#then I almost got stabbed because I wasn’t paying attention

[evilovesyou]

saturdays. we get to claim fucking saturdays and i‘m not ok 😭

[st0rmyskies]

dude you’re literally the only person who I can ramble to about this so please hear me out.

So i’m a (super senior) marine biology major and i’m at a field station for class/research. During my free time i’ve been going out fishing with my two friends on the daily. It’s worth noting too that we all are very, very outwardly queer in a seaside town that is filled to the brim with trump flags on boats. We also barely know how to fish, as in we know how to cast it. But also we couldn’t even get the one pole to cast yesterday so that statement is even on thin ice. But in our fishing endeavors, there have been a handful of time where straight up dads have watched us get our asses handed to us and they will offer their advice/help. And when I say ‘dad’ I deadass mean 9/10 there son is awkwardly standing behind him and begging them to stop talking to us after it’s been 15 minutes. Once again, we’re queer and we have daddy issues, so we absolutely are eating up these conversations. It’s honestly the most heartwarming, fucking funniest interactions to me. Especially when you get the visual imagery of us getting tangled in fishing line because we can’t get the one reel to cooperate; one of us has a youtube video pulled up while the other is reading the manual. BOOM- a dad appears.

With that, I cannot stop thinking about Time approaching the most queer ass group of college students (who are visibly struggling to even cast out the fucking line) to offer the most dad advice on fishing. Bonus if one of the boys are there begging for him to leave them alone. Extra bonus if it’s Twilight or Wind. Or even Time taking the boys fishing and all of them, but Twilight, is going through it. Someone’s managed to wrap the line around their neck, another got too excited and yanked their hook out of the water and now it’s free flying (with no fish), Four is attaching weed whacker motor onto the pole because “it’ll reel the fish in quicker”, someone wasn’t paying attention and almost stepped backwards off the dock, and another boy discovered that the spiny rays are sharp motherfuckers. If this continues to live in my head rent free, I even might write this.

That it. Just Time being a dad in public is absolutely sending me.

Also we only caught an atlantic croaker after being at the dock for 5 hours.

Time isn't the most social of butterflies, but he's also ABSOLUTELY the guy who can't ignore fellow fishermen having A Struggle. Especially when said struggle is so... blatant. If strangers, yes Twi would give it 15-20 minutes before he's awkwardly trying the polite interventions of "Okay, well, you guys have a great day.... Okay, well, we should get on our way..." and either just gives up or goes back to doing his own thing until Time is finished. If Wind, the interventions are likely more physical, moving their belongings farther and farther away until Time has no choice but to retreat if he wants more bait.

If Time ever deigned to take the boys on a fishing trip, he'd regret it within 30 minutes.

Most likely to get stabbed by a fish and need more than a few bandaids: Sky.

Most likely to get tangled up and string together a novel expletive phrase that enters the household vernacular permanently: Legend.

Most likely to take a tumble off the dock: Hyrule.

Most likely to injure an innocent bystander with that weed whacker motor: Four.

Most likely to get a fish hook in his arm while he's sitting on the shore sunning himself because he will not partake in this barbaric pastime: Warriors.

Most likely to be pretty successful at fishing but still drops his phone off the dock: Wind.

Most likely to resort to throwing These Hands at the fish instead of using the ancient technology of fishing poles: Champion.

Most likely to space out talking the entire time and be the one to actually hook The Big One but fail to reel it in: Wild.

Most likely to not catch a damn thing because he's busy running interference: Twilight.

Maybe next time, Time will just take them to the pet store to buy goldfish.

I am endlessly amused by the fact that as a marine bio majors you have such a time fishing. I'm sure you've made at least one surrogate dad proud. Also, for the uninitiated:

Anon's Moby Dick.

[captain-mj]

SPOILS OF WAR??? WHERE IS MY BELOVED WHEN WILL IT RETURN FROM THE WAR??? Give me spoils of war or you'll never see your teeth again.

@hirik0

Sorry for taking so long :(

Two days after the end of their trip, Soap went through some of the goods they were sent with. Mostly food, but he noticed that there was a bundle of clothing too. He rooted through and noticed all of it was… sheer. Lots of loose fabrics.

Valeria must’ve sent them, but he didn’t know why. 

Soap immediately tried some of them on. The top only came right under his pecs and had large sleeves that hung down. The bottoms were just sheer, loose pants with a extra little covering for his crotch. He flushed and hugged himself a little in front of the mirror. Why would Ghost have these?

Speak of the fucking devil. Ghost appeared and stared. Wide eyed and flustered. He didn’t have his mask on so Soap got to see just how red he could get. 

“Where are these from?”

“My old clothes.” Ghost whispered. 

Soap put things together fast and flushed, about to apologize but Ghost was looking him up and down like he was a meal. “Like me in this?”

“Yeah. You wear it a lot better than I did.” Ghost crossed the room to him, grabbing him easily. He pulled Soap to him and for a brief moment, Soap pretended he wasn’t a big tough soldier and let Ghost move him around. It ended with Ghost kissing down his chest, sinking to his knees. Soap was going to have to do this more often. His hands tangled into Ghost’s hair, feeling the strands curl around his fingers. 

Ghost mouthed at him and tugged the loose fitting pants down, paying special attention to his thighs before kissing at his cock. Soap tugged his hair and Ghost moaned softly, looking at him. It was dizzying. He looked so beautiful and so soft and so needy and they hadn’t even done anything. His hands ended up on either side of his waist, gently feeling him up. Ghost took all of him down his throat and started to bob his head excitedly. He was undoubtedly skilled, doing things with his tongue that made it hard to keep standing. He swallowed around him a few times before Soap tried to yank him off, squirming but Ghost didn’t let up. Soap felt his vision blur as he came down his throat, feeling him swallow all of it. 

Ghost pulled away and kissed his stomach. “You look good. Now put on something decent.” He got up like he hadn’t just ripped Soap’s soul from his chest. 

“Wha?” 

“People are coming over. You’ll want to be decent.” 

Soap rushed away and immediately started to get dressed. He wore his normal clothes, though he tried to make it look as if the clothes semi fit him instead of swamped him. 

It was a bit of a blur but he was suddenly sitting at a table with three other men, all of who were looking at Ghost. Soap couldn’t blame him. He still hadn’t put his mask on and was sipping his tea.

“Nice to see you again, Simon.” Price smiled at him.

“Thought you said no one called you that.” Soap interjected. 

Ghost glared. “They don’t usually.”

Alejandro and Rodolfo shared a glance that Soap certainly didn’t miss, but he decided not to press. 

Rodolfo gently tapped on the table. “So what’s the meaning of all of this? Not that I don’t appreciate spending time with you Ghost, I’ve been in your house twice in the years I’ve known you and the last time it was because you’d been stabbed.” 

“I want to perform a mutiny.” The air went cold around them. Almost frigid.

“Now, son, are yo-”

Alejandro slammed his cup down. “I’m in.” 

Ghost paused, looking genuinely surprised. “I really expected to have to fight you on this.”

“Nah. I’ve had a grudge since the beginning.”

Rodolfo frowned. “When he flirted with me?”

“Yes. He shouldn’t have.” 

Ghost shook his head and leaned into Soap. “So much for superior morals.”

Soap felt like he was on the outside of an inside joke, but he smiled nonetheless.

Rodolfo smiled at Alejandro before looking at Ghost. “We all knew each other before him. We can know each other after him.”

Price sighed. “Alright. I can’t let you three get tried for treason and I don’t.” He reached over and put his hand on Ghost’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. “So. Now to make a plan.” 

Alejandro tapped his hand against the table. “Always the hard part.”

“Well, there is one easy way.” Soap pointed out and they all looked at him expectantly. “He wants me anyway right?”

“NO.” Ghost snapped. “Absolutely not. No.” 

“It would be the easiest way.” Alejandro pointed out, looking uneasy about it himself.

“No!” Ghost glared at him and Soap quickly touched his arm, ignoring that he almost flinched back. 

“Simon.” Soap said softly. “It would be. You say you got bored of me. I kill him. You four cover it up.”

Rodolfo nodded. “It would even keep people’s faith in us. No one will even know Soap was there if we play our cards right.” 

Ghost looked distressed and it was clear he was somewhere else mentally. He took a deep breath and his face went painfully neutral. “Fine. You… have a point. Price. Any objections?”

“Would’ve suggested it myself honestly. It is the best option.” 

Ghost nodded. “Alright. I’ll do it later tonight. Fewer people in the streets to see him. Shepherd will be sloppier. Less likely to check for weapons.” 

“It would be better if I found my own.”

“Can’t risk it.” 

Soap saw the way he picked at his nails, the haunted look in his eyes. He very clearly wanted to put his mask back on but had left it in the other room, probably so he wouldn’t tug it back on. 

“Alright, M’eudail.” Soap leaned into him and their hands met. 

Price smiled and said something in Ghost’s ear that made him blush. Everyone seemed to find how red he got just as amusing as Soap did. Unfortunately, as soon as they were gone, Ghost did pull his mask on. 

Soap mourned the loss dramatically and with maximum guilt. Ghost ignored his grief to instead cuddle him close. 

“How did you meet them?”

“Alejandro and Rodolfo?” 

“Yeah. Those two.” 

“They came to meet Roba as ambassadors. Rodolfo was posing as a prince and hired Alejandro as a guard to make the thing more real. Found me and felt guilty.”

Soap kissed his jaw. “I’m glad we met like this. Though I think if I saw you in some of those clothes…”

“I was way smaller back then, but yeah. I was hot.” Ghost snuggled against him. 

Night started to fall and Ghost tightened his grip. “One hour. You have one hour, MacTavish.” 

Something about the use of his last name but Soap nod nervously. It would be easy. In and out. No big deal. 

The walk to Shepherd’s was thankfully lonesome. Not a soul in sight that would place them at the scene of the crime. 

He missed the conversation the two of them had. He didn’t miss the harsh way Ghost shoved him down. It was fake but filled with so much disgust it caught him off guard. 

Soap sat there quietly, only really starting to pay attention when Ghost left the room. 

Shepherd backhanded him before he could get a word in. “I’m disappointed.” The sting of it across his face took him off guard. It had been a while since he had really felt pain. 

“Why?” Soap gritted out. 

“I thought Ghost would be breaking you. You look… pampered.” He grabbed his mohawk and tilted his head to the side, examining him. “Barely a fucking scratch on you. Knew he should’ve left you to me.” 

Soap tensed but waited. If the moment arose, he wanted to make it look accidental. 

Shepherd grabbed the ties around his wrists, loose and easily breakable if Soap moved just right, and yanked him along. Soap tried to get his feet underneath him, but Shepherd didn’t let him. Instead, he just got dragged across the floor, kicking and struggling. 

Soap’s back hit the bed and he wondered briefly how different it would’ve been if Ghost hadn’t bothered. If this was his first night in this village. 

Hands were on his chest. Groping him and saying something. Soap couldn’t understand him. His accent was too thick and also fucking annoying. 

“Should’ve known that soft hearted sap didn’t have it in him. You need discipline.”

“Like a dog?” Soap growled. 

“You’re scottish arent you?” Shepherd sneered. 

The bonds snapped and Soap grabbed the blade hidden in his pants. It sank into Shepherd with a terrifying ease. Cut right through the flesh and muscle. He didn’t dignify him. Didn’t respect him. Death was the natural next step of a tyrant and he did not deserve to go cleanly. 

Soap made sure his heart could never beat again. 

And suddenly Ghost was there. Cleaning his hands. Telling him he was the perfect honeypot. That he was sorry for not waiting the full hour. 

Silly idiot. 

Soap didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. Because Shepherd was dead and Ghost was a live and that all seemed much more important.

[s0urw00lf]

Buried deep in Pt.3

Ngl y’all I have no idea where I was going with this so bare with me here and this took me 2 hours. Also this picks up literally right after the last chapter

Of course she didn’t know that, all she knew was the scream was very powerful. Y/n ran towards the room the scream echoed from and was met with sheriff stilinski and Scott who was roaring at who was supposed to be their teacher. She looked over and saw that stilinski had been stabbed in his shoulder causing her to gasp. Scott ran at Jessica with y/n right behind him orange glowing in my eyes and around my hands. Scott clawed at her and she dodged it then used some force to push him back sending him to the other part of the classroom into a pile of chairs causing blood to spurt out of his mouth. It angered y/n seeing her brother be tossed carelessly and the orange began to glow lighter. Y/n threw her hand out, making the woman fly back into the chalkboard. Y/n kept her up against the wall as she threateningly walked forward. Scott and Lydia both looked at the girl in surprise. “You hurt my friends, and.. you hurt my brother” y/n said, feeling miss Blake’s power fighting back against hers, but y/n didn't falter. Just then she saw stiles reach the classroom and her hold broke. Miss Blake did the same to y/n as she did Scott, and used a table to close the door shut so tiles didn’t enter. Sheriff picked up his gun and aimed it at the woman’ “There was a girl, years ago we found her in the woods,” the sheriff said.

Y/n fought trying to gain her balance back as her eyes had gone blurry. She hadn’t been paying much attention until she heard an ear-splitting cry. She looked up and saw the most horrendous creature, making her eyes go wide as the creature broke through the window and took the sheriff with him. Y/n was still having trouble balancing herself. “Scott, stiles” she called out breathily. They both looked towards the girl “I can- I can’t get up” stiles and Scott ran to her but she looked at both of them “Lydia, help Lydia” she said.

Both boys looked at each other, Scott nodded and got up to help the whimpering girl. “I’m sorry” y/n whispered to stiles. “For what?” He asked, bringing her head to his chest. “I had her, I had her and I got distracted” she said tiredly with tears in her eyes. Stiles shook his head also teary eyed “no, no it's not your fault, you did what you could and that's all i'd ever ask of you” he said kissing her head before helping the weak girl up. Scott came over to hug his sister, “were you ever gonna tell me?” He asked softly. “1. I didn’t know, it happened after I left during the meeting. 2. Even if I had you wouldn’t have believed me” she said jokingly, too tired to be upset. Scott shook his head and put one of her arms around his neck to help support her. “You need some rest, no more powers until you’ve rested” Scott commanded, y/n groaned about to argue, but stiles cut her off “that’s an order” he said. Y/n looked at both of them in disbelief as she sighed and dropped her head.

Once they got home y/n crashed out for almost 2 days. She had only woken up because she had gotten a very bad feeling. As soon as she was aware she was talked into a vision.

She’d been in the middle of the woods, just walking mindlessly. Until she soon came to an abnormally huge stump, where she waited hours and hours, before snapping out of the vision. When she came to her senses she looked at her surroundings and realized she was really at the stump, she looked up at the moon and felt a surge of power. All of her senses had been heightened, she felt stiles close by, she followed the trail and was led underground where she felt several others who were all panicked. Y/n rushed towards them and just in time caught the collapsing ceiling. The orange aura surrounded the entirety of the place creating a shield strong enough to keep the failing in place. Y/n who wasn’t in her normal mind began muttering something over and over. Everyone in the room began to look at each other in surprise while Allison and stiles looked at her, one loving gaze and one of pure shock “oh my god” Allison muttered.

