#this too me forever to write but whatever

[amourtoken]

yes PLEASE write about quinn knocking you up and also please never stop writing smut i feel FERAL

I got a couple asks about this so let me roll them all into one here yall are horny unhinged individuals together now

Quinn is unfortunately insanely susceptible to baby fever. He can't help himself, the thought of having a little extended family to provide for is sweet enough on its own but getting there is what he's really been focused on recently. He cannot clear his mind of the idea at all and it's starting to effect every aspect of his life. His thoughts are always frenzied and his brain fuzzy, he can barely focus on the ice and you constantly catch him zoned out and have to draw his attention back to you. What's he even thinking about?

This all started after he saw you interacting with some kids at a charity event. He didn't think it'd be a personal attack on his psyche to see you leaning down to their level so they felt more included while you chatted about your days or whatever random thoughts of theirs that sprung to mind. They all seemed so happy in your presence and you've always just naturally been great with kids so it's no surprise to you, but Quinn instantaneously fell victim to the infectious thought process of parenthood.

all he's thought about for days is how pretty you'd look pregnant and how good of a parent you'd be. Would your kids have your smile? Your eyes? Hopefully they had your sweet personality at the very least. You two could be the overly supportive cheesy hockey parents when your kid got a little older too, if they took after him and wanted to play. Quinn would fall down these hour long rabbit holes in his own mind of what your future would look like with an addition to the family and it was becoming more and more of a necessity every day.

Eventually it gets to a point where he can't fucking contain it anymore and he lets the idea slip while he's got you pinned to the mattress below him.

Quinn's fingers are holding your hips tight enough to bruise while he's buried inside you, panting praises and explicit compliments against your neck in rhythm with his thrusts. He can't get the image of you all pretty and pregnant out of his brain at all, the only thing keeping him from it is a thin latex and a question really. He didn't wanna ruin the moment but it was out of his control at this point, the need overtaking critical thinking skills.

"Fuck- please let me put a baby in you- shit- p-please- c-can't stop thinkin' about it- fuck i need it so bad...'m sorry-"

His voice sounded so broken, moans and whines cutting through his words against his will. You had no idea he felt this way and fuck you wish he'd said something sooner because you've been going through the same misery he has. For the same reason. The same exact event that permeated his peace with the idea of kids with you was the one that had you dizzy thinking about him being a dad. Safe to say your communication skills were lacking during this cause both of you were afraid to ask but now that you're on the same page? You're in for it.

You respond enthusiastically, nodding quickly and immediately pleading for him to do just that. Quinn's chest fluttered at your whined pleas and as much as it pained him to pull out in the moment it was definitely worth it to sink back into you raw. He wanted this to last forever but the way you felt so fucking warm and wet around him was ultimately his undoing, much to his own protest. He didn't wanna finish without dragging you along either, his thrusts fell out of rhythm as he snaked a hand between your bodies to circle your clit, trying his best to take you with him.

"Shit- you're gonna be so pretty- fuck- god I'm so fuckin' lucky-"

Your nails sunk into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, legs shaking as you tipped off the edge of your orgasm with a whine of his name. He almost immediately followed you, hands gripping behind your knees to fold you in half under him, allowing him to sink deeper than before. Quinn's vision blurred with black spots and his voice pitched up into whiney pleas as he filled you up, finally getting what's plagued him for fucking weeks now. Doesn't matter if this was the time that did it or not, he was dead set on fucking you full of his cum over and over and over until you got the results you both wanted (and then some extra for good measure ofc)

[mothandpidgeon]

Nine Lives (witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader) - Part 3

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader

rating: T (evenual E) MDNI

summary: As you came into your powers and your curves filled in, Ezra realized he feelings for you were more than just affection. The only problem? He's a 300 year old crused witch. Oh, and he's a cat.

contents: age gap (like 300 years), angst, slow burn, yearning, probably anachronistic witchy stuff, Ezra is a cat, he won't be forever, this isnt a beastiality thing, mentions of abuse moth never uses y/n.

wc: 4.3k

a/n: I've had a tough couple of weeks (I mean, this week, who hasn't). I hope this will bring some of you joy this weekend. You deserve it. If it did, please please let me know. That would really cheer me up. Also, in case you missed it, going forward I'm going to be updating every 2 weeks. I really hope I can keep it up!

I must thanks @moonlitbirdie and @lowlights for the beta and their massive support of me in life and in writing this. Also thank you @schnarfer for helping me brainstorm some plot!

🐈‍⬛

Aunt Margot’s ringing up a tattooed girl with glasses when you stomp into the shop. You swing the door open so violently that it’s bell thwacks into the wall. You had almost a mile in the woods to walk it off but your anger has only grown, ballooning into a hot rage that’s devouring everything in your path.

