#the fumble of the MILLENNIUM

[the-eclectic-wonderer]

Sometimes I remember the fact that Stanley Zbornak spent 38 years lying to, cheating on, and being a horrible husband to this:

Personally if this woman even looked at me I would kiss the very ground she walked on

[slowd1ving]

✦ III. OH, HOW TRAGIC IS HE

'It was an accident.  “I’m sorry. Ah, shit—” Something wet splashed your cheek, followed by a fumbling hand that tried to brush it away but only succeeded in smearing the thin liquid across your face awkwardly. “Don’t— fuck, I’ll stay with you, alright?”  Fingers wrapped around your own, flesh against bone. Pulsing life alongside a silent end.  The last thing on your lips was an apology, in the form of a salty tear dripping from above.' • . * cursed prince ratio + alchemist m reader rough design for minoan fashion ratio here warnings: video game violence, death? kind of? tyranny (are we surprised), male-coded reader (or at least the in-game avatar is) wc: 11.9k

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

‘If man’s hour were to come, no one could escape it: not the brave, nor the cowardly. In the case of the city-state of Metis—referred to by romantics as the ‘Eroded Kingdom’—its collapse was widely regarded as inevitable. Frankly, as al-Ghazali pointed out in his ‘Fall of Empires’, Metis was inherently doomed to fail from its intrinsic characteristics: military hubris (relying on the susceptible and corrupt polemarch Aetos in the final decade of the kingdom’s existence); economic failure (due to the recessions Aha created and failed to mitigate); the subsequent loss of capital, and perhaps, most poignantly, its alienation of alchemists and increasingly alarming anti-heretical laws which provoked regional rebellions that soon spiralled into the so-called ‘Scholar’s March’ of 786 of the Attican Calendar, or year 352 of the Amber Age¹. 

Who could’ve predicted that the citizens could grow so united in the face of such tyranny? For years the Metisians had endured the brutal taxation, the reforms in education, and the yokes of the cult-like Elation—the catalyst could only be the mass executions and disappearances that occurred the year prior the March. Of course, scholars like Ignis the Argumentative would insist it was the sudden disappearance of capable officials that set the cataclysm into motion—but further examination by other contemporaries reproached this interpretation as there was no real policy difference between the lawmakers in terms of addressing both long- and short-term triggers that led to the fall of Old Metis, as Antiquus the Elder points out in his ‘Treatises of the Archipelago’². 

Now, a millennium later, New Metis continues to repeat its historical mistakes from a bygone age—continuing legislation to heavily restrict and outright ban certain schools of thought. For most of the New Metis citizens, this isn’t an issue; but this begs the question, when will it be a problem? Tyranny has not been redefined—it’s still hiding in New Metis today, under the smiling masks of your politicians! Wake up, New Metis!’ 

— Inana, P. (1433 2AA). Civilisation: Modeling Metis as a continuation of a failed empire. Journal Politik, 47 (3), 101-110

. 　⁺ ✦ 

Like all days, the pills were particularly hard to swallow. Chalky, bitter—a tepid medley of medicine that neither made you more energetic nor erased the hangover of the liquor still remaining in your system. It was an unfortunate cocktail: vitamins and painkillers tossed from a drugstore shelf with no regard for its expiry date but rather the price and time you were running out of. 

It was a tepid day, that day was. Humid streams of vapour clung to the asphalt as you stumbled out of the store with a plastic, rustling bag slung onto your wrist hurriedly—reusable coffee cup grasped tight in one hand, the dose of tablets clutched painstakingly in the other. It felt like a rush to work, and perhaps it was; this day was like all others, in hindsight. For others, the routine mundanity of your life might’ve been hellish; for you, however, the brimstone and fire had long faded into a tired cliché, where all the impact of your suffering trickled into a steady background hum. 

There was a sort of beauty in the aches and pains of your life—not in the pretentious way, not in the nihilistic way—but rather in the sense that one might feel a brow raise at the sight of a pattern embroidered delicately into cloth. If you were to give a less quixotic analogy, it would be the satisfaction of a computer programme doing its job: lines upon lines of code melding seamlessly into a never ending loop with no errors. 

Yes. Comfort came in the shape of these grey roads, these monochromatic buildings, and the stink of pollution on your way to your monotonous job. Comfort came in the ritualistic bread (drugstore painkillers) and wine (bitter, cheap coffee) that you partook in each morning after Friday. Comfort came in the perfunctory, solid thump of sole against pavement; the cat you’d passed by for the past month; and the worn earbuds that were slowly reaching the limits with their tinny quality and exposed wire. 

It was a painful life. It was a painless life. 

Tragedy seeped in through the sterile nitrile of your gloves. Tragedy ghosted its fingers over your polyester lab coat, and tapped on the clear plastic of your goggles. Tragedy weaved through the tired yawns as you spun on your stool and waited for the centrifuge to settle to a halt. Maybe if you crossed your fingers enough, the seconds would pass by quicker, and maybe there’d be something decent in the cafeteria. Well. It was never worth the money, but then again, there was nothing to save for. No occasions to buy nice clothes for. No particular want or need for holidays. 

No one to treat, either, not even the nice old lady in the apartment next to yours. Not anymore, at least. 

You sighed, and the matter in the Petri dish sighed with you. 

And thus, a sense of purpose continued eluding you—but so did any profound pain. This was ordinary, as an achromatic existence like this didn’t stand out in the grand machine, and you didn’t think it ever would. That was fine. That was expected. In fact, it was downright comforting that you wouldn’t particularly matter in the long run. 

(Is it truly an anodyne, like you make it seem? Where is the solace, when your teeth worry at your lips as you gaze at human connexion?)

You lied. You lied, but who would persecute you for your sin, when the sin was merely doubt about your reality?

Like all other days, it began with a healthy dosage of denial, and perhaps that is what led to the events that transpired. 

. 　⁺ ✦ 

In retrospect, it was practically expected that your tired life would beget yet another tired cliché. 

There was something completely unoriginal in the series of misfortunes that befell the proletariat salaryman (read: you). In novels, movies, and the occasional game, the most ordinary of souls stumbled across a situation that chose them. For once, someone in their weary lives had need of them; not as a pushover, nor a lackey, but someone courageous and brave who became a hero. Forums and comments oft scorned these overused plotlines—and you agreed, of course—but it was an interesting premise to think about. 

“There’s a survivor on the third floor—”

Still, no matter how intriguing the promise of escape from the mundane was, it was pointless. It wouldn’t happen. 

“Hey— can you get up? Blink if you can hear me, alright? 

The accident in the lab was almost poetic. Of course, when a protagonist encountered an explosion in their place of work, there was always an accompanying montage that indicated something was wrong. Whether it be the change in key in the background chords, or a close up of cracking machinery, the audience got some sort of closure as to why. Was it fate? Was it the cruel machinations of man? Was it just an unfortunate accident?

“We need oxygen here—he’s going into shock! Help—you—get a gurney immediately!”

But actually, there was none of that fanfare for you. Just a sluggish warmth that crawled from your limbs and back into your heart, from limbs far too cold to move. No, not cold. You simply couldn’t feel them—much like when a body part suddenly fell asleep on you. 

If you scrunched your face a bit, you could smell the acrid wisps of rubble: paint chips and stone all congealing into an antiquated scent. You couldn’t exactly see, but maybe that was for the better. 

“What’s happen—” Your tongue felt leaden in your mouth: heavy and contorted as you awkwardly sounded out your question. An explosion? A gas leak? A mine that somehow went off? There was something wet dribbling from your mouth; tasting like white hot iron, seeping past your aching lips. A hero would know. A hero would have that information playing out panel by panel while they bled out, farewells and anguish for their loved ones already melding into the fabric of existence. 

Ow. 

“Shh, don’t talk, okay? We’ll get you out of here, alright?” There weren’t any reassurances for your state. No ‘you’ll be okay’, no ‘stay with me, alright?’. You weren’t stupid. You weren’t, but it was in that moment when you wished you were—dropping out before doing your degree and doctorate, keeping far from the lab, and holding on to your life with blissful ignorance on your side. 

You opened your mouth. 

“No, you don’t need to say anything, alright?” The voice was kind, you noted drowsily. If not a little clumsy, swaddling you in a foil blanket like some overgrown child. Well. You couldn’t see it, and neither could you feel its texture, but you could feel your limbs lolling this way and that way at the movements—like some grotesque, decommissioned marionette. 

At least it didn’t hurt.  

“Thank you,” you whispered. There was nothing outrageous about your last words. Like the rest of your life, the syllables were as ordinary as they came. A quiet beginning. A quiet end. There was nobody to say goodbye to, nobody to wait for past the veil. 

It was an accident. 

“I’m sorry. Ah, shit—” Something wet splashed your cheek, followed by a fumbling hand that tried to brush it away but only succeeded in smearing the thin liquid across your face awkwardly. “Don’t— fuck, I’ll stay with you, alright?” 

Fingers wrapped around your own, flesh against bone. Pulsing life alongside a silent end. 

The last thing on your lips was an apology, in the form of a salty tear dripping from above. 

. 　⁺ ✦

“Hey, wake up.”

Death came in the gentle touch of a rolling breeze; riding on its coattails was the disembodied laughter of a child, alongside the kiss of three words that stirred your sleep-crusted lashes. Death seeped into the loamy scent of petrichor: soaked past the balmy fragrance of wildflowers and grass, against the clean soap of freshly-laundered linen. Death trailed its sepulchral fingers past the damp ground cradling your slumbering body—rustling and tugging at the jewel-toned robe draping your limbs that rose and fell with your chest. 

“How peaceful,” you murmured, and the mouthfeel of the words was as crisp as water straight from a burbling brook. Copper no longer defiled your lips, and neither did the burning heat of your dying syllables. Rather, cool air replaced the oily blood that slid across your tongue mere moments ago. 

Had you trespassed the veil warding life from death?

Peeking at the haze hanging over your head, something had clearly gone wrong with your passage to the afterlife. No, was it even an afterlife? Clumsily, like a foal stumbling on its hooves for the first time, you sat up shakily—to find your limbs sprightly and healthy, with none of the gelid quality you’d felt before you woke up. In fact, your head was clearer than ever: not a hint of any throbbing in your temples.

Even the very breeze felt different: fuller, yet decidedly more empty. 

In hindsight, it was likely shock that delayed your registration of the very obvious problem at hand. Rolling, verdant fields aside, the firmament stretching from horizon to horizon shone bright with two heavenly bodies. Were you seeing double?

“Two suns,” you muttered, squinting at the brilliant sky. Brilliant, though it wasn’t blue like you’d expected—but a more melancholy array of hues, even with the twin bodies illuminating the vast canvas. Two suns, an unfamiliar sky, and alien constellations littering it. “Where the fuck am I?”

Great. Wonderful. A new headache had presented itself, because clearly you were no longer on Earth—which now begged the question, where were you?

Or, more poignantly, who were you? 

The first law of thermodynamics proposed energy was neither created nor destroyed, simply transferred from one form to another. In turn, perhaps it was less surprising that you’d reawakened in another form—rather, the puzzling element was how this new vessel came to be. Its movements were familiar, its shape and flow of limbs, too, was an exact replica of your Earthbound form, but far less bone-weary than you had been. 

You died. This you accepted. 

You… reawoke. Passed on? Ended up in a coma? Got stuck in limbo? That was something far more difficult to fathom: flung into a world far removed from your own, it was hard to suppress the epistemic needs of a human. 

Would it have been easier, being reborn into this otherworldly place, without any memories of before your death? Was it… normal, continuing existence like this? Were there any precedents? 

What the hell was going on?

It was perhaps on a whim that you finally looked down, gazing at the lush field and your vivid clothes. Staring at the garb that adorned you, you neither recognised the cut of the material nor the rich dye that stained it—but you supposed that was par for the course when not even the sky looked familiar to you. That was expected. 

The translucent, almost glass-like window that popped up over in your line of vision was decidedly not. Immediately, your focus snapped from the delicate embroidery right on to the rolling script appearing; a series of whorls and lines that somehow resonated with your tired brain. 

“Rida mis vizenia,” you murmured as the syllables made themselves known to you, something you didn’t even need to translate manually. Your breath caught in your throat when the mechanical pronunciation loosened your fumbling tongue—like speaking your mother tongue after decades of disuse. 

You squinted at the block of text, alongside the tiny mannequin depicting what you wore. 

[Robes of Ambiguity (◼◼◼◼◼ Robes): a style of clothing popular among New Metis officials wishing to keep their exact station unknown. Neither this colourful palette nor this traditional embroidery belongs to any particular rank nor department, ◼◼ning those wishing to stay obscure typically favour these well-made garments; ◼◼◼◼◼◼   ◼◼ ◼◼◼. There’s more to the wearer than meets the eye, you know? ◼◼◼◼ limited to those of high rank, thus regular civilians also enjoy wearing these for more special occasions.]

What was this, a game? An exasperated groan left your mouth at the new possibility—furious due to that, but also the lack of any helpful information given by these garments. No clue about your identity, only that these clothes were from New Metis. New Metis. There was nothing—no sudden recognition, no extra-heavy thump of your heart, and certainly not any memories from this new body that could point you in any direction. 

The only thing that was truly helpful was the appearance of this floating, rectangular entity: two valuable clues had sprung from it, after all.

One: this interface could be the light that would guide you, providing its information was reliable. Game or not, it could very well be that this apparent saviour was some sick ploy, for whatever reason. It was a welcome sight regardless; you’d seen it countless times in various media, whether it be in novels or video games. 

Still, you eyed the screen sceptically. Who was behind it, anyway?

Two: it appeared there was still information you weren’t privy to, judging by the error marks against the azure window. Or maybe this information was never intended for you in the first place; the screen blurred and glitched like it couldn’t wait to escape your view. Like cotton candy, its shape dissolved and formed just as capriciously in the rolling breeze: melting and undulating with virtual strands of data. 

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as ◼◼◼◼◼◼. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

“That’s it?” you muttered incredulously. That was your face displayed on the pixelated screen, your name that kept ebbing and flowing from existence like an evasive childhood song. Even the damn clothing you donned had a more detailed log of information—and the important part was erased from existence. 

It was the latter part that intrigued you most, unknown occupation aside. Common tongue. It felt right when describing the syllables leaving your mouth, even if you hadn’t realised you’d been talking to yourself in it for the past however many minutes. 

With a long-winded sigh, you unfocused your gaze and it seemed the window sighed with relief too: fading out with nary a blip. If this was a game, clearly you weren’t the protagonist; no cutscene greeted you, not even an introduction to the error-laden system it seemed to have anomalously assigned you. 

Honey tongue. 

Tongue of thought. 

They were important enough to mention, important enough that they were present in your profile without regard for anything else. But in a way, the lack of expectations was nice. A simple blank resumé, waiting to develop into a ‘you’. ‘You’ weren’t assuming someone else’s identity. ‘You’ were freshly dumped anew, without the ties to burden you to an overused plot and allegiance. 

But that wasn’t a tangent to mull over at the moment. There were far more pressing matters to contend with. 

Think. You were in the vast open country, with neither food, water, nor a map. Neither horizon boasted any traces of civilisation, which made your situation slightly more dire. No landmarks. No forests. No creatures either, but the abundance of flora called for pollination, right? Unless, of course, the rules of biology and physics have all been messed up… what’s the gravitational field strength on this planet…. is this even the same universe as Earth… does this follow video game mechanics or is it its own world… what does an atom look like….

Needless to say, the post-rebirth clarity hit you hard. 

“Useless,” you muttered in common tongue—turned to a long string of foreign-yet-familiar profanity as you tried to switch back to your mother tongue. It was only after a tense concentration that the word ‘fuck’ breached your stumbling lips; though, by the reverence and relief in your voice, nobody would ever think you were letting loose imprecations in this serene landscape. 

But that begged the question: to what were you saying useless to?

As it turned out, the hand rummaging through the luxurious fabric draped across you came back barren—utterly empty as you stared at the flesh, haggard. 

There was no map, and you could forget about a compass. 

There was no sustenance. 

There wasn’t even a fly to pitifully leave your vacuous pocket. 

Instead, the pulling and tugging of these sumptuous clothes revealed elaborate lines inking your roughened skin—colours melded into labyrinthine formulae you instinctively understood. Somehow, the intricate tattoos that wove against your dermis and shimmered expectantly—just like the window that faded in and out of view capriciously—resembled the long strings of formulae you’d derived and memorised for your degree and doctorate, to the point where blood dribbled from your nose each night. Metallic letters, meaningless without the painstaking effort behind them. 

But…

Your brows furrowed. Inked upon your arms and torso, and likely extending to your very legs, were shifting chromatic designs that visually could not be the same formulae you knew. That was what anyone from Earth would say, but something in your gut told you to decipher and understand these complex designs on you—like the most delicate of embroideries on a magnificent tapestry, your body was covered in the most exquisite of patterns. 

On your wrist, the characters grew incandescent as you clumsily sounded out the tongue of thought. This was neither the familiar shape of Earth languages, nor was it the common tongue you’d grown accustomed to—but something far more ancient, something far more unconstrained. It was guttural, it was refined: it was everything in between and outside of it as you mouthed the patterns on you aloud. 

“◼◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼.” Equivalent exchange, you finally read out—and something rose within as collateral. It was neither your soul nor your life, but a warm, pulsing energy: enough to make you drowsy with its absence. 

A prayer fluttered in the wind, just like the slow blink of your lashes as they fought to keep awake—heavy as they were from the price offered for your request. 

“Want… answers,” you slurred, unintelligible to all but the concentric circles forming beneath you and seeping into your flesh. “Humans.”

And the world whispered back, hearing your supplication. 

. 　⁺ ✦

It was with a dazed (though quite refreshed, you had to say) sort of stupor that you woke to the sound of light footsteps. Senses that had somehow been honed to a fine, sharp point now served you well as you stirred at the slightest tremors in the ground. In fact, the smallest of changes in air flow had already put you on high alert—but something was telling you to wait it out. 

People. 

Your plea had altered a predestined course. 

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an a◼che◼◼. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

A◼che◼◼.

Change was good. Change would free you from stagnancy, even if you weren’t aware of its shift. 

. 　⁺ ✦

She gave a sweeping bow: complete with the elegant curl of her hand and not a strand of fiery hair out of place. It was perfect in all its points—though you didn’t quite know why it registered as such. A perfunctory standard greeting… complete with, but not limited to, the hand gesture that typically denotes merchants or nomadic ones… The thoughts whirled incoherently alongside the fragmented cerulean window that intermittently, though no information of the woman before you appeared. 

“Himeko, of house Murata, greets thee.” She spoke with the polite dialect of common tongue—the specific intonation in her words carried a query in return for her civility: who are you? Why are you here? Behind her was a sizable procession of wagons—or at least, what you thought were wagons. Their elegant shape was utterly unlike any of the crude wooden ones you’d seen; rather, colourful cars of various forms were interlinked. Almost like a train, if a train was pulled by beasts the size of a small hut: complete with a steely carapace and long, floppy ears that were scarily like a rabbit’s. 

You swallowed. No longer could Earth be considered your point of reference. 

This was not Earth. This was not Earth, so you gave the most basic of bows back—a hand placed gently on your chest sincerely, eyes fluttering closed—and hoped she didn’t take affront. This was not Earth, thus you didn’t quite know whether the abrupt guffaw she gave at your awkward greeting was positive or not. This was not Earth, therefore her continued introduction of being a caravan master meant little to you. Navigator and caravan master of the Blazing Trail, she’d summarised, though you were distracted by the glitching window that appeared promptly in the moment she spoke. 

[Himeko Mura◼◼a. Navigator and caravan master of the Blazing Trail, a renowned nomadic force known for its astute inter- and intra-continental diplomacy. Its ◼◼◼ makes it almost like a private army, though none can ◼◼ hire it. ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼ she is utterly astute and a brilliant engineer.]

It was a name you didn’t recognise. Maybe if you looked through your games library on your old laptop, or pulled up each and every novel you’d read, maybe there’d be something similar—but at the moment, none of the information resembled anything you knew. 

The caravan master was kind, if not a little eccentric. Her kindness came in the form of a seat round the elegant burner—the two suns had long since winked past the horizon, after all, and in their place shone a lonely moon. 

It’s warm, you thought.

Her kindness also came in the round shape of a bowl of stew: handed unceremoniously into your fumbling hands by a hare-like creature who seemed all too accustomed to Miss Himeko bringing along strange things with her. The stares you received were curious, but not hostile—though one dark-haired man with frigid irises seemed to gaze at you as if saying ‘another one?’. And as unreliable as your system was, there were no introductions afforded to the other few nomads. 

“Could you tell me about New Metis?” The meat was salty and gamey as you chewed and swallowed, accompanied by the flatbread that needed no ingredients save coarse flour and a clear liquid that was likely this planet’s form of water. In fact, the bread’s unexpected soft texture distracted you enough that you almost didn’t see Miss Himeko’s eyes pause right on your clothes. 

Her blood-hued lips opened and closed, quite incredulously at that. From the cut of clearly Metisian garb, to the Metisian style of greeting, would you not have been the better authority than a nomad who flitted from place to place?

“Don’t get me wrong,” you continued in a more informal dialect, as did she after she invited you to sit with her round the small, contained fire. It flickered green in the engraved metal bowl, then a blazing azure. “I woke up and couldn’t remember anything, except my name and the name New Metis.” 

Without an ounce of shame, it was far better to simply confess your shortcomings, rather than masquerade as something you were not. 

“Better off than me,” the girl with cotton candy-pink hair sighed in solidarity. The tips of your fingers burned at the sudden acknowledgement—unused to any attention on you for prolonged lengths of time. “I didn’t remember anything after I awoke and Himeko found me, not even my name. I got called March 7th after the day I was dislodged from ice—funny how life works, huh?”

Does she make a habit of picking up amnesiacs or something? The fire crackled with your silent query. But before that, there was something in the girl’s words that gave you pause: lodged glaringly in her very name. 

March 7th. March 7th. Spoken with the common tongue accent, but undeniably the same system of dates as Earth—why? Unless this place shared ties to your former planet, it was nigh impossible for the calendar to be the exact same. 

Unless this really is a game. That would make more sense if this world was a creation of your past one; if small details were to match up with what you knew from Earth, then the evidence would no doubt point to this world being present in Earthen media. 

Nonetheless, you couldn’t take this place lightly, even if it wasn’t real. After all, there were books that took place on Earth—and that alone didn’t make the planet fictional. 

Nothing was out of the question anymore. 

“March 7th?” you muttered, half to yourself, half-probing. “What does the calendar currently look like?”

The cost of figuring out whether Earth played a part in the formation of this place was a mere question and a few scraps of your dignity. 

“Worldwide, the Amber Calendar is currently used—twelve months, three hundred and sixty five and a quarter days,” the man with those frigid eyes answered in a clipped, but not unfriendly tone. It was as if he was used to patiently explaining information to people, over and over—and for that he immediately became more useful than the stupid system windows. 

Thank you, March 8th, you replied, silently. 

“Split into twelve months? January, February and so forth?” you probed. The month names felt awkward to insert into the smooth flow of the common tongue, but there were no looks of confusion thrown your way. Well, shit. 

“Yes, that’s correct,” he affirmed quietly—gaze turning slightly less guarded in the face of what appeared to be an idiot.  “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

Three hundred and sixty five days and a quarter. What an oddly specific number to assign, even arbitrarily. It seemed the developers had unconsciously used Earth as a point of reference, once more. Or maybe this world used the same metric to assign ‘years’, with the exact same length of time it took to orbit the binary pair in the sky. In that case, it would truly be an amazing coincidence, would it not, that the angular frequency of orbit and the distance travelled by this new planet was exactly the same?

“How long is a day?” It was your final question, one so earnest he had to scrap the thought of you purposefully asking stupid questions. In actuality, the passion in your voice was a very final verification. 

“Twenty-four hours, with an hour being sixty minutes and a minute being sixty seconds.” Prompt and curt, in that melodious voice.  

“Thank you.” And there was a smile on your face this time, so mellow and warm that he couldn’t help but duck his head back to his bowl at your sincerity. “Looks like I won’t have to relearn as much as I thought.”

“Ah— right,” he murmured, but the crack in his voice went unnoticed by all but his dinner. That, and the countless stars dotting the ever-changing sky. 