Everyone looked at her as if they were saying ‘what?’ Allison's shocked face had begun scaring stiles “hey what does ‘oh my god’ mean? Is it a good ‘oh my god’ or is it a bad ‘oh my god’” he asked. “She’s a protector witch” she said “one of the most powerful when protecting those she loves” she said smiling. Just then y/n screamed, making everyone cover their ears. Y/n had been connected to Scott and right at the same time they had become just that much more powerful. The place they were in slowly began to rebuild itself as everyone watched in amazement, before the girl fell to her knees her mom and stiles rushed forward, Melissa checked her pulse and felt her daughter’s burning skin. “Is she okay?” Stiles asked what everyone was thinking. Melissa shook her head “I mean she’s burning up but her heart is beating strong” she said looking at her daughter. Just then y/n shot up “Scott” she said, everyone looked at her in confusion before Isaac asked “what’s wrong with Scott?” Y/n looked at him and smiled proudly “he’s a true alpha now”. At that moment Stiles' phone rang, he answered it immediately “Scott” he said, y/n didn’t really feel like straining her ears to hear Scott on the other line. “Yeah we're okay, we're all okay” he said looking around at his friends. “How about you? You okay?” He asked. “You think you could come get us?” He asked. “Great okay, and you bring a ladder, '' he said, looking around, making everybody laugh.

They waited for about 20 minutes before Scott showed up with a ladder as requested, everyone climbed out. Even y/n with a little help from Isaac and his werewolf strength. When y/n got up she was a bit wobbly but was caught off guard by Scott hugging her tight to which she immediately returned. “I felt you helping me,” he said. “Well I couldn’t just leave my favorite sibling hanging could i?” She said smiling. He pulled away and looked behind her, making eye contact with stiles. He looked back at her and said “rest. I’m assigning stiles as your guardian to make absolutely sure you get it” he said. Y/n laughed and rolled her eyes throwing her hands up in defeat as everyone made their way to their homes.

Y/n was now lying comfortably on her bed right next to stiles as he leaned to give her a kiss on her forehead. “Thank you,” he said. She looked up at him in question” for what” she asked. “You saved us, you saved me, my dad, your mom, Scott, Derek, Allison, Isaac, and chris. You saved us and nobody’s thanked you yet.” He said gazing down at her with loving eyes. “So I'm saying this on behalf of the pack, thank you” he said before caressing her cheek and leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. She smiled and giggled as he pulled away “now go to sleep” he said. She didn’t need to be told twice as she closed her eyes and allowed the world of sleep to consume her

——————————————

I started at 12:44 am

Ended 2:09 Am, you do the math

Anyways hope you enjoy the lest chapter of this little mini series

@daphnen21

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Hostage(d) situation

Timari January: Day 28 (Problem? What problem?) by @maribat-calendar-events

Summary: That weird moment where you’ve been kidnapped and are being held for ransom but also the person who did that to you is letting you play video games so you can’t even be mad at them.

Back to Timari January 2023 Masterlist

Tim squinted around. His head was fuzzy, the sedative was still somewhat in his system, but he was able to take in a few streaks of neon colors and a faint dinging sound.

Also, he wasn’t tied up. He shifted where he had been laid out on the floor, quietly confused, and found that the only thing holding him down was a blanket.

The almost videogame-like sounds stopped and there was a sigh.

He closed his eyes quickly, but he got the distinct feeling that it wasn’t fast enough.

And then he felt a gloved finger poke his cheek. Which, yeah, that settles that.

“You’re awake,” a voice said, and it wasn’t a question.

He blinked an eye open to find a blank white mask. Or, at least, he thought it was blank, everything was kind of blurry.

“Muddafucka,” Tim slurred.

She laughed in the face of his biting insult and reached behind herself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Drake, but I don’t happen to be a necrophiliac.”

His nose scrunched in confusion, his head unable to piece together what he was pretty sure was an insult, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to that. Instead, the mask got closer as the woman leaned in, poking at his face.

“Hm… I guess I should administer the rest…” She murmured absently.

He saw something silver gleam out of the corner of his eyes and thrashed to the best of his abilities, but the blanket was weighted or something and she was holding his head to the floor.

Something stabbed him in the neck.

He went very still. He wasn’t that fond of sedatives, but necks were fragile things and he wasn’t going to purposefully tear it open just in hopes that he would be able to avoid too much of it getting in his bloodstream. He liked being alive, thanks.

But then the weirdest thing happened. His vision got clearer. And he was able to push off the light blanket and her finger left his face.

He sat up slowly, testing out his ‘new’ limbs. “I think you gave me the wrong thing.”

She snorted. She didn’t seem surprised by his newfound ability to form sentences. “I’m not stupid, I wouldn’t do that.”

He tipped his head to the side consideringly. “But…”

“Listen, Mr. Drake, I might be dumb enough to kidnap you for quick cash, but I’m not going to mistreat you.” She winced just slightly, her head jerking to the side almost imperceptibly with the motion. “I’m not fond of the idea of the bats beating my face in.”

He stared at her.

She tipped her head to the side on purpose this time. “Did I not give you enough?”

“You’re… a normal person,” he said, quietly confused.

Her shoulders shook with what appeared to be laughter. “Duh. Now, how good are you at videogames?”

He finally took in the area. Maybe he should have done that earlier, as his bat training had always told him to do that first, but she had been pretty close to his face to examine how he was doing so he had an excuse as to why he couldn’t really see. Now, he realized he was…

“Are we in an arcade?”

“No. My house just has a giant game room complete with an entire prize counter. Y’know, for aesthetic purposes.”

He frowned. He wasn’t sure if she was joking.

She sighed. “Right. That doesn’t work with billionaires.” She pushed herself to her feet, brushing imaginary dust from her knees before gesturing around. “This is an arcade. I hijacked it because I was bored, happened to see you while heading here today, and now here we are.”

He looked around. There was a Frogger character consistently jumping to his doom. That must have been the game she was playing before he woke up.

There were a couple of employees around. They were ignoring the pair that weren’t supposed to be there, going about their daily duties as if everything was fine and normal.

There were no customers.

“Huh,” he said quietly. “So… you’re just going to play games with me until you get ransom money?”

“Yeah. I’m not even taking your phone.”

“Aren’t you scared I’ll call the police?”

Her nose scrunched. “Don’t do that. They’re buzzkills. I literally just want a couple of grand so I can make a quick downpayment. Chill.”

He thought that over for a moment before shrugging. He could play along. And, if she wasn’t taking his phone, then he could warn his family that everything was actually fine.

“Now. What do you think of fps games?”

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Tim squinted at the fake, plastic gun in his hand. “Does this have kickback?”

“Nope.”

“That’s so weird,” he muttered, frowning as he tried to imagine how he was going to un-account for kickback.

She shrugged.

///////////////////////

“-- and then the bastard stiffed me,” she said, throwing her hands up in frustration. Probably not the best thing to do during a round of basketball, but Tim was purposefully doing terribly and she had a good twenty points on him so she must have assumed it was fine.

He frowned and looked away from the hoop to find her pouting. “You don’t take your money in advance?”

“Of course not, no one would hire me,” she sighed, leaning back against the machine. “It doesn’t work like that. Think normal business paranoia, but instead of just trying to get the upper hand they’re also actively trying to screw you over. And they're expecting the same from you.”

He tipped his head to the side consideringly. “How often does this happen?”

“Oh, not that often. Most people are too scared of my general love of poisons to try things like this.”

His eyes narrowed. “Wait, did you –?”

The machines beeped to say they were done and she finally realized that Tim had beaten her score.

She gasped, pointing an accusatory finger. “You were lulling me into a false sense of security!” She said, puffing her cheeks in false anger.

But she snickered all the same.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////

It took an embarrassing amount of tries considering both of their intellects, but they ended up with a plush each courtesy of a banged up crane machine.

Tim hugged the dumb little smiling octopus to his chest. Technically, the thing was reversible, but consider: why would he want to make his darling baby sad on purpose?

The woman kissed the forehead of a duck plushie. “I’m going to love him and feed him and call him George. Or whatever.”

He snorted. “Please don’t feed the duck.”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“I’m here to take care of the problem,” Red Hood said, cocking his gun in a clear threat.

Tim rolled his eyes and motioned to the woman who was casually taking apart a sensor on a jump roping game to figure out how to make real life pressure plates. To the cherry slushie in his hand. To the plush in his lap. To the phone on the ground that he had used to tell his dumb, paranoid family that everything was fine. “Problem? What problem?”

There was a moment as this was considered, and then shrugged. “There isn’t one, I guess,” he muttered, sending the woman a wave that she only barely acknowledged.

He moved to walk away, but didn’t even get a full step in the opposite direction before he collapsed.

Tim almost choked on his slushie. He turned to give his kind-of-captor a wide-eyed look.

“In my defense, I thought he was going to kill me, I think sedating him is perfectly understandable,” she said, shrugging.

Tim was torn between laughing and going to check on his brother.

He settled for laughing. She’d said ‘sedating’, after all.

[i-am-literal-nightmare-fuel]

so I tend to write when I am not meant to be, so it’s 12 AM, let’s write some angst.

(Short fic under cut, nothing nsft (unless you count one day of the word sex as nsft, then 🤷‍♀️) about it I just put it under a cut)

Johnny never did well with feelings. The cobra’s could barely get a word about he he felt out of him but they did try their hardest, to no avail. Laura dropped him off at a therapist one time and one time only after he snuck out when the therapist wasn’t paying attention, causing Laura to get a very panicked call right when Johnny showed up on the doorstep. That was an argument that Johnny did not win.

Karate was always sort of an outlet for Johnny, a way to get all that anger and stress out there and away from him only for it to come flooding back when he saw LaRusso holding hands with the girl who was meant to be his girlfriend. He never did like Daniel for that reason, among others.

Ali was supposed to be his, so it hurt knowing she wasn’t, or that’s what he told himself. In reality, Johnny was happy knowing that someone was taking care of Ali properly, treating her how he should have. He didn’t have a good relationship to model off of, so their relationship was about as rocky as Sid and his mother’s but he doesn’t let that excuse how he treated her. He guesses that’s one of the reasons he get’s so angry about Daniel being with Ali, because seeing her being in a relationship and being happy makes him happy for her and Johnny doesn’t want that. He knows how bad that sounds, but he doesn’t want to see her happy with somebody else, let alone be okay with it.

Girls have always been infatuated with Johnny and he’s never quite understood it until he got to know them. The reasons range from his popularity, to the ‘I have a hot boyfriend’ card or his family’s money. Occasionally he gets some fucked up girl who wants people to be afraid of her, so she pulls the scary guy but aside from that, it’s always those first three. He’s been used for almost everything teenage girls can use boyfriends for. Money, revenge, popularity, bragging rights, trying to get their ex back, covering insecurities, sex. He’s been there, done that with a lot of the girls in this hell of a school and every single one of them pulls more energy from him.

There went a time before Ali came along that the Cobra’s had to come to Johnny’s house to drag him to school, Bobby couldn’t bear the sight of his best friend laying in bed, blank expression, used like a doll and discarded like one too. And that was when he needed karate more than ever, he’d show up 3 hours early to start training some days. He was motivated because he was hurting, and that was his outlet.

and then Ali came along.

Johnny had expected another girl who wanted some sick revenge on her boyfriend or to make herself look hotter, something of the like. Sure, he had always had his eyes set on Ali but it was different when he approached her. When he approached her, he was in control instead of her. He hated not being in control.

Ali was way out of what Johnny thought was his league, but she wanted to be with him and that somewhat terrified Johnny. He was so afraid he’d mess up, make her cry and she’d never come back. That maybe it was all a big joke on him, he’d had that happen once. But no, Ali liked Johnny and she liked him for him, he’d never had that happen so it was a shock to the system. He’d liked her for a long time and she actually liked him too, like heaven on earth.

Then the fights started and Johnny realised that he didn’t know what a healthy relationship was, Sid and Laura weren’t a good example, his past with girls wasn’t either. He tried to make up with her the way that he saw people do it on TV, buying gifts or half assed apologies because he didn’t know how to say what he meant but the fights just got more frequent until Ali snapped.

“That’s IT! I’m done with you!” Johnny would never forget feeling like he’d been stabbed when she said that, gasping at air he couldn’t get down but still remaining statue still. “Every. Single. Day! You’re not even good at apologising! Writing a half assed letter and buying me a fancy gemstone ring doesn’t magically make it better, Johnny!” He’d exceeded his allowance with those gifts by a lot, praying that Sid had enough money that he wouldn’t notice. But Ali had been right and she always was.

“I’m not good at apologising.”

At some point he remembers uttering those words to himself sitting on a cliff edge with the Cobra’s and some beer after a fight between himself and Bobby that had split the Cobra’s into two groups, Tommy on Bobby’s side, Dutch on Johnny’s and Jimmy who didn’t really know what to do. He always found something to fight over, with anyone. Hell, he’d had a fight with his mom not long before she passed. He’d fight anyone, over anything, at any time only because it made him feel like he was winning something when he won the argument.

Sure, he won the all valley twice, but he lost to Daniel. Sure, he had more girlfriends than most people he knew in high school, but he lost the only one he loved. He’s had a lot of things, And he’s lost them too. He’d never complain, of course.

after all he put everyone else through? He’d never let himself complain.

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Today LOCATION: Conor’s flower shop PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Owen @apaininyourneck SUMMARY: Conor’s most annoying customer has a new name. /nofaenonsense CONTENT WARNINGS: none

As tempting as it was to head straight home and blow off some steam after a whole afternoon spent dealing with nerds dressed in medieval gear, Owen was almost out of smokes. He had been one dumb question away from stabbing one of the young men just to get them out of the damn store but as Chet generally was, mutilating his loyal yet horribly depressing regulars would probably lose Owen the job. As he walked the streets of Downtown, a tingle of a shop bell dragged his attention to a store front he hadn’t cared to notice before. Or maybe it was new. He didn’t exactly keep up with the turn over on local florists but after a recent conversation online, the slayer found himself crossing the street to check out the store. 

A glance through the window found a single customer inside and, lo and behold, a single employee wearing an apron with plenty of pockets. Wicked’s Rest wasn’t too small, the odds of there being two male apron wearing florists weren’t none, but Owen intended to find out. If only because he had nothing better to do and if he couldn’t mess with customers when he was the one working, at least he could be an annoying customer to someone else. 

Strolling into the store, he busied himself with looking over the flowers, wondering what the hell compelled people to spend money on these. The closest he’d come to buying flowers was his father buying a bouquet on mother’s day and writing Owen’s name on the gift tag. 

_

“Good evening” he raised his nose from the counter, a piece of twine wrapped between his fingers as he tied a neatly folded sheet of kraft paper around the wildflower bouquet in front of him. Returning his attention toward his current customer, Conor picked up a sticker that read get well soon from beneath the counter, and a matching card for them to write on. “You can use one of my pens,” he pointed toward a sunflower patterned cup and picked up his notebook from the side of the counter and his calculator. 

“Plus 3, plus 2, plus 3.25, …” Mumbling under his breath, he added up the flowers he picked out for her. She explained to him earlier that this was for her brother who had broken his leg hiking in the woods. Or maybe she said he got attacked by a wolf. He hadn’t been paying too much attention. Why did people do that? He didn’t care for their life story. “Alright, 40 dollars and 25 cents. Barely above your budget,” he could have stayed under, but the bouquet would have lacked a little something. She was beaming, he offered a light smile in return. There weren’t many things that made him feel that way, but he loved recognition for certain. 

She left a moment later. Wiping down his workspace, the florist tilted his head up to look for the other person in the room. “Can I help you?” 