“How was it?” Margot asks with a sly smile once the customer’s left with their little brown paper bag.

“River’s disgusting,” you announce. 

“What happened?” her expression immediately clouds with concern. 

“This is exactly why I don’t date witches. I told you that I didn't want to be set up with him.” you rant, blowing past her into what was once the dining room. 

There’s still a turned leg table at its center, now piled with goods for sale. Percy winds his way between beeswax candles and hand-poured soaps.  

“Oh yes I really forced him on you,” she says with sarcasm. “I recall the two of you were practically necking in front of the whole coven last night.”

You’re not sure if it’s the idea that you almost fucked River or the term necking that grosses you out more but you cringe.

“He’s so backwards. Guys like him make me ashamed to be a witch,” you say. 

“How can you say such a thing? Ashamed to be a witch! Do I need to remind you just how lucky you are? After what we’ve been through? Our kind was almost wiped off the face of the earth. By mortals like your little boyfriends,” she says. 

“I’m so tired of hearing that. It’s a shitty excuse. Mortals killed witches hundreds of years ago so we get a free pass to do whatever we want. To treat our familiars like slaves,” you reply. 

She scoffs. “Percy do you hear that?”

He squeaks indignantly. 

“He’s offended by that,” she tells you. 

“He should be. It’s worse than offensive. It’s evil!” you say. Your voice echoes so loudly it rattles the antique silvered mirror hanging over the mantle. 

Margot gathers Percy in her palm calmly stroking his white fur, her eyebrow arched in a way that tells you she’s trying to be patient. You shouldn’t take out it on her. She’s never been anything but good to her familiar. 

“Do you know what he said about Ezra?” You can feel tears begin to bite at your eyes. 

She frowns when she reaches into your mind to hear it herself. 

“His family’s always held onto the old ways," she says, shaking her head in disappointment. 

“Don’t make excuses for him,” you snap. 

She tucks Percy into the pocket of her cardigan and places a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“He’s an idiot and I’m proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself too. All of you,” she says. 

–

The basement of the Arcane Page might be described as spooky, what with its cobwebs and dusty, amber jars. Apothecary shelves stocked with potions, rare ingredients, and animal bones meet the low ceilings. Disused broomsticks sit in the corner along with willow branches and a black goat’s horn. There are all manner of spell books down here along with hand written notes from your ancestors. At the center of the room there’s a wide oak table carved with runes and spells. It smells like ink and dried leaves and magic. 

The warm sunset streams through the egress windows catching the dust that floats in the air. Margot didn’t have to be a mind reader to know you wanted to be alone and so she didn’t put up a fight when you offered to close up on your own. After you closed the register and locked the front door, you ventured down to the part of the shop meant only for witches. 

Your plan was just to have some quiet before venturing upstairs where Ezra would be waiting. For all you knew he was still huddled under the bed. You could abhor River but only one of you had actually hurt your familiar. You couldn’t bring yourself to face Ezra knowing you were just as bad as the rest of them. 

You start opening old books. Spell books and ancient texts. You’re looking for something, what it is you can’t be certain. All you know is that you felt drawn down here, your fingers itching for the parchment pages. 

When you were a young witch, you came here often. There were spell books that had become your favorites, embellished with intricate illustrations. You memorized charms for changing the color of your hair and shuffled a dog-eared set of tarot cards. This was where you cast some of your very first spells. Magic made the world feel full of wonder yet it gave you some control, an order to things that would otherwise be chaos. 

That’s gone now. All of it mixed up— pride and shame, power and weakness, love and loss. 

You pull a large volume from the shelf, its soft leather cover embossed with constellations. heavy and thick, You need both hands to carry it to the table where it lands with a thud and a gasp of dust escapes into the air. 

You turn it open, the aged glue of its spine cracking. You run your fingers over the delicate pages, so thin you can practically see through them. They’re covered in a careful hand and you can’t help but wonder about the witches that set these spells down, what advice they’d have for you. 

The magic in here is convoluted, singular spells that spill over pages and pages with diagrams and celestial calendars. Some are written in verse so dense you can barely make out their meaning. They remind you of the cadence of Ezra’s voice. 

These are not small acts of witchcraft. There are instructions for summoning beasts and recipes for potions that restore youth to be brewed specially on the solstice. Some of it feels dangerous— curses against unfaithful lovers, spells to wake the dead and use them for your bidding. 

You read through them all with mild curiosity. You have no reason to reanimate a dead horse or brew a cure for quinsy— whatever that is— though it would be amusing to cast a perpetual dancing spell on River if you didn’t think it would kill him. 

