my articles can tell you that it's usually the weakest part of my writing. If I wrote the ending of the article now I'd be a bit subtler, but I wanted to essentially show that SCP-5001 was the missing heart of the Broken God. I just wasn't very good at conveying that.

After I finished the article, I started getting critique, and while it was mostly positive, I did get some feedback that wasn't so encouraging. Still, it helped me refine the article quite a bit, and even if SCP-5001 was far from perfect, it's better than if I didn't get feedback at all. I remember getting some critique in the middle of our school's yearly ski trip lol

After I posted it, I remember being amazed at how fast its rating was growing, and for a few days I was actually in first place! Of course, Tanhony's "Why?" eventually overtook me, but I'll never forget the excitement of actually getting first place with my third article on the site for a while. I'm still quite happy with getting third place, though, and getting the SCP-5001 slot. :)

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Small Hints

previous /// Wildefire Masterlist /// next

•°•°•

Gathering allies had proven exceedingly difficult.

Sarah was having a hard time scoping out anyone she could trust not to turn on them, and the few people that she knew hated Corp more than they loved money didn't seem inclined to stick their necks out.

So instead of sending winks and nudges to potential allies, she turned to what had proven to be a wellspring of information: Neath bars. All she had to do was buy a drink and sit and listen. The patrons who had real secrets spoke low enough that they thought they'd go unheard. If Sarah wasn't there to pick up their whispers, they probably would've.

She learned a lot of what she could call fun facts. Who was being sent to kill who and why, who'd been recently redlined or arrested. A few times her ears had pricked up at Cinder's name, but there were never any rumors of his death or capture, only vague comings and goings. She supposed she should consider it good news.

Everything Sarah overheard was decent, but nothing that would help her cause.

Until a name started popping up here and there.

Big Brother.

From what she gathered, Big Brother was some kind of informant for hire. His powers let him see all over the city and beyond. He knew whatever he wanted to know.

And Sarah knew she needed to find him.

She didn't need an army if she had information. With the right intel, the right help, she could dismantle Corp with a few choice words.

All the listening in the world couldn't seem to tell her where she could find him, but it gave her a direction, a target to seek out.

…Even if she didn't know his real name, or what he looked like. The guy was nothing if not careful. But with her sensing abilities and Hugo's help she thought she stood a chance.

“Big Brother..?” Hugo's tone was dubious when she told him the new plan. He was hunched over a laptop as Sarah leaned into the doorway of his room, dark skin cast in the blue glow of the screen, making him look almost ethereal. 

“I'm telling you, this is what we need,” she insisted. “If his powers are as good as I'm hearing they are, we can find a way to hit Corp where it hurts.”

Hugo cast a glance over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You do realize any search will be oversaturated with conspiracy theorists and media references, right? Even on the dark side?”

She sighed. “I'm aware. That's probably why he chose it as an alias.”

“Oh yeah, that's the reason. Not because he's 'always watching' or anything.” Hugo had turned back around, but she could hear the eye roll in his voice.

“Okay, so it's both.” She adjusted her glasses, pushing them higher on the bridge of her nose. “Just give it a shot, okay?”

“Okay… no promises though. The guy sounds like he doesn't want to be found.” Hugo's hands hovered over the keyboard, and the laptop's screen began to flicker, then flashed rapidly, the images on it shifting and changing as Hugo's powers set to work.

“But he also uses his powers to make money, so he wants to be found by the right people.”

“And where would the right people look?”

Sarah let out an exasperated sigh. “I don't kn—”

“Shit, nevermind, I think I have something.”

She perked up, striding to his side, where the screen had gone still. “Already?”

“It's not much, but…”

It didn't look like it. A poorly formatted forum post with a url that was just a string of numbers and symbols. “Is that… an address?”

“Of a coffee shop, but it's a starting point.”

Sarah grinned down at him. “You really are a genius, huh?”

“Careful, or I'll forget to be humble.”

“Is there anything else on the site?”

The screen flickered again. “Nothing relevant… maybe Bas? I can't tell if it's a name or an acronym.”

“Well, it's something. Thanks, you're the best—”

“Wait.” Hugo was frowning at something on the screen. “Shit… I hope you find him soon.”

She was not a fan of the way he said that. “Why?”

“This post… it's not information for clients. Or an invitation to meet up.” He turned around, his eyes serious. “It's a hit.”

•°•°•

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing , @bloodinkandashes , @fleur-alise , @whumpy-daydreams , @whumpwillow , @honeycollectswhump

[ronearoundblindly]

I'm literally coming up with so many ideas that my head keeps flashing me with new images of best friend Ari x reader

This is one of them:

I CAN'T get over the scene where reader slaps on the table to gain twittle brother's attention🤣🤣 (btw they actually give me a little Weasley twin vibe bc of their bickering) so my brain offered me a clip where reader is being furious, possibly towards a handful of people, Ari included. When reader is holding a stern face and says something like: "this is unbearable!" Ari wants to soothe her temper, trying to soft-talk reader. He only finishes the first part of his sentence, when reader shoots him a death-glare: "Uh-uh. Don't even try. You are part of this too MISTER."

and Ari gives the rest of them an expression that reads "sorry, tried my best, you're on your own"

I love this. All of this. P.S. the kitten has claws in this one. Reader lashes out. She is feisty. Warnings for language, arguing, and implied intention of violence, mostly for humor. (Headcanon format because I'm lazy.)

Temper

You show up at the house after a long day to find Ari working on painting the 'dining room' (you're not sure if you'll get a whole dining set for in there yet).

He's got headphones on, so you don't bother him. He hasn't noticed you're home.

Then you hear a bang from behind you, from the other end of the house, down the hall with the bedrooms.