—

The only other customer left, leaving Owen alone in the store with the florist, whose name was sadly still a mystery. A few moments passed until the slayer was finally addressed. Letting go of the flower stem he’d been fiddling with, he turned to the man, finally sizing him up properly and for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Faint splotches of dirt coated his hands and apron, tattoos visible on his arm and snaking up under his shirt sleeves, a very generic expression on his face. Customer service mode most likely turned to the max, provided that this was the easily annoyed florist with the colorful vocabulary from online. “Sure hope so,” Owen replied, grinning wide. 

“Looking for something for a friend. Something that says…” Owen strolled towards another set up of flowers, fingers running over a few of the petals as he put on an expression of deep thought. “Just admit you like me and please remove that giant stick from your ass.” Whether or not this was the correct person or not, Owen didn’t much care. Even if this turned out to just be some random florist with a penchant for aprons with plentiful pockets, he wasn’t unattractive so some teasing wouldn’t hurt. 

—

And there it was again. Why did people need a reason to buy flowers? “Just admit you like me and remove the giant stick from your ass,” he probably meant a proverbial one. For once, Conor had to stop and wonder what the message was behind such a prompt. You didn't build the same bouquet for someone you hated and someone you liked. You generally didn't buy the former bouquets but he could get behind sending someone a bouquet that read fuck you. Not literally of course. That would be tacky.

"Alright. Well, we would want some geranium for that," he pursed his lips to the side. Yellow was the color of betrayal, so that could be a good angle. It was his favorite color, so Conor would have been personally delighted with such a bouquet. "Foxgloves. Some orange lillies," Conor scratched on the tip of his nose with one of his knuckles. His eyes finally fell toward the other's hands. Could he fucking stop touching everything. "Let's keep our hands off the flowers, shall we?" He didn't smile this time, and instead took a few steps to stand on the same side of the counter as his client. "What's your budget for your… friend?" 

—-

There was only a short pause at the request before the man seemed to simply take the suggestion in stride, starting to pick out flowers. Owen watched the look of concentration deepen on the other man’s face as he started picking up various things, naming them as he went and honestly, he could have been making up the names for all Owen knew. If he was the type to buy flowers, at least whatever the man was mixing together looked a hell of a lot nicer than the generic bouquets that filled every store in February. His intrigue in the man’s thought process was cut short by what was essentially scolding and Owen’s lips jerked into a crooked smile, hands raising in a dramatic display of innocence. “My bad,” he replied without a hint of regret.

“Ah, spare no expense. And let’s go with ‘soon to be friend’,” Owen replied, even though he had a feeling the florist couldn’t give two shits, “since he’s still on the fence but I’m sure he’ll come around.” With the opportunity provided since the man now stood next to Owen, he bumped his shoulder into the other’s with an obnoxious smile. Owen strolled away, fingers dragging along the edges of pots and counters, pointedly touching everything except the flowers. “You know, I think he’s a bit sour because I made fun of his apron. Even though it has, like, a bunch of pockets for holding stuff.” His back was facing the man as he spoke, wondering if it would ever sink in. 

—-

“Spare no expense,” Conor mumbled the words to himself. It was one bouquet. Even if he made it as large as possible, Conor could already tell that it wouldn’t go over a hundred dollars. Anything over that price tag would look ridiculous, and good luck finding a vase that complimented such a dense mass of flowers. Absolutely not. The clarification regarding the man’s oh-so-complicated relationship with his stuck up non friend flew right over his head. He did not care. 

He glanced up at the other, then down at his shoulder. Whatever meaning there was behind the other’s gesture, Conor couldn’t have been more confused about it. His eyebrows arched up in wonder, but the other was walking around the shop, this time making it a point of putting his fingers everywhere but on his flowers. His hand hovered over candytufts for a moment, while he considered the other’s words. That was stupid. “You shouldn’t have done that. Aprons should have more pockets than they usually do,” he commented, then motioned toward his own. “Mine was custom made. I keep losing my pair of scissors, my favorite sheers…” He let his voice die down. “It’s a life savior, really.”

—-

So apparently this man was much more easily riled up online than in person. At least while on the job. Or maybe he was just dumb as bricks, not a stretch considering the status of his computer knowledge. There he went off again, explaining to Owen just how amazing aprons were. To a man that would rather have quit the decently cushy job at The Wormhole than be forced to wear an apron if the choice had been presented. “Wow, custom made, huh?” Owen turned back to the florist and the ever growing bouquet. Wondering if he should just let things lie now and walk out - leave the man to put back the flowers. When had he ever let things lie, though?

“Yeah… poor fucker’s Irish, too. Probably shouldn’t be picking on him for the apron kink since he doesn’t have much else going for him. Bastard can’t even use Google translate,” Owen sighed, finally seizing his incessant touching of most things in the store in order to cross his arms over his chest. Staring pointedly at the florist, he wondered if the guy would continue to stand up for himself in the third person or finally get the hint. Judging from how this conversation had been going, the slayer’s bets were currently on the first option. 

__

“Looks good to you?” Conor asked, stopping in his tracks to present a bouquet that was already quite generously sized. “I could add more to it, but I think it’ll look better with a bit of foliage thrown into the mix,” and while he sold flowers for a living, he preferred harmony over money, happy customers tended to come back, not those that felt like they were scammed. 

He was glad to see the other take such interest into his aprons. Most people wouldn’t have felt this way. With a rare smile, he nodded along. “Maybe you could apologize to him. I think that once you’ve tried these, you can’t go back.” Putting things in your pockets was fun, but Conor was blessed with legs that could only wear loose trousers or kilts. He most often opted for the latter, though he had an ever growing collection of large legged pants, some dating back to the 60s.

“You think you’re fucking funny, don’t you?” His gaze fell to the bouquet in his hand. Well he could just wrap it and wait for someone to buy it tomorrow, considering it was closing time soon. With a sigh, he grabbed a piece of twine in his apron, wrapping it where his fist met the stems. “You’re a fucking prick. A big, sizable, fucking dickhead,” he tied a knot, then with a glare, went to pick up a vase from underneath the counter. “Well you’ve had your laugh. Haha, téigh ag gnéas le logáil isteach... Cad... Fucking,” he groaned. “Whatever the fuck happened to going for drinks? Did ya chicken out?”

—

There it was. The flash of recognition was delightful, especially combined with the genuine annoyance. “I have my moments,” Owen mused, following the gaze to the nice bunch of flowers being wrapped up. Accompanied by some very impressive cursing that only made the slayer’s smile wider. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve already established that I annoy you, nothing new there,” he waved him off. Sauntering up towards the counter, he side eyed the vase and pulled it towards himself before the florist had a chance to put the flowers away. 

“Nah, no chickening out, just wanted to see this apron for myself before I drink you under the table.” Owen let go of the vase for a moment to dig into his pockets, pulling out his wallet. “Come on, unclench your butt and tell me what I owe you.”

__

“Fuck off, you’re fucking un… not… You’re not funny,” he finally said, matter of factly, each of his words tainted with a special kind of disappointment. He didn't like a waste of time, and there was this guy, doing just that. Conor could have been working on closing the store now, but instead he had to be the butt of this guy's joke. Fan-fuckin-tastic. 

He was about to tell him to get the fuck out of his air when the annoyance pulled the bouquet back to himself. He wasn't gonna buy it, was he? 

Conor crossed his arms over his chest, expecting some sort of turn of situation that would make him once again the subject of a private one man show. Instead, he offered to pay, and the faun had no other choice than to tell the truth. He wouldn't be getting another stomach ache for this asshole. "And you couldn't just ask me ? You had to be fucking dramatic about it?" He tried to remember the subject of the bouquet. Something about sticks up one's arse and admitting to liking him. Right. "You're not as charming as you think you are," he flatly stated, then turning his back on him to tidy up his workstation, he said. "Sixty-two dollars and seventy five cents," he'd leave the other to do the math on a proper tip.

—

There were so many emotions flashing across the other man’s face that it was almost hard to keep track. Pure, unfiltered annoyance had been very obvious when the guy had thought Owen wasn’t going to finalize the purchase. It would have been funny to have the bouquet made for nothing but that made the odds of the aforementioned drinks seem very slim so the slayer held back. If he annoyed the guy too much now, there was no way to get to know him better. See if he was worth keeping around to mildly annoy every once in a while. And thankfully, the anger seemed to fade slightly when Owen asked to pay. 

“Bringing the drama is the curse I’m forced to live with,” he sighed, starting to count out bills and watching the other’s very tense back. “And I’m actually more charming than I give myself credit for,” Owen added, placing seventy dollars on the counter and reaching for a blank note and a pen while the florist’s back was turned. He quickly scribbled down a message onto the note and stuck it into the flowers, moving wordlessly for the door and only turning once one foot was already on the pavement outside. “Don’t wait too long to call. I know where you work.” And with that, he left, resuming his previous mission of buying cigarettes with a grin on his face. 

—

The other’s words were greeted with an eye roll. Given the context, it was perhaps a good thing only Conor’s wall of shears could see the look upon his face. Wiping the last pair of shears clean with a chlorophyll stained rag, he placed it back with the others and turned to look at Owen, who was walking out of the store without Conor’s bouquet. While he attempted to recall the last time he was ever given a present, the faun rubbed at the back of his neck in embarrassment. Maybe he should have been a bit nicer with Owen. A voice at the back of his head was opposed to that thought : he didn’t like aprons, he was dramatic and he wanted to see Conor piss drunk all to prove what? That he was superior at drinking? Conor didn’t like that, because he didn’t like losing, he very much liked his apron, and he didn’t like drama. When did anyone ever have a good time being dramatic? 

“You’re really not,” he retorted, turning around at last to watch him leave the store. At long last. The faun sighed. “Alright. Bye,” he couldn’t have sounded colder had he tried, yet, as he picked up the note from the bouquet, a warmth came to tint his cheeks Armeria maritima ‘Bloodstone’ pink. 

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 159 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: You know, for the life of me I cannot remember what I was doing or even where I was when I listened to MAG 159 and 160. I know it was the next day and that I was working in the garden at MAG 160. But those two... My brain just blanked it seems XD

Episode title "The Last"... The last mark... Thanks ashes, I probably would have never got that xD I thought it has something to do with Martin and Jon being in the Lonely. The last always makes me think of being forsaken.

Ahhh, the gentle crashing of the waves. I think I didn't really register them when I heard that episode the first time because I remember being a bit confused why I had the image of them being on a beach in my head...

JON: "What’s wrong, Lukas? Afraid of talking face-to-face?" PETER: "(chuckles) "Of course. Or haven’t you been paying attention?" Yeah, I feel you Peter XD (My fear sign is the Eye and I’m Lonely is my  Ascendant xD)

PETER: "So. What are you seeking? The image you’ve each created of the other?" You can only know a person in that way of the image you created of them. I can't know what they're thinking, or really feeling. I do think Jon and Martin had enough time to create a educated image of each other! This  capacity to understand other people is called theory of mind btw. I have a hard time getting into ships, because a lot of times I don't see them coming, no development, no tell-tale dynamic etc. I don't see this gradual and slow dancing around each other happening. This doesn't mean it can't be a slow burn, there are times a ship gets canon after a long time, but when they first see each other they're already so obviously set up to be a couple that it doesn't feel natural to me. I don't know if that’s an aro thing, but I've never understood this "love at first sight"... or even "love at third sight" although friends told me that this very much exists for them... We don't see Jon and Martin doing super much stuff together, but that's because it's not important for the story. Important is, that we know that it is happening. And I saw that with Jon and Martin. I saw them probably spending more time in the second half of S1 because Martin lived in the Archives and Jon is a workaholic. That interaction in MAG 40, where Martin almost starts crying for accidentally leaving Jon (and Tim) and the way Jon answers sympathetically. We know Martin fusses a lot about Jon in S2 ("very attentive to my needs" xD), and Martin knows about Jon's Distortion stab wound. And then they had lunch together at least once and I like to think they did this more often (even if Jon convinces himself he does it to observe Martin as a murder suspect - and while we're on it, Martin asked if he should bring Jon something from the cafe and Jon decides on his own to go with him... so he can't poison him of course!!!11). Aaaand then Jon finds out about Martin's CV, which also brings them closer. Okay, you see where this is going? None of these actions were already meant in a romantic way by Jon, but because of them he got to know Martin better. This is just romance (accidentally) written very, very well! Perhaps the fact, that it wasn't planned makes it feel so natural and not like a forced set-up from the beginning.

PETER: "The people you think you love don’t exist. Not really." So we've decided on counting Elias' not really in MAG 158, which was not-really 21. Oh, this episode still has a few of them^^ Not-really counter of S4: 22!

JON: "The Lonely and the Eye aren’t too far apart, are they? Not really. " Not-really counter of S4: 23! (I told you we're still getting somewhere^^) Also, I think the Lonely and the Eye are still tricky. Because not being seen, so being hidden, is also very lonely. Peter doesn't like being found, so there the Eye works against the Lonely (similar to the Dark with the Extinguished Sun being seen).

JON: "Come on, we’ve got to get out of here." MARTIN: (echoing) "No. No, I don’t think so." That sound effect while Martin answers. I have seen this often depicted as Jon trying to reach out to Martin, but just swirling through Martin like mist. But that is actually exactly like this sounds!

MARTIN: (wry laugh) "I really loved you, you know?" AHHHHHHHHHH! Although Jon told him it's really him, Martin doesn’t believe it. That's just what imagination!Jon would say. It sounds like Martin is talking to his own imagination of Jon, saying goodbye to him. He's saying this to come to terms with his fate of fading away now and this is also why he uses past tense. Because he also thinks he's stopped existing. If there is no Martin anymore, then he also can't love Jon anymore, right? (Just like in MAG 170. If Martin forgets himself, there is nothing left for Jon to know his way to.)

JON: "Obviously he’s done something. Peter’s done something to mess with you– Damn it! Martin! Martin!" Jon knows there is something very wrong with Martin, and it only took Martin to say that he past tense-loved him for Jon to notice it.

PETER: (echoing) "I tried to tell you. He’s gone. He made his choice. And it wasn’t you." Because of this sentence I always thought it was Peter letting Jon find Martin, so Jon could learn it from Martin himself, that he doesn't want to be with him anymore. Hoping it would break Jon.

JON: "It was for me, though. I’m the reason he…" Aaaand Jon isn’t so convinced about that. He knows Martin did still care about him.

JON: "I did this to him as much as you." PETER: "Yes. I suppose you did." Eehhh, bit of pessimism coming through though. And Peter immediately latches on to this to get Jon's guilt going. Telling him the fates of all his friends are his fault.

PETER: "You’re alone, Archivist. The last one standing." That probably made me think the episode title was meant to refer to a person. After all, being the last means being alone.

PETER: "perhaps it would be better if you stayed a while. After all – you can’t hurt anyone in here." JON: (seemingly defeated) "Yes." PETER (AS THE ARCHIVIST’S ECHO): "Yes." JON: (flatly) "Or perhaps you could answer some questions." PETER: (echoing) "…what?" [STATIC RISES AND DEEPENS AS THE ARCHIVIST SPEAKS] JON: "I wouldn’t try to leave if I were you. I can see you now. I can find you wherever you go." Poor Peter, getting played by everyone today... Played by Martin, which means he lost his bet with Elias and now even the wet paper bag of an Archivist gets him. I love it every time Jon gets all angry using his powers. And he flat out threatens Peter here.