You chuckle to yourself as you imagine him dancing uncontrollably, his limbs uncontrollable, as you turn the page. And there you see it. 

What you didn’t know what you were looking for has found you.  

–

You barge into the apartment with a wild look in your eye. Ezra’s still curled up in your spot on the bed. He’s been there most of the afternoon, letting bad memories flood his mind. 

After the elders turned him, Ezra promised himself that he would be better. He’d been selfish and dishonest. Quick to anger. It was out of necessity, he’d told himself, but obviously it had only brought him suffering. He would change. But had he? He’d let you care for him, had loved you and fantasized about you, and he’d hurt you.  

You’re calling his name, breathless from running up the stairs, with a leather bound book under your arm. 

Ezra lingers in the bedroom door, guilt still festering. 

“Look,” you say, setting the tome open on the little breakfast table with a thud. It seems as though you’ve forgotten everything, a whirl of urgency about you. 

Ezra hops up and seats himself in front of the weathered pages. He takes in the verses there, the drawing scratched with quill and ink. It’s complicated and obscure, laborious instructions that must be followed to the letter. Behind him you’re nearly bouncing with untamed energy. 

“What are you showing me?” he asks. He knows. The spell is exact but its outcome is clear. 

“It’s a transfiguration spell,” you explain. 

“That much is clear but—“

“I want to do it,” you say. There’s a determination in your words, a fiery assuredness that makes Ezra’s heart pick up. “I want to turn you back into a human.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No. It’s all right here. And it says under the moon of All Hallow’s Eve. That’s just in a few weeks,” you add excitedly. 

“Little mage, I needn’t explain why this is folly,” he says.

It pains him to say it and not just because being human again would be the greatest gift. Your expression is a mix of frustration and heartbreak. 

“You propose to defy the Elders’ judgment. They won’t take kindly to that,” he says. 

“Fuck them,” you hiss. “The laws have changed. If you were convicted now, they’d take your powers but they wouldn’t make you live like this.”

“They’ll take yours if you do something so foolish,” he says. It comes out harsh but he’s angry that you’d risk your powers for him. That he wants so badly to accept. 

“You don’t deserve to be a fucking cat. You should get a normal life,” you say, your body sagging onto the sofa like it can’t stand the weight of it all anymore. 

“That’s quite a touching sentiment.” Ezra tries to couch the words in sarcasm but his voice breaks. He jumps down from the table and situates himself on the cushion beside you. 

“Why didn’t you tell them?” you ask, defeated. Tearful eyes look towards the ceiling before falling onto him. “When they put you on trial. Why didn’t you tell the elders what he’d done?”

Ezra’s head sinks between his shoulders. 

Damon was the kind of witch that only used his powers to numb himself to the rest of the world. He brewed potions that made him neglectful of his daughter one moment, belligerent towards her the next. Ezra had never considered himself a do-gooder. He saw the girl with bruises and said nothing. He was so disinterested in the goings on, he’d never even bothered to learn her name until his trial. Largely, he ignored them until the night he took Damon’s life. 

Ezra hadn’t meant to engage him. It was a snide remark he made that pulled Damon’s attention away from berating Cee. Soon the two of them came to blows, Damon throwing the first punch with an accusation. Ezra was scrappy but there was a point when Damon had him pinned down and he thought his time was up. So when he was able to break free, Ezra made sure he wouldn’t be bested. 

“You can’t understand how precarious it was for us then,” he says. “A hundred years of witch hunts. The life of a witch, even one as detestable as Damon was precious.”

Maybe if they’d known how Damon treated one of their kind, they would have shown Ezra leniency. But the real reason he accepted his punishment was because he knew it had been his own fault. Had he intervened earlier, gotten the Elders involved, it wouldn’t have ended in murder. You might think him a hero, but when the Elders made Ezra her familiar, Cee made it clear that she did not. 

You sigh, a slight shake of your head, and you sink back into the sofa. 

“You are a more than capable witch but this is ancient magic. It took the powers of no less than three elders to change me,” Ezra says as if it’s any consolation. 

“Maybe Margot—“ 

“You’d both risk your powers,” he stops you. “No, little mage. It’s impossible.”

—

“I’m not coming,” you say. 

Aunt Margot is loading a carpet bag into the trunk of her station wagon. Nearly a month has passed since the equinox. Halloween is two days away which means it’s time for your annual trip to Salem where the coven will be gathered through Samhain. The celebrations will be days long, singing and food, apple bobbing and fortune telling. Your little gathering doesn't compare. 