Voices--familiarly childish voices--argue with each other.

"Your fault." "No! This is your fucking fault."

What are Dimitri and José doing in your house? What...What have they done to the WALL?

You can peer right through a four-inch hole between the spare bedroom and the hall. A sledgehammer tilts against the hall side presumably because it fell all the way through the hole.

You see Dimitri's wide eyes beyond the crumpled edge of drywall, and he panics.

You had to pass the doorway in order to see the damage, so both men-children get ahead of you racing through the house, shrieking for Ari to save them and you to calm down.

José tries to hide on the other side of Ari but startles your boyfriend so badly that the brush smears paint all the way across José's cheek and into his open mouth.

"The hell is going--"

"These two idiots put a sledgehammer through my wall," you scream, advancing on Dimitri while he too maneuvers to put Ari between you.

Ari swings with the paintbrush again, this time smacking Dimitri in the gut so that his shirt is ruined. "You did what? Honey, I'm sorry. I'll fix--"

"OH NO, MISTER, you brought them into this house--"

"It just happened, honest."

"We were just fooling around."

"Why would you fool around in my house?" Ari booms.

"Shut it, Levinson. This isn't your house yet, and I have half a mind to make you sleep outside. You should have been watching them!"

"We're not kids," Dimitri whines, shifting to the other side of Ari because it's closer to the exit.

You can't even find the words. You barely have oxygen from how hard your whole body clenches in rage.

Ari turns to the boys and just says, "run."

Ari jumps to try and stop you from grabbing one of your friends as they bound out. You get ahold of José's shirt sleeve and yank him back toward you, latching your arms around his neck, attempting to climb onto his back and take him down. Dimitri trips over Ari's toolbox and faceplants into the partial dividing wall to the living room.

Everyone goes silent as Dimitri removes his bracing hand from another hole and then he looks at the dent his skull made right beside it.

"Shit," he whispers softly before the room erupts in shouts again.

"You mother fucker," you howl, shoving yourself off of José, but then Ari has you by the waist. All you can do is flail at Dimitri as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum scurry away.

"I gotcha, kid," Ari keeps repeating as you hurl obscenities at their retreating car. "I'm gonna handle it. I swear. Take a breath, woman."

A full week later, you sit at your usual table at the bar across from two tentative (and scared shitless) men.

"You two are doing all of the yard work at my place this whole summer."

After a quick glance between each other, they nod.

"And you--" you turn to Ari who stops mid-swig of his drink "--are building me a She-Shed. One off-limits to all dudes."

[Main Masterlist]

Anybody have a name idea for this series? I got nothing so far. Just having a blast writing it.

[fatalism-and-villainy]

“Primavera” is not a favourite episode of mine (not just in it being of a piece with my overall dissatisfaction with how Abigail was handled, but that’s certainly part of it). But - especially after watching the audio commentary - I really appreciate what they were going for with it. (That’s a sentiment I frequently have re: season 3 - I can’t ever say the concepts weren’t great.)

Because I love the way it plays with the concept of imagined worlds, and forking paths-style alternate realities, and with the implication that Will believes in the multiverse (“what I believe is closer to science fiction than anything in the Bible”). The show in general really ran off with the mind palace conceit from the books and honed in on the vivid, immerse potential of imagination. Mentally constructed realities, like Will’s imagining of the murders, often play as more richly saturated, more real, than reality. And the seductive power of imagination often crashes up against its perils - like in Will hallucinating killing Abigail near the end of season 1, another moment that plays with the unsettling inability to differentiate what’s real and what isn’t.

The first three episodes of season 3 are deliberately immersive, right off the bat - the broader plot and stakes of the story are ignored at first in lieu of dreamy, atmospheric character pieces that foreground their own fantastic elements and constructed potential (Hannibal saying “once upon a time” [cue curtains opening]; “all sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story”; etc.). But “Primavera” is perhaps the most immersive (and therefore disorientating) of all of them. Because, yes, plenty of the events “actually happen” within the world of the show - Will going to Palermo, meeting Pazzi, almost encountering Hannibal, etc. But it’s possibly the closest we come to spending an entire episode inside a character’s head - instead of just seeing flashes of Will’s imaginings, all of the events feel like they’re being viewed through his eyes, and what’s real gets subsumed within the fantasy he’s spinning for himself.

Not just in the presence of Abigail, although Will constructing everything he experiences through the lens of this alternate reality in which she survives is a big part of that effect (and the uncanny qualities of their first conversation aren’t even apparent until “Aperitivo” two episodes later, when Chilton has the same lines Abigail had, and you realize that you’re retroactively seen Will’s wishful thinking playing right before your eyes). But the chapel itself feels unreal, knowing as we do that it’s the lobby of Hannibal’s mind palace, and that Will feels closer to Hannibal there. Given how near-claustrophobically character-centric the episode is, and how so much of the action is confined to its interiors, the chapel doesn’t feel like a real place so much as a projection of Will’s thoughts and imaginings re: Hannibal.

I often see speculation that a season 4 would have included a lot of mind palace content, and I think this episode is one of the clearest indications of how they might have wanted to push the envelope further with the show’s concepts there. Specifically, I think the alternate realities conceit that gets touched on would have featured more heavily - not in the sense that the show would have gone full science fiction (Bryan was always determined to keep the supernatural elements ambiguous and symbolic), but in the sense that it would delve deeper into the tension that always existed between whether what we were seeing was real, or a hallucination, or just the product of a very vivid imagination - not just through individual images, but entire affective and experiential planes. So much of season 3 feels transitional to me, like the show untethering itself from the police procedural format and pivoting fully towards experimentalism. This episode feels like a trial run at that.