PETER: "From what I understand, severing the connection to your humanity is a cornerstone of an upper-class education…" Yeah, that sounds about right. Only keeping people because you can use them, not because you like them. And at a certain level, you can't be more successful if you're not willing to hurt others, to live on their expenses... That probably doesn't make you very popular.

PETER: "I had no time for books or television, or any of the escapes and artificial friendships of fiction." Hm yes, clever that this is addressed. Parasocial relationships are relationships after all. And they are dangerous in a sense because with them you actually shape that celeb/character/influencer/whatever exactly how you want them to be. Especially with characters, they don't have a mind on their own, they are exactly what you make them to be. And that's probably without any flaws that bother you, ever in favor of you. That friend, who is just perfect. And that can keep you from making actual friends. Because real people aren't perfect, they won't always do what you want to do and that's complicated and frustrating. Why stick around with them, when there's this perfect person just around the corner of your mind.

PETER: "My crew is out there, waiting for a call I think I am now unlikely ever to give them." Does that mean he's already suspecting not to get out of this alive?

PETER: "The thing is, the loneliness I crave, that fills my heart with that reassuring unease, relies on distance from other people. But a world without people at all, or at least anything I would recognize as people…? It is meaningless. Without the lighted window in the distance, how am I to see myself apart from it?" Hmmm, and that is what makes the Lonely close to the Eye, even though the Eye can be very dangerous for the Lonely.

You know, Peter's ritual could have been a perfect reverse panopticon. (And therefore a perfect middlefinger as celebration to his 5th divorce with Elias xD) Picture a round building, spread out the windows and you would never be able to see the neighboring one around the corner. So instead of being able to see everyone on the inside, you can't see anyone on the outside.

I'm not a flat-person, but Peter's design sounds actually wonderful to me...? xD

PETER: "Do you know how she did it? What devastating weapon she used to derail my plan? The newspaper. She tipped off someone in The Guardian." Yeah, even when not looking at the consequence of people not wanting to rent any of Lukas' flat anymore, I'm guessing the press can also be very invasive. Peter must have hated that.

JON: "hat was his prize? What did he get if you lost?" PETER: (disinterested) "Oh, he got you." This might be the most last-minute foreshadowing in TMA xD

JON: "Tell me, or I will rip it out of you." PETER: "No…" [THE STATIC GROWS LOUDER.] JON: "Answer my question!" PETER: (echoing again) "No! Leave… me… ALONE!" JON: "TELL ME!" [THE SQUEALING CRESCENDOS AS THE ARCHIVIST RIPS PETER LUKAS APART. LUKAS LETS OUT A FINAL DEFIANT SCREAM THAT FADES INTO THE REGULAR STATIC.] After Brutal Pipe Murder this might be the second most brutal thing we hear live on TMA. That splash-sound, letting us know that he was indeed ripped apart, blood and gore splattering all over the place. I never had the impression that this was Jon's intention. I always thought it was very clear, that this is exactly how Alex and Jonny described it in one of the Q&As - like pulling on a person's arm with enormous strength for so long it finally just rips off.

JON: "But we need you. (desperately) I need you." OMG this is happening *OFMD Lucius style*

MARTIN: "No, you don’t. Not really." There it is... the TRUE reason this episode is called The Last. Because this is the last not-really of S4. It has been an honor to point this out and perhaps ruin this a bit for some of you now that you're aware of it and can't unhear it. And with these words, I now will say for The Last time: Not-really counter of S4: 24!

JON: "I don’t just want to survive!" MARTIN: "I’m sorry." JON: "Martin. Martin, look at me. Look at me and tell me what you see." Jon can't get through to Martin, not by talking. But a picture is worth more than a thousand words.

MARTIN: "I see…" [MARTIN’S VOICE QUAVERS.] MARTIN: "I see you, Jon." [HE LETS OUT AN INCREDULOUS CHUCKLE, THEN ANOTHER. HIS ECHO GOES AWAY.] MARTIN: "I see you." JON: (relieved) "Martin." [MARTIN’S BREATHING GETS FASTER. HE SOBS, HIS VOICE BREAKING.] Ahhhh, this is really happening!!! (Jon let Martin see his love, right? Let him feel it! God, I can imagine so well how Jon takes Martin's face in his hands so he has to look at him. And then Martin breaks down and Jon just goes in to embrace him.)

MARTIN: "I… I was on my own. I was all on my own." JON: "Not anymore. Come on. Let’s go home." MARTIN: "How?" JON: "Don’t worry. I know the way." [THEY BEGIN TO WALK, AND THE TAPE ENDS.] This did happen! Jon takes Martin's hand and safely leads them out of the mist of the Lonely, right? I wonder though... Where did they come out? I feel like at the panopticon again would be a bit dangerous for Jonah. If they came out right there again, why didn't they, say, take Jonah's body with them? Drag him off his throne, take his power from him. I mean, a bit unromantic, sure, finally hand in hand with the one you love and then there's this old corpse of a third wheel, urgh... But Elias was very insistent to get Jon to grow his powers, he didn't do that for nothing. There still is something Elias wants with Jon.

Well, that's it folks, this was The Magnus Archives! They went home and lived happily ever after, right?.... Right?...

Those two scenes with Jon and Martin were just written beautifully, it was perfect! I was so psyched for them to finally be together, that pining was almost unbearable! (almost!) Not just is JonMartin a wonderful slow burn with lots of unresolved tension (like S4 was perfect for this, have another obstacle to drag this out even more the moment the other person finally realizes their feelings! And again, it didn't feel forced. Often these obstacles in slow burn romances get pretty ridiculous and you can see how this was done just to keep them apart even longer.), this is also not the end of it! I love slow burns, but I hate having the ship finally getting canon on the very last episode(s) of the entire series! It's so frustrating, it's what you're waiting for the whole time and then you don't get to actually enjoy it because the story is over. And even this TMA does exactly how I like it, because this is only S4 and we still get an entire season canon JonMartin! Not gonna lie, there were certain ships I liked and routed for, Adrienette (Miraculous), Catradora (She-Ra), but I was never die-hard invested in them. JonMartin hit me like a train! I never got this borderline obsessiveness with some ships (a good friend of mine for example is a HUUUGE Stucky fan) and yeah, I get it now. And it's not even, that this plot point was sooo surprising for me because that was the one thing I caught a spoiler of, JonMartin. Buuuut, it was only sometime at the beginning of S3, and I already saw potential for them as a ship by the end of S1 and beginning of S2, so even the spoiler wasn't that big of a surprise to me. And I of course didn't know when and how it would happen, only that it's going to be canon.

@a-mag-a-day (also thanks for reblogging my What-if fanart of MAG 158!! I totally forgot I had that, lol

[decks-writing-blog]

Weak Form

Content warning for temporary character death, murder, and stabbing.

~

This weak form’s constant need for regular sleep was one of many things wrong with it. Being unaware of the world for hours on end with at most a barely remembered dream to show for it the next day was an utter waste of time. Not that Narinder had much to do anyway, he was thoroughly stuck like this for now, so he wasn’t missing much. But still, it was the principle of the matter.

Though, maybe taking a break from this awful reality he was stuck in wasn’t so bad. It was starting to grow on him a little. And so, upon reaching his assigned shelter, he only glared at his cot for a few seconds before settling onto it.

Before he could do more than sit though, a knock came on the door frame. With a barely restrained groan, he stood up again. “Who is it and what do you want?”

Apparently taking that as an invitation, his visitor pulled aside the curtain and stepped in. The newest member of the cult, joined only a few days ago, a pink bunny with large fuzzy ears. What their name was, Narinder couldn’t remember as he never paid much attention to the goings on of the other cult members.

Holding one paw behind their back, they stepped closer to speak in an almost whisper. “I heard you used to be a god. Is that true?”

“Yes.” Everyone knew but few cared because right from the start Lamb had positioned themself as the cult’s head, barely mentioning him at all. Meaning they’d planned to betray him from the start. After everything he’d done for them too. Not that he could exactly blame them, he’d have likely done the same in such a position, few wouldn’t.

Despite having their question answered, the bunny took another step closer, putting them uncomfortably close to Narinder. He wasn’t going to take a step back though and instead squared his shoulders and tilted his head back to glare down at them as best he could when their heights were so near to being the same – another horrid thing about his new form was how dreadfully small it was.

They didn’t seem to notice nor care about his attempt at looking intimidating. “How does one become a god?”

“There are a few ways. None of them are attainable by you though so I suggest you drop this idea. Our Leader might not like it if they ever found out about it.” Though, given their penchant for mercy, their chosen form of punishment might not be sufficient to deter it much.

“I heard that killing a god is way one to do it. Is that true?”

“Sometimes. Why? Are you planning to kill Lamb?” Narinder couldn’t help but scoff at the thought. If, even when at their weakest post having the Red Crown granted to them, Leshy hadn’t been able to kill them, what hope did this fellow have? “Good luck with that. I won’t assist so don’t even ask.” That had to be why they’d come to him, right? They assumed he’d be out for vengeance and thus would be willing to help with such a scheme. No doubt they intended to betray him as well to ensure they got all the power.

“Maybe one day I’ll be able to. Gotta start small though, right? So…” They lunged, pulling their hand out from behind their back, revealing that it held a large dagger. Its edge gleamed faintly in the dim candle light a moment before it was plunged into Narinder’s shoulder. That had been aimed for his chest but he’d moved just in time.

It hurt like a bitch though as Narinder jerked back with a sharp intact of breath. Warm blood oozed out of the wound, matting his fur and making his shirt stick to him. How dare anyone try such a thing!? Didn’t they know who he was? He was going make them pay for that!

Except the bunny only paused a moment to take in the fact that they’d missed before lunging towards him again. Even more prepared this time there wasn’t much he could do except catch their wrist with his good hand, the other arm sent a sharp wave of pain through his shoulder when he tried to move it. He stumbled back, smashing into the shelter’s wall, sending another bolt of pain through his shoulder that almost sent him to his knees.

His magic was gone, his strength reduce to almost nothing. He was helpless, utterly helpless. He growled and hissed, digging his claws into the bunny’s wrist and he tried to twist the knife out of it. But one handed against their two, he stood no chance. They pulled back, yanking out of his grip.

Their leg swept in, knocking against his ankles and breaking his already unsteady stance. He fell, landing on his injured shoulder, sending a fresh stab of pain through it. Which he didn’t have time to recover from before they were on top of him, straddling him and pressing him down so they could plunge the knife into his abdomen, just below his ribs. Without missing a beat, they yanked it down his front as far as they could make it go. He screamed as he tried to pull or turn away. But there was no escape.

“Yes, yes. If nothing else this is good practice, right?” The bunny’s voice sounded distant under the ringing in Narinder’s ears. “And killing a former god is a good start to killing an actual god. Hopefully whatever little power you have left will be mine now though.”

Every breath was agony and yet Narinder’s weak, pathetic body was desperate for air. Leaving him panting as he tried to move away but their weight as they straddled him was too much.

“I guess I should probably put you out of your misery, huh? Before someone passes by and hears you whimpering like this.”

Narinder was not whimpering! If he was going to die he was going to do so with dignity! …. But he was though, huh? It hurt too much not to. He bit back on it, biting his tongue hard enough to flood his mouth with his own blood; that pain was nothing compared to the horrid throbbing wrongness in his abdomen.

“Fuck you,” he managed as they hovered the knife over his heart.

They only chuckled, almost gleefully before thrusting the knife in. A sharp burst of pain that thankfully lasted only a second or two. As it quickly faded, everything else did too.

~

White void and calm nothingness. He was only barely aware of himself and his thoughts as he floated. It was nice actually, peaceful. He could get used to this. And eventually he would lose himself entirely. Which would be even...

Something grabbed him, pulling him up and out of that sweet calmness. … Lamb. The more he came back to himself, the more he recognized the feel of their mind. Also, they were the god of death now and thus it could only be them. Was this what they had felt every time he’d brought them back to life?

Suddenly he had physical form again. The world around him was bright and loud, his first renewed breath sweet but almost overwhelming in his lungs. He shuddered as he landed on his feet. Closing his eyes, he pressed his ears back, taking a few seconds to steady himself before opening them again.

Naturally, he was in the church. The rest of the cult surrounded him with Lamb presiding over them all at the podium. He looked around, turning in a circle… his killer was not present. Lucky for them… and possibly for himself since he wasn’t sure what he’d do when confronted with them again.

He waited until Lamb dismissed everyone with a wave of their paw and everyone had left before stepping up to them as they descended from the podium. Before he could say whatever it was he was going to say – he had no idea only that one should probably say something after being brought back to life– they spoke up instead. “I apologize for accidentally letting a murderer get into the commune. That should never have happened.”

“It has nothing to do with you. You don’t need to apologize for it.”

“Oh, but I do because you’re important to me. And after being chained for so long, you deserve some freedom the chance to enjoy life. Getting brutally murdered in a place you’re supposed to feel safe goes against that.”

Not sure how feel about those words or even how to respond, Narinder changed the topic “And my attacker? You know who did it?”

“Yep. They’re in jail right now. I have not yet decided what their punishment should be. This is the first time I’ve had to imprison someone for murder.”

“You should execute them. They intend to kill you. They wish to take your place and become a god themself. And in the future, you should be more careful about who you let live in the commune. As word gets out about you and how you usurped not only me but all of the Bishops, many more will feel empowered to try do the same to you.”

That gave Lamb pause for a couple seconds. “I… hadn’t considered that but I suppose you’re right. Thank you for the warning. I will also do better to protect you since many, as proven by this incident, will likely see you as a potential target as well.”

Narinder took a breath to decline – he didn’t need nor want their protection – but… he was weak and the thought of possibly dying in such a way ever again made him feel almost like he was going to throw up. He’d much rather submit to their protection. So… “Thank you.”

“Who knew being a god could be so hard?”

“It is not all fun and games.” In fact, it was rife with betrayals and hardships.

They smiled at him again before nodding. “Well come on then. Let’s go figure out a proper punishment for murder in this new land of mine. I will try not to be too biased towards blind vengeance.” Ah yes, that good ol’ mercy of theirs coming into play. Though maybe, mercy wasn’t so bad. Perhaps it would even make for a better world, one with less betrayals and needless deaths. Only time would tell and Narinder intended to be here to find out. He may no longer be a god but at least he was favored by the new god of death, a good thing to be if nothing else.

[squigglywindy]

Whumptober Day Four

Title: Dead On Your Feet

Prompts Used: Hidden Injury

Warnings: There's an injury, and maybe a lil bit of self-deprecation in an 'ah no I'm better than this grr' kind of way

Whumpee(s): Legend

Whumpometer: I dunno like a two for both

General Notes: This one's pretty chill, I wrote it early on before I gave in and started hurting them for real. Also! If anybody knows what sort of thing these guys would actually carry water around in, hit me up in the comments. I drew a blank and went with the first thing that popped in my head given my very limited knowledge on water-carrying-containers

The fight hadn’t even been that bad - and that was the worst part. Three lizalfos, a bokoblin that was definitely lost, the fight had been over in twelve minutes tops. Any one of them could have handled it single-handedly with one eye closed and one arm tied behind their back.

On any other day, at any other time, everything would have been absolutely fine. But today? Today, Legend wasn’t paying attention. He had seen what they were up against and made the foolish decision to let his guard down. He’d gotten in a stupid, pointless competition with Twilight to see who could take down their lizalfos first, and he’d turned to laugh at the rancher because the poor guy was losing, and that was all the opening the lizalfos needed to jump forward and jab its spear right into Legend’s leg.