Last night you couldn’t bring yourself to pack.

“What do you mean?” She asks.

”I’m sorry,” you say with a shrug. 

You’ve been waffling on this decision for weeks but you’ve made up your mind. Even if it disappoints Aunt Margot.

”But everyone will miss you. And Simone’s making her gumbo,” she says.

”I know,” you say. 

As Margot babbles out more reasons why you really shouldn’t stay home (“The spirit walk just won’t be the same without you”), Ezra snakes between your legs. You were nervous of how she’d take this news and Ezra promised to be moral support. 

She throws out her hands with a pout. “I can’t stand thinking about you alone for All Hallows Eve,” she says. 

“I won’t be alone,” you say, picking Ezra up and scratching under his chin.  

“I will miss the gumbo,” he tells her. 

“No Ezra,” she contemplates. “Maybe I can actually win at Scrabble.” 

“Perchance,” he says, and you know she’s mentally tabulating the word score. 

“Is this because of River?” She narrows her eyes. 

It’s not. While you certainly won’t miss him, you wouldn’t let some dickwad keep you from having a good time. It’s all of them, really. Esme and the rest of them. Knowing how they think of Ezra, how they think of you, it makes you want to scream. You can’t subject him to their scorn and disdain, you won’t. You’d rather spend All Hallows Eve at home. 

And then there’s that little part of you. The one that knows it’s preposterous and downright idiotic yet still hopes that you can put the Halloween moon to good use. Ezra shut that down fast but, oh, how good would it feel for the funny little witch to give them all the middle finger? . 

“I’m just not in the spirit,” you say. 

“Well it won’t feel like All Hallows Eve without you,” she sighs. 

“I know,” you say. There’s a lump in your throat. You’ve never been apart from her for Samhain. There are countless warm memories of Halloweens past. When Margot got you your very first cauldron. The taste of pumpkin pie. The year of the freak snowstorm. 

With another sigh and the jingle of her bracelets, Margot pulls you into an embrace. The smell of vetiver hangs off her hair and you breathe it in deeply. 

“I’ll light a candle for you,” she promises. 

“Thanks,” you say. 

“And I’m going to jinx River’s socks. They’ll be damp for a month,” she says. 

You laugh. 

The horn of her car beeps and you break the hug to see Percy appear at the top of the steering wheel. 

“He’s worried about the traffic on the Thruway,” she tells you. “I’m coming!”

“Take care of her,” she says to Ezra, petting along his jaw

He nods. 

When Margot’s tail lights disappear down the street, you sit beside Ezra on the front steps. 

“You could go,” he says. 

“I made the right choice,” you say, stroking down the shiny fur on his back. 

“So what now?” he asks. 

“I don’t know. I've always wanted to go trick or treating,” you say. 

“That’s blasphemy, little mage,” Ezra quips. 

— 

Ezra holds you in his arms. Human arms. Your skin is warm against his as you lay tangled together. The morning light catches on the prism beads you have hanging in your bedroom window, little rainbows dancing across the walls and rumpled bedspread.  His lips brush across your forehead, leaving a ghost of a kiss at your hairline. You sigh dreamily and your fingertips graze his bare chest. You‘re just barely awake when you turn your face up to him, your eyes warm like you missed him while you were sleeping. He greets you with a kiss, your lips opening to him with a low hum. His fingers tangle with yours as the grasp the spindles in the headboard. 

His name comes out of you in a gasp of breath. 

He’s had these dreams for years but they’ve been happening almost every night since you showed him that spell. Sometimes passionate– your thighs opening as he explores your body— but just as often innocuous. Picking flowers in the meadow by his boyhood home. Bringing you tea as you read on the porch swing. 

Each dream is so alluring, even the most banal, he wakes up with the words on the tip of his tongue, ready to ask you to risk it all and turn him. 

You haven’t brought it up again in the weeks since you set that spellbook in front of him. Maybe you thought better of it. Maybe you were just angry. You told him about your spat with River and, while it touched him that you’d come to his defense, he knew it was an impulsive choice. 

Either way, it’s for the best.

It wouldn’t end well. Of course, you’d be putting yourself at risk. He’d made that very clear to you. There are a thousand other reasons why it shouldn’t be done. He’s probably forgotten how to be human and what he would do with himself in this day and age, he has no idea. The only job experience he’s had in the past two hundred years is rat catching.

The logistics of being a human matter little to him, though. His real concern is with you.

He’ll no longer be your companion. You won’t scratch behind his ears, invite him to lay in your lap. You’ll probably expect him to move on and live the life he’s always wanted. He can’t think of one that doesn’t involve you.

At least as a cat, he never has to know if you’d choose another man over him.