“But New Metis still eludes me,” you sighed, dipping the spoon back into the broth. The utensil was weirder than the ones on earth—deeper and more cone-like in the centre, like a miniature ladle. It made savouring the complex flavours far easier; both piquante broth and the salty game were eagerly wolfed down by your hungry mouth.

“We’re pretty close to it now, actually, only around ten ro away.” The set of Himeko’s mouth was thoughtful as she unstoppered the carafe at her side, taking a large swig from it. Then, from an ornate tube hanging from her belt, she slid out a scroll of what appeared to be expensive parchment—revealing an intricate map of what appeared to be the side of a continent alongside a large archipelago. “New Metis is located—here, on that central island—and past the straits, the mountains on the continent signal the Borderlands. Well, it would be more accurate to say that these islands are all technically part of Metis—but the capital, New Metis, is located on the central one specifically. We’re currently on the northern isles.”

“I see.” You used the remaining carb to mop up the last of the stew in your bowl, scooping up what appeared to be aromatics—onion-equivalents, maybe?—and the last of the umami broth. “I think I’ll get more answers if I go there myself. Is there anything I should be wary of while I’m there?”

Ding! Something chimed, but you paid it no heed.

“Well, if you’re not a scholar, then regulations are a bit more lax. Uh, new legislation was passed quite recently, but it’s mostly just caution for nomads and merchants. If you’re completely new to the city—that is, if your memories of New Metis are completely gone, then the anti-heretical laws are pretty tough,” the man with inky curls rambled, causing your eyes to snap from Miss Himeko to his face in slight incredulity at his sudden talkativeness.

Ding! Ding!

“Anti-heretical?” you questioned, already feeling a headache form at the sudden onslaught of religion. “Could you expand on that?” 

Ding!

“Ah, yes,” he cleared his throat, setting his bowl down by his side with an awkward clunk. “Um, strictly speaking, they’re colloquially dubbed anti-heresy—since the legislation condemns it based on more fraudulent grounds than religious, but everyone who’s ever stepped foot in New Metis—”

Ding! You subconsciously swatted the window away as you stared right at him. 

“Dan Heng, get to the point before he falls asleep,” March 7th interrupted: looking at the man completely askance, as if asking ‘can you believe this guy?’. 

“Uh, sorry,” he said sheepishly, with a self-conscious smile. Dan Heng. Dan Heng. The name was no more familiar than any other, but it was pleasant to sound out. “They’ve banned most magical arts in the city and the wider span of islands for several centuries now, actually—”

Ding!

Irritatedly, you glanced at your hand, only to find an updated profile shining against the back of your wrist. What—you squinted, feeling a tad bit more sleepy, before the rolling script faded into focus. 

“—Heng, don’t just say magical arts without explaining what those entail.”

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an a◼che◼◼. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

But… the section in the middle was glitching particularly furiously, as though it were urgently trying to tell you something. You furrowed your brow. What? 

Ding!

“Stuff like subverting from typical paths and orthodox elements—instead gaining power through sorcery, witchcraft and—”

Ding! Ding!

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an alchemist. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

“—alchemy.” 

You paused. You stared. The headache you’d been anticipating finally had its advent. 

(Equivalent exchange.) 

“I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about,” March 7th smiled reassuringly, but her beaming face felt more like a threat. “Do you remember what your job was?”

“I’m a sculptor,” you deadpanned, working your jaw. It was said on a whim, but who knew the wavering between an art or a chemistry doctorate would finally come in handy today? 

Ding!

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an alchemist. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought. Although practising alchemists typically require various apparatuses to perform transmutation and practise the law of equivalent exchange, ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼ is a bit unique in that his body is the medium for the price instead—rather than formulae in common tongue on paper, the tattoos he’s earned in the tongue of thought are far more effective. After all, he is the only alchemist to have survived the life ‘price’.]

What… did that mean?

“Life price,” you murmured in concentration. Was that related to your death? Not only that, the sudden influx of knowledge made you dizzy. It seemed you’d go undetected as an alchemist for the foreseeable future, but what were the limits? 

“Sorry, did you say something?” Himeko glanced to her left, but you only shook your head in defeat. 

Was that what you did earlier? Summoned help by offering your energy as collateral? Was it also your life that you were offering in exchange? More importantly, what did it mean by life price? Did your meaningless death coalesce into boundless regrets? 

Your heart throbbed. 

“Here.” An elegant silver chalice nudged the delicate patterns on the back of your hands, and you startled—all with what you could only assume was a very stupid expression on your face. Dan Heng looked equally taken aback, fumbling a hurried apology on his lips in his lilting common tongue (“Ack, sorry—you just looked out of it so I thought you needed something to slake your thirst.”). A crescent smile formed briefly on your face as you stared at his honest face; far less world-weary than yours, far more eager. You accepted the goblet, running your fingers across its intricate engravings. 

“Thank you,” you replied warmly, taking a sip of the sweet liquid within—some saccharine nectar that had a similar tartness to cherry. “It’s delicious.”

His fingers touched yours as he settled on your other side by the flames. He’s shivering slightly, you noted—a slight trembling that was out of character on this warm night. Well, you washed down the observation with drink thoughtfully, you always did run on the hotter side. 

To business—you instead prioritised, which was to figure out what game you’d landed in exactly. 

“Um,” you turned to Dan Heng as you munched on the fresh fruit set out, juice dripping down your fingers. Its flesh was orange and tender, seeping sweet across your skin as you tore into its fragrant body. Yum. Licking your fingers clean, it was perhaps for the best that you didn’t witness the rosy flush that spread across his face. After all, you were preoccupied with the equations that now heated the inside of your mouth—squiggling formulae now taking root on your tongue, all warm and fuzzy. “Have there been any heroes lately?”

“Hmm?” he started, fingers fidgeting against his own, well-crafted robes. “You’d… uh… need to be more specific than that.”

“People we look up to? People who’ve contributed to developing their nations? People who’ve made leaps and progressions in their industries?” Himeko interjected, and the three questions made you realise that this wasn’t a two-dimensional pixelated world, but a real one. Numbskull, you criticised yourself—of course something as ambiguous as ‘hero’ was wholly open to interpretation. 

“Like…” you paused. How the fuck would you describe it? A protagonist? Someone who saved the world? This looked like an open-world RPG, so maybe— “...a travelling hero who took care of threats to the world? Alongside companions? Defeated evil entities? Was extremely well-known globally?”

Your questions were as unsure as Himeko’s face was. 

“That’s not my expertise,” she answered hesitantly. “There are quite a few who fit the description, but perhaps you’re thinking of Akivili, the late founder of the Blazing Trail?” 

Akivili. That name didn’t ring a bell either, but it couldn’t hurt to probe. “When… was the Blazing Trail established?”

“Ah… about a millennium ago,” she replied, somewhat abashed. Your brows furrowed—of course, transmigrating into a game didn’t necessarily mean you’d get into the same timeline as the hero, but a thousand years… 

“Any prophesied heroes?” you questioned desperately.

“Hold on,” Dan Heng murmured beside you thoughtfully—tapping his fingers against his knee. “There’s a more recent one that makes more sense.”

“How recent is recent?” you deadpanned. 

“Three hundred years ago, this time,” he furrowed his brows. Okay, but there was still hope if this still wasn’t the protagonist. “This ‘hero’ got rid of the Stellarons, the countless seeds of destruction from which spawned countless monsters, with his companions. Then, after his glory, he abruptly disappeared.”

It sounded like a classic conclusion—a hero returning back to their homeworld after the game reached its end. Of course, had you not died back on Earth, maybe you would have despaired more; this protagonist might’ve held the key to allowing you to go back home. But as it stood, his existence would only serve to inform you exactly where you were stuck. 

“And this hero’s name?” you prompted. A slight foreboding trickled down your spine as you waited. 

“Odysseus.”

Odysseus. Odysseus. Odysseus. It sounded unpleasantly familiar, not just because it was the name of a classical hero, but also—

“What’s the name of this planet, again?” You prayed it wasn’t so. With a head bowed in supplication, and fingers ardently crossed, you were the picture of devout want. 

“Ouroboros,” he concluded, and it was then that a tear slipped down your face. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Lament of Ouroboros. As the title suggested, the indie, open-world RPG narrated the woes of the planet and the hero come to save it—a format popular among most, if not all, adventure-themed video games. It was on a whim you downloaded it: clicking on the surprisingly well-drawn icon and quickly skimming the synopsis to escape your boring life for a bit. On forums it was well-known enough to be frequently discussed, but it didn’t have the widespread recognition to garner severe criticisms. 

With a large mug of tea and an abandoned pack of sweets, you’d booted up that game one August afternoon—worn keys clacking smoothly against your fingers as you tapped out your name. It was a nice interface, you acknowledged while erasing all traces of ‘Odysseus’. The graphics may have been the standard open world fields, but there was something charming about the two cheery suns and pretty backdrop of the sky. 

Your mouse selected the specialisation generator randomly, though you hadn’t paid attention enough to the animation apart from noting what appeared to be a sword, then a staff at one frame in particular. A warrior, and a mage, you observed in slight interest, but ultimately it didn’t matter what it picked. 

Although, neither warrior nor mage appeared as your final selection: rather, a pair of ornate scales floated into view from the tranquil lake. 

{Alchemist (S-Class) (hidden).]

“Cool,” you’d said at the time, clicking past the opening animation and into the story. Your brief fascination was just that—brief. The story was somewhat engaging, yet the plotline was saturated with tropes you’d seen time and time again in various games. A protagonist chosen to save the world, a home to return to, and companions that were pushy at best, and completely irritating at worst. 

Maybe if you hadn’t played through and seen countless media like this, the plotline might’ve been more engaging—but for your tired, exhausted mind, this clichéd game was not unlike your clichéd, boring life. 

It took the span of one afternoon for you to promptly delete Lament from your laptop, staring at the dregs of your tea in defeat. In any case, only the hero’s name and the actual title was retained in your disinterested memory: no lore, no plotline apart from what you could easily piece together based on context, and absolutely zero clue of the ending of the story. 

“Are you alright?” March 7th’s shoulder bumped yours on the large landbeast. The carapace was surprisingly comfortable to ride on, if you ignored the large tusks coming from that furry thing’s mouth, and the perpetual death stare in its red eyes. “I know it’s hard waking up and not knowing anything.”

“Yeah,” you replied quietly, resisting the urge to bash your head in. “It is hard.”

Seriously, what the hell did you do to reincarnate into this shitty RPG?

. 　⁺ ✦

“Do you think he’s grateful for the new opportunity?” In HER deft palms, the distaff continued to spin as the maiden began the conversation. Everything started with HER—the youngest, the most rash, but also the most creative. As it were, the threads SHE spun were of highest quality; mixed with the most tragic emotions and the most joyful, but humans would never appreciate the work SHE did for them. “His life was rather miserable, was it not?”

“He should be,” the matron scorned. HER own fingers unravelled the spool, pressing HER rod to measure adequate life spans fairly—for SHE was nothing if not just. “He’ll never grasp just how much probability we had to sacrifice to tamper with his string of fate.”

“You know mortals. They’re never grateful, Lachesis.” The hag’s shears didn’t hesitate to cut the string where marked—HER blinded eyes needed not to see in order to precisely locate where the matron had allotted an end. After all, THEIR habits were known to each other from the very beginning of time, when the universe was still in its cradle. 

“I was against this from the start, you hear?” Lachesis complained. SHE was the most cynical out of the three, or as SHE liked to describe: the most pragmatic. 

“Yes, yes, yet you were the one who opened up communications to find a suitable vessel for his rebirth,” the maiden scoffed. HER words were callous and sharp, but they parsed directly into the heart of the matter: the Moirai were far more soft-hearted than they appeared,

“If I hadn’t, then I would’ve missed the opportunity for Atropos to owe me a favour,” Lachesis returned, turning back to HER ruler. Those who knew HER saw the abashedness in her bowed head and clenched fists. 

“Ha. As if you weren’t also rooting for the prince still entrapped in stone,” Atropos cackled. HER gnarled hands were the only ones that paused in their duties as SHE wheezed with laughter; even as tears ran down HER wrinkled cheeks. 

“He’s paid too much already. Who else will settle the balance of fate if not us?” Lachesis rationalised, waving HER rod against the cosmos in frustration. “I do not pity mortals.”

THEY were quiet, for once. Only the sound of thread against thread, the whish of a rod, and the snip of scissors seeped into the silence. 

“This one too. He has also paid the life-price. He is entitled to lesser sacrifices to fulfil his whims,” the youngest commented for the final time, for Clotho enjoyed making the balance too. Both the beginning and end were HERS for this conversation. 

The three watched on.

. 　⁺ ✦

In accordance with your propensity to live a quiet life, there were three things you came to accept: one, it was impossible to get your old life back, not just because of your death, but Odysseus and his irritating cast were long gone; two, venturing into the city of New Metis for anything prolonged was probably the stupidest move you could do, even if your status as an alchemist wasn’t obvious at all; and three, to live a new quiet life as a sculptor, your new priority was finding a place to live. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” the caravan master worried, golden eyes surveying you up and down. Her arms crossed over her loose white robes, sharpened nails tapping right against her skin—a dead giveaway for her thoughts that clearly questioned your capacity to fend for yourself. Honestly, you couldn’t blame her; finding someone fast asleep in the middle of nowhere was sure to cast doubt into their capability to stay safe. “There’s always open spots if you wish to travel with us.”

A quiet life. Awkwardly, you scratched the side of your neck, and the chromatic patterns on your fingers pressed warmly into your flesh. A quiet life, unlike the suffering of your past one. There was no debt to pay off this time, no shitty apartment nor landlord, and nothing to tie you to one place any longer. A quiet life, more idealistic and stable than the previous one. It was far past time to take a rest—in a peaceful paradise that you’d create.

A truly serene life. Were you to tread on the fiery path they did, you would not find the future you wanted. This you deduced not from the unreliable system, but the careful observations you’d made over the past day. 

A quiet beginning, and a quiet end. You’d accept that. Thus, you bade the woman who’d rescued you a sincere goodbye filled with well wishes. 

“Stay safe.” It was Dan Heng who spoke to you last, pressing a talisman with his cool fingers against your own, heated palm. The spherical, intricately carved bauble resembled glassy jade—a soft green just like his robes. Corded through the middle was a length of twine that formed a loop, one that you slid over your head. Coldly, it lay against the dip of your chest, peeking out from your exquisite garb and shining right against the almost-incandescent equations etched into your body. 

The immediate acceptance of his gift made him flush—as did the evident trust you held in him. “I— this contains around ten minae, or about a thousand drachma. Breaking it down further, it’s around six-thousand obols, enough to get you board and food in New Metis for around two months if you’re frugal. Here—”

His thumb pressed into a specific etching on the jade: a snake that appeared to wriggle somewhat in invitation as you stared at it. Just like that, a shadow around a handspan wide appeared in front of you, then vanished just as quickly when he pressed it once more. This close, you couldn’t help but stare wonderingly at his face as he explained how to reach in and grab the exact sum of Metisian currency, how six obols were one drachma, a hundred drachma were one mina, six hundred minae were one talent, how a loaf of bread cost only one obol and so forth. He smelled faintly of mint. 

“—and that’s how it works. You can store other objects in there as well. If you get in trouble or change your mind, go to the local bank and let them guide you to the designated vault when you show them this key; there’s a way to contact us from there…” he rambled, trailing off when you clasped his hand in yours. 

“Thank you.” Perfunctorily, you performed the appropriate gesture of profound gratefulness—a kiss on a merchant’s index knuckle for his generosity—and watched his composed face melt into a stupid little smile. 

A wolf whistle pierced the air from where a certain pink-haired nomad sat. “The rich young master’s got moves!” she cackled gleefully, and you laughed for the first time in months: so bright it was hard to imagine it came from you. 

Your own face donned a drowsy grin—offering energy as a collateral once more. There were no flowers by the docks, after all, thus the bloom in your hands seemed to have been conjured from thin air. “One last thanks, Dan Heng.” 

Thus, there was only one thing you left behind on the isle of Thasos: a flower, pinned against a robe fluttering wildly in the salty breeze. 

. 　⁺ ✦

New Metis was cold, in the same way your parents were cold—one buried and frigid, the other gone with only debts left behind. 

Objectively, the city was stunning. Ancient architecture entwined itself with more modern innovation, blending into captivating citadels that held the essence of the past and the painstaking strides towards the future. Everywhere you looked, massive structures housed scholars and extensive collections of books, while the public buildings and amphitheatres were bursting with symposia and teeming discussions. 

This really is the scholar capital, you thought. Though, as you bit into the soft sesame ring you’d purchased at the toss of an obol, it seemed… stagnant. In comparison to the warm bread in your mouth, the metropolis could not be considered friendly. 

“No wonder, if what Dan Heng said was true.” You licked the remainder of the sesame from your lips, washing them down with an orange-like sort of juice that had the rich sweetness of honey and the sharpness of carbonation. If the city truly was as restrictive as claimed, there was little surprise as to why the scholars and every other citizen seemed a bit standoffish. Though, you couldn’t deny that the students that you observed in their element seemed to be in the throes of joy (and pain) as they buried themselves in their work and studying—the quality of teaching in Metis clearly was a cut above the rest, even with the restrictions in place. “Corruption really is everywhere, huh.”

In the places of reading, the students crammed on tables with books piled as tall as them reminded you sorely of your own days of youth. Your degrees were displayed proudly in your tiny apartment, alongside a small plaque you’d bought on a whim that simply read doctor’s office. 

The sudden thought made your heart ache. Where were those certificates now? 

There was nobody you were close enough to, nobody to carefully place your belongings into a cardboard box—then stow it away in some corner of their hearts. Nobody would miss you, not even your estranged mother. 

With a sombre expression, you thumbed through the tomes on the dark shelves. Synthetic methods and reaction mechanisms. Industrial and environmental chemistry. Inorganic and organometallic molecules. How far was this a creation of another? How far had the humans here developed on their own, outside the limits of a game? 

Bitterly, you left the library and walked back out into the stifling streets: past the agora, past the bustling market stalls, past a scholar earnestly discussing philosophy with passersby. The streets were paved with achromatic stones that appeared to have centuries-worth of wear on them, yet still seemed as pristine as if they’d just been laid yesterday—thus your shoes remained clean and unscuffed, though your heart certainly wasn’t. 

You… couldn’t stay in this city. Even if you put up a front and became an artisan, even if you assimilated into New Metis with your local clothing and perfectly accented common tongue, even if you decided to take back your chemistry certification in this world too, the sheer crowds and constant reminders that this was not Earth made you sick to your stomach. 

Bile spilled over your tongue and tainted the honey-sweet remainders of your drink. 

More accurately, it was the stares you garnered with the intricate formulae marking your skin. Though you wore their garb and spoke their dialect with native fluency, there was something clearly ‘other’ about you—enough that you didn’t even bother checking into a hotel, but asked around for an estate agent instead. Master of houses, etched carefully into the marble-like stone, was a welcome sight in comparison to the looks you’d received throughout the day. They weren’t overtly hostile. They weren’t, but the inherently elitist atmosphere and cold you’d felt in this arid climate answered for you. 

Would you like to see the rooms in the synoikia near the plaza? A firm diagonal slant of your hand signalled no: the quick, but also local way of traders and merchants communicating in busy environments. How about a townhouse? In the end, you flatly asked the housemaster if there were any remote houses for sale—to which a hologram from a recording stone showed a house nestled right in the Borderlands, surrounded by forests with mountains cradling the structure. House was too modest; the architecture, like all the buildings here, was practically a work of art in itself. 

Tense location at the Borderlands… remote location… universities located on the central island and concentrated in New Metis… 

You suppressed the devilish smile on your face as you smelled a bargain. It was a triad of real estate woes: poor location, low demand, and even more poor location. 

“Four hundred drachma is the asking price,” he offered with a tentative smile—less than half the market price for a box apartment in the metropolis. After even more haggling (in between maintaining a look of disinterest), the property was sold with twelve percent shaved off the already-bargain. 

Score for the penny-pinchers.

In the end, you made one final purchase from New Metis. Two technically, bought for only one drachma and one obol. 

The first was a set of chisels and a hammer. The second was a small wooden piece of wood. It was not a plank, nor an offcut, but had the perfect size for a plaque. A new doctor’s office, to carve in with painstaking effort and calloused hands. 

It was crude, and somewhat ugly—etched first in English, then below in the curling script of the common tongue (which was wholly unsuitable for this type of woodwork)—but looking at it made your bleeding heart ache slightly less. 

After all, it was your last piece of Earth. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Retrospectively, it would’ve been wiser to spend several nights in the city and send necessities to your new home by courier. More pragmatic, if you would—easing into your life in a new world rather than jumping headlong into it. But unfortunately, it seemed you’d become more lax as you crossed the boundaries between lives: electing instead to take the high-speed rail right across the sea and into the Borderlands, with nothing but the clothes on your back, a money dimension pocket, and a crudely made plaque. And your hammer and chisels, naturally, as well as some Metisian street food that vanished far too quickly. 

In fact, it was downright foolish to come to the Borderlands on your first day. Even the conductor stared at you in disbelief—though your clothing and your accent was purposefully as Metisian as they came—so you got the gist that it was even more fucking stupid to go as a complete newcomer. 

Borderlands, remnants of monsters from the Stellarons, highly volatile region, most travellers typically make the journey in groups, you nodded as you pieced together the rough state of the area whilst watching the sea and land speed by. Was it recklessness that endowed you with the guts to arm yourself with only a map and your wits? Were you perhaps… turning into an imbecile?

Actually, it was neither. The combination of brimming energy (from the street foods you gorged yourself on) and the updated character profile had ignited a chilling sort of passion for experimentation that was hard to extinguish, even as you crossed into this life. 

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an alchemist. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought. Although practising alchemists typically require various apparatuses to perform transmutation and practise the law of equivalent exchange, ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼ is a bit unique in that his body is the medium for the price instead—rather than formulae in common tongue on paper, the tattoos he’s earned in the tongue of thought are far more effective. After all, he is the only alchemist to have survived the life ‘price’. The law of equivalent exchange for ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼ specifically calls for energy, in return granting a ‘wish’. The larger the desire, the more energy will be depleted; but the most efficient ‘wishes’ involve transmuting one type of energy into another. Of course, a longer incantation—a more accurate incantation—will make the conversion less burdensome as well.]

So, quite literally, as long as you stayed fed and watered, you could transfer that chemical energy into explosive kinetic energy, or imbue weapons with heat or charge with the right ‘equation’. The Borderlands were yours for lab rat exploitation, essentially. 

But the question remained—what were the limits?

And more importantly, how were the limits of these ‘wishes’ enforced?

You didn’t actually have to wait all that long to test out your abilities as an alchemist, though perhaps not in the way you’d expected. The journey to the house—with its own garden and goddamn pillars and stunning architecture—was far more uneventful than you’d anticipated (read: hoped), thus in a last ditch attempt, you decided to take matters into your own hands. 

It really wasn’t on a whim, though. Seeing the sparse rooms, as well as a profound lack of a bed to sleep on—the binary suns had begun their slumber too, after all—it was perhaps pragmatic rather than foolish that you built up the long chant in the tongue of thought. More accurate, more accurate, you sweated, tracing the length of the equations up your arms and on your chest by using the small looking-glass attached to your belt. 

“◼◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼,” you finished the incantation, feeling warmth seep from your limbs as the payment. “Refurbish.”

It wasn’t the wisest move, not at all. But who could blame you, when the materialised gauzy fabrics against stone walls, as well as the jewel-hued rugs, looked so darn nice? 

Well, before you collapsed, of course—with a dopey grin on your face nonetheless. Those two things were all you could appreciate before you got totally knocked out. 

Thus, the limits were deduced to be large-scale summonings, enforced by a good night's sleep—noted cheerfully by the alchemist who peeled his face off a brand new ornate rug in the morning, rather than the bed he’d sacrificed his consciousness for. 

. 　⁺ ✦

When you unstuck yourself off the fastidiously complex rug (skin imprinted with its thread patterns, since you slept corpse-like in a single position), you almost didn’t recognise the once sparse house. To be more accurate, the intricate tapestries and glitzy trinkets, vases and decorations were familiar to what you pictured; but placed in conjunction with the stone walls, delicately carved pillars, and spacious, airy rooms took them to a completely new level. 