The injury itself wasn’t that bad. It was more a slice than a stab, really, and the position and color of his tunic hid it well. In the moment, all he had done was gasp. A sharp intake of air that went completely unnoticed by the others, who were either occupied with their own fight or gathered around to watch Wild, who had insisted on fighting off the stray bokoblin with the branch of a tree he’d found on the side of their makeshift path.

And that’s how he found himself alone by a river after making some excuse about refilling everybody’s waterskins, said waterskins forgotten on a nearby rock as he wrapped his leg up with a scrap of material. It would heal in an instant if he had a potion, but he didn’t, and asking the others for one would mean admitting that he’d been stabbed by a lizalfos. It was worth a little extra pain to avoid the sheer humiliation of it all.

Once he was satisfied that he was sufficiently bandaged so as not to bleed and give himself away, he gathered up the waterskins and started back toward the group; loud recounts of the battle carrying easily through the trees.

“Hey, the loser's back!” Warriors cheered with that special teasing voice he reserved almost exclusively for the veteran.

Legend wrinkled his nose and didn’t grace that with a response even though he had technically lost in his friendly competition with Twilight. Losing to Twilight was something he could stomach, if he gave himself some time to digest. Losing to a lizalfos was another thing entirely, and so he focused all of his attention on ignoring the knives of pain shooting up his leg in an effort not to limp and give himself away.

“Oh come on, the real loser was that boko,” Wind nudged Legend playfully in the side, but he was gone before Legend could retaliate. He snatched the famous branch away from Wild and waved it around like the absolute menace that he was. “I’ve got to get me one of these.”

“It’s a stick,” Four scowled, jumping back to avoid a poorly aimed branch-slash. And thus began the ongoing ‘what constitutes a weapon’ debate, and Legend took the opportunity to fall into the back of the procession and bask in the lack of attention.

Sky was in the middle of his rehearsed-sounding pitch for birds having weapon-like capacities when Legend noticed that he was being watched. For the second time that day, his guard was too far down. Too focused on watching his own feet as he fought to keep them steady, one in front of the other, nothing to suspect. He couldn’t say how long Time had been watching him before, but when he finally noticed the stare, it was concerned enough that the answer was probably a while.

“What?” Legend snarked. He could still play it off like he was just tired, or bored, or concentrating really hard on Sky’s ridiculous ramble.

Time’s eye narrowed and he got that foreboding look of concern that never ended well for anyone. “You’re pale.”

Legend scowled. “I’m cold,” may not have been the most feasible excuse, but it wasn’t exactly warm, and it was better than the truth.

A delighted gasp was all the warning Legend got before Wild was at his side, flipping frantically through his slate before producing a vial of orangish slime. “Here,” he held it out eagerly.

Legend took it reluctantly. “What is it?”

Wild wrinkled his nose in thought and took the vial back, holding it up to the sun and squinting. “I think this one is dragonflies and moblin guts? Might have used a hinox toenail for flavor. Here; it’ll warm you up.” He held it back out and grinned.

Legend pushed it back toward him. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

Wild’s face fell and he tucked the elixir away. “I have a coat?”

“I said I’m fine,” Legend growled between gritted teeth, a particularly sharp throb from his leg lacing more venom into his tone than he’d intended.

“I’ll try the guts!” Wind popped up beside them and snatched the slate, and Wild gave Legend one last helpless look before chasing after the sailor before he could figure out how to access what was essentially dragonfly and guts stew.

Legend turned hesitantly back toward Time, and that cursed look of skepticism had only deepened. “You’re bleeding,” Twilight’s voice made him jump and jerk around, which hurt more than it had any right to, and he was grimacing by the time he met the rancher’s worried eyes.

“Thanks for the heart attack,” Legend tried to glare through the pain, and he hoped it was more convincing than it felt. “And what are you talking about? I’m fine.”

Time and Twilight exchanged a look, and whatever conversation they had with their eyes led to Time stopping in his tracks. “Break time,” he called, and the others, who had left them in the dust by this point, turned around in confusion.

“We just had a break,” Warriors protested. “Don’t we want to make it to the inn by nightfall?”

“Legend’s hurt,” Twilight ruthlessly destroyed him for the second time that day, absolutely mindless of the fact that maybe Legend didn’t want everyone to know everything all the time.

Hyrule gasped, a panicked little sound, and sprinted the short distance until he was at Legend’s side. “Where? What happened? Why didn��t you tell us? Legend we have potions. I have magic. Who’s got the poti...”

“I’m fine, ‘Rule,” Legend placated, and he felt like a broken record of assurances that he already knew nobody was going to believe.

“What happened?” Wind was at his side in an instant, looking him over at the obnoxious distance of about six inches away.

Legend put a hand on his head and pushed him away. “It’s barely a scratch, you guys can stop fretting.”

“I have an elixir for that,” Wild popped up, arms full of mushrooms he’d started gathering when they stopped. “Here, let me just...” he shuffled the mushrooms around, several falling to the ground as he produced a vial of red slime. “Here,” he held it out eagerly.

“Really not bad enough for a potion,” Legend shook his head.

“Is that why you’ve got blood on your tunic?” Four pointed, and Legend’s eyes flicked down to the offending piece of cloth. It blended in well, but alas, he was surrounded by observant people.

“Just take the potion Legend,” Hyrule pleaded, taking the vial from Wild and pressing it into Legend’s hand.

“Fine, but just so you’ll get off my back,” Legend glared and brought the potion to his lips, shuddering only a little at the absolutely vile flavor induced by...whatever Wild had seen fit to brew.

“Tell us next time, tough guy,” Warriors clapped him on the shoulder before walking on ahead. “We’d be at the inn by now if you had.”

And that was it. No jabs or teasing or long monologues about how he’d been bested by a lizalfos.

“Need any more?” Was all Wild asked, and when Legend shook his head, Wild actually believed him and scampered off; dragging Wind behind him toward a small pond that he was definitely going to bomb.

Legend watched them go and allowed hyrule to tug him down the path, toward the inn and away from the nightmare that hadn’t actually turned out to be all that bad.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Five: Taken

A powerful revelation. An important caveat. Regret.

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

-----

CHAPTER FIVE: TAKEN

The morning is hard.

There’s no further reason to stay. They both know it.

They check the goods Martin procured for the Village, but that’s just lingering. There is no crime in this world. They both understand why, now.

And it isn’t better. It’s not, Martin tells himself, repeats, holds on to.

Still, they delay leaving, and hand-in-hand, and take one last walk around a London they’ve never known.

No one gives them a second glance, or cares the tiniest bit about their open affection.

Martin has enjoyed not being judged for loving whom he loves. But the rest of it….

It just isn’t fair, really. None of it is fair at all.

#

Pepper is in a good mood as they board the cart for their last journey through. Jon keeps looking around as they slowly ride through the streets toward the exit, and it’s not an ordinary looking around.

Martin can’t feel stories like Jon can. Has never felt statements under other people’s skins.

He wishes he hadn’t told Basira about Jon’s… bad behavior, during the worst of things.

Wishes he’d handled it himself.

But he wasn’t grown then. (That’s what it feels like.) Didn’t know how to deal with it. Had no confidence in confronting Jon, in risking Jon’s dislike.

Now, of course, that’s not an issue, and he recognizes the intense, unpleasantly hungry look on his lover’s face. “Steady there,” he murmurs.

And Jon understands, and slides his hand onto Martin’s thigh. Breathes a little funny—too slowly, too deep.

“I thought you said there weren’t statements here. It’s all controlled,” says Martin.

“Not the way we had them back home. But there are stories. Your favorite group has one,” says Jon.

Martin blinks. “Julia, Peter, Mark?”

“And Eloise.”

Martin’s eyes go wide. It takes focus to keep his hands steady on Pepper’s reins, to stay centered and steady-handed. “What.”

“Eloise. She was the fourth. They loved her. She loved them. But she was smart. She asked questions. And the King took her.”

This hurts on a level Martin hadn’t known he could feel since his mother died and he was left at Peter Lukas’ mercy. “Did he.”

“He did. He… he pays attention. Thinks it’s better for everyone. When someone questions, he doesn’t hold back. He makes it very personal.”

Martin has Eloise’s ink.

He breathes carefully, trying not to weep. “That’s not good.”

“No.” Jon exhales, focuses on his feet. “He’s sought them out for so long that it doesn’t happen often, now.”

“What, he’s bred stupidity? People are just born that way?”

“I think we both know this has nothing to do with intelligence,” says Jon. “If I had any, it never would have even gotten that far with Jonah, and we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Of course Jon went there. Of course he did. Martin sighs.

Kayne’s comment about Jon stabbing himself returns. He’s beginning to wonder if he understands just how much Jon hates himself. “Hey. You’re talking about my favorite person. Watch it.”

Jon smiles weakly. “It’s almost funny to think about. Even if I didn’t have that damned tether, he’d still have come to kill me.”

Martin does not think it’s funny.

“It feels like a bullseye on my brain, who I am. What I am. I’m afraid.” Jon looks away.

That’s more than Jon usually verbalizes about feelings. “Well, I’ve got no regrets,” Martin says.

Jon stares at him.

“I got to spend several nights in a feather bed, and my back has never been so happy,” says Martin.

Jon laughs. “There is that.”

“Let’s go south,” says Martin. “Why not? Maybe there’ll be a boat. And it’ll be lovely, anyway.”

And that, Martin thinks, is precisely how fucked they are: just going to find a pretty view, because there was nothing else to do.

Jon sighs. “What about Pepper?”

“I’ll try to make sure she gets back home. I’ll leave a note.”

“I suppose that’s all we can do,” says Jon.

“Yeah.”

They ride in silence for a while, until they pass through the oddly scaly walls, back into the wild outdoors.

Leaving London with its weird tri-hook shape is mostly a relief.

Mostly.

Jon hopes there is nothing left in that library he needs. To believe anything else is unbearably damning.

#

Martin is more than a little freaked out to find Nyarlathotep’s black book in the cart.

There is zero chance they brought it with them.

Jon doesn’t seem to notice. He’s building a fire, focused, and has been in his head most of the afternoon.

Good, thinks Martin, trying to decide if he’s going to burn this thing, or hide it, or toss it into the woods.

“He’s waiting,” says Jon, softly, into the fire.

Martin goes very still. “What?”

“The King. He’s waiting. We’re heading right for him.”

“Well, we’re turning around!” says Martin.

“He’ll just float over there and wait for us in whatever direction we pick.”

“Stop accepting this!” snaps Martin, who isn’t actually sure what he’s protesting, isn’t actually certain which part is making him mad.

Jon looks at him. “I will do whatever I have to do to keep his attention off of you.”

“Oh, so this whole time you were quiet, you were going insane,” says Martin. “No.”

Jon sighs and (finally) looks away, but his eyes—that expression—that piercing, too-broad, unnervingly inhuman gaze….

It wasn’t like in the apocalypse, no. It wasn’t that bad. But it wasn’t like in the Archives, either, when Jon was truly human, before Jon literally came back from the dead.

This mess has somehow jump-started Jon into going more eldritch, and now Martin knows where to direct his anger—at the King.

There has to be a way to stop this. “We have to run,” says Martin.

Jon just looks at him. “To where?”

Martin grits his teeth.

He tucks the black book into his bag with his notebook, though he’s not sure why. Sits with Jon for a while, eats a little with him; Jon’s bread is really good.

He douses the fire.

When he sits in the cart, he takes Jon’s hand, and urges Pepper the way they were already going.

There was no way out of this moment. But maybe they could do something after the axe finally fell.

#

“We’re probably near Brighton,” says Jon after what feels like hours. “Funny, that. It’d have been more thematically appropriate to head toward Bournemouth. Beginnings and endings, and all.”

“That’s morbid, Jon. Also way west,” says Martin, trying to lighten the mood. “Think your Yellow King would’ve had that much patience?”

“Probably not.”

They’ve reached some sort of finality, emotionally. Martin’s not sure they went through all five stages of grief, whatever they were (he only vaguely recalled the counselor telling him about them when his mum died), but this has to be some final point.

Acceptance? Sort of?

It doesn't feel particularly good.

The air has been briny for the past twenty minutes. He can almost hear the ocean, sometimes, when the wind is right.

It’s probably amazing. No industrial revolution, everyone so neatly (terribly) controlled. Martin  wonders what color the water will be.

But the way Jon is looking ahead, they won’t be given the chance to enjoy that untarnished sea.

“We’re sticking with our decision,” says Jon, voice hoarse. “I’m not bringing the Fears here.”

“Of course not,” says Martin.

Jon’s eyes are wide, and he’s gone very stiff, and his teeth are bared. “No matter what, Martin? You won’t change your mind? Even if I can’t talk to you anymore. You’re certain. You’re certain.”

“I’m certain,” says Martin, but he isn’t, he is not, because he’s suddenly wondering at what point he would give in, at what point the price would be too high, and he hadn’t been thinking like that until this very moment, hadn’t been trying to count the cost the way Jon clearly had been for a while, but what else could he say? What else could he do?

Kayne was right. Jon will choose the way Martin wants, and that is not a power Martin wants to have.

“There,” whispers Jon.

Martin squints.

Ahead, the land drops off in a beautiful blue-gray line, and the thin, dark arches of birds hint at the expanse of the sea, the richness of whatever swims within it.

But there is a shape between them and the ocean.

It doesn’t resolve as a person, not right away. It’s off the ground, and it’s too wide, and it's yellow, and Martin can’t help pulling Pepper to a stop.

Jon looks at him. Into him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” whispers Martin.

Jon slides off the cart.

Martin leaps off, jogs around, stops Jon with hands on his shoulders. “No! Jon!”

Jon looks ill. “I have to go. If he has to come to us, it… it’ll be worse.”

“Don’t you dare do this! Where you go, I go. That is the deal, Jonathan Sims!”

“He could hurt you,” Jon whispers.

“And maybe he can, or maybe Kayne’s going to do it instead, but no matter what, I’d rather be at your side than trying to hide somewhere else!”

Jon leans into him. “All right. All right. It’s your choice. I’m never taking away your choice again.”

Martin exhales. That was an improvement, at least.

It still echoed past events too much.

I won’t have to stab him again, Martin tells himself, swears to himself, tries not to hear Kayne’s dreadful ways out of this—breaking Jon’s mind, or killing him. Why can’t we have… he starts, then stops himself. “Come on. You’re going in style.” He lifts Jon back into the cart like Jon weighs nothing.

That earns a weak smile. “Show-off,” Jon whispers.

Martin smiles. To his surprise, it’s real.

#

The King lowers slowly, timing his descent with the mule’s approach, and it’s so absurdly dramatic that Martin would laugh if he saw it in some show.

He has to admit it’s effective in real life.

The psychological power of it, the weight of heading willingly toward descending doom—

Yeah. It works. Martin’s a little irritated that it does.

Pepper is the only one who seems normal about all of this. The mule stops when bid, calm, and munches a little bit of grass that still grows before the sand takes over.

No one moves.

Is it a test?

Jon touches Martin’s leg. “I’m ready,” he says softly, and again, gets down from the cart.

So does Martin.

A million missed opportunities flash through Martin’s mind, little moments when they could have touched and didn’t, or when he thought something nice and didn’t say it, or when one of them or both were grouchy and let the silence go too long, or when they should have dug into a topic that needed digging and they did not, or—

Jon takes his hand. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” whispers Martin.