He’s laying awake, pondering this once again, when your eyes crack open. Warm mid morning light pours in through the lace curtains, bathing you in a honeyed glow. With Margot out of town and the store closed, the two of you had been on your own, spending the previous dsy together. A walk in the woods, a visit to the coffee shop where other patrons greeted Ezra with friendly scritches. You bailed on plans with the mortal Connor to watch movies and snuggle Ezra on the couch. It should have been enough, that’s what he thought when the credits rolled and you were snoring on the couch, your fingers buried in his scruff. He could share a lifetime of this with you and be grateful for it. But he was greedy. 

”Happy Halloween,” you say. 

You pull him close and he nuzzles into your warm skin. 

“You were in my dream,” you say. Your voice is still rough from sleep, still somewhere far away like you haven’t fully regained consciousness. 

Ezra’s cheeks heat under his fur. It’s not just the raspiness of your throat but his shame. If only you knew what he’d been dreaming about. 

“I was doing that spell. To change you,” you say. 

“I would’ve hoped for something more scintillating.” He plays it off as a joke. 

You huff a laugh and rest your wrist across your forehead, eyes cast towards the ceiling. “Right when you turned I woke up,” you say. 

Ezra doesn’t want to admit it— that he was thinking about that very spell, that he wants your dream to be a premonition. Witches have been known to have those. No, that’s wishful thinking. 

He gets to his feet and stretches out. 

“What a pity you missed my face. I can’t quite remember my own countenance,” he says. 

You sigh with exasperation. “I think it’s a sign,” you say.

“Our dreams are just that,” he tells you.

“Not this one. It wasn’t just a dream,” you insist. You sit up on your elbows meeting his eye with eagerness. “I can do it.”

“I told you—“

“Ezra, I want to do it,” you say with finality. “I want you to be human again.”

He grits his teeth. If he was capable of crying, he might after hearing your words, seeing that resolution in your expression. It takes all of his strength to not just give in and say yes. You know the reasons why it shouldn’t be done and he can’t tell you the ones that make him hesitant.

“You would turn me knowing how much more capable I am of violence? I might be declawed but I will be far more dangerous as man than beast.,” he asks. It still weighs on him even though it’s been weeks since the equinox and it seems you’ve all but forgotten it.

“I trust you,” you say. There’s a tenderness in your eyes that makes Ezra’s heart swell. 

He knows you mean it. You shouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve to be trusted, to be loved by you. He was never a good man, never stood up for anyone else. And it’s that very reason that’s had his mind in knots. He’s selfish. He wants this chance. 

Maybe, maybe you’ll give him the same look as a human and he can love you back the way he’s always wanted. 

“Besides, I know how to defend myself,” you say with a grin. 

That’s his little mage. 

“Very well,” he says. “I’m ready.”

–

You light the final candles on the oak table. The basement is illuminated by the dim glow of candles. You’ve spent the whole day down here with Ezra readying everything for the moon of All Hallows Eve.

Luckily Aunt Margot will be gone for the week so you don’t have to worry about interruptions. You’re not sure how she’ll react but right now, frankly, you don’t care. This is the right thing to do, you keep telling yourself. It’s justice. It’s not about the thrill you feel now, butterflies in your belly. 

You’ve daydreamed about it and after last night’s dream, your imagination feels closer than ever There’s no good picture in your mind of what Ezra will be like but his looks aren’t important. You can’t wait to do normal things with him. What will it be like to get a coffee with Ezra? To do rituals together at Ostara. To hear his old stories again, made new by his facial expressions. 

He’s quiet, nervous you’re sure, beside your cauldron. His golden eyes flit from the flames to the spellbook to the darkened window. Your excitement cools and suddenly you’re worried that your enthusiasm got the better of you. Had you pressured him into agreeing to this? He’s still your familiar after all, bound to serve you.

You kneel at the edge of the table.

“Are you sure you want to do this? We don’t have to,” you say.

“As long as you’re certain you’re willing to take on the risks,” he tells you.

You nod.

“Very well,” he says.

You look at one another for a long time, both knowing that this will be the last time things are the same. You memorize everything about him, his elegant face, the whiskers beside his little black nose, the streak of white fur above his eye. This is your Ezra, will always be even if he doesn’t exist in this form. You wish you could thank him for everything he’s done for you but the words are stuck in your throat. It won’t do to start crying now when you need to focus and recite the incantation clearly.

“I love you, Ezra,” you manage.

He responds with a long, slow blink and you kiss his forehead.

The potion is murky and thick as you ladle it into a dish. Ezra recoils when you place it in front of him. 