The wish was thorough, you had to admit. With your feel pattering against the almost-glassy, colourful tiles, you took in the area where you woke up: the kitchen. Dried bundles of herbs hung from copper-hued rafters, perfuming the air with aromatic fragrances and balsamic scents. Past sage cupboards were conjured utensils that gleamed with a disused sort of enthusiasm that made your brows raise. I didn’t even think of these, you noted, flinging open the cupboards by the elegant cooker to reveal stacks upon stacks of charming ceramics and everything else you might possibly need to exist in the kitchen. Even the icebox, a large storeroom imbued with enchantments above its doorway (the Metisian equivalent of a modern refrigerator) was packed with meats and vegetables that looked visually dissimilar to Earth’s, but were somehow familiar to your mind. 

It raised a question—if you ate food you conjured, would it not just be an endless loop of energy?

More importantly, would you even need the money still stored in the jade bead around your neck?

On the other side of the open-plan ground floor was the living area, strewn with various oddities and memorabilia. Two bookshelves stood proudly in a rich walnut colour, creaking under the weight of various books you’d skimmed in those reading-places back in the city. There were also titles you’d never come across before, but were sure to read on the plushy couches strewn with soft, patterned blankets and jewel-toned cushions. It was cosier than anything you might’ve desired, especially with the dim amber lamps perched on the dark-stained low table and the vibrant, low-hanging mosaic ceiling lights that looked like delicate baubles dropping from the heavens. 

You ignored the stairs that spiralled to the top floor—to where there were a few rooms still detailed on the floor plan—since they were likely to contain the same levels of decoration both the kitchen and salon had. Rather, you tiptoed through the sunny corridor leading to the eastern part of the sprawling home: gauzy, rich-hued curtains brushing lightly past your skin. There, past the stunning mahogany door was a bright, vast studio—complete with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the extensive gardens and the distant mountains, as well as all the tools you could possibly need for sculpting, alongside the hammer and chisels you’d purchased just yesterday. 

For a while you simply stared at the scenic landscape—nothing you’d ever seen on Earth, not when every day consisted of grey asphalt and ash-coloured buildings. There was a damn pond in your backyard, with a delicately wrought table and chair set at the edge. Had you imagined this too?

In any case, it was in a slight daze that you finally checked out the rooms upstairs; two guest rooms with large beds, desks and wardrobes; a large bathroom with picturesque views of the distant horizon and forests, as well as a massive tub; and finally, your room. 

How did you know it was your room? 

It looked lived in. Just like downstairs, a massive bookshelf lined the wall adjacent to the large windows: gauzy curtains fluttered over the tomes and let in the cool, fresh breeze. A large rug decorated the panels on the floor and slipped beneath your bed: a massive, round thing that looked like a jewel-bright, appetising cloud to simply dive into. And past the bed, an imposing armoire was stuffed to its seams in outfits both similar to the ones you were wearing (intricate, soft garments with detailed embroidery and vibrant palettes) as well as simpler, yet extraordinarily well-crafted, garments. 

In essence, you were set for life. This space was an ideal, permanent vacation home: even if it were in no-man’s territory, with monsters sullying its landscape. You intended to sequester yourself until you died once more—with a book laid on your chest, a mug of tea still on the table, and a fat bee bumbling past as you closed your eyes in peaceful, eternal slumber. That was the ignorant bliss you would afford yourself: the you who got a break in this idyllic game after you passed on. 

Perhaps this form of living would’ve been considered lamentable back on Earth. You, with the laurels of being a doctor in your profession, now spent the afternoon languidly draped over a soft couch simply reading. There were no samples to analyse, no reports to check, no research to work on. In fact, it was only a week later that you finally ventured out the sprawling gardens and into the forests. It wasn’t to check out the academic fruits of the bustling metropolis, nor was it to analyse the chemical makeup of the soil and flora—the most you’d done for that was conjuring some compost to make your new vegetable garden more acidic. 

No, setting out into the forest was more to idly take inspiration from these pulchritudinous sights, and maybe fight a few monsters to learn how real combat worked in this open-world, combat-based RPG. 

Maybe you’d get lucky and find some clay to practise sculpting before you found stone to work on. It was a forgiving medium, after all—soft and supple under your hands, rather than cold and flawless. Any mistakes could be worked away, any blunders would fade in the face of the cool, wet earth, and if you polished your rusty skills, you could make it into a job—it was a solid cover to disguise your use of alchemy. 

As the grass with no apparent paths was trodden on (for the first time in perhaps decades), the loamy scent of petrichor and foliage quickly filled your senses; it was so tranquil, in fact, that your hold on your metal pail grew more absent-minded as you swept a large stick this way and that to brush longer plants aside. If you unfurled the slightly-outdated map you’d paid a sesame ring for, there was… a river nearby, right? 

You squinted at the parchment, still unheeding of the warnings you’d received about this forest. With a full belly and over twelve hours of sleep, there was a dormant energy that was somewhat overshadowed by a bumbling drowsiness: only dispelling when you heard the sound of running water. 

Clay—your eyes lit up like beacons, and the formulae on your body seemed to glow as you rolled the sleeves of your loose cream shirt up, as well as the soft material of your navy trousers. It was casual, to the point of being somewhat scandalous—nothing like the classy drapes of fabric that constituted every day in New Metis.

Well, you thought with a smug sort of vehemence. This is the Borderlands. Thus, there was an unseemly sort of flippancy to your gait as you trod in the direction of what you hoped was the river, pail and stick in hand as your shield and sword. 

It was, perhaps, far too easy to find the softer clay deposits on the bank of the river; prying into the earth above to reveal the slick medium beneath and depositing it into your bucket. In fact, life had been going so smoothly in the past few days that you were lulled into a sense of false security. 

Had you forgotten how your life was prior to your death?

You’d gotten complacent as you dusted yourself off—shirt and pants plastered with a gorgeous mauve, though you paid it little mind. It would be hell to clean out, unless you simply dubbed these the ‘work clothes’. In any case, your biggest worry currently was the staining of your conjured clothes—a far cry from the life and death you’d experienced. 

It couldn’t simply be attributed to accustomising yourself to mundanity—no, maybe you were a bit of a reckless idiot as you strolled along the banks, sunning yourself with the binary stars in the heavens. There was not a care in the world as you closed your eyes to the Borderlands in favour of merely existing. Listening to the clear sounds of water cascading over riverstones. Feeling the clean breeze wash over your bare forearms and wet legs. Tasting the powdery, thick scent of clay after practically burying your face in it as you dug the mauve medium up. 

But like all good things, they eventually had to end. 

You weren’t foolish enough to keep turning a blind eye when you sensed danger. 

The leaves stirred. The waters vacillated—equilibrium was no longer an option. The forest, like a stricken pulse, seemed to constrict around you; the very wind took shallow breaths against your skin. 

Please, the Borderlands seemed to whisper. Get out while you can. 

Your stick tapped a rhythm against the soft mud—partly passively sinking, partly actively getting dragged into what was quickly becoming quicksand. 

For a brief moment, everything stilled—before you heard rapidly approaching footsteps coming right your way. Mentally, you began the long chant… tongue of thought for strengthening…. equation for charge… Coulomb’s law…. 

From the water too, came a sudden rush of volume flung to the skies—though the fleeting steps reached you first. A flash of blond. Your eyes met widened, almost-neon coloured irises. The stench of blood, too, filled the banks—before he crashed right into you, barrelling you against the rough bark of a tree whilst desperately clasping a hand over your mouth. 

“Niedra; ćhiho tu, albo ka arakhel,” he breathed, panic so thick in each syllable that you could only stare. It wasn’t the common tongue, but you instinctively got the message from his hushed cadence. No, wait. 

Don’t panic, the words had ghosted over your dampened flesh. Quiet, or it’ll find us. 

In a language so smooth that it sounded like song, like an intricate tapestry woven from gossamer, he’d conveyed to you panic, fear, and a camaraderie so primal that this partnership was instinctual. 

“Don’t speak, and hold your breath,” he then urgently translated into common tongue, when you merely looked at him, unblinking. “The Borderlands are very dangerous.”

The sudden switch allowed you to figure out why exactly you could parse together the clear meaning in his silvery syllables. 

“Xatarav,” you murmured. ‘I understand’, for it was not in a language you didn’t know. The language that had not seen use—the tongue of honey—had finally encountered one of its own. 

But the surprise in his face—the questions imbibed on insatiable lips—went unnoticed by you, for ‘it’ had finally found you. 

Water splashed against the tree where the two of you were pressed against—soaking into the bark, and seeping cold into the fabric of your shirt. You couldn’t see ‘it’ from your position, but you could see the behemoth reflected in those captivating eyes—towering in his sclera as the leviathan uncoiled from the depths of the now-raging river. It shook its mane out—webbed tendrils fanning out angrily as it swung its massive head this way and that. 

A frigid sort of fear washed over you, leeching any sort of warmth that had remained in your limbs. 

Well over forty-metres high, it was only its poor eyesight that prevented it from slithering round this tree and snapping the two of you up in its deadly snapping jaws—reminding you acutely of the thrumming iron that pumped deep in your veins, and just how easy it was to spill. 

You were painfully aware of the fact your only emergency ally was covered in gashes and wounds, bleeding into the already-purple mess of your clothes. His breathing was unsteady and his pulse was arrhythmic, but his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that seemed to ask ‘what will you do?’.

Would you run? Would you sling his arm over your shoulders and somehow evade the lightning-quick serpent? Would you leave him behind? 

Your grip tightened around the stick—interrupted equations leaving it with a slight prickly sensation, rather than the full extent of charge. He noticed the muscles of your arm clench in response to your urgent grasp, and he frantically slanted his hand diagonally in an abject ‘no’.

“Na ka umire,” you muttered, making sure he understood exactly what you were saying in his mother tongue. ‘I won’t die.’

And you wouldn’t. 

Not today, not tomorrow. 

You wouldn’t die in vain a second time. 

. 　⁺ ✦

[bunnybunbun0]

Boyfriend Cass headcanos!

Pairing: Castiel X reader

Warnings: based when little feathered lovie fell and became human

A/N: I wanna really get back on my feet when it comes to writing this year (happy new year's by the way!!) And what better way to start than headcanos? Not proofread and typed on my phone so probably much typos!

• I wanna start ou saying how adorable it would be helping him out to understand humanity!

• Just imagine in the morning he asking you for help to start the toaster cause he have no idea how but he knows he likes his bread toasted!

• once he got the hang of it better tho he would spoil you as best as he could with his limited skills and his clumsiness

• he'd make you a pbj every single time he makes one for himself,cause if he feels hungry he bet you does too

• becoming human would also make him so much more empathetic than he already is when it comes to you being hurt

•the tiniest scratch on you and he's fumbling with the first aid kit

•would be the CEO of taking care of you when you're on your period! Makes sure you drink plenty of water,gives you medicine for your cramps and eagerly massages every teensy part of your body

•confused anytime you make and obscure pop culture reference, giving you a more than glad excuse to introduce him to some of your favourite films

•i know this man loves gossip,so fill him in on every little drama happening everywhere,would listen to you babble about celebrity drama for hours

•when everything was set and he came back to the bunker he was sharing a room with you,and it was just an angelical drop on your girly room

• so you took him to a target to let him get a piece of decoration to make it sure it's his room too! He chose a bee plushie cause he's still fascinated by them<3

• honey would be his pet name for you,he thinks it's classic and still sustains his love for bees and for you

• your kisses are the only thing to make him relax when he's nervous or overthinking,he loves forehead kisses more than anything!

• he doesn't have much things but loves sharing what he has with you

• he's a true gentleman and always let you use his trenchcoat when it's windy

•loves loves loves holding hands!

• he loves being in contact with nature so expect a lot of outdoor dates like picnics or hikes

•is ridiculously gentlemanly, opens car doors for you,grabs your hands when you're coming down the stairs, and things like that

• his biggest role models to be a good boyfriend are things like really old black and white romances and radio novels

• as much as he doesn't say so he misses his angel days dearly,so the way to compensate it is telling you every single story of his celestial days

• he gives you a feather of his wings like a prized possession,as a reminder he'll always be with you with powers or not

•OMG WHEN HE DISCOVERS WHAT A CUDDLE IS!!! you're obligated to sleep flushed to his chest every night or else he wont have a good night sleep

•if you get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or have a glass of water he will just follow you and wait for you staring at you like a cat with his sleepy eyes

• I feel like one day out of the blue he'll just randomly ask you to marry him

• when got confused and startled by his question he just said he thought that's what he did when humans loved each other

•long story short as soon as there's not an impending apocalypse you plan on tying the knot!

•the time of most happiness in his millenniums of life having a domestic life with you was his favourite thing

[fortunekookie07]

Ashfierce posted a dating him photo series for each of the boys and I was inspired by one of Rafayel's chosen pics. I ended up using all of them as inspiration. I present to you:

A Stupid Kind of Wonderful

Dating Rafayel was an experience in itself. If you thought about it rationaly, he was kind of (a lot) selfish. He was also arrogant, and sometimes you just wanted to punch him in his stupid, pretty face (that you love). He was complex, his heart was carefully guarded and hidden away under his brash, haughty personality.

He was talented, one of the best artists to appear in a millennium. Every art piece he created was highly sought after. Each collector wanting to add a one of a kind creation to their collection.

You were often giddy that, rather than his paintings, you had the best thing of all. Rafayel himself, he'd given his heart to you freely. It hadn't taken much effort for him to shed the persona he presented to the rest of the world and show his true self. But only to you, only for you.

He'd told you many times before that a Lemurian mated only once, for life, every life they lived would only be for that one person. You had not been able to get it out of him just how many times he'd been reborn, but you could tell he was an old soul deep down. Sometimes, the way he spoke when he was serious was like he was ancient. Like he'd seen all the world had to offer many times over, and you were the only thing he ever wanted or needed.

Then there were times like tonight where you were convinced that your lover was actually a five year old, or had once been a cat.

You'd gone looking for him to tell him that dinner was ready, still holding the spoon You'd been using to stir with. Upon opening the bedroom door, you dropped the spoon as both hands fell to your sides like dead weights.

There was Rafayel (a fully grown man of 24 years) playing in a box. He'd cut four holes in the sides and was down on all fours, on top of the bed like some kind of freakish animal or a mutated insect.

"W-w-what are you doing?" You managed to gasp out voice high and squeaky at the end of your sentence. The box flaps popped open as he stuck his head out. Styrofoam peanuts statically stuck to his hair and pointing every which way. Upon seeing his deer in the headlights expression and just how ridiculous he looked, you doubled over in laughter. Gasping for air as you sank to your knees. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you laughed hysterically.

Rustling and fumbling on the bed had you looking up just in time to see him practically teleport out of the box sending peanuts everywhere. They were stuck to his clothes and hair, and his sheepish expression sent you into a new fit of giggles.

"R-Rafay-el what we-re y-you doing"?!? You ask in between laughs. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like he'd just wanted to play in the box, as he scratched the side of his face and brushed peanuts out of his hair.

He offers you his hand, and you take it. He pulls you up and into his embrace. Holding you tightly for a moment and rocking you side to side. "I missed you when you were gone." He burries his face in your neck, breathing in your scent and placing little kisses there.

A rumbling sound interupts your sweet little moment, and you look at him with a knowing smile. "You've forgotten to eat again, haven't you?" You say knowing full well once he gets going on a painting nothing can distract him. Not even his body's demands for food. He nods unashamed, it's not like this is the first time he's done this. "I made that spicy seafood pasta you like." You say turning from the room and drawing him with you by his hand. He pauses only to grab your dropped spoon.

Per your usual routine for meals, Rafayel has already gone to the cabinets to grab bowls, spoons, and glasses. Whoever made dinner would serve and the other would grab dishes and clean up.

"Anything interesting happen at work?" Rafayel asks pouring tea into the cups and setting them on the table. You think for a moment. "Not really, I only had a couple missions today. Wanderer activity is at a low point right now. We're not getting sent out as much." He nodded and pulled your chair out as you walked over with the bowls.

You lean in and reach up on your toes to give him a quick kiss before sitting down and then setting his bowl on the table across from you. He pushes your chair in and then walks around to pull out and sit in his own chair.

Rafayel took every chance he could to do something for you, even if it was just something as small as pulling you chair out, opening doors for you, or just holding your hand. He never failed to show courtesy and care. It was just one of the many things he did to show his love. Each gesture warmed your heart. At first these things surprised you but as the days had turned to weeks, then months, and finally a year, they felt familiar and part of your routine.

Dinner conversation is light and cheery, rambling about this and that. Rafayel manages to throw in light complaints about how mean Thomas is because he won't approve a ridiculous expedition (that is mildly dangerous) to aquire a color source. Did you mention artists, Rafayel in particular, were eccentric?

Your phone screen lights up with a notification. Tara's profile picture pops in. She's tagged you in something and her caption reads, 'I Challenge You!' Intrigued you grab it and unlock your phone to the post. It's a couple photo challenge.

Her addition to the post says, Hey girl, I saw this and thought it'd be perfect for you! I did it with my bf, it was so much fun. I Challenge you!

Below that it says Couple Photo Challenge and then a list;

1. Strike a pose on a date: (matching outfits a must)

2. Sweet Hug

3. At the aquarium

4. Silly shenanigans

5. Hands only

6. Dance on the beach

7. Swing together

8. Playfight in the water

9. Inseparable

You can see that the post has been reblogged almost five thousand times and has just as many comments. Tara has posted her photo series and it's cute. You laugh looking at her pictures, seeing that for the silly photo she and her boy friend had drawn on their faces with what looks like whipped cream.

"Rafayel, look at this. I want to do it!" You say excitedly showing him the post. He looks it over and he smiles. He often took pictures for his art but he was rarely the subject in his photos. "If you want to." He says easily agreeing to your request.

An idea strikes you as you read over the list again and you look at him with a sweet smile "No," he says catching that look on your face. "But I didn't even say anything!" You protest and start pouting. "I know that look, no." He says pointing an accusatory finger at you.

"It's for the silly photo." You mumble slipping deeper into pout mode. Your bottom lip juts out as you go into full sulk mode, knowing Rafayel can't stand up against the pouty face. He tries to look anywhere but at you, getting squirmy as usual. "D-don't do that." He says trying to maintain his position on not doing whatever your idea was. You tilt your head down and then look up at him though your lashes, a killer move.

He squirms more and seconds tick by. Any moment now. You think grining triumphantly in your head. His ears are bright red. A tell tale sign he's about to break. "Ugh, ok fine. What is it?" Your grin is visible now. "I'm going to regret this aren't I?" He mumbles with a sigh. "Let me take a pick of you in the box for our silly photo." You say as you get up and walk around the table. He's just pushed his chair back and you take the opportunity for further persuasion, and sit in his lap. Your hands hook behind his neck and his go to your hips automatically.

"No way, something else. Anything but that." He says not wanting everyone to see him playing in a box. "Aww come on. We'd have the best silly photo. No one could top it!" You knew Rafayel could be pretty (vary) competitive at times.

His face scrunched up and he looks over your shoulder instead. You grasp his cheeks and turn his head to face you. "Please?" You ask trying to coax him into it with little butterfly kisses on his face. "Ok, ok fine you win." He says finally and you squeal delighted. "You're the best!" You say giving him a bigger kiss. "Yeah, yeah whatever." He's frowning but you can tell his heart isn't behind it.

Over the next week and a half you and Rafayel drag Thomas all over the place to fulfill the requirements of each photo. He grumbles and complains about over time and how being your photographer isn't in his job description.

But as you look through all the possibilities, you decide that he did a great job. You pick out your favorites for each selection and show them to Rafayel.

"This one was a great idea", he says pointing at the one of the two of you at the gallery. The pose is silly, having you both standing with your legs apart and bodies tilted sideways towards each other. "Yeah, black was a great color choice. We really stand out against the background." You say sitting next to him on the couch.

"Oh, what do you think of this one? Thomas caught us mid twirl." You scroll to the beach dance one. The sun had started setting and there were dozens of little waves on the ocean behind you. "You like this one best too?" Rafayel says tucking you into his side as he pulls up the hug. You laugh and remember telling him to jump on you with a hug. "Yeah, it's so cute!" You giggle and scroll to the other ones.

"This one sure wasn't easy." You say pulling up the swing together category. "Yeah I still find it hard to believe we got up without falling." Somehow the two of you had gotten on one swing together. You're seated on his lap facing him and you'd even managed to actually swing. "The chains did dig into my thighs a bit though." You comment offhandedly.

"Thomas is a great shot, he managed to capture the pic just before I'd pulled you into the water." The playfight pictures were all silly. One of them had Rafayel picking you up and dunking you head first into the rushing waves on the beach. That was after you'd pulled him down into the water. "Let's do this one then." Rafayel agrees with your choice.

"Which categories are left?" He asks looking at the post on his phone as you scroll through the cameras memory.

"Uh, Inseparable, hands only, and at the aquarium." You say checking the ones that have been finalized. "Alright let's see." He takes the camera from you and goes to the next group of pictures. "I like this one, I think it's the best." The two of you are standing in front of the huge fish tank, back to the camera and leaning against eachother. You're pointing at one of the fish and his head is leaning against yours. "Yeah, ok that's the one then."

"Ooh let's do this one! It reminds me of the first pic we took together. Remember our first date and you wanted to stop by that photo booth? Haha you pouted so much when you realized I wasn't completing your hand heart and was just giving a thumbs up." You laugh as his pout is back again. "Yeah, yeah ok then. Inseparable is the last one."

This category had given you the most trouble. Trying to figure out what would best suit your idea of Inseparable. Rafayel had pointed it out easily. He always wanted to hug and touch you and you'd felt silly having tried to put so much thought into something that was very obvious to him.

"Let's go with the bear hug then." You agree looking at the choices. "Oog Tara is going to be so jealous, our pics are definitely the best! Everyone is going to love your box pic. It's so funny." You laugh at the pic again. One of two you had actually taken.

"Let's hurry and post it!" You jump up and drag Rafayel to the computer and hook up the camera to load the pictures.

You select the ones you wanted after they finish up loading and create the post and tag the original.

Couple Photo Challenge!! And then your series of pics. Just before posting you tag another member of Unicorns that you know is married.

Shortly after posting, the comments start rolling in. Tara is first. You laugh at her response and the huffy emoji she used. "I told you she was gonna be jealous!" You say leaning back into Rafayel and reading the comments. "A Stupid Kind of Wonderful." You mumble, looking at him and leaning in for a kiss.

****************************************************

I wanted to be extra nice to Rafayel because I've put him through the ringer with another story I posted and the emotional torture I'm about to give him in its continuation.

I wanted to write something mushy, and I hope you like it as much as I did writing it.

[numinousmysteries]

Handfesta

He wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God.

MSR/S7ish/Explicit

@today-in-fic [on Ao3]

Although they’d been involved, entwined, inseparable, cosmically linked (take your pick, really) for years, he feared actually being with her would mean making promises he couldn’t keep. He’d want to give her the world: A husband who didn’t feel the urge to drive across the country at the mere suggestion of strange lights in the sky. A home to fill with as many blue-eyed babies as she wanted. Or, at the very least, a dog.

But he can’t marry her. They can’t live together. The babies are a moot point—an especially painful one after their failed IVF attempt. And look what happened to poor Queequeg.

In the end, though, pretending he didn’t love her proved more painful than admitting that he did.

***

1.

If the world didn’t end in the early hours of the new millennium, it certainly shifted on its axis. The sun had yet to rise on the first day of the year and Dana Scully had already let him kiss her, insisted on staying the night at his apartment on the flimsiest of pretenses (to look over his barely fractured radius), and is now—assuming he isn’t hallucinating—naked, astride him, and riding his cock.

He isn’t ready to rule out a drug-fueled hallucination quite yet, although this feels pretty fucking real. Underneath the fingers of his one useful hand, the delicate skin on her hip feels soft and warm. Her scent envelopes him like a halo. Moving his thumb to the wet bud of her clit elicits more of the breathy moans that he could listen to for the rest of his life.

She throws her head back, exposing her pearlescent neck. Earlier on his couch, he lavished the skin there with hungry kisses as he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She pulled away briefly to put him out of his misery by freeing herself from her clothing. Then she dragged him by his good arm into the bedroom. She helped him out of his jeans but they didn’t bother getting his t-shirt off with his sling in the way so he kept it on as she got on top of him. The thin gray fabric covering his chest makes him feel oddly chaste like an actress who kept her bra on during sex scenes.