They hold hands and walk toward the end together.

The King doesn’t look toward Martin at all. “I see you’re better prepared this time.”

“Am I?” says Jon, and it’s not a tone Martin likes at all.

It’s too calm, too… too….

Submissive? No. But that’s almost the word.

“Yes. As I’m sure you’ve realized, there’s no point in denying what you are.”

It’s such a big voice.

Martin hates it, feels it. Suspects he’d hear it even if he were buried in the ground.

Wonders if he could somehow grab the Lonely, grab Jon, and vanish.

But no. It’s not near enough, not close enough. And Martin has not fed it at all since he came to this place.

Jon’s grip is almost painfully tight. “Please leave Martin out of this,” he says. “Please.”

“Oh, Jon,” says the King with warmth and fondness (and if Martin had an axe right now he might try chopping). “That’s going to depend on you.” The King in Yellow reveals a humanoid hand—huge, ebony black—and holds it out, beckoning.

It is so condescending, and so superior, a crumb thrown to a starving dog, a penny dropped on a poor man’s head, and Martin feels something rising in him he has rarely felt: rage.

This god is so certain it has Jon that it doesn’t even care how much this is hurting him.

Martin opens his mouth to say something.

“Now, is that really the way to start all this?” says Kayne, appearing as if walking out of a fog (and that was on purpose, and that was pointed at Martin, and he knows it was). “No, no, no—we will only have maximum fun with honesty all around.”

Jon makes a tiny, terrified sound.

Kayne beams at everyone. He just looks like a guy. Attractive in a symmetrical sense, brown hair, tan skin, nothing to write home about.

There’s nothing here that should be terrifying, especially next to the enormity of the King, but… there is.

It’s like he casts a shadow Martin can feel but not see, hungry and grasping.

Jon’s breathing has gone shaky and shallow. He stares.

Martin knows Jon is seeing something that isn’t just a guy.

“Leave!” growls the King, a low and terrible sound.

Kayne winks. “He can’t touch you, muffin-cakes.”

“What?” says Jon.

And Kayne’s fingers suddenly shoot toward them.

Long, thin, like some kind of horrible black spears tipped with flickering purple, they stop an inch from Jon’s face, too fast for anyone to deflect.

Jon cries out and stumbles back. Martin catches him.

“Hey!” Martin cries.

“Any more than I can touch that,” says Kayne. “Ew, by the way.”

“Wh-what?” says Jon, and looks at the King. “You really can’t touch him?”

There is a moment of thick and awkward silence that reminds Martin of nothing so much as the tension between Peter and Elias after he’d refused to stab Jonah’s corpse.

“No,” says the King at last. “I cannot. We have an arrangement.”

“What?” says Martin.

Jon looks at Martin with joy, as though they’ve received a stay of execution.

And Martin is furious.

It’s not enough to do this, to ruin the life they’ve built, to force these things on Jon, but it has to be done in such a humiliating way, making Jon grateful? “Jon, don’t—”

“Jon,” says the King, sounding warm and congenial and utterly demonic. “Come. Let us talk.”

Jon brings Martin’s hand to his mouth and kisses it, then looks at Kayne. “If you leave him unharmed, I… I swear, I’ll….”

“Not to be heartless—oh, who am I kidding, I am heartless—but you have nothing I want. If he’s going to be ‘safe’ (a relative term, don’t you think, if we’re being honest) it’s all on him.”

“Jon,” says the King.

Jon ignores him. He’s breathing too fast. Whatever he sees when he looks at Kayne is almost panicking him, and that—more than anything else—signals warning in Martin’s gut. “There has to be something!” Jon says.

Kayne just laughs at him.

“Jon,” snaps the King.

Is he jealous? Martin thinks, which can’t be, because this thing is old as the universe, not actually a baby, and so it cannot be jealousy he hears in that tone. “Jon, I don’t need—”

“We are done here,” the King suddenly says, and his freakish yellow cloak swarms, grows, swallows Jon and eclipses Martin’s sight, and there is the smell of stone and a weird, not-right heat.

Something trips Martin up. Just catches him like a foot to his ankle, and Martin goes down hard.

Jon’s hand is torn away, and he’s gone.

Martin screams.

“There, there, puddin’ pop,” says Kayne, almost sounding compassionate, close enough to kind that it’s clearly mockery, a joke at the expense of horrible pain.

Martin breathes like a broken locomotive, looks around, but there is no sign of them at all, no distant yellow shape, nothing.

They’re gone.

“No!” Martin cries, and turns to the only option he has. “What do you want? What? I’ll do it! Help him!”

“Mmmm, oh, lemme see, lemme think real hard, no,” says Kayne, and smiles.

Martin wants to hit him.

It’s stupid. It wouldn’t do any good to anyone, and probably wouldn’t even land.

It’s also wildly outside his normal reactions, this violence, and that realization lurches Martin’s heart in a weird, painful way. He curls down over himself, breathing hard.

“Oh, the desire to kill things, the need to hit? It’s not puberty!”  says Kayne. “Exposure to something like Hastur makes all kinds of things go haywire. You’re lucky, really. You’ve been sucking down divinity, my boy. Archivist saliva, or whatever you’ve put in your mouth lately (ew, by the way) has given you loads of immunity. DNA, magic, all of that. Most humans just go completely bug-fuck crazy when they meet the Yellow King.”

Martin feels the truth of it. It’s sobering, humiliating, amazing. “That’s why everyone’s minds are blanked when he shows up,” he guesses. “So they don’t go crazy.”

“Very good! So smart. I could just eat you up.”

“And what are you doing to me, then, if that’s what his presence does?”

Kayne just smiles, and it is a wicked thing.

Martin decides he doesn’t give a flip about Kayne right now. “Jon,” he whispers, curling down further, and cries so his tears drip into the grass.

For a long moment, there’s no sound at all beyond his hitching breaths and Pepper’s munching, off to the side.

He’s never hurt this much.

His mother’s death didn’t hurt this much.

His banishment into the Lonely didn’t hurt this much (those first few minutes before numbness took hold were horrible, but this was still worse).

Stabbing Jon….

Okay, yeah, that hurt this much, but there was somehow more hope in that, because wherever they were going, they were going together.

This is not together. This is apart. And nobody even broke any promises this time.

He makes a sound, long and hoarse. He doesn’t know what it is. A wail? A cry? A bellow?

Kayne waits. Humming. Filing his fingernails.

It is ominous. Martin knows without knowing how that Kayne doesn’t do idle, doesn’t do bored.

“Just tell me what you want,” Martin says, his voice so quiet.

“You don’t even know what you want, little biscuit, so no, I don’t think I will.” Kayne sticks his finger in his mouth, then wipes it—wet—on Martin’s cheek.

“Oh, gross!” Martin startles, wrenching away from him.

“Mmm, it’s really not my style to help out,” says Kayne, “and don’t get me wrong, you’re adorable, but not, like, that adorable.”

And Martin says what he’s actually thinking. “If I really didn’t have anything you wanted, you wouldn’t be here.”

Kayne smiles, and it is dark, and final, as if Martin passed some kind of test. “Fair enough, my little dove bar, fair enough. You just keep making me so happy, so tell you what: you go take your cart home, and I’ll check in with you there.”

Martin feels like his heart is burning. “But that’s more than a week’s ride!”

“Sure is, mon petite profiterole.”

“You—look, why are you doing that? Never mind, why do you even know French?”

“Outside, remember?” Kayne says. “And a week is good! Should give you time to think, figure out what’s going on in that wholesome little head of yours.”

“But Jon—”

“Will be having an amazing time. Just imagine the war stories he’ll have!”

Martin knows pleading won’t help. He can’t threaten. He has nothing—except the bare, vague, unfounded hope Kayne will show up after he gets home. “Where did they go?”

“Nowhere you can follow on your own, my love.”

Mart hangs his head. Why does it have to be this way?

“Iunno,” Kayne shrugs. “Ta!”

Gone.

Just gone.

Martin rises and walks forward.

He stands in the surf for a while, boots in hand, letting the absolute aching cold of the ocean eat at his feet and ground him.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if…

If Jon…

If Jon what?

If Jon summons the Fears, Martin will be with him. There’s no doubt of that. Once Jon has the power to keep them together, he will.

But that would cost the world.

If he doesn’t—and Martin is sure he will not—there’s a good chance he’ll never see him again.

And it’s stupid, and selfish, and unwise, but he wishes he hadn’t been quite so firm when Jon asked that last, crucial question.

Not that he wants the Fears here. He does not. But there has to be a third way.

There has to be.

Pepper is waiting when Martin returns, and is more than happy to trot for hours while Martin goes numb.

(part six)

NOTES

Martin's right. It's absolutely not fair.

It's about to get worse.

[thecloudstan]

What did you think about the Sephiroth and Rufus situation? I personally LOVED it. I had a feeling from the start that Glenn was actually Sephiroth, and when it was confirmed at the end it just made the Glenn scenes even better. Sephiroth has a huge grudge against Rufus that wasn’t in the original and I think it’s glorious, both because it was immensely entertaining and because it fleshed out their characters. Rufus was the only one this entire time who managed to get some kind of emotion out of Sephiroth and actually got under his skin, while Sephiroth read him like a freaking book (the infamous “pig headed, pathetic, daddy hating child” line. Side note: it would’ve been even funnier if it was said in Sephiroth’s voice and not Glenn’s. The idea of him saying “daddy” just tickles my funny bone.)

I think their dynamic is more interesting than Sephiroth and Cloud’s simply because they’re almost on equal footing- at least mentally- and while Sephiroth has the physical strength Rufus has his money and influence, and I was freaking out the entire time they showed up together.

Sorry for the long ask/rant, but hey, you did say to feel free to vent about our emotions 😅

I was kinda at a loss when Glenn first showed up, my husband and I were wayyy on the wrong track. I'm actually glad we were, I'm much happier that it was Sephiroth trying to keep Rufus out of his way, especially since Rufus catches on pretty quickly in the original. At least, he understands pretty promptly that Sephiroth is a more pressing problem than everything else.

The thing I can't quite figure out is whether this Glenn visual is being perpetrated by the Sephiroth we know or the Sephiroth who exists outside of time (I keep referring to him as Advent Children Sephiroth and original as Alpha Sephiroth). I think it MUST be AC Seph because he seems to be using every possible tack to buy himself (Alpha Seph) time. He even goes so far as to try and kill Tifa in the Lifestream, which was fucking SHOCKING...he's really doing his best to keep Aerith alive, Cloud in thrall, Rufus off his (and Avalanche's) back, and Tifa from being in a position to remind Cloud who he really is much later in Mideel.

And beneath this cut is wild theorizing that goes way beyond the scope of your message, omg. I blathered so much I decided it needed a cut!!

Sorry, this might all sound nutso since there are so many things happening at once. I think anytime you see Seph in-storyline it's a Reunion clone (iow, a fully thralled SOLDIER, etc). So far I think AC Seph is in Cloud's head and anytime you're between realities (Edge of Creation). Like, the fucked up Whispers are that indication that you're dealing with AC Seph and not Alpha Seph. A good example would be the Citadel (bear with me).

Aerith knows she has to pray for Holy and return to the Planet (die). But when the heroes arrive, they don't know her intent, so the white Whispers (deployed by the Planet in cooperation with Aerith), are already there beating back AC Seph's black Whispers, while also trying to keep Cloud & Co. from breaking through and rescuing her. The Sephiroth that falls from the sky and does the deed doesn't really matter...he's just a Reunion clone. Right? This is what I think, at least.

I have to go back and play through and pay closer attention to each of his individual arrivals to be sure, but it's what I've cooked up in my brain so far. AC Seph just talks to Cloud differently. It's an attempt to lead by filling him with rage that will make him act, instead of his previous tack of essentially ignoring him because he was too squid-brained-Jenova-pilled to pay any attention to little blonde boy what stabbed him to death, except to use him to gain the black materia (and hurt him as much as he could along the way). In the original game, Sephiroth was more interested in striking fear into Cloud, using him to do horrific things to his friends, calling him a puppet, etc. This backfires because Cloud is so terrified of what's inside him that he just...does not act. It's quite literally why Aerith is not saved, and why Cloud blames himself for her loss.

On the other hand, shiny new AC Seph is all, "don't you want to protect this beautiful Planet with me??" Whereas Alpha Seph is still more along the lines of, "I will ascend and devour this world like my Mother." AC Seph understands who he's talking to. And yet still doesn't understand the strength that person possesses...

ANYWAY, all of this hinges on the belief that AC Sephiroth is not interfering with the actions of Alpha Seph, or really that he can't, so he's thralling Cloud and pushing him to do his bidding, just like the original...except AC Seph already knows that he fucked up and has to fix what he broke. In his own words...he underestimated Cloud and company (for a second, or really THIRD time). I think Reunion is going to combine not just the wayward Jenova cells, but the timelines. Jenova isn't being replicated with each new world, but her genetic material still is. I think AC Seph ultimately wants to successfully summon Meteor, but he has to create a universe in which Aerith never returns to the Planet after praying, which would cripple Holy. He has to make sure Cloud stays in thrall, because he simply can't overpower him in any reality (this is why Tifa has go to go, in his mind). And lastly, he has to off himself at the Northern Crater. When Sephiroth says to Cloud "you have my blessing," obviously it was him urging Cloud to protect Aerith this time-to interject and stop him. I think it extends further, though. I think he wants Cloud to destroy him (original game Sephiroth, that is) so that only he (that new Seph) remains when Reunion is complete. Jury's out on whether he plans to permanently use Cloud as his vessel. I'm not sure about that one. We'll see.

Also, I'd say it was Cloud who gagged Sephiroth the most when he returned from a fractured timeline with the white materia and we got that miffed Sephiorth line, "Bad form..." 😂 Absolutely loved seeing that man rattled for a moment.

Thanks for the long message, actually. I should apologize for the long response!! In all honesty, I'm rusty on Ever Crisis and Before Crisis and First Soldier Stuff. I only ever read synopses of those things to keep up and so details often slip my mind. If I misspoke or overlooked something that somehow has background in those titles, I apologize.

COME. WILDLY THEORIZE WITH ME!!

[brok3n-gl4ss]

i hate her.

“you look like a (girl’s name).”

“wow, you look so… feminine…”

“yea, because you SMELL BAD.”

“why are you mad? huh? cus i spoke up?”

why cant she understand what she does?

why doesn’t she get how much she hurts me with her words, stinging me like a knife and stabbing me like a bee?

i wish she understood what she said. i wish she understood my struggle. i wish she knew.

i wish she wasn’t so nice to everyone else, i wish she didn’t just “dislike” the man who sexually assaulted me.

she should hate him! everyone fucking should! but no, because he was nice to HER, why should it FUCKING matter?

same with her dumb little boyfriend! it doesn’t matter how many slurs he says, how homophobic he is, how bitchy he is to me— it doesn’t matter! he’s HOT! right?!

that’s how it FUCKING WORKS, isn’t it ?

i wish she knew what they all did to me. i wish she understood how horrible it was.

i wish she didn’t tell me how she lost 30 pounds starving, then blackmail me into eating.

“i just wish you’d take care of yourself!”

I FUCKING TRY, YOU DIPSHIT. I TRY, OKAY?