“Smells like piss,” he says with a wince before lapping it up. A shiver runs over his body, down the length of his tail. “Tastes like it.”

He leaps onto the table and settles at the center of the carved pentagram.

“Work your magic, little mage,” he says.

This is it. It’s all laid out just like your dream but you’re still anxious. There’s no room for error.

With a deep breath, you straighten your back and begin to say the words. You read them countless times throughout the day, memorizing each verse so that it can flow from your heart to your tongue. As each one leaves your mouth, you visualize them on the page. Magic begins to stir in you, a tingle beneath your skin.

Ezra lays on his belly, his eyes drifting close, paws outstretched towards you. 

You shut your eyes tight and focus your energy, like a beam of pure magic directed towards him and say the words again.You think about him, really envision his details down to the hair. Memories flood you. Ezra rubbing up on the old books in the store. His soft purrs against your chest when your heart felt heavy. The time he slipped on the edge of the tub and fell into your bath. The love you feel for him radiates in your chest all the way to your fingertips.

You’re squeezing all of it palms, every drop of energy within you aimed at Ezra. A vibration, an earthquake. 

You say the words a final time. 

Lightheaded. Breathless. Exhausted. 

Your eyes flutter open.

Ezra lays on the table just as you left him. Unchanged.

“No.” The word slips from your mouth nothing more than a whisper.

Ezra blinks, looking down at his black paws.

You see his shoulders sag and a long moment passes as he gathers himself before looking at you.

It doesn’t make sense. You did everything right, just as you’d seen in your sleep. You’ve never cast with such fervor. 

“Okay,” you say, swallowing hard around a sob. “We’ll do it again. The moon will be higher.” You can hear your own desperation, voice shaking as you try not to lose faith.

Ezra slowly sits himself up.

“Maybe you need more potion,” you suggest.

“No, little mage,” he says, resigned. 

“Ez–” You’ve failed him. Your chest burns, tears brim in your eyes.It feels like you might collapse from the exertion and sheer heartbreak that’s overwhelming you.

“It’s alright. I’ve been a cat for more than a few years. And so I shall remain,” he says.

🐈‍⬛

Part 4

Again, it would really make my day to hear from you if you've come this far! My asks and dms are always open!

[schoenpepper]

Just like the last anon I kinda do think that your writing and story for Ruggie SMAU was the one I liked the most. Do you think you can turn this into a fanfic? Like a continuation of what's happening in Ruggie's life after the death of his lover if you don't mind? 👀

When the Time After You Comes

Warnings: bad grammar, awful writing, not proofread, angst, major character death (you)

A/N: PSA I opened up a kofi haha it's on my bio. You don't need to tip, but if you like my work and have a dollar or two to spare, I do need to fix my phone :D Not opening comms tho just req if you want me to write anything kkk

Sunlight peeks through cottony white clouds and bathes Ruggie in all its too-bright glory. It’s nauseating, almost. The birds are chirping too loud and every face he encounters in a crowd looks to be smiling. It could be the truth. It could be his tired brain playing tricks on him—one can’t assume that a sleep deprived hyena hybrid would be very alert or active when the bags under his eyes are almost big enough to carry the takeout in his hands and his steps stagger to the point that the single red rose almost tethers over the plastic holding it in place. He’s not a pretty sight.

Oh, but you always are.

He’d asked his grandmother to take the time out of every Sunday to help clean your resting place, so even now—when it’s the first time he’s visited you in over a month—your headstone shines pristine as the day it was mounted. There are wilting flowers that he has to clear away, likely from your old friends in NRC, but he takes a seat on the grass beside you.

He can still see your smile.

“Sorry, I’ve been away forever, I know,” he places the rose atop the headstone, “I just…”

Ruggie sighs.

He ruffles a hand through his hair, fluffing up the brown and blond mess so that the locks stick up with his twitching ears. His tail taps rhythmically against the engraving of your name, as if the fur was gently caressing each and every letter. “I took up another job,” he moves to open the takeout box, “I need to pay off that loan. I know Leona’s not going to ask me ‘bout it anytime soon, and it’s a damn good deal that he’s not even taking any interest, but I can’t just sit by knowing even at your final moments I was still leeching off someone else.” Maybe it was a sick, twisted sort of possessiveness. He chose your coffin and the plot of land, and the flowers and the people at the funeral. Yet he couldn’t bring out a single dime because you would have despised that.

“I’d be dead and gone, but you would still need to live.”

You understood him. You knew he was just about ready to ignore his own wellbeing for you, and you convinced him his money would be better off feeding his family.

He could never win against you.