There’s nothing chaste about the way Scully is writhing above him, though. She’s so wet that he’d be nervous she'd slip off of him on each upstroke if she wasn’t also clinging to him so tightly. They shouldn’t fit together this well—fuck, they shouldn’t even get along—but they’ve seen phenomena far more difficult to explain than this, so why not?

She folds forward to kiss him and he sucks greedily at her mouth. Her lips are plump, swollen from the barrage of kisses he assailed her with the moment the apartment door shut behind them. Their New Year’s kiss at the hospital had been restrained, but it was enough to crack open the floodgates between them. They barely spoke on the drive back to his place, both sharply attuned to the new dimension of their partnership. He’d become an expert at reading her moods from across a car’s center console. He knew when she was angry or tired or hungry. Now he knew how it felt to sit beside her and feel raw need emanating off of her. And he knew she sensed it from him as well.

He wants this to last forever, to live in an endless time loop of watching her perfect breasts bounce in sync with the rhythm of her hips and her face contorting in pleasure. He wants to take up permanent residence here and have all his mail forwarded in care of Dana Scully’s glistening, velvety vise of a vagina (although she’d certainly shoot him again if she heard him say anything of the sort out loud). But they’re both so close now and when she arches her pale belly toward him and reaches back to stroke the seam between his rigid balls, he lets go. Seven years of pent up desire rush out of him in desperate hot spurts. She comes in stride, squeezing him dry as her inner walls frantically contract in pleasure.

Once he feels all of her muscles surrounding him relax, he half-expects she’ll disappear like a phantom in the night, the delirium of a love-starved man. She lifts up her hips and rolls over next to him. With her chest flush against his side he can feel the hammering of her heart. Alive, alive, alive is all he hears with each beat. He’s come too close to losing her too many times. The simple mechanism of blood pumping through her body is a holy sound to him. A prayer, an incantation, a vow.

“Let’s get married,” he says, testing his luck.

He suspects she’ll blame it on the painkillers, the orgasm-induced euphoria, the sudden rush of blood away from his brain, but instead she says, “Okay.” Her voice is quiet yet resolute and he questions if he’s been propelled into an alternate reality.

“Okay?” he asks, turning to her and squinting in disbelief.

“That surprises you?”

“Scully, I’ve seen you take more time deciding what you want from a vending machine.”

She shrugs. “You’re my best friend. The only person I’d want to spend every day of my life with. We’ve already made it through the sickness and health part more times than I’d like to count. And we love each other.”

She ticks off the reasons with the same confidence she’d use to explain why a pair of tracks in the woods couldn’t possibly belong to a sasquatch. She loves him. In the first two hours of the new millennium Dana Scully has kissed him, fucked him, and said she loved him. Now he’s even less sure he isn’t hallucinating.

“You know we can’t…really…” he trails off, feeling the heft of reality settle back over him like a dark cloud heavy with rain.

“I know,” she says. She bites her lips and glances down. “But we can be married in all the ways that count.”

“You don’t want a big church wedding? A cake with fondant flowers? A taffeta gown?”

“Taffeta, Mulder? Really?” she smirks.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I haven’t been to a wedding in at least a decade. I suppose bridal fashion has evolved.”

“Clearly.” She smiles. “But I’m serious. Marriage is a union based on love, companionship, and trust. We have all of that. I don’t care about the window dressings.”

“We’ve even consummated that union,” he says, trailing his fingertips along her upper arm.

“Yes, we have,” she responds. She rests her palm on the flat of his abdomen just below his t-shirt hem. “For what, I hope, will be the first of many, many times.”

“Wait ‘til you see what I can do with two hands.”

2.

“You were married before,” she says, somewhere on an empty stretch of highway. Of course she brings it up when he’s stuck behind the wheel and can’t escape.

“How did you—”

“The Gunmen told me.” She’s staring shyly at her hands. It’s the first time they’re speaking about Diana since her death.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Scully. I should’ve told you. But it only lasted a few months. I was young and stupid. I convinced her to go down to the courthouse mostly because I was terrified she would leave me. Not that it made a difference. I only told my parents after she fled to Berlin and I needed help from their lawyers to get an annulment. They were scared she’d try to get a big settlement, but I just wanted to forget about it.”

“It’s okay,” she says, still examining her lap and not looking at him. “We met as adults. We’ve been in serious relationships before. There’s no reason to be ashamed.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Honestly,” she turns to face him now. “Not as much as I thought it would.”

“Scully, what we have is so much more—” he pauses to find the words but comes up short.

“I know,” she says, bringing her hand to rest on his thigh. “I know.”

After a few miles of silence she asks slyly, the corners of her mouth arcing into a smile, “Did she wear taffeta?”

“I don’t remember,” he says, and it’s true. An eidetic memory and you’d think he’d remember what his bride wore on what was supposed to be the most important day of his life, but he draws a blank. All he can picture is staring at the gold band she slipped on his finger and trying to convince himself it meant he’d never be alone again.

3.

She has to know he’s up to something when he starts applying his Socratic style to global wedding traditions instead of astral projection or lizard-eyed cryptids.

“Did you know the bouquet toss originated in medieval times and was meant to serve as a distraction so the bride and groom could slip off to their private chambers unnoticed after the ceremony?” He asks her on an airplane on the way back from Chicago.

“I know my cousin Nora once elbowed Missy in the gut to push her out of the way so she could catch one.”

“Ouch,” he winces. “How’d that work out for Nora?”

“She actually did get married the following year to some guy she met on a singles’ cruise. Last I heard, though, he ran away with his secretary and left her with reams of credit card debt,” she says. “And he went bald.”

“You win some, you lose some,” he says. “Did you know wedding rings are traditionally worn on the fourth finger because of the belief that a vein in that finger ran directly to the heart?”

“Well, that’s just inaccurate,” she asserts with a smug smile.

“Did you know that Congolese newlyweds aren’t allowed to smile for the entirety of their wedding day? Or that brides in ancient Rome used to paint their faces red?”

“I did not,” she says, scooting closer to him.

“In the Chinese Yugur culture, the groom shoots his bride with three headless arrows before the ceremony then breaks the arrows in half to symbolize unbroken love.”

“I already shot you once, I don’t think you need to return the favor.”

He playfully reaches for his shoulder and winks at her. “Jews, of course, break a glass for the same reason, while the Greeks smash plates. Did your parents do the whole full Catholic mass hoopla?”

She shakes her head. “My father’s commanding officer married them on base in Norfolk. We pretend not to do the math, but it was only six months before Bill was born.”

Mulder whistles. “Oh, Maggie. Remind me to thank her again the next time I see her.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For you.”

“What about your parents?” She asks.

“Oh, the Kuipers-Mulder wedding was the social event of the summer of ‘59. I think some distant Kennedy cousin even showed up. My mother’s parents didn’t like that he was nearly two decades older than her, and my father’s parents didn’t like that she was Jewish but they had enough money to throw a nice party so it all evened out. Not that any of that pomp and circumstance did them any good when the shit hit the fan.”

“And yet you still believe in marriage,” she ponders.

“I believe in marrying you.”

Even though they have a row to themselves on the plane and everyone around them seems to be asleep or absorbed in a book, he’s still surprised when she leans over to kiss him on the lips. It’s a quick, close-mouthed peck but still more than she’d typically allow in public. They interlock their fingers under the arm rest and he wonders what he ever did to deserve her.

4.

They’re curled toward each other on the motel bed like a pair of parentheses, too wired to sleep. He tells her about seeing the spirit of his sister in a field of dead children. She kisses his brow and pulls his head into her chest. She thankfully doesn’t suggest his vision is the result of a mind warped by grief and stress. The silk collar of her pajama top darkens with his tears and she holds him closer. He’s been cold for so long and her touch is thawing him.

He first told her about his sister in a motel room not unlike this one. Even then, Samantha had already been dead. She’d already been dead when Scully embraced his quest as her own. She’d already been dead when Scully was abducted, when Scully lost her chance at motherhood, when Scully nearly died in a hospital bed from a cancer that had been given to her. He finds it’s this that stings the most—that he made her suffer for nothing.

“She’s been gone this whole time,” he whispers into the hollow of her throat.

“I’m so sorry, Mulder.” She presses her warm lips to the crown of his head, her words muffled in his hair.

It’s been a long day and he can smell her skin and sweat through faded layers of powdery deodorant and woodsy perfume. He likes that she chooses to smell like a forest and not a flower. He likes her natural scent even more.

He’s an orphan now. The last of his kind. And yet, cradled in her arms, this moment feels like a beginning and not an ending. The ties that held him to this earth have been severed and it’s only her firm grasp that’s keeping him from floating away.

“Be my family, Scully,” he says, raising his head up to the pillow so he can meet her gaze.

“Always,” she swears. Her lower lip is quivering and her eyelids are heavy. New tendrils extend, stretching between them, twisting around and around each other, serpentine. They’re interwoven and he never wants to break away. He can stand to lose anything except her.

He kisses her lips softly and feels her starting to cry. Tears stream down their cheeks and it’s impossible to tell which are hers and which are his. She is his home and everything about her feels right. Deepening the kiss, he rolls on top of her.

She brings one small hand to his chest to stop him. “Are you sure, Mulder?”

She asked him the same question in his apartment after autopsying his mother. That night he was seeking numbness and she, rightfully so, wouldn’t give it to him. She bore witness to his pain, holding him as he wept and slipped into a fitful sleep. Tonight, though, he is sure. He’s coming to her purely out of love, to rededicate himself to her.

He nods solemnly and she brings her hands to either side of his face, pulling him in so she can probe his mouth with her tongue. The taste of diner coffee lingers under the artificial mint of her toothpaste.

He takes his time unbuttoning her pajama shirt, revealing the milky skin of her chest. Tracing a trail down the valley between her breasts with his tongue, he pauses at the scar on her abdomen. It’s a reminder of her fragility and her strength. He kisses it to pay tribute to the duality of her nature.

She gasps when he reaches the hem of her pajama bottoms. Lifting her hips up, she lets him ease the silk down her legs and slim ankles. Her presence feels so powerful and all-encompassing that he sometimes forgets how small her actual physical form is. Her feet are so delicate he can’t believe they have the endurance to carry her to crime scenes and autopsy bays and wherever he asks her to follow him. He kisses the arch of each one in gratitude and then lets her pajama pants drop to the floor.

As he works his way back up, she starts spreading her thighs apart in anticipation. He can feel the heat of her sex radiating on his face like the sun before he even reaches the space between her legs. He inhales deeply and takes in her intoxicating essence before dragging his tongue up from the folds of her labia to the nub of her clit. Her thighs tighten around him and she rakes her nails through his hair.

“Mulder,” she begs of him quietly, his name an invitation on her lips.

He answers by latching onto her sex with his mouth, sucking and releasing her clit with increasing speed and intensity. Breathing feels unnecessary when he’s devouring her like this. He can’t be sure if the swirl of dizziness in his head stems from a lack of oxygen or a surge of adrenaline. Either way, he doesn’t come up for air until he sees her clenching the sheets between her fists in his peripheral vision and hears the high-pitched whimper from the back of her throat that lets him know she’s close. He loves making her come this way, knowing he’s able to give her this much-needed release, but now she’s tugging on the sleeves of his t-shirt, pulling him up to meet her.

Rising to his knees, he sheds his shirt and peels off his boxers, freeing the erection that’s been throbbing to the beat of her moans. He pulls a pillow from the other side of the bed and slides it under her hips.

She reaches down between them, taking his length in her hand and confidently guiding him inside her. They’ve done this 12 times in his bed, nine times in hers, thrice on his couch, and now in their sixth motel room (the eidetic memory works when it counts) and yet each time feels like a new discovery.

Tonight feels endowed with a singular significance. He has finally laid his sister, and therefore his quest for her, to rest, and can give himself to Scully fully. The rules feel like loose suggestions now. Why not quit the bureau and run away with her? Why not stake his claim to her in the light of day and marry her in front of everyone they know?

But he’s getting ahead of himself. Right now, there is only this moment—only their bodies gliding together in this timeless dance. They are prehistoric cave dwellers mating on a pelt of wolf fur. They are medieval peasants copulating under the thatched roof of their cottage. They are federal agents making love on the polyester duvet of a budget motel room in Sacramento, California. Plunging into her, he knows he has loved her in every lifetime.

Their bodies find a rhythm that feels as natural as their age-old verbal tête-à-tête. Perhaps after all this time it shouldn’t be such a surprise that they’re so good at this.

“What?” she asks, breathily, and it tears him from his stream of consciousness.

“Hmm?”

“What are you smiling about?”

He must’ve had a shit-eating grin on his face by the way she’s staring at him. It makes him laugh and he collapses on top of her and chuckles into the side of her neck.

“I just can’t believe how lucky I am,” he whispers into her ear.

“We finally found something you don’t believe in,” she says.

He doesn’t know if he wants to smile or cry or keep thrusting into her. Somehow, he manages to do all three and soon they’re both coming hard and likely earning a noise complaint in the process. Fuck it, he thinks, let everyone hear.

After he slides out of her, they’re too mentally and physically exhausted to move so they stay lying atop the covers side by side. The window air conditioning unit kicks on, cooling the damp sweat that coats their skin. Feeling the goose pimples rise on her skin, he maneuvers them onto their sides so he can hold her from behind.

“I officiated a wedding for two of Sam’s Barbie dolls once,” he tells her. The scene surfaces from the hazy sea of his memory. It was months before her disappearance. They’d heard their parents fighting nearly every night that summer and he imagined Sam’s precocious mind grappling with the knowledge that marital bonds could be so brittle.

“Yeah?” she asks hesitantly.

He wants her to know that it’s alright, that talking about his sister feels lighter now.

“Well, I started anyway but I wasn’t taking it seriously so she made me stop and kicked me out of her room.”

“She couldn’t have asked for a better big brother,” she says. He wraps his arms around her and chooses to believe.

5.

His lungs are mostly healed, although he isn’t cleared for active duty yet, when he insists they head back to North Carolina for a “personal mission” over the weekend. She doesn’t want him to risk flying so she agrees to let him pick her up early on Saturday morning for the long drive. They’re on the road before the sun rises.

“I know you’re feeling better, Mulder, but you’re really not up for anything too vigorous,” she says as he steers the car south.

“Well, it’s up to you how vigorous you plan on being on our wedding night.”

He looks over to find her eyebrows predictably raised.

“Open the glove compartment, Scully.”

He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to watch her remove the pamphlet for the Irish-themed bed and breakfast in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the braided ivory rope he’d sent away for.

“What is this, Mulder?” Her skeptical tone is replaced by a light, hopeful voice as she examines the rope.

“It’s for our handfasting ceremony.”

Looking over at her again, he sees even more questions in her eyes.

He doesn’t tell her he’s chosen this because their bond is so pure and elemental that he wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God; that he wants to tie his soul to hers like the stars are tethered to the sky; that he needs to know that even when their bodies have long decayed and reverted back to base matter, even when the sun has burned out and the universe has collapsed back within itself, that their essences will still be bound together.

He only shrugs and says, “It’s Celtic. Like your ancestors.”

Her smile breaks his heart wide open and he knows she understands.

“We missed May Day—you know, the feast of Beltane, the lusty month, and all of that—but Ewan says the old Neolithic hunter gatherers weren’t too picky about auspicious dates.”

“Ewan?”

“Byers’ cousin. He owns the B&B and does these things from time to time” he says. “But don’t worry, the other two Stooges don’t know anything. I didn’t want to hear Langly’s spiel about the evil capitalist roots of marriage—nor did I have the heart to let Frohike know you’re officially off the market.”

“I appreciate that,” she says with a toothy grin.

“I hope you’re not upset I sprung it on you like this,” he says.

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs. “A pagan ceremony preceded by a mysterious seven-hour road trip with a 5 a.m. wakeup call is the only way I would ever expect to marry you. Truly, if you got down on one knee with a diamond ring after a candlelit dinner I’d probably immediately order a CT scan to check you for a cerebral hemorrhage.”

The old stone home that houses the B&B looks straight out of a fairy tale. It’s drizzling when they pull up and he starts humming a few bars of Alanis Morisette. She catches his eye and he winks at her.

“Rain is considered good luck in Italy and India,” he says.

He fetches their luggage from the trunk of the car and follows her inside. There’s no check-in desk, just a cozy living room with overstuffed floral furniture, a wood-burning fireplace, and Ewan waiting for them.

He’s only a little disappointed when Byers’ cousin turns out to be a gentle-looking older man dressed in a flannel shirt and hiking boots and not a bearded druid priest clad in white robes and a crown of antlers.

“Agents Mulder and Scully,” he says, shaking their hands. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. John has told me so much about you. I’m honored to be a part of your sacred day. Why don’t I show you to your room and give you some time to freshen up before the ceremony?”

He leads them up a creaky flight of stairs to their room. It isn’t much larger than their standard roadside motel room but has far more character. A linen bedspread with Celtic knots woven in emerald thread covers the four-poster bed and there’s a wooden rocking chair in the corner that looks like it’d made the journey from the old country.

“Take your time,” Ewan says as he heads out. “You can meet me downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

After he closes the door behind him, Scully crosses the room to envelope Mulder in an embrace, resting her head under his chin.

“This is perfect,” she mumbles against the fabric of his sweater. “Thank you.”

They take turns using the bathroom and then head back downstairs. Ewan leads them through the B&B’s tidy eat-in kitchen and out the back door.

“Did any ancient mystics speak of the significance of a bride wearing jeans?” Scully whispers to Mulder as they follow Ewan to a clearing in the woods.

“I’m sure if any of them ever got a chance to see what your ass looked like in that pair, white dresses never would’ve made the cut.”

They’re walking hand-in-hand and she gently nudges his upper arm with her shoulder. After months of playing platonic in public, getting to touch her out in the open like this—even with the woods and John Byers’ cousin as their only witnesses—feels like taking a deep breath after being submerged underwater for too long.

“We’ve made it,” Ewan says, leading them to the center of a circle made from small stones. He guides them to stand face to face and take each other’s right hand.

Mulder recalls the first time they touched—shaking her hand on the morning she entered his office. He remembers her fresh-faced energy and how she met all his theories and hunches with fully formed counterarguments; how they improvised the steps of a dance that would become second nature over the years. Locking eyes over their hands, she smiles at him and he knows she’s reliving the same moment.

Despite whatever attempts she made to tame her hair into submission back in DC, the humidity and light drizzle in the woods bring out the soft frizz he loves to run his fingers through. He thinks of a downpour in an Oregon graveyard, the first time the peal of her laugh struck a chord in his soul.

He hands the rope over to Ewan who starts wrapping it around their linked hands and explaining the meaning of the ceremony. The words—commitment, love, intention—wash over him. He knows he could spend years studying the OED, the works of Byron or Neruda, and still never find a combination of letters that describe how much he loves the woman standing in front of him. For two people who rely on words to explain, argue, dispute, and affirm, they’re shockingly bad at expressing what they mean to one another using language. Or perhaps they’d reached as far as words could take them and only stumbled when they had to take the next step without any.

Ewan has looped the cord around their wrists and tied it in a string of nautical-looking knots that make Mulder wonder if Scully is reminded of her father. Ewan has them repeat a series of vows to each other. The words echo through their lips but Mulder knows they can only begin to encapsulate the commitment they’ve already made to each other. There’s no point in the ceremony where they’re instructed to kiss, but he does it anyway when Ewan stops speaking, leaning in to open her lips with his and feel the slick warmth of her mouth. Does it feel different now that they’re married (at least in some spiritual sense)? He isn’t sure, but he plans on conducting more experiments once they’re back in their room alone.

They break apart and Ewan looks up from the ground where he’d been staring in respectful silence.

“A first handfasting represents an engagement or a trial marriage. The ceremony is repeated in a year and a day to formalize the union,” Ewan says. “It’s tradition, I promise. Not just a way to stir up repeat business.”

“Well, same time next year, I suppose. Put us in the books,” Mulder says, looking down at their bound hands and then up at Scully’s wet eyes. She gives him the softest smile and a gentle laugh. A year, a day, and a millennium from now and, he knows, they will still be tied together.

They wear no rings. They sign no papers. Their union isn’t documented in any official records. By the time they get back inside and warm up with cups of coffee, the faint lines left on their wrists by the cord have faded. The interstitial fluid under the skin has redistributed itself, restoring equilibrium, but their internal balance has been forever recalibrated.

***

A year and a day passes. He dies and she brings him back to life. She gives birth to their son and then begs him to leave.

Their anniversary does not find him reunited with her in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains but alone in the desert of New Mexico. Of the few personal belongings he took when he fled, the one he holds most dear is the braided ivory rope she pressed into his hands on their last day together. I’ll bring it back, he vowed.

The cord is yellowed from the oils of his fingertips constantly worrying over it and the dust of the desert, but he holds it tighter on this day. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to safely return to her and to William, but he intends to keep this promise.

[lilydalexf]

hi! do you know of any fics where mulder or scully (i think this fits either of them well) ask the other "can i kiss you?" ? its my favourite fic "trope" but i think ive only found one xf fic that does it and i cant even remember it, please help!

Thank you for this ask! I have (many) older asks I maybe should've answered first, but it was very fun compiling this rec list of fics where one of Mulder and Scully asks the other "Can I kiss you?" Enjoy! Anamorphosis by Megan Reilly Assigned to find a horrifying serial murderer, Agent Scully discovers things about herself and her past that she never suspected. City of Light by Bonetree On the run through the American Southwest, Scully and Mulder flee the shadowy forces of Owen Curran and Padden's government agents, who threaten their freedom and their lives. On the way, they must also struggle with their own demons, which threaten to tear them apart. (Part of the Goshen universe) Eleventh Hour by Rachel Anton Some feeling defy the confines of time. Fumbling Towards Ecstasy by Jenna Tooms Scully comes to Mulder with a wound only he can heal. general conundrums by @intrepidment Nonsense fluff. Impulse by Suzanne Schramm Mulder and Scully investigate some strange doings in a little town where people seem to have no control over their actions. Let's Bee Together by @baronessblixen Set during IWTB: Scully comes home from the hospital to find a bored and restless Mulder has picked up an interesting new hobby: apiculture. Little Notes by aRcaDIaNFall$ Mulder and Scully are bored in a meeting and start passing notes... The Mad Physicist & The Lab Rat by littlemisfit5290 (@alittlemissfit) "Who said I was even going to the party?” “I said you are if you plan on knowing whether I dressed up as a sexy alien or that beast woman.” MSR, pre IWTB, Halloween fluff. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year by Baroness_Blixen (@baronessblixen) For the first time ever, the FBI is doing a secret Santa exchange. But what do you do when you're not paired with the only person you can imagine exchanging gifts with? You do everything in your power to rig the game. Nuptiae Sub Rosa by SisterSpooky1013 and XFMaweezy (@sisterspooky1013 and @xfmaweezy) A series of canon-compliant missing scenes showing that some dynamics of Mulder and Scully’s relationship may have changed much earlier than previously thought. radiant by kittenscully (@kittenscully) Under normal circumstances, her vulnerability would shock him. But things are different now, the shift tectonic and undeniable. He owes her the same trust that she’s showing him. Saying the Words by Karen Rasch Mulder and Scully finally confront their feelings for the first time. (Part of the Words series) Tender Intent by A.I. Irving When Scully returns to work after recovering from her illness, Mulder discovers that she isn't quite the changed woman she claims to be. Untitled by @baronessblixen “I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.” / “Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?” Untitled by @broadcastnews1987 a “what if one breath never happened au.” Untitled by @msrafterdark scully puts the moves on mulder post-millennium. What Happens In Vegas (Sometimes Finds Its Way Into Official Documents) by tiredmoonlight (@myshipsintheharbor) When some interesting news about the marital status of two agents finds its way to back to the FBI, questions are raised, the main one being that the agents don't actually remember getting married. While You Were Sleeping by Skinfull Mulder falls for an intoxicating red head he spots in the park, then saves her life but not before she is injured and put into a coma, then he meets her sister! Den den dehhhhhh! Seraphim by chekcough (@chekcough) After Mulder returns from the dead, Scully tries to pick up the pieces. AU, with Mulder/Scully relationship pre-established after FTF. Implied character suicide.