“i’ll tell your mom.”

and you’ll never come over again. you’ll never tackle me again, or record me doing something to send to my boyfriend, or whisper about me to him then kater tell me it’s ‘not my buisness.’

i hate how she pretends to care, so much, but all she does it make me feel like SHIT.

“we are eating today. got it? or i’ll tell him everythjng.”

all i did was drink some fucking milk, but did you pay attention? no. you weren’t looking. you don’t actually care.

you never did.

he’s right, you know. you are annoying. you are a bitch. your rude, insensitive, and only pretend to care about others, because the moment someone calls you out it’s THEIR fucking fault. because why would it eVER BE HER FAULT?

he’s right, ya know! your stupid, and rude, and i hate your face, and your voice, and how you “love my stims” unless it’s anything other then hand flapping. or how you know what happened to me bc you still carress me when i’m ALREADY panicking.

or how you disrespect my ocd. or how you think my adhd is stupid. or how you don’t respect me, or how you ignore my boundries, or how you call me a GIRL, or how you even forget my fucking name.

i don’t want you near me. i hate you, so much. and i hate that you made me build friendships around you so i can’t leave. i hate how i cant have a friend to myself without them being “kinda…”

i hate how i cant be myself. i hate how you act when i stim, i hate how you laugh at me, i hate when you call me out, i hate when you tell others my personal buisness, i hate when your “honest with your parents”, i hated when you sent me porn, i hated when you showed me hentai.

i. hate. her.

and i wish i could tell her that without her blaming it on me.

notice the moment she got mad at me, she started spreading rumors about me. it took her seconds

noticd how every friend group i have now talks to HER. all of them. i cant go one period mad at her without her hugging me forcefully or her reminding me “i’m a boy” only when it suits her.

i hate her.

what i really hate is myself, and how she highlights how worse i am, and how she mocks me, and how she tries to make me the ugly friend.

i hate how she feeds into my disorders but get mad when i show symptoms.

i hate how she won’t fucking listen.

i didn’t want to eat lunch because i ate fucking breakfast. i knew that lunch would make me throw up. i hate how she guilts me into things. i actually ate! and because she wouldn’t fucking listen to me, i lost that.

i hate how she cares about losing her virginity before me, how she makes it a contest, and how she makes it everyone’s buisness.

i hate how i csnt have my own problems, my own friends, or anything without her “needing the tea” or “feeling left out”.

i hate how i cant tell her i was sexually assaulted for years because she was almost raped.

and that’s my problem. she knows i have trauma, and what does she do? giggle and tell me her traumatic expirences. invalidate mine. what’s her problem?

does she hate me?

or am i annoying little jasper who follows her friends around?

i took her in when others wouldn’t cus they hated her.

they HATED her like they HATED me.

and now i just hate myself more.

little ‘cumdump’ max, right? because that’s what she likes to call me. i’m a whore for sitting with my legs not clenched together, but i look like i’m horny if i have them closed.

i look cute in a skirt but i’m trying to hard to be a boy in jeans.

i fucking hate that she’s never there for me.

and i hate that im always there for her.

[curseofaphrodite]

Mortal Enemies

James Potter x Slytherin!reader

Summary: James Potter and Y/N L/N. They despise each other. Or that’s what it looks like anyway. (Angst to fluff!) Requests by anon.

Not my gif!

-

“CALL ME AN IDIOT ONE MORE TIME AND YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO OPEN YOUR MOUTH ANYTIME SOON!” James yelled.

“Awe, would you shut me up with a kiss?” You fake pouted, and James resisted the urge to push you off your broom.

Hate is a strong word and not something you lightly use to describe your relationship with someone. But James irked you to no end, and you returned the favor. If that’s not hate, then I don’t know what is.

Both of you were team captains of your Quidditch teams, which frankly was how the competition started, both literally and metaphorically.

“That wasn’t fair. You basically threw me off!” He had yelled the first day. “It’s Quidditch, what did you expect?” You had yelled back. But that’s a long story.

Right now, you were in the middle of a game and instead of monitoring over what your teammates were doing, you were bickering to each other like kids over candy.

“Keep your disgusting mouth ten feet away from me!” He yelled furiously, his face red of both fury and just maybe, a result of blushing.

You blew him a kiss and flew off to the opposite direction. It goes without saying that the Slytherins won, and it goes without saying James was pissed. -

-Gryffindor dormitory, the next day-

“We need to take down Y/N L/N,” James said for the tenth time.

“I love you, but I’m not getting thrown into Azkaban for murder,” Remus replied, not looking up from his book.

“Speak for yourself!” Sirius had a huge smile when he sat next to James. “But buddy, are you sure you don’t know if you want to kill her? You seem way too obsessed with her. Almost as if you want to kiss her.”

James looked he was stabbed with a knife made of the wood from his own Quidditch broom.

“How can you even- what are you- I’ve got Lily!” He said like a fish out of water.

His friend sighed, “Lily’s been pretty persistent on saying no so far. Don’t you think you should let her go?”

“For Y/N L/N?? The girl who won’t hesitate to kill me in my sleep?”

“Who said anything about the both of you sleeping together?” Sirius wiggled his eyebrows.

“Have you given much thought to the two of you in a bed, Prongs?” Remus added, slightly smiling.

“Go back to your book!” James yelled.

“Okay, hear me out!” Sirius was practically jumping on the bed. “If you aren’t going to ask her out, does that mean I can?”

“No!”

“Bit too quick to answer there,” Remus muttered under his breath, just loud enough for James to make out what he was saying.

“The book, Remus! Back to your book!”

“Why not? Why can’t I ask her out either?” Sirius huffed.

“Because!” James was momentarily lost for words. Wait, why can’t he ask her out? Then his brain woke up, so he started listing off the obvious excuses. “She’s from Slytherin! Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team! My mortal enemy! You can’t go out with my enemy!”

“That’s not your choice to make!” Sirius was getting really good at acting. If Remus wasn't paying attention, even he would have thought he really wanted to ask out y/n and wasn’t doing all this just to get James to confess.

“I’ll ask her,” Padfoot continued. “And if she says yes, I'll go out with her. Unless you like her, or have any other reasonable objections, I’m doing it!”

“Fine!” James gave up. “Ask her out! Date her! Marry her! Help her raise her demon spawns! Don’t come crying back to me when it’s all over!”

Remus frowned. “Why do you guys sound like a cheesy couple breaking up in a very bad cheesy movie?”

“What is the point of holding a book if you’re not reading it?” James tried to snatched Lupin’s book but he raised the book, making James trip over his knees.

Sirius laughed. James stood up and stormed out. - “Mr. Potter, please don’t make this hard. Just take the seat besides Miss. L/N!” Slughorn seemed exhausted and honestly, you felt for him. You also felt a pang of hurt. Imagine someone disliking you so much that they refuse to sit beside you even if it’s the only seat left.

“I can’t, professor.” James said, quite firmly. “We don’t get along and I won’t be able to concentrate on my work.”

“I’m distracting is what I'm hearing.” You said, folding your hands.

“You’re annoying is what I’m saying.” He shot back, anger raw in his voice and eyes. 

Even though you had friendly banters before and maybe even not-so-friendly banters, he had never looked at you with that much spite. 

Just for a second, a sliver of hurt flashed across your face and he didn’t miss it. He sighed, but you were already packing up your books.

“Lily can switch with me.” You said, trying to sound casual. Dropping your books aggressively into your bag and glaring at James while you did it was casual, right?

“Her partner isn’t much of a git,” you added, purposefully slamming against his shoulder while walking past.

“Glad that’s settled. Let’s start, shall we?” Slughorn said, trying to sound pleasant.

James waited for Lily, a weird feeling creeping in when he saw you and a random Gryffindor working together. You weren’t smiling throughout the class and when it was over, you got out of the class quicker than you could say yeet.

“You’re a jerk, just ask her out.” Lily said, taking her own books.

He frowned, “I don’t like her.”

“You do, but you also happen to be oblivious as hell.” She slung her bag over her shoulders.

“I’m not oblivious, I literally chased after you for years,” James winked.

“Chased. Not anymore. For the last few days, you hardly even looked my way,” Lily smiled. “I wonder why.”

“You’re kidding- I was busy- uh- awe, were you jealous?”

“Actually,” Lily started hesitantly. “I’m happy. I did mean all those no-s. I like someone else and unlike you, I’m actually going to ask them out.”

“Who is it?” He noted how he did not feel jealous even in the slightest. He felt more angry when Y/N was sitting beside the Gryffindor. He had felt more angry when Sirius said he’ll ask Y/N out on a date. 

Lily didn’t reply, but she smiled at Narcissa, who blinked cautiously at the friendly gesture, before giving Lily a small wave. The girl hurried out of the classroom with other Slytherins. James looked amused.

“Ask her out,” he said, realizing that he meant it. “She’ll say yes. Just make me the best man at your wedding.”

“Only if you bring Y/N as your plus one.” She stated, and left.

James took a deep breath in. He hated being confronted. He hated how hurt Y/N looked in that moment of vulnerability. He hated how he was the cause of it. Guilt, that was what he was feeling. Such a troublesome feeling to get and when you did get it, it was there to stay. All he knew was that he had to apologize.

- “Y/N. Y/N. Y/N.” James kept chanting your name in an endless loop. He was standing just across you from the Slytherin table and you were pointedly ignoring his existence while all your friends were throwing glares at him.

“Y/N. Look at me!” He waved his hands in front of your face, but you took another bite of your apple with not a care.

People who sat beside you were confused. And they were positively startled when James Potter, the one who spent all his life pranking and disliking Slytherins, came closer to the table until he was standing right beside Y/N L/N.

“I wanted to apologize.” He took the apple from your hands and you took another from the bowl in front of you.

“Scoot over!” He said to the girl beside you, and Narcissa made space for him to sit down, but not before glaring him down.

He took his place, looking extremely foreign among the sea of green clad Slytherins. But he sighed and looked at you again.

“Y/N.” He titled his head to one side, looking at you with his puppy dog eyes. Way too close. Way too cute. You almost looked at him.

“Y/N, I can stay here all day. I wanted to say sorry. I was a jerk in Potions. But you know why I always fought with you on the Quidditch grounds, right?”

Why? you wanted to ask. But you hoped he’d go on without persuasion. He did.

“Because you’re the most talented Quidditch Player I know.” He said softly. “And I can’t bear to lose to you every time. That doesn’t mean- I do admire how talented, determined, brave and gorgeous you are.”

“Gorgeous doesn’t really have to do anything with Quidditch.” You said and he smiled in victory.

“There we go! Just talk to me!” He said happily. “And I can’t just call you ugly when you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, can I?”

He said that so casually. He had practice flirting with Lily over the years. It was second nature to him now.

“You’ve been hanging out with Sirius way too much.” You said, hoping the blush on your face would be mistaken for anger.

“Speaking of Sirius, I’m extremely glad you decided to not date him. He didn't really like you anyway. He was trying to get me annoyed.” He explained, shrugging. “It worked.” James looked like he woke up from a dream and continued, “Anyway, seeing as you’re properly talking to me now. Y/N, I’m a jerk and I apologize for everything I’ve ever did.”

“Now if I don’t apologize, I’ll look like the bad guy.” You noted.

“Yes, I’m a genius, I know.”

You looked at him closely just for a second and after finding nothing but genuine regret there, you gave up. “Fine, I forgive you Potter. I’m sorry for everything I did too.” It did feel a bit good to let it out.

“This is the part where we hug, right?” He asked eagerly and you whipped out your wand. 

“Don’t you dare!” You said sharply.

“Fine!” He raised his hands in mock-surrender, slowly getting up from the table now that his job was done. “So we’ll meet up tomorrow like we discussed?”

“What, where? We didn’t discuss-”

“You, me, Hogsmeade?” He rubbed his hair, pretending to think deeply, then nodded. “Yup, we did discuss it. See you then!”

“We did not discuss it-”

“SEE YOU THEN Y/N, IT’S A DATE.” He yelled loud enough for the entire Slytherin table to hear. Spoons froze in mid-air and everyone was either gasping or looking at you like you went crazy. 

“It’s not a date!” You yelled back.

“Yes, it is!” He yelled, disappearing into the Gryffindor table. 

[collecting-stories]

Napoleon - Eddie Munson

Summary: you're back in Hawkins over winter break and you run into Eddie Munson at the grocery store.

A/N: This is actually, technically the first Eddie fic I wrote. I had it sitting in my drafts on my phone. It's not all that good so I apologize in advance.

Stranger Things Masterlist

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

Hawkins, Indiana wasn’t exactly a place that embraced too many changes. It was something you’d always hated growing up but something you were beginning to find oddly endearing, especially now, standing in front of the ice cream section at the grocery store and trying to find plain strawberry without the vanilla and chocolate. The same hokey Christmas decorations were out at all the same houses, the same displays were still up in the grocery store, even the same people were parked behind the registers.  

You’d paid particular attention to lane 5. If anyone or anything in Hawkins hadn’t changed since the last time you’d been home, it was Eddie Munson. You heard from Gareth, because he lived next door to you and would brain dump whatever information you asked for simply because you were paying attention to him for five seconds, that Eddie was repeating senior year. It wasn’t surprising, per say. He wasn’t stupid by any means but he also wasn’t facing a future brimming with too many possibilities. Unless of course, he made it out to New York or something and Corroded Coffin actually took off (something you were totally convinced was possible).  

Abandoning the search for strawberry you walked down the aisle and over to the registers, getting in Eddie’s empty lane. He wasn’t looking up, scribbling something in a notebook next to his register and possibly talking to himself.  

“What are the odds you guys have just straight up strawberry ice cream hiding somewhere in the back?” You asked, finally catching his attention.  

Eddie’s head snapped up and he couldn’t stop the stupid smile on his face at the sight of you. Okay, maybe he should’ve been embarrassed, even just slightly. He knew Christmas break would mean college kids back in Hawkins, he’d already seen some of his class of ‘84 and they’d been less than kind about the fact that he was still in high school. If he wasn’t a freak already with the hair and the clothes and the music and Hellfire Club than he was whatever else they could think of for being held back from graduating. Slow, stupid, or worse. Who knew college kids cared to be so cruel.  

You’d always been nice to him in high school. In any grade really. He was pretty sure he’d managed to sit next to you 185 days out of the year from kindergarten to 12th grade. Elementary school was probably the best, he could remember playing werewolves and vampires with you (and the accidental time he got detention cause the teacher saw him try to stab you with a piece of wood despite him explaining the stake through the heart necessity when killing a vampire). Middle school was alright, you were still nice to him but you had different friends. Not popular friends, just different ones. High school was more of the same.  

“Eddie?”  

“What?” He blinked a couple times, eyes meeting yours.  

“Do you have strawberry ice cream?”  

“Me, personally?” He pointed to himself and you almost laughed out loud.  

“The store, does the store have strawberry or just neapolitan?”  

“Just neapolitan.” Eddie replied. He’d worked over night on Tuesday when the ice cream shipment had come in, freezing his ass off for eight hours to unload and stock ice cream in mid-December. “Which is a classic.” 

“Debatable.”  

“Debatable? No, you can’t debate classics. Is Black Sabbath’s first album a classic? Absolutely. Is Out of the Silent Planet a classic? Of course, non-arguable. I mean, vanilla and chocolate, again, classics.” 

“Okay,” you nodded slowly, drawing the word out, “I’ve clearly been away so long I forgot you were nuts.”  

“You just have bad taste.” Eddie replied, matter of fact and unbothered by your teasing.  