Ruggie stabs the flimsy plastic fork through the sauteed beef, almost breaking off the tines. It’s too salty. Not nearly as good as when you used to go to that restaurant with him.

“Maybe they skimped on quality control.”

His words hold no merit when he has to wipe the tears running down his chin.

“It’s soupy…”

After visiting, he needs to get to his part time job. Leona pays well, but Ruggie has so many things stacking against him that the world might as well be atop that list. He needs to pay for the money that the lion beastman had shelved out for your funeral. He needs to pay his own bills. He needs to pay to send the smarter kids to school. He needs to pay to keep his grandma on maintenance. In life and in death, the bills are haunting him.

Even the roses he gives every time he visits are expensive.

Red roses.

Not white lilies or whatever flowers the shops outside the cemetery are selling. He has such a different message to convey; he misses you, but most of all, he wants to express that the love he feels for you has not dimmed since the day you left. It still burns with a raging, passionate fire that allows him to keep going, keep moving, keep living and not just slump down in the back of some alley and wait to join you on the other side.

He cleans up the boxes and plastic cutlery.

He stands up, pats the dust off his pants, and looks at your name again.

It’s already carved into his soul.

“Please don’t be mad if I don’t come for another month,” he sighs, “you know I think about you every day. Just, when the finances get a bit better, alright? I’ll buy you a dozen roses in the fancy bouquets.”

For now, he’ll just have to leave you again.

Taglist:

@yummyyummyinmytumny @fsh1 @lemon-koii

[baejax-the-great]

Sing, O Muse

Achilles is standing in his room, a scroll in his hand. He has a look of utmost concentration on the page, so much so he doesn’t notice Zagreus walking in, though his cheeks are strangely pink as his eyes scan over the words. He raises an eyebrow, then blinks a few times at whatever he has just read, at which point he notices Zagreus in the doorway. He coughs once, tossing the scroll to the desk.

“Interesting reading you have here, lad.”

Zagreus feels his own face begin to flush. Oh, no. Oh, no no no no no. “Dusa gave it to me,” he blurts out.

It’s not a lie. It is true of the scroll Achilles was just reading. It is not true of two of the scrolls now underneath it on his desk, which are written in his own hand. Blood and darkness, Thanatos was right about him needing to clean his room.

“I see,” Achilles says, though now his eyes have wandered to the poster of him Zagreus has on his wall, and he wants to die. It wouldn’t do much, because he’d only come back about twenty meters away, but getting skewered by Theseus would be less embarrassing than this moment.

“Did Patroclus, um…” Achilles’ brows furrow even deeper somehow. “Dusa’s never met him, has she?”

“No,” Zagreus says, and for some reason Achilles’ flush grows deeper.

“There are some very fine descriptions of him in that,” he says with a gesture to the scroll.

“Dusa has a way with words.”

There is an awkward pause in which Zagreus wishes with every bone in his body that Achilles would just tell him why he’s here and then leave his room and then immediately suffer a bout of amnesia, and in which Achilles does nothing at all.

“The muses,” Achilles says suddenly, but then he stops. “Well, they told me…” His eyes search the floor of Zagreus’s room. “I died before any of the songs about me were written, you see.”

“Oh.”

“Well, there were some songs, among the men, but not the promised immortal poetry.”

“I don’t think this counts as—”

“I’ve tried not to think about it much, what they would write about me, what the living people up there right now must think of me. I don’t even know how much time has passed, but immortal is forever, so the muses must… well, they must inspire as they see fit, I suppose.”

Both of them turn to look at the scroll sitting on Zagreus’s desk. Zagreus has never met the muses, so he doesn’t know if they like stories that involve two childhood friends now grown, dressed in torn, thin chitons while stranded in a cave after a surprise flooding cut them off from the rest of the army, tenderly washing each other’s wounds, caressing each other with the reverence of ostensibly unrequited love until one leans in with bated breath, then the other, both of them filled with such longing and such fear that once their lips finally do touch, they can’t help but make passionate love on the cavern floor, which, in Zagreus’s experience, would not be very pleasant on the knees and seems like a terrible risk for magma, but in Dusa’s writing comes off as desperately hot, so much so he can’t stop thinking about inviting Thanatos to Asphodel with him. Zagreus’s story club seems to like those stories, though, so perhaps he could get Hermes to send an invitation to the muses and see if any would like to visit.

“Would you like to keep it, sir?”

Achilles’ eyes widen as he looks at Zagreus dead on for the first time since Zagreus walked in the room. He protests that he couldn’t possibly, but Zagreus insists, “Maybe Patroclus would like to read it, too. It’s only fair, I think, given that it’s about him as much as it’s about you, sir.”