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 18 – CREATURE FIC

Fangbait by FestiveFerret

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 5,396 Tags: Vampire Steve, One Night Stand, Blood Play

Summary: There's only one reason Tony would go to a bar like this, dressed the way he is: fangbait.

Reasons why I love it: The whole concept of humans specifically going out to get picked up by vampires is really great. And Tony obviously knows what he's doing, which I love, because confidence is sexy as hell. But so is Steve when he's fumbling every step of the way until he hits familiar ground and gives Tony the night of his life. I love this fic so much, and I bet you will too, so please go and check it out!

Best Time of the Month by Onetruesikorsky

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 4,243 Tags: Capwolf, Knotting, PWP

Summary: Original prompt was: There are some really great capwolf fics out there, but can someone give me Tony getting down and dirty with Capwolf? Knotting not optional. So, yeah. This is Tony happily getting down and dirty with Capwolf. And knotting.

Reasons why I love it: The fact that Tony trusts Steve enough to sleep with him when he's in his wolf form speaks for itself. And Capwolf is adorable in his impatience and yet infinite care when it comes to Tony. This fic is insanely hot and surprisingly sweet, so if you love Capwolf, you're going to enjoy this one!

If the Water's Still Flowing by Sineala

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 8,106 Tags: Merman Steve, Interspecies Sex, Fluff and Smut

Summary: When a flight test of Tony's new Iron Man suit model sends him plunging into the depths of the Atlantic, rescue comes from the most unlikely of sources. Tony had thought mermaids were fictional, but this man is very, very real. And Tony certainly never expected the merman to be handsome... and the attraction to be mutual.

Reasons why I love it: Steve is so goddamn cute as a merman, holy shit. I love the exploration of his and Tony's cultural differences and how it translates into them having sex. It's really sweet how they keep accommodating each other until they find a way to be together. And Steve getting all hot and bothered over French kisses is so fucking cute, oh my god, I love him. Definitely go and read this one, it's so much fun!

Protecting What's Mine by ATOASTBW

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 8,391 Tags: Vampire Tony, Werewolf Steve, Mating Cycles

Summary: Despite being a vampire and a werewolf, Tony and Steve have overcome the odds to become best friends, and for the past six hundred years, that's all they have been: friends; nothing more, nothing less. That is, until Steve experiences a problem with one of his ruts, and being his best friend (and definitely not because he's attracted to Steve), Tony decides to help him out. However, the issues go much deeper than that of just sex, and the two are finally forced to face the true nature of their relationship.

Reasons why I love it: Steve pining after Tony for literally half a millennium and resigning himself to suffering in silence makes so much sense for his character, but holy shit, I just want to smush their face together! I love how in control Steve is throughout his rut, and how he makes sure that Tony is okay at all times. And the fluff at the end is absolute perfection. I hope you check this one out, because it's wonderful!

Turn Around (Three Times Before Lying Down) by kellifer_fic

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: M Words: 15,573 Tags: Werewolves, Action/Adventure, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Everyone knows that Tony Stark is a playboy, billionaire philanthropist, but what they don’t know is that he’s also a werewolf. When a government agency known as SHIELD finds out, they use this information to force Tony’s hand and bring him into a new elite lycan field team, codename The Avengers Initiative. Suddenly Tony finds himself playing host to a bunch of lycans, a misplaced God of Thunder and an experimental supersoldier that isn’t as dead as everyone assumed. Can his week get any worse?

Reasons why I love it: My heart just bleeds for Steve in this one. The sentiment of being in between two groups, never really belonging to either, really hit home for me. And it's so lovely to see the pack bond form between the Avengers, especially because getting there is such a journey for them. This fic is amazing, and I highly recommend you read it for yourself!

[lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit]

how do all the lackadaisy characters react to getting sick/how do the handle the situation. Thanks!! :3c

Lumping these two asks together as they are the same request. Ask and ye shall receive! (A collaborative effort between multiple of our authors as it does involve the whole cast.)

ROCKY

Sick? What do you mean sick. In his over twenty-two years of living thus far he's never been sick once. He has the immune system of a titan, what are you talking about.

Questions he whilst leaning heavily on the bar counter for support lest he is knocked to the ground in a feverish pile by this sudden earthquake that apparently no one else is noticing like seriously you guys shouldn't we evacuate the place?!

In his defense, he's right about one thing: illness seems to avoid him as prevalently and miraculously as death itself. He could get stuck in the rain, take cold mud baths, sleep outside in winter snow, hug someone with Spanish flu, taste the pavement of a rat-infested alley and drink raw sewage and still come out of it all fit as a fiddle.

(Whether he carries anything is a different question, though with the various microorganisms inside him he seems to live in an overwhelmingly peaceful coexistence.)

But every rule has exceptions. And since he frequently does end up in all those situations, when once a millennium he comes down with something it's hard to tell the cause.

How he handles it can be summed up in a short answer of: he doesn't. He refuses to acknowledge it until he's physically incapacitated. If asked about it he keeps insisting that he's fine, a-okay, dandy as can be, never has existed a more invigorated healthy young man on Earth. At best he may invent a perfectly unconvincing excuse, like allergies acting up. (Inside underground caves. In winter. When he's never been allergic to anything in his entire life.)

Aside from perhaps unsuccessfully forbidding him from causing more grievous disturbances than usual, people usually opt to just leave him to it, because once he's set his mind on being "fine" logical reasoning and sound advice are only breath wasted. Ever well-intentioned, Mitzi still tells him to get some rest every now and then, yet keeps stumbling into the boy as he's fumbling through whatever that unresting intent has currently possessed him to be doing.

This wouldn't be such an issue with, say, a cold, because regardless of his masochistic eagerness for activity it inevitably does pass, but if it's something that necessitates any amount of bedrest... well, good luck.

For one he hasn't really a place to rest. I mean... there's the car. No one but Ivy at the Lackadaisy seems to know he technically lives in there, and he's not too enthusiastic to disclose it himself; besides anywhere else actually suitable, like in Mitzi's apartment, he'd just feel like a capital nuisance.

But let's suppose a scenario with the ideal location and someone who cares enough to stick by and ensure he actually does stay put. Shouldering such a responsibility, they must be prepared for a minimum of two things.

For one: he's going to be even more unbearably talkative than usual. Because what else is there left for a restless spirit if the flesh is restrained? Nothing but to complain and lament and versify and prattle on incessantly about whatever comes careening hither along a changeful stream of consciousness. Albeit unwittingly, driving others insane with his aimless rambling is how he keeps himself... well, something.

It's like if his mind had to stop running at maximum speed for just a few minutes it would promptly crash for good. Which, for all we know, may really be the case.

(This is just my two cents, but: I think giving him drawing implements and a coloring book or just plain paper might keep him very nicely occupied, as well as relatively quiet. Be sure to provide plenty of paper though, if you don’t want him to start drawing on other things not meant to be drawn on when the supply runs out like an unsupervised kid... unless you welcome the idea of your walls and furniture being covered in doodles.)

The other, possibly more arduous challenge is keeping him inside the room in the first place. Not understanding nor agreeing with his special treatment largely experienced as imprisonment on his end, he seizes each arising opportunity to attempt to weasel away somehow.

And he's a trained escape artist.

Watch him closely but look away for even a second, and you'll find no trace of him left in the room when you look back. Lock him in there, he'll pick the lock in a pinch - or attempt the window, which depending on the floor number may carry various levels of risk. Tie him down (because you're getting desperate by now) and you're likely to stumble into him minutes later by the front door, having already wriggled his way out. Doesn’t matter which knot was used, he knows most of them by heart. (And even if he didn’t happen to, he’s resourceful enough.)

Like I’ve said before, he perseveres in resisting his confinement for as long as he's capable of moving his limbs around and some vague semblance of coherent thought. Even with his brains cooking with delirium one may have to rescue him as he's crawling along on the floor dragging with him the tangle of blankets he was last left swaddled in, not entirely clear on what direction he's headed but by all means dedicated.

He's not above manipulation either, in order to divert his warden’s attention or make them relinquish his firm supervision rooted in concern for his well-being. Because it's not like he's concerned about it; so why should anyone else be? In addition he's unshakably certain that his role in the Lackadaisy's rumrunning force as well as there in general is absolutely vital and requires that he always be available for employment regardless of if he’s even in a proper state for it. (Just look at the latest comic arc, for crying out loud.)

But psst. Here's a little personal tip, for (Y/N) specifically. If reasonable advice hits deaf ears, and cuffing him to a bedpost yields little results other than another mildly baffling escape attraction, there remains one other thing to try with better chances of success... a more hands-on approach, if you catch my drift.

(Cuddling. I'm talking about cuddling. If you've got a good grip on this string bean of a man he is certainly not going anywhere so long as you're vigilant. Doing so, of course, means risking your own health, which he won't fail to coyly point out either; but he'll otherwise put up minimal resistance and ultimately cave in because God knows he’s touch deprived and doesn't get held enough otherwise. Well, by not enough I mean not at all, ever. But that's exactly why it's a good thing you're here, isn't it?)

Overall, as amusing of a story collection to recount as his commonly absurd ailing escapades might provide later down the line, the fact that they very rarely happen is no doubt for the best. He engages in enough troublesome shenanigans as is.

FRECKLE

Surprisingly pragmatic about it. Yep. He's getting symptoms. Looks like he contracted something.

Best be careful about it... mostly because Nina wouldn't allow him running himself ragged anyhow.

Along with other moral virtues he's had honesty drilled into him from kittenhood. And although it's not always an option in... other matters... he's upfront about how he's feeling physically if not much else, and eventually does come to terms with it. (Once he’s confirmed with certainty that it’s not just the general nauseated feeling he gets whenever he thinks too deeply about his “work” nowadays.)

He doesn't want to infect other people, or incur the stern concern of his mother, so at the very least he stays around the house, doing small, mostly undemanding chores. He's aware it's not expected of him nor recommended, but he has a bit of restlessness to him too.

Mostly because, were it bad enough to confine him to bed in a blanketed bundle of suffering incarnate, all he'd be able to think about is that God's wrath finally caught up with him for being a horrible person and this was part of his rightful punishment. Even worse if he got a nasty fever; it's like he's already burning in Hell.

Distractions may be scarce, but if he's been told off from chores for sneezing on the washing-up or exhausting himself with much too overzealous hammering, he opts to read instead. Over the years he's amassed quite the collection of books, renowned classics and youth literature, and most of them still give off the fluttering remnants of a good kind of nostalgia when flipping through the pages.

And besides, immersing himself in someone else's story is far more pleasant than fretting over his own current predicaments.

Some company, from a safe distance of course, will do him wonders as well. Nina is not the most conversational woman around, and aside from checking on him regularly and ensuring his wellbeing they don't make much meaningful contact.

Rocky likely pops in from time to time however, forever enthused to just run his mouth for as long as allowed, and although he may get a bit too bombastic for Calvin's comparative lack of vitality sometimes he appreciates the distraction more than he's able to express it. And, believe it or not, it's not entirely one-sided either. Rocky has developed a keen sense for his quiet cousin's intent to contribute and will more than gladly listen to what he has to say.

He’ll also forward Ivy’s wishes for Calvin to get well soon as she’s just dying to be able to meet with him at the speakeasy again. (Definitely also attaches a teasing remark or two to the message.) Then he’s eventually ushered out by Nina and as soon as his hasty goodbyes are swallowed by the outdoors Calvin finds himself missing the noise already.

The paralyzed stillness of being sick gets to him a lot more than it shows… seeing as it leaves him a little too alone with his own mind. So he sinks into the comfort of old books until he’s incapacitated by a headache and sore eyes, and diligently rakes those seven leaves that had gathered across the back lawn since he last attended to them two hours before, and lingers outside in the garden until warmer hues overtake a sun-painted sky and the evening chill starts to bite, taking in all things green and alive and in motion to remind himself that he’s not a walking corpse. Not yet, anyway.

Due to his mom’s supervision as well as his own eagerness to follow instructions in order to escape his personal limbo as soon as possible, he does tend to recover fairly fast; and he’s a pretty hardy young lad, thank goodness, so it’s all quite uncommon of an ordeal. In short it’s back to the ol’ grindstone in a jiffy; you know, the kind of grindstone that pulverizes mortal lives and churns out dripping blood.

But hey, best not stop and mull over it too long.

IVY

Oh, it's a nightmare for her.

You mean she can't go out in the evenings anymore? Can't go shopping with friends? Can't procure booze with her criminal coworkers? Can't attend dates with her cute new boyfriend? (Well, those last two are one and the same, really.)

These are all vital activities for a young woman like her to pursue! What else is she supposed to do? Rot in her room and steer clear of all fun whilst everyone else keeps going on with their lives?!

Some flimsy cold is nowhere near enough to keep her away from the beloved Lackadaisy. She can still man the café counter with a little sniffle (taking care to sneeze on no one's food) or look absolutely gorgeous on the dancefloor decked in glimmering pearls and feathers with a slightly paler constitution. But if it's bad enough that she simply must stay put...

During classes the still life of an empty dormitory fills with upbeat contemporary tunes from her bedstand radio as she lies upon crumpled bedsheets, clad in her prettiest pajamas, surrounded by an almost ritualistic circle of tissues and magazines whilst flipping through one of the latter with her legs girlishly dangling in the air. This is likely the scene any visitors are greeted by as well.

She looks like she's coping rather well... until verbal contact ensues and she begins her long string of complaints about how she's feeling utterly miserable. Runny nose, sore throat, grating cough, an unshakable sense of fatigue and she can't even go anywhere! Her classmates are off studying or having fun themselves (as well as deliberately avoiding contact with her for obvious reasons), and she's got nothing to look at but patterned wallpaper and pictures of pretty clothes she currently can't even visit the boutiques for.

But once the grievances are shared she promptly guides the spotlight in their direction, upon which they are to share every last bit of information and news about all most recent ongoings in the world of the healthy. It is a requirement (she will not let them go until they oblige), but also an opportunity; they're welcome to spill the beans on how their week has been and any noteworthy things that happened to them and also to just chat with her about whatever else comes up in the process.

Another way she keeps herself involved with the outside world is through the telephone. The local operator can already tell if she's under the weather by the prevalence of hearing her slightly weathered, juvenile voice squeak for connection to mostly one line throughout the day.

Her calls may also be scheduled to a certain hour so that everyone can come up to Mitzi's office and say hi. That "everyone" overwhelmingly ends up being Rocky, who lingers around there a bit more insistently than usual nearing that time frame and never fails to make his presence known by shouting his own greetings and cheerful encouragements of perseverance into the receiver.

She always asks him about Viktor and Calvin since the former disappointingly refuses to engage with her calls, and the latter doesn't visit because boys aren't allowed in the dormitory... and because he's afraid of catching her sickness. (What a chicken.)

You’d better believe they both get a scolding once she’s recovered for not contacting her at all… though you can’t really stay mad at sheepishly apologetic, babyfaced Freckle McMurray, now can you

Supposing the presence of company who’s emotionally close enough, she may also get clingy in the physical sense. Yes, she knows it’s not very courteous to rub your germs all over someone, but oh, her head is just killing her and she’s exhausted and achy and utterly sick of being sick, hence she desperately needs to rest her chin on someone’s shoulder and latch onto their soft warmth. Really, they brought this upon themselves by daring to enter the sniffly lion cub’s den. Now they’re likely not allowed to move for… let’s say the next two hours. Alternatively, until she has to go to the bathroom or ask them to get her something to drink.

Yes, she’s a bit of a princess; and especially when she’s miserable she may occasionally indulge in showering a willing servant with her various requests. Fetch her this, throw away that, bring hot chocolate and snacks, take out the trash, give her attention. But how could you say no to those big, innocent eyes?

If it’s a schoolmate she will absolutely persuade them to skip their classes for the day and spend time with her instead, offering cuddles and gossip. Forgetting, or ignoring rather, that not everyone can afford to be so lax about their education. Though surely, full-time service as a personal maid slash stuffed animal is making a much better use of their time. She promises to do the same when they inevitably catch the illness themselves, if that’s any consolation.

Nightly adventures and consequent loss of sleep aside, she takes decent care of herself overall, so the understimulating agony of quarantined solitude luckily isn’t something she suffers more of than the average person… albeit that little she’s an expert at suffering luxuriously.

VIKTOR

No, he's not sick, you're just lying. The great, the indomitable, the fierce Viktor Vasco never gets sick.

Denial is definitely a big part of it. He will not admit to getting sick until he's too weak to stand, and even then he'll fight anyone who tries to get him to rest.

The boredom is somehow scarier than actual health concerns. Staying at home and being too ill to do anything except think means he'll think. And thinking leads to a whole load of other things that he doesn't want to get into.

Essentially, getting sick is a liability to everything, from his job to his sense of self.

However, good luck on trying to make him better. He will also stubbornly refuse any help that comes his way, will slam his door in the doctor's face and threaten to tear apart anyone who so much as suggests getting him medicine.

His colleagues from Lackadaisy have taken to asking Mrs Bapka, his neighbour, to administer anything they want to give him themselves (he will draw a line at punching an old woman and fellow Slovakian immigrant), or Ivy (no one can successfully dispose of Ivy and her headstrong attitude. No one.)

The last person he had actually listened to when he was sick was a certain Mordecai Heller. Needless to say, that's not the case anymore.

Maybe that's what really makes him so grumpy and reluctant.

ZIB

His immune system is either rock hard or absolute dogshit, there is no in-between. He can go through a crowd of cats with nasty 'bouts of the flu without catching it, but gets bedridden by something as small as a head cold.

Said wonky immune system may be because he tends to drink stuff cut with the most ridiculous ingredients (radiator fluid, coffin varnish, paint, water, mud, you name it he's probably tasted it)

When he gets laid up, he gets laid up hard (innuendo not intended). He has to drag himself out of bed during the worst parts of it and may not even bother, electing to curl up and shiver/cry from the pain/die where he's comfortable. His band members have to literally drag him out of there on those days and force food down his throat so he doesn't wither away

Goddammit you lanky noodle bitch look after your sick ass don't make everyone do it for you

MORDECAI

He hates falling ill with a passion. It's one of many reasons he drinks tea so often: if he does get sick, it won't hit him so hard.

He tends to try and shrug off small stuff (runny nose, mild to moderate headache, aches and pains) to go to work anyway; but he's no fool. If he really feels icky he'll stay at home and look after himself. As much as he hates to do it, he's only got one body and somebody has to look after it.

The Savoys bash/tease him relentlessly whenever he comes in sick. If the mild headache becomes something worth staying at home for, they'll go as far as to try and visit him (or get him to come to them). Is it guilt about ragging him about it, them missing him or just boredom? Hard to tell with those two.

Serafine once teased about playing as his "mama" and looking after him until he's better. Mordecai, in his sickness-muddled mind, flew off the handle at her...Though all the Savoys saw was him almost break a glass in his paws before telling them flatly to get out.

Neither one realized Serafine had hit a nerve until he refused to let them in for a few days after. Whether it was something about his past or Serafine betraying his trust to get him into her group, they let it go and pretended nothing happened once he was back in action (though there was a noticeably thicker wall between him and them)

SERAFINE/NICODEME

Meet the "clingy" duo.

They don't get sick often and have impressive immune systems, what with their past roaming the swamps and other dangerous conditions, but when they do? Oh boy...

They'll either cling to each other in private, or play it up and annoy a hapless colleague.

And by "hapless colleague", I mean Mordecai—because of course it is.

Sickness is less of an actual, preventive ailment, but rather an excuse to show off some dramatic acting skills.

"Oh, cher, I simply cannot move until you bring me some nice warm tea and chocolate!"

"If I die, tell the world I was warm and safe, because of our dear ami, Heller..."

"For crying out loud, you've both got nothing but a cold."

They'll still play it up.

Just because your nose is stuffy doesn't mean the rest of you has to be.

The show must go on, mon cher.

WICK

He gets sick really, really easily. He stays up late at night often, so he doesn't get much rest and his immunity suffers for it.

(Licking rock walls probably doesn't help with that. Muffinhead (affectionate))

He still does work and goes out when he's sick, which results in papers with shitty writing and his friends urging him to go and rest up, "we can go with you another day".

When he's not thinking straight he'll whine to Lacie about how no one wants to see him when he's sick; ignoring the fact that she's either making him food, putting a cold cloth on his head or literally came by just to say hi to him

He's a bit dim sometimes, but he's a loveable dim.

The easiest way to see how sick he is is to mention putting the work on pause or crack a joke at his expense. If he rapidly objects to not working or good-naturedly shrugs off the joke, it's a small thing, nothing to worry about. If all he has to say in response to not working is "I can't" and he tries to defend himself from the joke (or even worse, agrees with it), he's feeling god-awful.

Lacie tends to hide the alcohol away until he's feeling better. During the week or so he's really feeling foggy this actually works, since in his addled state he can't properly look for them.

MITZI (BONUS since she's been getting a fair bit of attention)

Mitzi doesn't get sick. She becomes inconvenienced.

She's also a real bitch when she's sick. It's less of a slipping mask and more of a "I can't be nice when my brain feels too big for my skull"

She'll still grin and bear it for Rocky. He's positively devoted to her, after all; the least she can do is swallow her nasty remarks and come up with something softer for him.

Some cats swear that she never falls ill or has anything happen to her...Usually because once it does happen she locks herself in her office and won't open the door if you're not Horatio or Viktor.

If another cat somehow gets through her door, can put up with her attitude swings and goes out of their way to help her through her illness, she may very well open up a little and talk to them easier. Something as small as a cup of tea during a ravenous headache will convince the then-bitchy queen that you're not all bad-and later that since you put up with her ravenous insults and still helped her, maybe you're worth swallowing her pride for and confiding in.

[kaibacorpintern]

[Tiger Kittens]

Summary: Several drinks in, Anzu and Jounouchi accidentally discover a huge gap in what Atem and Kaiba know about modern life.

Word Count: 5.5k | Rating: M | Ship: prideshipping & devotionshipping

"Wait,” Anzu said. “Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. How much do you know about…?” She sank her forehead into both hands, fumbling through a rosy pink haze of tequila and hibiscus: they took sex ed in junior high, right, but Yuugi didn’t solve the Millennium Puzzle until they were first-years in high school, and God knows he wasn’t thinking about all the miracle-of-life stuff when he and Jounouchi were swapping Star Whores: The Return of Luke Thighwalker back and forth… “Oh my god, Atem,” she said, lifting her head. “Do you not know anything? About pregnancy, and like… how babies are made?!”

A/N: written for the prideshipping server valentine's day exchange, for @millenni-em-tauk whomst i adore. i cannot stress this enough: crack concept, played straight; comedy with just a tweest of angst. with art by @yuujoh thank you <3

have fun! comments, kudos, and reblogs welcome!

[destinygoldenstar]

Dragons Rising Season 2 Part 2 - Is It Good Or Nah?

YEAH I KNOW I'M LATE.

I delayed my viewing for a couple of reasons:

Digital Circus Episode 3 was coming at the same time and I was ecstatic for that. It was so worth it.

I was waiting to watch these with my GF, who is also a fan of the show. Since Dragons Rising started, we've been watching it together. But then numerous delays happened for us. What those delays were I'm keeping private. So don't ask.

But we FINALLY watched it! And we managed to watch the season in one sitting this time!

Last time it took us two to finish it cause we got cut short.

But if y'all seen my review for Part 1, you know I loved it. I actively LOST MY VOICE at the end watching it and screaming.

So you BET I was excited for Part 2 to see the follow up of this season's story and for it to live up to the hype!

So... did it?

...

... ... ...

... ... ... ... ...

No. It didn't.

Don't get me wrong, this is NOT a bottom tier season. Not by any means.

And there is one really, REALLY good thing about this part.

But overall, with what Part 1 set up, this was such a disappointing follow up. So... idk what the overall take is. I've been avoiding my Ninjago feed for spoilers. But I am in the category of not liking it very much.

After such a dark, intense, BRUTAL first part that raised the stakes that you FELT, this part...

...has our characters taking place in a fun tournament.

I'm sorry what?

Now, don't get me wrong, I flipping LOVE Tournament Of Elements. One of the best seasons of the show to this day.

But this was completely subverting my expectations, and NOT in a good way. And I think the main criticism of this part is that this wants to replicate Tournament Of Elements SO BADLY. But there is NO FOUNDATION to justify this being ANYTHING like Tournament Of Elements in the first place, so it falls apart.