“Well that can’t be true…I like you don’t I?”  

He sputtered for a second, like his brain was working on a delay, and then pushed on, ignoring the comment in case he said something that made him look stupid. (No assumptions would be made about the meaning of your words, Eddie wouldn’t risk it).  

Instead, he turned the conversation back to ice cream, “how can you not like them? What could possibly be better than three ice cream flavours for the price of one?”  

“Strawberry ice cream? By itself.” You replied, ignoring the miniature outburst. He grimaced almost comically, his whole face scrunching up and a deep set frown marring his features. “I’ll tell you what Eddie-“ 

“What Eddie?” He repeated, jumping when you reached across the conveyor belt to smack his arm.  

“Since I’m forced to get the neapolitan, you can have the chocolate and vanilla.” You offered.  

“You could always get a different flavor?” Eddie suggested, the immediate offer going over his head.  

“I see how it is,” you left your basket full of groceries on the conveyor belt as you backed out of his lane, plans of returning to the frozen food aisle on your mind, “been gone for like four months and you don’t wanna spend time with me. Just some loser college freshman. Guess I’m not cool enough for you now.”  

“That’s not, no, that’s not what I said!” Eddie practically launched himself over the bags, foot catching on the end of the register and tripping him up momentarily until he was on your side of the lane. You couldn’t help laughing then as people looked over at the two of you. “You should definitely get the neapolitan. Good choice.”  

- 

“You know when I was younger I was convinced that it was pronounced napoleon.” You mentioned, dipping your spoon in the strawberry side of the Turkey Hill tub. 

There was a fairly decent chance that Eddie would get written up (if not fired) for leaving early.  

“What was pronounced napoleon?” Eddie asked, leaning back against the couch and turning his head to look at you. His hair had grown out even from the last time you saw him and you clenched your hand into a fist against your side to resist the overwhelming urge you were experiencing to run your fingers through the curling fringe covering his forehead.  

“The ice cream,” you replied, dipping your spoon half into the strawberry and half into the vanilla.  

“Whoa!” Eddie sat up suddenly, grabbing your wrist before you could take the bite, “what is this? Are you dipping my vanilla?”  

“It’s like an 8th of the scoop! It was unavoidable.” You insisted, trying to pull your hand away, “Eddie; give me my hand, it’s gonna spill.”  

Keeping eye contact with you and smiling that shit eating grin he always wore, he opened his mouth and stuck the spoon in, his lips brushing your fingers as he stole the bite of ice cream. You pulled your hand away, the spoon sliding out between his lips.  

You would argue that you were incredibly exhausted from midterms and having to be at your parents house again after four months of stressful freedom but what’s your said in the grocery store was true. You liked Eddie, always had. When your friends were crushing over kids who looked like all their favourite celebrities, you were obsessing over everything Eddie Munson did as if he really was the heavy metal god he dressed like.   

So it shouldn’t have come as any great surprise that as he licked his lips, brown eyes still looking right at yours, you leaned forward and kissed him. He tasted like vanilla, strawberry, and cigarettes and he kissed you back, cold rings and warm fingers pressing against your neck and jaw as he held your face in his hands.  

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathed out as you pulled away, leaning into you as if he was chasing the kiss.  

You opened your eyes first, watching the dazed expression on Eddie’s face change as his eyes fluttered open. He pulled his hands away, his fingers leaving sparks where they’d pressed into your skin.  

“Told you I have good taste,” you joked, dipping your spoon back in the strawberry ice cream and smiling around a mouthful of the dessert as Eddie’s cheeks flushed all the way up to his ears. When he didn’t say anything after a minute, you leaned into his space again, “I haven’t rendered you speechless have I?” You asked in mock disbelief.  

In all the years that you’d known Eddie, there weren’t too many times that you could remember him at a loss for words, if there were any. He took a deep breath in, holding it for a second as he shook his head, hair brushing against his shoulders, before he exhaled. “Can we do that again?”  

You nod, eagerly, leaving the spoon on the coffee table and laying your hands on Eddie’s shoulders to give you better leverage to climb into his lap. He doesn’t object at all, instead he brings you closer to him, one hand behind your neck as he guides you into another kiss. This one far more insistent. You moved your hands from his shoulders to his neck, fingers brushing against his hair. When you’d gone to the grocery store for ice cream you hadn’t exactly banked on bringing Eddie Munson home with you or making out with him. But here he was, in your living room, tongue down your throat (not literally) and all you could think about was tenth grade. 

“This is just like Barbie Haskins halloween party.” You mentioned when Eddie broke air. He pressed a kiss to your neck and laid his forehead on your shoulder, hands squeezing your sides affectionately. “Or it will be if you don’t call me after this.” 

“How was I supposed to know you call a person after seven minutes in heaven?” He said, warm breath fanning across your collar.  

“I said call me,” you almost laughed, “and then you never did.” 

Eddie lifted his head to look at you, “we were both pretty drunk, I wasn’t exactly convinced that you wanted me to actually call you.” He made a decent point. You had downed at least four cups of Barbie’s famous red juice by the time she ‘begged’ everyone to play seven minutes in heaven. You weren’t even sure Eddie had been invited to the party or why he was there in the first place but you remembered clear as day, dragging him from the drinks to the middle of the living room.  

“You wanna know a secret?” You asked, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear and leaning in so close that your foreheads were almost touching.  

Eddie’s eyes narrowed, “what?” He asked conspiratorially, playing along as if you really had some sort of secret to tell him.  

“I didn’t pick your name out of Barbie’s hat.” You confessed, remembering clear as day that it had been one of the guys on the basketball team. You’d looked at the name, grimaced, and figured no one would be any the wiser if you just, said Eddie’s name instead. Besides, he’d looked so good that night and you were so obsessed with him. Making out in a dark closet seemed like the perfect way to celebrate Halloween.  

“What?” He bit down on his bottom lip, trying not to smile. He squeezed your sides again, fingers pressing into your hips. 

You shrugged, “I just wanted to make out with you, kinda like we were doing now...” you kissed the left side of his jaw and then the right, “kinda like I wouldn’t mind getting back to.” 

“We can get back to it. We should definitely get back to it.” He agreed.  

“Definitely.” 

-

taglist: @kenzi-woycehoski @bookfrog242 @milkiane 

[radiant-reid]

A Way Home

Summary: An out of the blue call to Spencer makes him question whether he wants to go on without his ex-wife in his life a/n: basically, i was sad and this was how i avoided thinking about it lmao

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Angst with a little hopeful ending)

Content Warning: divorce | prison arc | maeve arc | tiny mention of reader’s mom being dead

Word Count: 2.1k

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It was a split-second decision and a terrible one at that. People react differently in times of heartache, and Y/n wasn't sure why she did it, but her phone was unlocked, and she was pressing the button before she could stop it.

Spencer was just as surprised as Y/n was, sitting at his desk on a slightly chilly Thursday afternoon when his phone started buzzing on the dark wood. Glancing around the bullpen, it was clear no one else was paying attention to anything but their paperwork which meant it wasn't about work. It was a No Caller ID name, so that didn't give him a clue either, but it could have been about his mom, so he answered, placing the phone against his ear.

Sitting in her dark apartment, Y/n was shocked that he answered, just as surprised at that as she was at the fact she called. After all the years that had gone by and the hundreds of words she wished she had said, she struggled to get anything out.

Luckily, he spoke first. "Doctor Reid." How he answered the phone every day because that's what the call was: routine.

Spencer's voice was different, but not solely because it was a phone call. It was firmer and more confident, and she wasn't sure how to feel about it. She wasn't even sure if she got to feel anything, but at the moment, all she felt was sadness. The new suffering was only intensified by the pain that opening up an old wound brought.

"Spencer." It came out closer to desperate than she wanted it to, and she could hear how pathetic she sounded, but it was so strange to hear his voice after so long, even though she was the one who called. It made her stomach sink to think about what he was doing because, unlike usual, she could identify a piece of what he was doing at that exact moment.

One word- his name, no less, which he heard every day- and all the wind was knocked out of his lungs. The tears had started welling in his eyes, threatening to spill in the middle of the office. Spencer's mind would have been racing to find out why she called if the pain wasn't surging through him.

"Y/n." His voice held nothing. No love, no hatred, actually, no emotion at all. It was the voice Spencer had always used when he loathed someone so much that he was unable to express any feeling. Complete numbness. She wondered where it all went wrong, at what point in their relationship, she gave him the right to hate her.

"S-sorry, I don't, uh, k-know why I called." She stammered out, feeling more and more embarrassed.

Anger.

Spencer switched to anger because he hadn't been mad with her before then, when she left. "Yes, you do. You switched your phone to No Caller ID so that I'd answer." Even if he didn't know the answer, he could still profile her actions. "So you must want something because you never answered my last call." A call he really needed her to take, even if they'd been separate for a year.

"I..." Was she really about to tell him the truth? "I needed someone... to talk to."

"I don't really think that's my problem or responsibility anymore." It wasn't his privilege like it used to be because it was always something he liked to do.

It hurt, stabbing at her heart, but she couldn't deny that she deserved it. "My mom died." She revealed, quietly sobbing. She didn't just need someone to talk to. She needed him to confide in because nothing this bad had ever happened to her, and it was her almost instinctual to call him.

"Boy wonder, we've got a case." Penelope was suddenly standing at the front of his desk, and he was forced to cover up his tears and put on a neutral expression.

With a nod, he went back to the phone. "I'm sorry..." To her, it sounded like he cared about what had happened until he completed the sentence she didn't know was incomplete. "I have to go."

The wound back then had been sharp, a stab that left her bleeding out, but now the knife was blunt. It wasn't numb anymore, just painful all over again. She didn't blame Spencer for not caring, even though he swore he always would. Every promise made between them before had been broken.

While being briefed, Spencer struggled to focus, too preoccupied with Y/n. Not only because of the recent development in her life but because he pushed their relationship so far down that he omitted it and thinking about it, well, he could recite every word they ever said in those three years.

Emily was the one who noticed he couldn't stop rubbing his ring finger on his left hand like how he used to spin the ring absentmindedly when he was thinking. She hadn't seen the broken look in his eyes for years.

Sliding into the single seat across from him, she examined his expression as he tried to pretend he was concentrating on the book he couldn't read.

"Are you okay?" She asked quietly enough none of the team could hear it.

Spencer looked up at her, practicing his lie once in his head to make sure it was convincing because Emily could always tell. "Yeah, o-of course."

The single stutter sold him out. "Spencer." She said in a warning tone, softer than if she was actually telling him off.

"Y/n called." He mumbled, still in a state of shock. The type that made it hard to feel anything but numb.

"Oh." Emily's surprise matched Y/n's and his. "You last spoke, what? 8 years ago?"

He knew all the words between them and all the dates. "To the day." It had been 2921 days since they spoke.

"Oh wow, really?" It was rhetorical, but Spencer nodded. Anniversaries mattered, but he only briefly thought about her that specific morning. Although he thought about her every morning when he just first woke up, and there was a moment of peace like she could be sleeping next to him, she never was. "So she doesn't know about..."

Maeve was the word she was missing. "No," Spencer confirmed.

"Or about..."

It was prison that she was asking about that time. "No."

"There's a lot of history between the two of you," Emily recalled, unsure of how to comfort him in a time of emotional strain. "But clearly, a lot has changed."

"Her mom died," Spencer told her as an explanation for the call. He hadn't thought about the event until now, but he always liked her mom, and he had heard the pain in Y/n's voice.

Emily nodded in understanding, unable to find a solution. "That's...a lot."

"I... she's..." Spencer struggled to form a sentence with the words swimming in his head. "I've learned to live without her." He decided, reaffirming it to himself.

Another nod came from Emily. "Do you wish you had to?"

For a year after their divorce, he thought about that question. And there had never been a day when he didn't want to get back together. "She doesn't love me," Spencer said. If he could, if he hadn't cried about it for years, his voice would have cracked, and he would be in tears. "She didn't back then."

Emily had seen something different back then, but she wasn't sure if it was appropriate to comment, although she never had been good at holding her tongue. "She loved you, and you know it. But that doesn't mean you have to be there for her now." Since she'd known him, he'd been too good at sacrificing his needs for everyone else's.

Maybe he wanted to, but he also knew he couldn't ever just be a friend. "I always keep this, did you know?" He took out his wallet, pulling out the little photo of her that he had. It was from their honeymoon when he pretended to lose the camera, only so he could surprise her with it at a later anniversary, but that didn't come. "It was too dangerous when we were... married."

Some days, it was hard to look at, and it made him cry himself to sleep, but some days, he had positive memories, and he felt like the old him.

"It's all I have left." A 2.5" x 3.5" sized photo was the only tangible thing he had to hold on to. The tears were coming then, not loud and violent but small and painful.

"What happened?" Emily asked, having 'died' when Spencer couldn't talk about it. She hated to think he had two people to mourn the loss of.

There was no clear answer to that. "Everyone here gets divorced." It wasn't meant to be a joke, not when it was so true. It was his job or her job or the stress or growing apart, but it wasn't the lack of love that he convinced himself it was.

Emily left him with a piece of advice. "Think about it, but I think you know what you want."

Spencer did. He knew what he wanted. The thing he wanted for more than a decade. It could break his heart, but she had always been worth it.

When they got back from the case, he dumped his bag by the side of his desk and sat down. Once everyone had left, he picked up the phone to call.

"Y/n." She answered, clearly unaware of who it was, the usual joyful tone she had.

"Hey." Spencer greeted her, dumbly smiling at just hearing her voice.

It made her jump in surprise, throwing the phone before picking it up and trying to act calm. "It's late." She mentioned. "What are you doing up?"

"I could ask you the same thing." It wasn't hostile at all. It was playful, which took her by surprise.

"I've never been good at that thing they call sleep." She admitted something he already knew by the chuckle that sounded. She was good at it with him, though, and he held on to the memory of how she felt cuddled next to him.

Touching her felt like a distant memory, but maybe it was close enough he could get back there. "I cut back on coffee," Spencer confessed, leaving out that it was because he was in prison.

"How's that going?" She asked, not as curious as she was amused.

"Oh, terrible, I don't recommend." He answered with a chuckle, swinging back on his chair. It was quiet in the BAU, no one there but him, yet it allowed him to properly hear her.

Y/n rolled over to the other side of her bed, looking at the photo of him from when he turned 25. It felt like a lifetime ago, but it still ignited the same bitter-sweet feeling in her. "Some things never change then."

"And some do." It sounded glum, and Spencer was quick to recover the conversation. "I'd like to hear about it." He confessed, speaking from the heart, which he was wearing on his sleeve. "If you're around... a-and you, uh, you want to. No pressure."

For the first time in 8 years, it felt like there was a way to have some of him back. A speck of hope, and it was all Y/n had wanted since they got a divorce. "Yes." She blurted out. "Please."

"It's not all good." He warned her, grin dropping when he remembered some of the terrible things that had happened.

"Is it ever?" She posed the question. "I want to hear all of it, Spencer."

His heart clenched, but it felt lighter than what had become usual. There was no way he could not be in love with her, and if she knew, maybe there was a chance. It bet the alternative of being alone and still wanting her.

The decision was quick. "Tell me where and when. Today, tomorrow, next week, I'll be wherever whenever." He agreed, a little desperate, but it was what she loved about him.

There were no guarantees, just a whole lot of hope, which was always enough. Maybe, after all the time, pain, and love, the path was clearing, and there was a way home.

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