Ras and his clan's plan was to use a spell to resurrect the Forbidden Five using human sacrifices. So they could control these folks and their power. Why are they doing this? Well Ras explains why and that's spoiler territory, so hold onto it for a second. It's real interesting.

In the first Part, they only succeeded at getting ONE out of their prison, sacrificing Kai in the process. With the Blood Moon gone for a millennium, their plan is fumbled and they have to regroup to come up with a new plan to obtain their goals.

So what the antagonists of this story want is to sacrifice others to revive foes for their plot of *SPOILERS*. That is what is set up for this story.

NEVER, did it say ANYWHERE, that they needed Elemental Powers of any kind to obtain their goals. It was NOT relevant to this plot.

And that's what this Tournament does. You lose a match, you get your powers taken away by *Insert Power Absorbing Artifact Here*, and the winner gets everybody's powers. JUST LIKE ANOTHER TOURNAMENT ARC.

Except in THAT arc, their powers were relevant to the villain's goals, it was established why, and it was a HUGE stake that they lose their powers because not only do you lose, but you also become a slave.

I mean in this one there's the mechanic of the victors of these battles obtaining the loser's powers to carry on in the tournament. That's a cool mechanic I guess. It's underutilized as all Cursed Realm, but it's a cool idea.

Other than that, A TOURNAMENT ARC OF FUN AND GAMES DOES NOT FIT IN THIS SEASON'S STORY. PERIOD.

Also doesn't help that in this tournament, it's very well established that there is a good guy team and a bad guy team. While the NPCs get next to no screen time to have any sort of stake in this game. And they do nothing to shake that up. The only time they do is with characters NOT competing. But we'll get to that later.

In Tournament of Elements, yeah, we had our good guy alliance of the ninja, but the other competitors around them WEREN'T evil. "You're not my enemy, Chen is" And all that. They were just a bunch of naive self reliant bozos who needed to learn unity. They were relevant to the story. But not because they were bad guys.

I'm sorry I'm comparing this to another season so much, but I think it's warranted. Especially when I'm trying to find a way to explain my criticism in a way that (hopefully) makes sense.

I also just flat out DO NOT understand the rules of this tournament at all.

They literally SAY AT THE BEGINNING that giving the victor all the elemental powers is a STUPID IDEA BECAUSE THE VICTOR MIGHT BE EVIL AND DESTROY THE WORLD.

But they completely ignore warning with "Nah, but I'm in charge here, so I wouldn't let that happen!"

Guess what happens.

How does everybody adjust to these new powers real quickly? How does no one get corrupted with all that power? That's a thing that can happen in the Ninjago universe, we've seen it multiple times.

Why is everybody completely okay with betting their powers for the tournament? Not a single person is objecting?

Why did the ninja not originally get invited? Why did the bad guys not want them there? They're some of the most LEGENDARY Pokémon-I mean Elemental Masters in the Merged Realms.

What happens to the expelled people? Do they just get to keep their powers because it's never said they take their powers away when disqualified.

So does that mean everyone can just leave and they lose nothing?

So who cares if the ninja aren't invited/are at stake of being expelled. They don't lose their powers as a consequence of expulsion. They can just leave. And they lose nothing. It's actually so much better than competing.

JUST LEAVE.

Apparently you can win a race to avoid expulsion. Okay. Cool...

Where was this rule when the slug guy got expelled? (I don't remember his name I'm sorry) It was never brought up and Mr. "Follow The Rules" was RIGHT THERE to bring it up!

Who. The Cursed Realm. Is allowing these people to use outside power mechanics?!?!

THE GONG IS OUT IN THE OPEN AND VERY BLATANTLY BEING USED.

THEY EVEN SAY THIS AIN'T ALLOWED, BUT NO ONE CALLS IT OUT AS CHEATING.

It would make sense if BOTH host characters were in on it considering the twist later, but ONE OF THEM IS NOT. SO THAT EXCUSE FALLS APART.

I. AM. SO. FSM-DARN. CONFUSED.

Seriously, this plot device is the single biggest problem of this entire Part, and it drags a whole lot down.

They say that the bad guys getting what they want can destroy the Source Dragons, I.E, THE BIG BANG THAT MADE THE UNIVERSE. That's a pretty big stake, right?

Well I never felt like that was the stake because the whole season we waste time in this tournament nonsense. They even SAY they don't need to win. They just need to find the culprit behind who murdered the Matriarchs. So why are you competing? JUST LEAVE.

YOU LOSE NOTHING. YOU RISK LESS.

The first part did such an EXCELLENT job at establishing the DREAD of the Blood Moon. Lloyd's visions and how scared he is of what was to come. The dragons themselves being horrified of the Blood Moon. Getting Bonzle to safety. The training to prepare for the Blood Moon. It was all building up to this Blood Moon being a stressful, nightmare enducing moment. AND IT DELIVERED IN BEING THAT WHEN IT FINALLY HAPPENED.

It was DREADFUL when the first of the Forbidden Five came out.

But at the climax of this part, I felt nothing.

The pacing is also really atrocious here. I want to take back my pacing criticism from the last Part. It takes FOUR episodes for the Tournament to even get started. (Tournament of Elements took TWO btw). There's a point where a challenge isn't even finished by the end of an episode, and they have to spend the next episode with another part of it to wrap it up. THIS IS AN EPISODE, RIGHT? And then the final battle is ONE episode. ONE.

Cool. I missed Skybound's pacing. /s

There's other examples, but that's spoiler territory so hang on.

Cole and Zane also do next to nothing in this Part. Zane has been done dirty since the last Tournament of Elements and this was NO redemption. Then he does nothing.

Cole has a bit more to do, but his role could've easily gone to any character and nothing would've changed. It's just "Oh this thing used to be my moms! I'll use it for its elemental powers"

Which apparently you can store elemental powers in mechs???

Add that to Ninjago Lore Plot Holes.

(My GF's sibling told me to make an essay about Ninjago's Lore. And... just the idea gives me a headache. Maybe if I get enough demands I'll take on the challenge. Idk.)

And that's it.

Also when did Geo leave the Monastery? That was off screen. No explanation. You don't wanna stay with your boyfriend? I thought that was your whole character thing.

If you wanna have Geo in the story and have him NOT revolve around Cole, GREAT. But it needs to be about SOMETHING. That's all I'm saying.

But I still love these characters, and they're all still themselves, so that's great.

Wyldfyre ESPECIALLY is really growing on me. I swear she's getting higher and higher on my tier list with every installment. I'm THIS CLOSE to putting her in the "WE STAN IN THIS HOUSE" Tier.

Keep being your delightful chaotic self, sweetie! We love you for it!

Anyway that's all I can get into without getting into SPOILERS. So this is where I put the bar.

OH HEY, REMEMBER THAT KAI GOT SACRIFICED AND IS NOW TRAPPED IN HELL?

That was, A BIG THING, right?

Dude got thrown into an inter-dimensional prison without his consent and is stuck there for a millennium.

With Bonzle of course.

There's also four other evil masterminds living there that could KILL HIM.

THIS IS BAD, RIGHT? THIS IS REAL BAD.

Bonzle's a spell. A skeleton. She's fine. She can last a millennium if she's careful. Kai is a MORTAL. BRO'S GONNA DIE IN THERE.

I wonder how he's gonna get out of this one and how he's gonna manage in there. I wonder what he's gonna do in there-

Nothing.

We get one scene where they walk around. And it's so short. That's it. No other establishment of this prison.

Then they discover that Kai snuck in some of Riyu's dragon scales so they can... communicate with him...?

Despite this being an INTERDIMENSIONAL PRISON.

WHAT?

You've been here for HOW LONG and you didn't realize you had scales stuck on your sleeve?

Riyu can modify POWERS. When was it established he was telepathic? Unless I'm stupid and forgetting.

Also, this shouldn't work anyway. IT'S AN INTERDIMENSIOAL PRISON.

That's it. That's everything Kai related. And Bonzle who?

I also don't like how people brush off losing Kai the way they did.

Yeah we get TOLD Wyldfyre is much more aggressive with her training than usual and she's trying to live up to Kai. But that's one scene. And honestly, she's not acting much different from how she usually acts.

And Nya briefly says a couple of times "I miss my brother". But that's it.

THEY DO NOTHING ABOUT IT. GUYS, YOUR FAMILY MEMBER IS STUCK IN AN INTERDIMENSIONAL PRISON AND COULD DIE IN THERE.

And you're just gonna NOT worry about it?

It would make sense if this whole Tournament plot was a scheme related to opening the portal again and getting Kai back and that's why they're doing this. But no.

If they thought Kai was dead. I'd get it. But they blatantly state otherwise. So clearly they don't think he's dead.

IF HE'S ALIVE, WHY WON'T ANYONE TRY AND HELP HIM?!

Some family you people are.

Oh and Kai just comes back anyway. Yay.

Glad one of the highest stake consequences of the first part meant ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

Poor Kai. He just walked through hell and the moment he gets out he gets slammed to the ground by another high stake fight.

Bro. Take a nice long nap when you get home. You deserve it.

ALSO THE FORBIDDEN FIVE ALL ESCAPE.

I thought you needed sacrifices to do that? Now they can just leave willy nilly? Okay sure...

They don't make an impression, at least in this season. They retreat. So next season we'll probably get more of them.

But what about the one that got out in the first part?

Yeah... I really hated how they handled him.

Isn't this dude supposed to be, HELLA INTIMMIDATING?

That's why Ras had to put a shock collar on him to keep him under control. That's also the sole reason why he's pissy at Ras later.

I am NEVER convinced that this guy is a threat.

AND HE WON THE TOURNAMENT. AND I THINK HE'S NOT A THREAT.

How do you manage that?!

EVERY. SINGLE. ROUND. WITH HIM. Includes CHEATING from other characters in order to let him win.

The Nya round? Rigged game to let him win. She would've beat him had it not been for that.

The Lloyd round? Rigged game to let him win due to disqualification. He would've beat him had it not been for that.

The Sora round? Rigged game to let him win. She would've beat him had it not been for that-YOU GET IT.

How am I supposed to believe this dude is a super huge intimidating force when he not only gets defeated at the end by a trophy, but has to have the rules be TWISTED in his favor to let him win? By OTHER character's work?

Is he an author's darling to Blek? I think it's that. I think Blek just has him as a writers pet in his story. (Should I apologize to Priya?)

Also let's talk about the saddest excuse for a twist villain ever. Blek.

SO, funny story while we were watching this season.

There's a murder mystery plotline on who killed the Matriarch Dragon that Arin needs to solve throughout the season.

Me and my GF made a bet.

I said "Okay, all the other suspects would be WAY TOO OBVIOUS to be the culprits. Ras and his whole gang are in the tournament as well without killing dragons as an established motive. They did the 'host is the villain' last time and the guy is mustache twirling and WyldFyre called it. The Seatrix is a raging psycho." (Who, btw, has ABSOLUTELY NO BUSINESS being in this story. She served nothing. She accomplished nothing.) "And they introduce this sweet childhood friend character of Arin's who suddenly not an elemental power?! IT'S FRAK. THAT'S THE DRAGON KILLER."

So we made a bet that if I was right and it was him, we'd get Mexican Takeout.

And if I was WRONG, she had to choose what was for dinner and I was convinced she was gonna make me eat bugs.

Um... suffice to say, I LOST THE BET.

But she got me Mexican food anyway. I love her. <3

The secret murderer of the Matriarch Dragons and the villains behind the whole operation was...

...the villains from the last part.

WELL DUH. THAT'S THE MOST PREDICTABLE THING IN THE WORLD.

OH AND THE HOST WAS IN ON IT TOO. (One of them at least)

(Wait didn't we do that already?)

Tournament of Elements KNEW that was such a predictable twist, so they didn't even make it a twist. It's revealed in Episode 2. Chen is evil. Got it. The situation there wasn't trying to reveal this to the audience, but rather the other characters who were oblivious.

This was trying to fool the audience. And it did not work.

HE'S A MUSTACHE TWIRLING DUDE IN BLACK AND GREY. OF COURSE HE WAS IN ON IT AND RIGGED THE GAMES FOR RAS.

He also gets NO time to actually BE a villain. He gets outed. He whines. Then he gets ditched. That's it.

This is such a bad twist.

Like, I think Miles Axelrod got more screen time to be outed as a villain tbh. (That's exaggerating and not entirely true)

We got a good laugh out of WyldFyre's menu prank though.

You're doing amazing, sweetie!

I kinda wish I was right and it was Frak. That would've been such a devastating twist and added to the more morally grey subtext they had going on. They didn't even have to break his character for him to be the killer, it could've just been either "He was manipulated and following orders" or "It was an accident and he didn't know the consequences".

Especially since it's revealed Frak naively joined Ras's clan not knowing what was actually going on. And it would've made his redemption later that much more bittersweet. Maybe he would've tried to apologize for the murder but fail knowing nothing could undo it.

Even without that though, I like Frak. He's just a really sweet naive guy living out his dreams and got swept up in the wrong crowd. But he ends up valuing his morals over power. That's nice. I like that.

Again, I think him being the killer would've really escalated his character to eleven, BUT I will take what we got cause what we got was neat.

I also like Robi. He's just a really fun, well intended (if a bit stupid) guy who values entertainment and chaos. He's a delight on screen.

Also his interactions with WyldFyre are really cute and wholesome.

Wyldfyre getting a love interest was NOT on my Bingo Board. I headcanoned her as AroAce for awhile. And now that got shot down.

BOO MY HEADCANONS WERE SHOT DOWN, 0/10 GARBAGE. /j

But hey. He's way more entertaining than Skylar. And they're cute. So who cares that they threw in this hetero-relationship quota?

If I had a nickel for every time a fire-based character in Ninjago got a love interest that was a family member to the evil mastermind of a tournament, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot but it's weird it happened twice, right?

There's one thing I don't like about him though. And that's that him NOT being involved with the villain's scheme creates all kinds of plot holes.

In one episode the ninja get framed for assault on Cinder. Which is against the rules.

BUT LIKE, Robi said he SAW IT ON CAMERA.

IF HE DID, HE WOULD SEE THAT NO FINGER WAS LAID ON CINDER AND THEY WERE INNOCENT.

ALSO, THERE ARE SIX WITNESSES.

If it was JUST Blek and Robi wasn't there, then I'd get it. But no. Robi believes this too.

MY GUY, ARE YOU HALLUCINATING?

FSM, I was so angry at that.

And it's SUCH UNECESSARY drama too because it does NOTHING. There ended up being NO consequences.

We could've not had this and used this screen time for something else, like...

OH YEAH, JAY.

So, uh... last time we saw Jay he was at the Administration as an associate with memory loss.

Here, we see him again, and RAS FOUND HIM AND MADE HIM JOIN THEM.

I'M SORRY, WHAT?!?!

I don't know what the majority take is on this. But I don't hate this idea. I think it's actually a really cool idea of Jay with amnesia being told lies about his identity and siding with the villains as a result. It's a cool idea.

The problem?

This transition happened OFF SCREEN.

HOW DID RAS EVEN FIND HIM?! WHAT?!?!?

Okay, well this is the first time the ninja have seen him!

THE LONG AWAITED MOMENT. HOW IS THIS GONNA PLAY OUT?

Uh... he fights Nya in a match, doesn't remember her, loses the match, and then gets exiled.

And then they never bring him up again.

For a plotline and moment that had been set up since Season 1, this is beyond disappointing of a scene.

Especially for Nya. Girliepop was looking for her husband since day one of Merge. It was her FEAR that he would forget her. And she lives that fear.

To be fair, she DOES try to go after him. But they convince her not to and that the tournament was more important. Okay. Fair.

But like, Zane was already out of the game so you could've sent him after Jay, idk...

And then Nya just I guess forgets about it. Which is very OOC. Especially for Dragons Rising Nya.

I will say I hope Season 3 brings Jay more justice because right now Jay stans are probably starving to death in the cellar. And just got fed rotten flesh instead of an actual meal.

Jay's not my favorite, but I definitely feel you.

Uh... Cinder was there. I didn't care for him in the First Part, and here he does way less. So yeah moving on.

Jordana's little redemption was nice and I understood the buildup, & her interactions with Sora were sweet. (Lesbians anyone?) What I didn't really get was her being possessed by a demon.

I knew she was possessed, but I thought it was Ras's master.

But no, it's one of the Forbidden Five's souls that got transferred to her body during the Blood Moon...

...which makes no sense because it was never established this was something that could've happened.

Maybe I'm being an absolute dumbass and missing some things. That's possible. I missed some things last time too that someone cleared up for me. (Thanks btw.) But I'm watching these WITH someone who is far more observant than me on a lot of things. And we BOTH were confused as we'll get out.

Oh, and there's something else.

WU CAUSED THE MERGE.

...

Okay, I'm 90% sure Wu is dead. But that's another topic.

I have NO IDEA how Wu causing the Merge was even possible. But he did it. And he kept this all a secret and made it someone else's problem.

Just like last time this happened.

And the time before that.

And the time before that.

And the time before that.

And-

OH MY GOD WU, STOP. JUST FLIPPING STOP IT ALREADY.

YOU'VE PULLED THIS SORT OF TRASH ON EVERYONE SINCE THE BEGINNING OF THE SHOW AND EVERY SINGLE TIME IT'S LEAD TO DISASTERUS CONSEQUENCES.

AND IN YOUR THOUSANDS OF YEARS OF LIFE, YOU STILL NEVER LEARNED THE LESSON.

EVEN WHEN YOU'RE DEAD. YOU'RE STILL PULLING THIS.

OH MY GOD. LIKE. OH. MY. GOD.

I know it's a hot take but I've said it before. I don't like Wu. I never did. I start to hate him MORE AND MORE with each passing season. It's crazy.

HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO TEACH YOU THIS LESSON, OLD MAN?!

BRO DIDN'T EVEN APOLOGIZE. HE JUST CONFIRMED IT AND DIPPED.

I CAN'T EVEN ESCAPE HIM WHEN HE'S DEAD.

So yeah that's my thoughts on that.

Okay, enough negatives. Didn't I say there was something I REALLY liked about this Part?

Let's get into that.

Arin.

HOLY FIRST SPINJISU MASTER, ARIN.

He was the single best thing in this part. And quite possibly of this season as a whole.

Season 1 was Sora's origin story.

Season 2 was Arin's origin story.

But there's something even greater than that.

Sora got a heroes origin story.

Arin got a VILLAINS origin story.

Yep.

WHAT DID I SAY BEFORE?

"The Evil Arin Theory Is Brilliant. Too bad it'll never happen because this is a kids show and thus they wouldn't do that to one of their protagonists."

Well. I will be damned. I WAS WRONG.

THEY ACTUALLY DID IT.

Like, I saw it coming, but I was still surprised they went that route.

See, I saw the build up there.

Arin is the only ninja on the entire team without any powers, in a world where powers are the PEAK of being a hero.

Everyone who is an Elemental Master was chosen by destiny and/or family lineage. If you aren't an Elemental Master, TOUGH LUCK.

Arin was so interesting because despite not having powers, he STILL chose to take the role as a ninja and train under Lloyd. Even when the entire world system didn't work for people like him and was setting him up for failure.

(Hello autism metaphor my old friend...)

One would think through power of love and friendship and through hard work and perseverance and determination and passion, he would overcome the odds and become a very valuable ninja!

But... no.

He couldn't succeed.

The universe would not let him succeed. It wasn't in the stars.

His dream was never meant to come true.

He's destined for failure.

Even when approaching the ninja about his setbacks, they don't even really try to work around the issue. They just say "Eh, you're fine the way you are kid, we still love you. Anyway why don't you do this sideline job that the rest of us can doon our own just as effectively if not more so?"

I'm autistic in a school life that hated my guts. And let me tell you. I HAVE BEEN THERE.

The buildup was all there for Arin to learn certain things and made perfect sense.

His BEST FRIEND deceived him and refused to believe in him. And he is SO UPSET at the betrayal.

But you also can't hate Sora for it because of WHY she did it. And I feel SO BAD for her as a result.

She did this morally AWFUL BETRAYAL to a strong friendship. BUT it led to the best possible outcome for them at the heat of the moment, and it led to HER having the best results she could've.

She WON. But at what cost? The cost of putting a knife in your friend's back so deep that you can't heal the scar? EVER?

His childhood friend, who was working with the villain, having a lesson that works for Arin and helps him succeed. By telling him to defy the world's logic instead of flowing with it. Which is so strange because IT'S NOT WRONG.

Ras is a sociopath and has done many, MANY horrible things. No denying that. But he also has good intentions of wanting to undo the Merge and reunite everyone. His methods of viewing the world actually become beneficial. It's... strange.

It's strange because Ninjago has always been this black and white show. Good guys. Bad guys. Boom.

It's RARE you will find a character that is morally grey in this show.

So it is SO STRANGE to me to have a conflict that's becoming so morally ambiguous in a world that used to be so basic and altruistic. But it's done in a way that feels so natural.

I can safely say without hating on them, THE NINJA ARE NOT COMPLETELY GOOD INFLUENCES. THEY'RE FAILING.

I'm used to Total Drama being a morally grey show. Everyone there is screwed up in the head. Morality is OUT THE WINDOW.

But NINJAGO?! Yeah this is some wild stuff.

Ras is still a bad person. No one's arguing about that.

Arin ISN'T. He's a kind dude! He wants to do the right thing! He just has these other priorities that are very sympathetic and understandable! He's a kid in a system that is failing him and he wants to be validated!

Despite Arin turning at the end, he's NOT evil for it.

And I think that is SO MUCH MORE INTRIGUING about it than him turning straight up evil. And I CANNOT BELIEVE THEY ACTUALLY WENT THIS ROUTE.

He doesn't fully trust Ras. He knows Ras is a garbage person and a dangerous terrorist. It's not like he's completely agreeing to being a terrorist as well. He's just looking out for himself and his own interests and wants, and Ras is the one that can help with that. I like that.

I want to make that clear for anyone confused in assuming Arin is believing the terrorist and everything he says. No he's not. He refused to believe Ras multiple times, and had to get PROVEN multiple times that Ras was telling the truth. And even THEN. He still knows this guy is dangerous and evil.

Also I love the kid flashbacks with Arin and his parents being detectives, OMG...

So yeah. Ninjago went there. WE HAVE A VILLAIN PROTAGONIST.

Or at least a protagonist that is morally grey.

I NEVER imagined they would EVER go this route. And I am VERY much an Arin stan now, and I am SO INTRIGUED by what they do with this.

Even if they fumble up this plotline badly in the future, I am still going to be praising the balls they had to do it ALONE.

Sora and Arin are becoming a Vi and Jinx.

Hopefully they have a better ending than that though...

So yeah, this Part did ONE plotline super well, and very little else lived up to the hype. Disappointed.

If you were to ask me to rank these, Part 1 of this season is an S tier. Part 2 is a very low C tier, bordering a D. So I GUESS that translates to a B??? Yeah we'll go with B tier.

This is one of those seasons that's all over the place overall.

[scullysexual]

You're Never Just Anything To Me (2)

@today-in-fic | ao3 | Prev.Chapter.

A look into Mulder and Scully's relationship starting from Millennium going all the way up to Requiem.

II. Rush.

“Would you like to come over tonight?”

“Mulder, it’s a Wednesday,” her voice shrills through the phone.

“Well done, you know the days of the week,” Mulder says with a massive grin, hoping the convey the joke through the phone.

She grows quiet and he thinks for a second that he’s overstepped the mark and offended her but then her voice sounds again.

“Shut up…” she says but he can hear her smiling.

“Seriously, so what if it’s a Wednesday? I miss you.”

“You saw me three hours ago.”

“Yeah, too long ago. What’s wrong with coming over? I stayed over on Monday.”

“Yeah and look at how much scrambling around we had to do to make sure we got to work on time. Separately.”

There was a lot of fumbling. Alarms going off an hour before they usually would. He had to get home, shower, change his clothes, and drive to work. They also kept getting distracted. Well no, he kept getting distracted, trying to convince her to skive off work and stay here and have sex all day. Scully shot that idea down immediately and his distractions had meant he only had an hour to get home, do his thing, and get himself to work.

“Bring some things with you, shower here, and we’ll go to work together.”

She laughs. “Then they’ll definitely know we’re sleeping together.”

A thrill runs through him hearing her say sleeping together. That’s what they were doing after all. Even weeks later from that first night on New Years Day and he still couldn’t believe it. He grins like an idiot.

“They already think we’re sleeping together. Does it really matter if they know?”

“Of course it matters, Mulder. There’s a reason it’s…frowned upon. You know they’ll split us up.”

She’s right. They might even take her away from him. Permanently. No, he couldn’t have that. Will not have that. Not now. Not ever.

Scully sighs. “I think we need some rules.”

“What? Why do we need rules? Rules are boring, they get in the way.”

“And for good reason,” she says. “Workdays are for work things. Weekends are for us. Okay?”

Mulder nods to himself. “Weekends are for us.”

“I’m glad we understand.”

“But does that mean I could, theoretically, invite you around through the week and say I had a case to discuss with you and if one thing led to another we wouldn’t technically be breaking your rules because I invited you around to look at a case?”

He hears her exasperated sigh and smiles. “Mulder, stop trying to find loopholes already. But yes, you could invite me round to go over a case through the week.”

Mulder listens, wanting to hear more.

“But Mulder.”

“Yes?”

“You keep your hands to yourself.”

…

He starts living for the weekend. Starts counting down the days, even hours, till he can have Scully in his arms, her mouth on his, her body beneath him. When Work Stuff melds into Us Stuff.

He finds himself unable to wait until Saturday. When Friday rolls around he can barely contain himself. He glances towards Scully every moment he gets and she does well to ignore him, to get on with their boring end-of-week paperwork unaffected by whatever has affected him.

It's 1:37pm, his lunch half finished on his desk when he finally asks.

“So…” Mulder begins and Scully looks up at him from her salad. “Since tomorrow is a Saturday and not a workday that means Friday nights aren’t school nights.”

“What is it you’re asking, Mulder?”

“Can Friday nights count as the weekend?” he chokes out desperately.

She smiles to herself. “Always searching for a loophole,” she says more to herself than him. Then he watches as she thinks it over. “Yes. Okay.”

“Starting today?” She looks at him aghast. “Please,” he pathetically begs.

Scully sighs. “Starting today.”

Mulder lasts until 4:46pm. Those last 14 minutes are tortuous. He’s stopped typing his report, he can’t remove the images of what he plans to do to Scully tonight from his mind. He looks over at her. Since his question at lunchtime he’s noticed she’s become a bit more restless, her foot tapping incessantly against the footrest of her chair. She remains more focused than himself, still scribbling away at expense reports but the calm, collected, in control person of this morning is slowly starting to unravel.

“Scully?”

She jumps up like she’s been shocked, slamming the accounting book shut with more force than necessary.

“My place,” is all she says.

It’s 4:52pm.

…

They barely make it through the front door.

Scully had wanted to throw the weekend rule away as soon as she mentioned it but listening to Mulder try to loophole is way out of them only made her resolve more certain. Rules were necessary. They needed to not get caught out.

His lips crash into hers and Scully gasps as he picks her up, holding her between her entry way wall and his body. She thought about putting a plant here, the space looked so empty and sad. Now she realises it would just get in the way. The space has a purpose: them.

They don’t even take their clothes off properly.

The waiting, the anticipation, counting down the days and the hours until they could devour each other again had gotten the both of them pent up with energy. It was like all the other years only this time they knew it was going to get resolved and that just made the energy between them stronger.

Scully unbuckles his belt, undoes the button on his pants. Mulder pulls her tights off, pushes her skirt up, and drags her underwear to the side.

He’s thrusting into her with no time wasted. Scully’s head falls slack against the wall, withering and moaning as Mulder ploughs into her at a hurried pace. It’s quick, hard, and slightly erring on the rough side as her lower back is constantly being slammed into the wall by his eager hips. There’s embarrassing wet sound emitting from between her legs but Scully can’t bring herself to care as she crests over the peak. She becomes dead weight in his arm only perking up slightly when she feels the surge of Mulder’s cum rush inside her.

They fall to the floor and don’t move for what feels like hours.

…

Perhaps he could get used to this weekends only thing. It only seems to serve them in the long run.

They had sex three times in about as many hours. Pouring an entire workdays week worth of sexual escapades into one night, probably because they both know it’ll be another week before they can do it again.

Food has been ordered and there’s about an hour delay, not that either of them are complaining. Their night is quite simple; sex, nap, sex, eat, nap, sex, more sex, sleep. They don’t talk about work. They don’t talk about future cases. They don’t talk about what happens if it’s the weekend and they’re on a case and staying in a motel.

Mulder doesn’t ask because it’s a weekend and even if they aren’t at home surely that means this won’t be put on hold.

But looking at Scully, thinking about her rules, there’s a vague thought that it just might.

Scully was hovering somewhere around his legs, near his groin. She had gone to the toilet and he expected her to return to his arms, to continue their post-coital nap. Instead she had disappeared halfway down the bed. He had no idea what she was doing.

“You have a pretty cock.”

Mulder’s eyes burst open. “Excuse me?” Said pretty cock becomes alive.

“It’s pretty,” states Scully doing nothing to elaborate on her original statement.

Mulder swallows as she trails her finger from base to head. Now his dick was really starting to wake up.

“Uh, thanks…I guess?” He’s never had someone compliment his penis before.

“It’s the nicest one I’ve seen,” she mutters to herself.

Mulder doesn’t like to think about Scully having sex with other people, seeing their cocks. It draws up mixed feelings for him. On one hand, the idea of her with anyone but himself as a course of jealously surging through him. On the other hand, it turns him on. A lot.

Then he frowns. “Scully…what are you doing?” Because her hovering her face around his cock had his thoughts going elsewhere.

“Huh?” she asks, looking at him with confusion.

“Why are you just looking at my dick?” He catches a look in her eyes and is quick to placate it. “Not- not that I don’t appreciate you calling my dick…pretty I just…You’re there and…”

“Oh..” it dawns on her then just what is question was. “Well…I was gonna ask because you asked me on New Years Day but then I didn’t know if I needed permission but then what if you didn’t like that and I should’ve asked and…” She was rambling now. Something he’s known her to do when she’s scared or anxious about something. He gently interrupts her.

“Oh I like that, Scully.” She looks at him still unsure. “As for permission…consider it granted. You no longer need to ask from this point forward.”

She smiles, reassured. “Okay.” She moves so she’s between his legs and Mulder waits, holding a breath as she holds him gently at the base.

The first touch of her tongue, the heat of her mouth, has his eyes rolling back into his head. He clenches the duvet so as to stop himself from grabbing her. He let’s her do her thing, explore him with her tongue. The newness in it, the inexperience with his cock in particular spreads a loveable warmth through him. He loves her. He loves her so fucking much.

“Fuck, Scully…” he breathes and Scully hums around him. The vibrations coursing through him. He’s close, so dangerously close. He wants to come in her mouth but it’s their first time and what if she doesn’t like that…Now he was rambling, spiralling, all the while feeling his balls tightening. He’s seconds away from blowing.

His hand unclenches the covers, finding her, tapping her, trying to gain her attention.

“I’m gonna—”

Her eyes widen in realisation. She pulls her mouth off him and pumps him the rest of the way. He finishes it, his cum spilling all over stomach.

Mulder lets his orgasm settle as Scully scampers off into the bathroom. He hears the sound of a faucet and closes his eyes trying to calm himself down.

He jumps at the contact of a warm cloth against his stomach, eyes reopening and finding Scully.

“Sorry,” she apologises shyly but continues to gently clean him up like he usually does with her. His heart grows bigger.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to…” He coughs trying to find the words. “If I was allowed to…”

She smiles at him sweetly. “Consider this permission to come in my mouth next time.”

Mulder is dumbstruck as she wanders off to the bathroom again. She said it so sweetly, so innocently yet the words that came out of her mouth were not sweet or innocent.

He loves her so much.

He almost says it when she emerges out of the bathroom and climbs back into the bed, snuggling down beside him. He stops himself at the last minute, bites his tongue to keep the words from falling out on their own accord. Instead he squeezes her against him, presses a kiss to her hairline and hopes his actions conveys what he longs to say.

…

“Mulder…” she warns for the third time.

“I’m not doing anything.”

Mulder stands incredibly close to her, the front of his body flush with the back of hers. It’s unnecessary given the amount of space behind him. He’s doing this on purpose.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she says.

“And what am I trying to do?”

His hands touch her hips, she can feel his bulge pressing into her lower back. He’s doing what he’s been trying to do all week.

“No, Mulder.” She pulls herself away.

“Please,” he begs, desperation on his face. “It’s been a fantasy for so long. Just this once.”

This is what she was worried about. Us Stuff getting mixed in with Work Stuff. They have to keep them separate. They can wait until the weekend.

But it was only Tuesday and even with the addition of Friday night falling into ‘weekend’ it still felt so far away.

This was proving difficult for both of them.

“What if someone comes down here?” she asks eyes straying to the office door.

“Who comes down here?”

“Skinner?”

“Skinner’s been down here once and that was just to throw my resignation back in my face and tell me it was unacceptable.”

“You handed in your resignation?” Scully asks surprised.

“No, I just told you Skinner threw it back in my face.” He shakes his head. “You’re changing the subject. No one comes down here, Scully. No one cares.”

“No, Mulder.” She can’t do it. She can’t let the lines be blurred. “Rule Number Two—”

Mulder let’s out an exasperated groan.

“No sex in the office,” she yells above his groan.

Mulder pulls away from, sitting back down in his chair and looking at her like a child who’s just been denied ice cream.

“It’s my most frequent fantasy,” he mutters with pity to himself.

Scully sighs. “Do you have your report. I’m going to give it to Skinner.”

He yanks the papers from the printer and smacks them down onto her hands looking every bit like a spoilt child.

Scully can’t help her grin at his behaviour.

“Hey,” she says gently and Mulder looks at her with hope in his eyes. “Friday. We can act out any fantasy you’ve ever had.” His eyes light up and he thinks he’s won. Scully quickly adds. “At home.”

She makes her way towards the door, smiling as she hears him mumble and grumble about how “Home isn’t the office now, is it?” She shuts the door behind her, shaking her head but still smiling.

Then a dark thought overcomes her and makes the smile fade. Did he and Diana do it in the office? No! She can’t think like that, it didn’t matter. Diana was gone, 6 feet in the ground, Mulder has made it clear to her that Diana was history.

But still, Scully couldn’t help but wonder if he was constantly comparing herself to the other woman.

[creativepawsworld]

The Millennium

Pairing - Young Cillian Murphy x Reader

Summary - It’s New Years Eve 1999 and you go to a nightclub in the middle of Cork with your friends only to attract the attention of a blue eyed actor. 

Words - 1582

Warnings - Language, SMUT, SEX, 18+, Mature readers only please. 

Notes - This is set back before the Millennium (year 2000) so it’s during Cillian’s younger, youthful days. Before he got his big break with 28 Days Later so he is about 22 in this. Happy Friday :) 

Recommendation for a song which inspired this one shot- Don’t Give Up - Chicane feat Bryan Adams

The effects of the alcohol had a light buzz flowing through your veins as you threw your head back enjoying your last night out this year. Something about the bright green strobe lights bouncing off the walls and your body, had you feeling alive. 

It was a few hours before midnight on the millennium and everyone, literally everyone was out in full swing tonight to celebrate, knowing they wouldn’t live long enough to see another. 

The bright lights blinked and cut their way through the crowd just as Bryan Adams sung his line in Chicane’s song, Don't give up. The song had become your anthem for the new year, the new century, the new millennium, and no one was taking that from you.

As you turned around on your golden heels you attention is grabbed by a boyish looking man next to the bar, denim jacket thrown over his shoulders, a white t-shirt underneath. His hair was longer than most, just passing his ears normally a style you wouldn’t find yourself lusting over but on this guy it worked.

He held your attention with his dazzling blue eyes and a cocky grin resting on his perfectly plump lips. His eyes never leaving yours as he watched you sway your body to the music, the light catching the sweat on your body perfectly so it glowed, like glitter.

Tilting your head to the side you threw your hands into the air swaying from side to side, adding a lot more hip action just for his benefit.

With a knowing smirk, he placed his beer bottle on the bar, making his way towards you, immediately placing his hands on your hips. You allowed your hands to fall around his neck as he pulled you closer to him, hips crashing into each other extracting a moan from your lips.

You stayed close, smiling at one another before you turned around pressing your ass into his dark jean covered crotch, grinding along it with the help of his hands. His erection becoming more obvious the more you moved against it. 

Groaning in your ear the mystery man bent down to your smaller five foot frame, licking a long, wet slip of his tongue up the column of your neck to you ear, taking it between his teeth and nibbling.

Groaning, you threw your head back into his shoulder, allowing his hands to wonder your body wherever they pleased. They glided along your stomach before making their way up to your breasts, barely ghosting over them before returning to your hips. 

Turning in his hands, you noticed the look in his eyes, no doubt it was mirrored in your own. Lust. 

Unable to control yourself, you grabbed his hands pulling him towards the back of the club, towards the toilets the queue for the female toilets reaching to the bottom of the corridor but the men’s was empty. 

Taking the lead he tugged on your hand, his back leaning against the male bathroom door pushing it open so that the two of you stumbled inside. 

Messily attaching his plump pink lips to yours, you fumbled your way into a cubicle locking it behind you as his hands travelled down to the hem of your dress pulling it up past your waist, his fingers tracing over your lace covered crotch. 

“Ohh fuck” You moaned tangling your hands in his hair, tugging at it slightly as he held your bottom lips between his teeth. 

Puling his head back so you could look into those baby blue eyes, you felt yourself getting lost. Your eyes widen when you felt two of his fingers slip underneath you panties, running along your clit before being thrusted inside you. 

Moaning in pleasure you head flew forward, resting on his shoulder as he pumped the digits in and out of your wet core You had to bite your lip to try and control yourself but when he was pushing against that spongey spot inside of you, you simply lost yourself. 

“Fuck your hot” The man groaned next to you ear. The south Irish accent driving you over the edge as your fingers dug into his shoulders, mouth wide against his shoulder as the started to come down from your release. “Get on your knees” 

Without a second thought you dropped to you knees the man above you pressed himself against the door as you adjusted your feet to either side of the toilet, hands working quickly on his belt. 

“Your gonna look so beautiful choking on my cock” The blue eyed man groaned, thrusting his now bare hips at your face. 

Looking up at him through your eyelashes, your slender fingers gripped around his impressive length, slowly inserting his tip into you mouth, the salty precum causing your eyes to roll to the back of your head. 

“Jesus” The man breathed, hands wrapping around the back of your head, forcing himself further into your mouth which you gladly accepted until you were physically gagging around him. 

Placing your hands on his thighs you tried to push yourself back, away from him but he held you in place, causing tears to fall from your eyes as you literally choked on his cock, just like he wanted you to. 

“Nah, you can take it. You can take it.” He moaned allowing you time to adjust before pushing further into your mouth, an involuntary moan escaping your lips as he did. “I want it all the way down that throat” 

Unable to respond, your mind went blank. Eyes rolling in the back of your head with pleasure as you relaxed, allowing him to slide further down until your face was pressed against his trimmed crotch. 

Reaching your hand up, you gently wrapped it around your neck, moaning when you felt his cock so deep inside you. 

“You like that you dirty girl, like feeling my cock in your throat” He breathed heavily, blue eyes hazing looking down at you. 

Without warning he removed his member causing a whine to fall from your lips but you didn’t have the time to properly complain. 

He had spun you around and bent you over the closed toilet seat, the tip of his cock sliding over your soaked clit before forcibly thrusting himself inside, a silent scream leaving your lips at the feeling. 

“Oh shiittt, you feel so good girl” The man moaned loudly as he bottomed out inside of you. 

The fact he didn’t put on a condom or ask about birth control instantly leaving your mind as soon as he started to pound inside of you at an phenomenal pace. 

“Oh god, oh fucking god” You cry out, the intense feeling rebuilding in your core once again and you knew it wouldn’t take long before you were a complete mess of a woman in front of this man. 

Feeling a hand come up and tangle in your hair, it pulled you back causing your spine to dip and your shoulders to arch giving the man a brand new angle to torture you with. 

“Not God, Cillian. My name is Cillian and I want you to scream it when you cum around my cock you understand?” He rasped in your ear. 

Your mouth was open, dry so you were unable to respond verbally but you did nod profusely silently begging him to give you your release. Answering you silent plea, his other hand came around rubbing tight circles around your clit, matching the thrusts. 

“Cill... Cill...” You moaned, words broken as the balloon within your belly twisted so tight you were worried about what might happen if you didn’t release it. “CILLIAN” 

The screech that left your mouth had hurt your throat as the balloon popped in the most intense way. You couldn’t see straight, there was bright white blinding light intentionally that subsided and was quickly replaced with black spots in your vision as his movements quickened chasing his own release. 

“FUCK” He grunted loudly from behind you, pulling his cock from your core leaving you feeling rather empty as he pumped his release onto your exposed ass. 

Inhaling deeply through your nose you reached behind you, taking some of his spent cum in your fingers, turning to face him you licked them clean with a groan of your own at the taste. 

Cillian rested his back against the closed door fixing himself, a light layer of sweat coating his face as he stared at your mouth watching your fingers disappearing inside with a low groan. 

With a giggle you cleaned up the mess he made as best you could with some toilet paper before pulling the dress back around yourself.

Once presentable you reached forward capturing his lips once more before moving him out of the way and opening the door, some of the men giving you strange looks, others knowing smirks as Cillian emerged out from behind you. 

Biting your lip you opened the main bathroom door, the distinct smell of sweat, drink and smoke filling your nostrils. Just as you were about to make your way through the crowd to find your friends, a hand pulled your back. 

Turning you noticed Cillian behind you, a softer smile on his face as he placed a piece of paper in your hand with a wink before disappearing into the night. 

Smiling after him, you tucked the piece of paper into your bra knowing exactly what it was, mentally planning the next time you were going to use it. 

[i-already-know-im-going-2-hell]

hiiii cass it's ciel :) all right, i have to admit i personally don't headcanon sam as transfem, but in the spirit of wincest wednesday i want to participate lol. i like the idea of a very east of eden-like confrontation early in sam's life, where (s)he asks john how to become a girl and he tells him that he's a boy, and boys can't become girls. it's something sam internalizes for a long time because what dad says is absolute and dad always knows everything. none of them have any access to anything different; they're cut off from the world and in those days queerness is still shoved out of the public eye anyway—so without information to tell him otherwise sam grows up as a boy and eventually stops questioning it, shoving it deep down and ignoring the little niggling in his brain that tries to remind him something isn't right.

it's not until stanford that those questions unbury themselves. now we're in the new millennium, the world is changing rapidly, and for the first time in his life, sam is part of a society. and in this society he finds people of all sorts. maybe one of his classmates works as a drag queen on the weekends; maybe he sneaks into one of the shows. it would leave an impression and spark questions, but sam has gone his whole life shoving those questions down, and so he finds a pretty girl and plans to make her his wife. his goal here was normal, and so he'll be normal.

and then those questions are stifled again until dean picks him up again, and all hopes of normal fly right out the window. suddenly there's no goal but revenge, and when they've got their revenge he has nothing left but dean. normal is just a distant memory—and without normal, without dad, there's no dirt left to bury sam's questions.

so maybe his eyes linger a little too long on a few plain-looking girls at the bars they visit. and dean will nudge his arm and raise his eyebrows, goading him on, but sam never acts on it because that's not what he wants. he can't figure out exactly what he does want, but it's definitely not sex.

when they're at a gas station one day, sam finds a hair scrunchie forgotten on the ground, a cute polka-dotted pattern on it. and even though it's stained with grime and oil, he picks it up and shoves it in his pocket before dean can see. and he doesn't know why, but it feels important somehow. he takes it out later and just stares at it before shoving it into the deep recesses of his duffel bag.

when sam saves dean's ass during a hunt, he tells him: "that's my boy." and though sam doesn't work any less quickly, his hands fumble on the ropes and he frowns, and dean picks up on something there. sam doesn't talk about it and dean doesn't ask. there's a gravity in that frown.

and then one night when they're in between hunts, when things are quiet, when they're not fighting for once, sam asks dean to braid his hair. he can't, or won't, articulate why he wants this, but dean agrees anyway. it's not like he's never done it before, but this feels different, somehow, like he can't mess this up. so sam sits between dean's legs and lets dean run his fingers through his hair, and sam takes a deep breath and relaxes into it and pretends—what is it he pretends? he hasn't figured it out, not yet. he wears the braid as long as he can, until the hair pulls out and gets knotted and ratty and he has to take a shower. dean makes fun of him for it and sam rolls his eyes, and they keep looking for new hunts.

it's not until they've had sex on four different occasions that sam, between breathless kisses down dean's neck, finally asks if dean will call him a girl. dean doesn't think much of anything of it, and that's exactly what sam was banking on. the night is filled with good girl and pretty girl and sweet girl and all sorts of embarrassing monikers, but despite how cringe dean is with his performances sam revels in it, and something that had been long-buried finally surfaces and clicks in his—her—mind.

but she keeps it to the bedroom (and the impala, and the gas station bathroom, and the graveyard on one memorable occasion) for the longest time because she doesn't know how to approach the topic, doesn't know how dean will react, doesn't know if this is even something she's allowed to have. boys can't be girls, dad had said all those years ago, and maybe he was right about that. girl is something so foreign to sam anyway, and she doesn't really know the first thing about them. except that, maybe, she wants to defy her father one last time.

(when she finally tells dean, he blames himself thinking it was their fucked-up dirty talk that got his little brother all confused. and sam reassures him that no, that's not how it works, and dean doesn't quite believe her, and sam takes advantage of that chink in his armor to weasel her—her—way back into dean's heart. and the first time he calls sam his sister, she feels something right, for the first time in her life.)

Oh my god Ciel I'm platonically giving you so many forehead kisses!!!!!

Okok so, I agree, I think honestly based on the canon representation of Sam, I think (she)he just wouldn't really have access to the idea much, and it would just shuffle in with the rest of the "I'm different/wrong/not right" that he would have for his whole life.

I think honestly Sam could go about her whole life without it really sticking what this different/not right/wrong feeling was, and keeps it shoved down or just accepts that it's always gonna be there amid the other different/wrong/not rights, and I think following canon as closely as possible, it always was that way.

Sam settled into the hunting life, he settled into his existence with Dean, and he settled into the not right feeling as just a part of existence, and he(she) never fully figured it out.

But I adore the idea that she did figure it out!!!!! And that Dean was there to help her, in his own honestly bumbling ways!!!!!!

And Dean braiding her haaaaiiiiiiiir (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) I love it, so much

[negativemindfeild]

too good to be true | han solo x luke skywalker

-> pairing type — m/tm

-> warnings — SMUT. wet dream, luke's trans fuck you, luke is a heavy sleeper, han is out of character because it’s a dream, luke is madly in love with han, luke isn’t aware it’s a dream, dream han is obsessive, and real han is an oblivious accidental flirt, one-sided pining. 

-> summary — while han thinks luke is happily asleep, luke is enthralled in very dirty thoughts about the other pilot.

The light shake of the ship woke up Luke, he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He was met by the panicked beeping and whistling of R2-D2 and the clicking of his feet. The young Skywalker looked around the Millennium Falcon, confusion overtaking him. Luke has been on a very long trip with his droids and friends, Han Solo and Chewbacca. Luke stood up, walking towards the cock pit, being cut off by Han speed-walking into him, both men were knocked to their asses by the collision.

“Sorry, Han-” “It’s whatever.” Han stood up, his words cutting off the blonde, and not even pausing to help Luke up, he sped off past the blonde man.

“What’s his issue?” The blue-eyed man asked no one but himself as he watched Han leave him on the floor. The feeling of Luke’s transponder buzzing against his hip made him aware of his current state on the floor.

He scrambled to his feet and fished out his transponder, the connection steadied and his sister’s voice came through.

“Luke, Luke can you hear me?” Leia’s tone was calm, her tone was always easy for Luke to comprehend. 

“I’m here Leia, what do you need?” The man had learned that his sister was never one to call just to talk to him. 

“I just talked to Han, if he’s in a bad mood it’s because I cut it off with him. Have a good rest of your trip.” Before Luke could say anything, Leia cut the transmission. Luke stared at the transponder in his hands and his eyes trailed down the hall, following Han’s trail.

C-3PO clambered down the hall, lifting an arm to greet his master. “Master Luke, Han Solo knocked over R2, and I am having trouble getting him back up.” The droid’s voice pierced the silence left by Leia. “Of course he did.” Luke huffed, walking back to where he had been sleeping, followed by the fumbling droid. He quickly spotted R2-D2, and he crouched down behind his R2 unit and lifted him back to his wheels. 

“Which way did Han go?” Luke looked towards C-3PO as the man dusted off the smaller droid, giving him a once-over. “Down that direction.” the gold droid said, waving a stiff arm towards the other hall coming off the main quarters, Luke gave a curt nod and left the room, following the hall to the crew quarters, where he knew Han would go during his numerous mental breakdowns. 

Luke stilled in front of the door, his mind going a million miles a minute, he knew how Han got after these breakups and knew that storming off from the cockpit was not something that would usually happen, so this one had to have been worse. The blonde lifted his hand and knocked on the metal door. 

“Go away Chewie.” Han’s rough voice always sent shivers down Luke’s spine, and now was no different. “Not Chewie.” The blonde called through the door. The silence suffocated the smaller man, his hand nervously bouncing on his thigh, and his blue eyes scanned the door for any sign of movement. 

In actuality, the pause couldn’t have lasted much longer than a few seconds, but it still swallowed the shorter man whole. The door hissed open and Luke was yanked into the room by the collar of his top. The blonde was pressed into the plain wall by the taller man in the room. “Shit-” Luke let the word slip before he had processed what had happened, his head hitting the wall is what cut him off, the lack of pain was something that didn’t alarm Luke.

Han’s eyes were glassy, redness surrounding the beautiful hazel that Luke frequently lost himself in. “You have caused me so much shit.” Han spat out, making fear fill the smaller man. “I don’t- I don’t understand-” Luke completely spaced the fact that he had the force on his side. 

Han pressed his chapped lips against Luke’s much softer ones, making the blonde panic and instinctively use the force to push the brunette away. “WHOA- Don’t kiss me- DON’T KISS PEOPLE WITHOUT ASKING!!” Luke shouted, using the force to keep the brunette on the floor. “Why are you kissing me- I know me and her are twins but we don’t look alike-” Luke muttered, barely audible enough for the taller man to hear him. 

“ ‘m sorry-” Han mumbled, his pupils blown out, staring up at the blonde man from the floor. “Luke, I need you.” The brunette spoke, his voice slightly slurred, Luke couldn’t perceive his tone, so the blond furrowed his brows. “Need me to what- Finish your sentences, Han.” Luke tilted his head, his fluffy blonde hair swooping partially over his eyes.

“I’m talking about sex Luke.” Han stated bluntly. 

“WHOA!?” Luke let go of his grip and the look on his face could only be read as ‘flabbergasted.’ “ MY SISTER JUST BROKE UP WITH YOU AND NOW YOU’RE TRYING TO SLEEP WITH ME!?” Luke shouted, the droids, just a hall away could definitely hear the blonde.

“I broke up with her, she called to see how the trip was- I couldn’t keep living this lie, Luke. I’ve wanted you since the moment you hired me on Tatooine. I didn’t realize it until I had Leia, I blamed my attraction to you on you two being twins, but it’s not that, you aren’t her, you’re Luke, and you are who I want.” Han stood and tried to approach the smaller man, who held a hand out, keeping the brunette back. 

“I won’t let you lie to me Han.” Luke spoke softly, the confession was too good to be true, Luke knew that, and he was too smart to let Han in his pants just like that. “I’m not lying Luke, please, I need you. I told Leia everything so that you and I could be together.” Han’s mind was cut off from Luke, like he was never able to peek in the brunette’s head. 

Luke felt arousal creep lower in his body, and a thought slipped into his mind, ‘Leia doesn’t have to know.’ The blonde released his grip on Han and he let Han push his body against the wall again. 

“Please, let me have you.” Han’s rough voice drew Luke in, the feeling of heat pooling inside his cunt made him arch his back into Han. “Have me.” Luke muttered, letting himself become pudding in Han’s hands. 

Han slipped a hand under Luke’s robes, caressing his chest, and the brunette leaned in again, kissing the blonde man again. This time, the smaller man let Han kiss him, he slipped the loose robes off his shoulders, his belt catching it from hitting the floor his torso was free for Han’s hands to make their dirty path over Luke’s smooth skin. As the brunette’s hands trailed over Luke’s body, the blonde’s skin warmed. 

The kiss broke off and Han moved his mouth down, sucking dark marks into the blonde’s skin. A moan ripped from Luke’s throat and he let his head lean back, allowing the brunette to have better access. Han made quick work of Luke’s belt, and before Luke processed anything he was on the bunk, completely bare, and with Han on top of him. 

That’s when it finally hit Luke, he was dreaming, he didn’t wake up earlier when he thought he had, so any of Luke’s guilt about ‘betraying Leia’ left his body and he let himself indulge in the feeling of Han’s rough fingers opening his cunt open for the brunette’s cock. 

Han was completely bare as well, his dick hanging between his thighs, the brunette was covered in hair, and dirt, but the hair was more prominent. “Baby, are you ready for me?” Han pressed gentle kisses onto Luke’s jaw, the blonde nodded, bracing himself for the stretch, but the pain never came like he expected.

The intense pleasure that overtook him was overwhelming. “FUCK!” Luke moaned, his head flinging back into the pillow and his back arching away from the bed, allowing Han to have a better grip on the shorter man’s waist. “Good boy…” The brunette cooed, continuing to kiss the blonde’s jaw. 

The praise made Luke whine, and the whine was quickly covered by a pleasured groan from Han, the hazel-eyed man pushed himself up on his palms and quickly snapped his hips against the blonde’s, burning his thick cock inside the other man’s dripping pussy. 

“Fuck… You’re so tight… Such a good boy.” Han groaned, snapping his hips against Luke’s. The blonde let the other man treat him like a warm cocksleeve, the sound of their skin hitting each other, the disgusting squelching sound from Luke’s arousal, and the moans, groans, and whines, were all that the two men heard. 

Luke’s eyes screwed shut and there was a rough shaking and the blonde shot out of sitting position, stumbling onto the floor. “FUCK-” Luke’s head throbbed as he sat on the floor. “STRAP IN BLONDIE, WE’RE UNDER FIRE.” Han’s voice echoed back to Luke as the sound of the dirty praises that Han had whispered in his ear in the dream that was just ripped from him.

The blonde sat in the booth, strapping himself in, ignoring the pooling moisture in his pants, C-3PO strapped in next to his master. “DO YOU NEED ME TO ARM A TURRET?” Luke called back, watching R2-D2 tuck himself under the table. “NO NEED PRETTY BOY, I GOT IT COVERED!!” Han’s words made Luke’s face heat up.

How the blonde was supposed to see the other man face to face ever again was beyond him.

i have been rewatching the star wars movies- and shows- so, some star wars requests maybe? i wrote this very quickly and because inspo struck. i have an anikin and padme x reader fic in the works, so, look forward to that?

-> word count — 1,609

© NEGATIVEMINDFEILD — please do not copy, repost, or translate onto any other platforms without my permission.

[zeldaelmo]

Welcome back to @zelinkcommunity 's prompt 'By a thread'. If you're here longer than three seconds, you probably know I love turning tropes and prompts on their head, and this fic is a typical result of exactly that.

@mistresslrigtar was so kind to beta this for me. Go read her zelink week fics! Oh, and she also inspired me to try new banners, hope you like them!

Enjoy!

Superglue

Akkala’s stiff breeze greeted them when they materialized on the platform of the shrine, carrying some crunchy leaves and the smell of the first autumn day with it. Link blinked slowly, taking a moment to feel Zelda’s hand curled in his. 

“Home,” she had said and, in a sudden rush of boldness, he had tapped the shrine symbol in Akkala instead of Hateno. Doubt crept up on him like ground frost, even through the tunic he had thrown on just before they fast-traveled, but it was too late to backtrack now.

Zelda shuddered next to him, her dress, once again, offering little protection against the weather, but her mood was splendid. Tired but splendid.

"What did you want to show me?" she chirped like a red sparrow in the snow.

"Ah—uhm," he stuttered, blinking out of his awe of holding her hand again. "It's a surprise."

"Ah, come on!" She laughed, running her palm over her bare arm. 

Ok, enough of this. Link let go of her hand and fumbled the Purah Pad from his belt, furiously scrolling the screen for some warmer clothes for her. If he took the risk of clattering teeth during a short paragliding trip, it was one thing, but he would surely not allow Zelda to suffer for another split-second in her life if he could help it. Finally, he came up with the Rito garb, tapped the screen, and turned back to her to drape it over her shoulders.

Abruptly, she stopped, her mouth falling open. She wouldn't argue with him about this, would she? Link bit his lip, mentally preparing to talk her into the warm coat. The woman had stubbornness for a whole millennium.  

"Link? What on Hylia's green earth is that?"

Huh? She was well acquainted with Rito clothes, had she lost her memory this time— oh wait, she was looking past him. 

Frowning, he turned his head, his eyes resting on her furrowed brows a moment too long. He only liked this look on her face when it came to solving science problems, and this seemed hardly the place for that. She pointed behind him and absently shrugged the coat on. Finally, he detached his gaze from her, turned, and saw what she meant.

In the middle of the plateau rested a pile of wooden slats, nearly two bases high. Ripped curtains stretched over what had formerly been window frames, weapon racks poked randomly out of the stack (one with the light trident still attached), and just barely discernible under all the rubble, Link spotted his, well, their, new bed. The wind tossed lighter household items around in little twisters while remnants of wooden walls creaked under the weight of rooms collapsed on them.

It wasn’t the chilly autumn wind that rushed over his back and expanded over his whole body. What… what had happened here? Unable to process what his eyes saw and to accept the conclusion his mind tried to draw from the images, he rounded the mess in slow motion. Everything was in pieces. Everything! The only intact cubicle seemed to be the paddock, thankfully. Epona and Zelda’s golden horse Apple were unharmed, unbothered by the ruckus even, and they both munched happily away at the flower ring he had bought from Koko to decorate the door.

“Link? What—” Zelda started, her voice tinted with concern, but she was interrupted by a loud crack from the other end of the pile. Link sprinted towards the sound, leaping over cushions meant to make a cozy evening for Zelda in front of the stove and a pair of boots that were entangled with something that looked a lot like a bowstring from a knight’s bow. Once he arrived at the backside of the pile, he stopped, gawking with his mouth open. On top of the mass, Zelda’s new study leaned dangerously to the left, only attached to the remnants of what was once the wall of the blessing’s room by a string of greenish glue. A green string he had seen thousands of times during his quest to beat the Demon King and get Zelda back. Rauru’s hand produced them as soon as Link wanted to attach two things to each other, and they were usually quite sturdy. Now, however, the string was thinning at worrying speed until it was the diameter of a thread. 

The room tilted; further, books and papers falling out and tumbling through Akkala’s afternoon wind like its famous red leaves. With a silent ‘pop’, the glue disappeared. Link swirled around and snatched Zelda, who had been gaping at the spectacle, causing them both to stumble out of the hazard zone. Not a second later, the study rushed down and crashed onto the ground, splitting into pieces. 

“Link—thank you!” she sputtered, finding her footing again. “But what is this? Is this what you wanted to show me? But why?”

Link gulped for air, blinking at the bouquet of silent princesses and sundelions he had prepared for her yesterday with the stubborn hope she would somehow return to her human form. The flowers were scattered all over the mountain of wood and personal belongings, stems broken and blooms crushed.

A single cup from somewhere on the right where the kitchen had once been detached itself from the rubbish and rolled to their feet.

Link kicked the cup back into the mess as if it was the head of a stalkoblin and muttered gravely, "That was my dream home."

Somewhere along the way, he had decided he would simply ignore the facts about Zelda’s irreversible transformation into a dragon and concentrate on the 'dream' aspect of the project and build a family home for them. 

Goddess above, he had burned so much money! He had dealt with not-upgraded armor and elixirs instead of proper equipment to have the spare money for the new kitchen or the large bed. And now… 

He shouldn't be upset about this, not when Zelda, the true Zelda and not a puppet or a light dragon or whatever form fate could come up with, was back at his side, and still, he couldn't help the wave of frustration that crushed over him at the sight of dirt-stained towels and broken shelves. Who would have thought that the house was only held together by a thread of— wait. Wait!

"Grante!!!" Link yelled in the general direction of the little sales booth at the corner of his property. Zelda was startled at his sudden loudness, but Link had had enough of this.

The man in question rushed to his side; a customer service smile spreading on his lips. Link had to restrain himself from slapping it off his face. "Explain."

Grante wrung his hands in front of him, smile unwavering. "First and foremost, it's Grante-son. And secondly, it looks like you had a little…ah… adhesion issue here. Sorry to hear that." His face lit up even more, genuine this time. "Hudson Construction will help you clean up the rubble for the small fee of—"

"Grante -son!" Link's hands twitched from suppressing the urge to shake him by the shoulders. One, two, three, he counted in his head to get a grip on himself. He would not embarrass himself in front of Zelda. "I purchased a dream home from Hudson Construction. Not a pile of wood. I have no idea how, but you'll fix this."

"I'm deeply sorry, but unfortunately, I have to inform you that we don't offer insurance together with our products, so I fear there's nothing I can do for you. We sold you a building ground and the cubicles. The rest was your own responsibility." 

Link took several deep breaths, forcing himself to smile at Zelda, who had walked off a few steps to greet her horse. She probably was still getting used to the fact that she could wander around Hyrule on her own two legs again and had no patience for… whatever this was. "I don't know what you don't understand about this! Hudson Construction, well, you personally approved the stability of the building, and now look at it! Goddess above." Link pushed his hand into his bangs, a habit that had come to him on his adventure while wearing his hair down. "Seriously, I don't know what I expected from a company that keeps someone occupied who can't even put up a sign."

"I don't know what or who you are referring to." Granteson frowned and picked a wooden slat up, turning it back and forth. With a shrug, he tossed it back onto the pile of trash l. "I did approve it. It seemed to work fine with the weird hand thing you had going on.”

Weird hand thing…? Right. Now that he said it, Link couldn’t recall that anyone ever affixed the cubicles that were the rooms, and since it worked just fine, he hadn’t insisted on it either. They must have been held together by the power-turned-glue of Rauru’s hand, and now that he had lost that ability, everything had come undone. Okay, so that was on him. Kind of. But they were a construction company! They didn’t glue the school in Hateno together, did they?

Granteson cleared his throat, correctly sensing the next accusation on Link’s face. “Maybe just try to put it back together? With your magic hand thingy?"

"Try… to… put it back together?" Link raised his marred arm and stared at the leathery skin on his stiff hand. "I don't think that still works…" Not one to give up easily, he flicked his wrist. The arm was a shadow of what it once was, but it was not completely immobile. It would be useless for swordplay, but maybe Rauru had a last, invisible gift for him…

Yes! 

Blue light flashed in front of him, and a gust of wind tugged at his hair. Link grinned. Oh, if ascend also still worked, he would have so much fun springing a surprise on Zelda! The look on her face if he popped through the ceiling of her study would be priceless — wait, what?! Why did the earth rumble? Horrified, Link watched the waves of blue radiating from his hand, splitting the ground in front of him like a laser beam. Before he had the quick-wittedness to drop his hand again, the fissure had already reached the pile of wood and was tearing everything apart. Wood cracked and rubble tumbled to the ground until the grand finale was marked by a small explosion that set everything on fire. Not a gift from Rauru, but from the Yiga. How could he forget about the cursed earthquake ability?

Link opened his mouth but didn’t have it in him to curse.

“Eh,” was all that escaped Granteson’s lips when the flames began to eat away at the remnants of Link’s dreamhouse, and frankly, Link had nothing more eloquent to add either. Against his will, a lump formed in his throat, and his bottom lip quivered. This should have been a surprise for Zelda! He had prepared everything from fruitcake and flowers to fresh notebooks! He had put a highlight in every single room for her to discover, and now… everything was gone. Goddess, he was such an idiot. Why didn’t he bring her to Hateno? She would have been happy to rest in their bed on the loft; there had been no rush to… to… 

A slim, gentle hand rested on his shoulder, and it took everything in him not to burst into tears immediately at her touch. 

“Link,” Zelda said, and when he turned to her, the heat radiating from what was quickly turning into a full-blown bonfire, hit them both. “I understand that you’ve been on your own for so long, so it’s only logical that you’d fall back into old coping mechanisms… But we’ve talked about this. No arson.”

Link blinked at her. “That’s not— I mean, it was an accident. I’d never…” She squeezed his arm with a tenderness that split him in two, just like the earthquake had done with his house. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to stop the tears from spilling over and stuttered, “Zelda. This was— I built a house. A home, more specifically. It had a kitchen, a little stable, just— everything.” He lifted his hands from his eyes and pointed at the rubble before their feet. “The cubicle that just crashed down was your study. It was on top of everything with a separate staircase so nobody disturbs you, just like you like it— Goddess, sorry.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “This is not how I planned it. You said ‘home’, so my mind just jumped to showing you what I built for us. It was a stupid idea. Let’s go to Hateno; we both need to rest.”

“Link.” Her tone was soft and firm at the same time. Oh, how he had missed the grounding effect the simple call of his name in her voice had on him! “You built a home for us, although you knew I was a dragon and couldn’t return?”

Link smiled and looked boyishly through his lashes at her. Then he shrugged. “You said you wanted kids, and the house in Hateno is too small for more than two people. This is, eh well, this was a family home.”

“Ok, but…”

“Zelda.” He took her hand, and she raised her eyes to his, inviting him to share his thoughts. It would have been nearly romantic if not for Granteson trying to kick household articles out of the cracking fire. “Do you really think I would have given up on getting you back? Ever? I would have forced the Goddesses to give us our happy ending.”

“You’re crazy.”

“That’s what they say.” Link cracked a grin, and Zelda rolled her eyes playfully. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll take care of the mess another day.”

“No, wait.” She detached herself from him, stepping closer to the flames. Bent over by the hip, she inspected what the fire had left behind or hadn’t taken yet. “It takes a lot to make you emotional, so this must be important to you. I can help.”

“Zelda,” Link argued and tried to pull her back. “It’s ok. It’s really not that urgent. We can come back anytime; it’s just stuff that can be replaced.”

“Close your eyes.”

Link frowned at her, but when she shot him a radiant smile, he huffed, defeated, and did what she told him. 

Nothing happened at first, but after a while, the heat on his skin slowly dwindled, and he could feel the crisp autumn air again. The cracking of the fire also stopped; instead, he heard clattering and rattling noises, as if someone was moving many lighter things around. Those sounds were followed by heavy clunks of wooden beams clashing against each other. At this, curiosity got the better of him. 

“Zelda, what…?” He opened his eyes just in time to see the study that had nearly crushed them move back to the top of the pile. The cubicle was in one piece again. 

“Hey!” Zelda laughed at him, hand raised against the pile of clutter that kept moving around in a cloud of dust. “You’re cheating.”

“Maybe,” he said and smiled absently, captured by the golden glow that enveloped her. His eyes were only half on the pieces that slowly came back together; his focus was, as always, on her. Nonetheless, it was a little strange to see parts of the top rooms fly back in the air to form a cubicle once more, ignoring every restraint physics would normally put on them. Piece by piece, wood beam by wood beam, and cushion by cushion, the items darted back to their former place until everything looked like a house again and not like a pile of rubbish. 

“Granteson?” Zelda asked sweetly, condoning politely how utterly shamelessly the man was staring at her. “Please go fetch Hudson, will you? I need an expert carpenter to fix the house for good.”

“O-of course, P-princess Z-Zelda,” Granteson stuttered and ran towards Tarrey Town.

Link snorted at his sudden abjection but was too happy to complain that she didn’t get any talk about warranties or fixing fees. With a lazy smile on his lips, he hugged her from behind, put his chin on her shoulder, and watched his — their — house come back together. They had risked everything for the peace that now settled over Hyrule like the morning dew; it only seemed fitting that the place he had built for them would become part of that peace. The glow of her power made Zelda warm, warmer even than the Snowquill armor, and he nestled his face into her short hair. His lips found the stretch of skin that always made her gasp, and he pressed a lingering kiss on it until she giggled. 

“Thank you," he breathed.

"Look what you've done now! You're distracting me!" she called, laughing. One of the freshly put back walls rushed down again, but neither of them had the focus to care. Still laughing, she sneaked her free hand around his neck and pulled him in for a proper kiss. 

Link heard another wood beam splinter, but it didn't matter. Together, they could fix everything, and now, they finally had all the time to take care of themselves. 

Or on Ao3:

[deathbirby]

I'm gonna Go There for a second: for a bunch of fuckers who won't shut up about being the OnLy PeOpLe with reading comprehension, them thinking that the Nabateans committed ANY genocide at all is, ironically enough, them not comprehending what they're reading.

"[The False God] will bring extinction to all children of men, and salvation to all beasts of the land, sky, and sea. For the children of men who spilled too much of the blood of life, it promises only cruel retribution. The False God must be defeated before the world sinks into a watery grave. To this end, the children of men have erected pillars of light upon the land. Thinis, Malum, Septen, and Llium were utterly destroyed. Those lands have vanished from this world. Yet even still, the False God stands. And soon, a flood aptly named Despair will drown this world.

The children of men fled to the depths of the earth, beyond the sight of the False God, beyond the embrace of the sacred sun, and beyond the reach of the waters of Despair. They swore a fervent oath of revenge against the surface world, ruled by beasts, and against their tormentor, the False God."

What this is saying:

Sothis will bring extinction to all children of men... who have already killed too many people. Meaning by this own propaganda's logic she is NOT bringing extinction, she's just killing specific people who have done horrific deeds to OTHER PEOPLE already

Sothis had not and has not flooded the world. "must be defeated before the world sinks into a watery grave" "And soon, a flood aptly named Despair will drown this world" - all the language pretty much explicitly says that she hasn't done shit, they just arbitrarily think she will and went underground because of this arbitrary belief. AND, even if there WAS a flood... obviously it DIDN'T bring about the apocalypse?? Because we can, like???? Play the fucking game in Fodlan??? Which has plenty of nature in it that's just fine and NOT soaked in water??? So either there wasn't a flood and the Agarthans were COMPLETELY wrong, or there WAS a "flood" of some kind and it didn't do anything like "sinking the world into a watery grave" and the Agarthans were STILL wrong.

"To this end, the children of men have erected pillars of light upon the land. Thinis, Malum, Septen, and Lilum were utterly destroyed... Yet even still, the False God remains." Meaning that despite these lands still standing, the propaganda details shock at Sothis being alive. Meaning that CLEARLY, it was THE AGARTHANS that fucking blew up those lands in an attempt to kill Sothis, not the Nabateans. Meaning that FUCKING CLEARLY, it was THE AGARATHANS that nearly killed all of humanity, NOT THE FUCKING NABATEANS. Of course they would blame the Nabateans for it, because they need a scapegoat to cover for their fumble of the fucking millennium - OF FUCKING COURSE they're not going to say "in our attempt to murder Sothis for no reason we the Agarthans killed scores and scores of Agarthans, our bad dawg" and the fact that people like that mod and that reblogger ACTUALLY FUCKING BELIEVED THEM AT THEIR WORD is absolutely ASTONISHING ("NeItHeR tHe AgArThAnS nOr NaBaTeAnS cAn Be CoNsIdErEd UnBiAsEd SoUrCeS" SHUT THE FUCK UP you could ONLY FUCKING THINK the Nabateans were oppressors BY TAKING THE AGARTHANS'S WORDS AT FACE VALUE AND COMPLETELY IGNORING THE NABATEANS' holy good GOD does that shit piss me off).

And just. "Nemesis was still considered a liberator even though Rhea rewrote history!!" yeah because evil tyrants have NEVER EVER EVER forced their oppressed people to unironically revere them as gods before!! With that sort of national brainwashing being something that becomes CULTURAL FACT and something that is EXTREMELY FUCKING HARD to erase, that definitely doesn't exist!! I bet Kim Gung Un really is such a swell guy, ask anyone from North Korea!! MY GOD these people would fall into Scientology just by LOOKING at a poster for it I swear.

Sorry that you have these assholes all over your post, they are legitimately infuriating with how blatantly they just repeat the worst kind of rhetoric with zero self-awareness

PREACH IT ANON! PREACH IT!!!

The Agarthan propaganda piece even admits they started the entire fucking thing lmaoooo. It was a self fulfilling prophecy.