Achilles’ cheeks grow pink again. “That’s a very kind offer, lad, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your… reading material.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it, sir, I’ve got lots of others to read, and Dusa’s already working on the sequel and I’m sure she’ll share it next week at our—”

Zagreus cuts himself off before he reveals that half the House gathers to talk about Achilles’ shapely legs and Patroclus’s hairy chest in all sorts of contrived scenarios. It’s not only them in the stories, but currently those are Zagreus’s favorites.

“Just how many people have read this?” Achilles asks, his voice strained.

“Not many,” Zagreus hedges. “A normal amount, I think.”

“Right.”

In a smooth movement, Achilles slips the scroll off the desk and tucks it away somewhere on his person. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer after all, lad,” he says before striding out of the room.

“Will you want to read the sequel, too?” Zagreus calls after him.

Achilles doesn’t acknowledge him, walking purposefully away before fading from view, a blue flash indicating he has made his way to Elysium.

Later, on some day or night, a new scroll lies on Zagreus’s desk. He unrolls it to find Achilles has written “He insisted” in a script so tight, Zagreus wonders if he didn’t snap the quill. Beneath that is a long list of what appears to be critiques written in Patroclus’s hand, including parts of Achilles’ body he believes were overlooked and underappreciated and the adjectives he personally would use to describe them, though a couple of those are blotted out, presumably by the messenger, as well as positions he thinks would be better-suited to making love on a cavern floor.

Zagreus glances at his door. He’d been planning on going back out there, in part because Eurydice has been waiting for him to finish Dusa’s latest story and he’s finally finished it, but at the very end of his very long note, Patroclus had suggested a shipwreck on an uninhabited island as a potential new setting for getting the heroes to admit their love for each other, and now he’s having so many thoughts about that he thinks he’ll explode if he doesn’t write them down this instant.

Zagreus sits at his desk, takes a long look at the poster of Achilles on the wall, and picks up a quill.

[shaunashipman]

Hi. We don’t know each other, but I follow all your 911 posts, and so far you’re one of the only people I follow who is approaching this bullshit breakup storyline with the same level of anger as I am lol. Everyone else I’ve seen just seems heartbroken, which is their right (and I am too tbh), but I have not yet seen the same level of rage from anyone else that I feel like this shit deserves. Because what the fuck was that. You mean to tell me this show lovingly built up this relationship with a decent amount of care and decorum, only to ruin it in one scene with a level of cruelty I have not seen in tv in a LONG time? Probably since my House Md days when they had him drive a car through Cuddy’s house after they broke up. Talk about a slap in the face. Like not only was it bad writing, it was just plain mean. There was practically no warning. Felt like starting to fall off the edge of a cliff, seeing someone next to you, reaching your hand out to them and watching them reach back, only to have them snatch it away at the last minute. Jesus Christ.

Also. Those comments by Oliver, who had been trying to ‘do right’ by the storyline (or whatever the fuck he thought he was doing) and bisexuality as a whole, were like kicking someone when they’re already on the floor. Maybe he didn’t mean them badly or didn’t realize how they sounded. I’ve already seen people saying that he can’t be biphobic because of everything else he’s said, or that they themselves as a bisexual didn’t find them biphobic. Idgaf. As a bisexual I found them biphobic. We are not a hive mind. What is offensive to some is not offensive to all. And maybe he isn’t actually biphobic. The man is cryptic and inscrutable at best and I don’t know him, so I can’t say anything definitely. What I DO know is that while he has said nice things about bisexuals, he has not really said a single nice thing about his bisexual storyline. He has also not said a SINGLE WORD OF DEFENSE of his SCENE PARTNER IN A MAJOR STORYLINE who had been receiving DEATH THREATS (and apparently any other love interest either, but those were before I started paying attention to this show so I have no first-hand knowledge and can’t speak to them.) The lack of tact is one thing, but to also lack a spine?? Hoo boy. I can’t defend that. He has no problem talking back when he or his friends are in the line of fire. Not speaking up at all, for anyone, even to be like ‘hey. They’re just doing their job and acting in a storyline that was written for them. It’s just a tv show’ is pretty cowardly tbh. And he can take his bullshit apology-that-wasn’t that he has ALREADY DELETED and shove it up his ass. I no longer care.

I doubt they will, but I hope their ratings tank for this honestly. The general audience probably isn’t as hurt by this and there won’t be any actual repercussions for this nightmare of television writing, but GOD I vindictively hope that something happens to show them that actions have consequences. Either way I’m done.

Thanks for opening your inbox to venting. Hope you have a good weekend while also continuing to be as mad about this as I am lol ☺️

I don't know how to get sad without getting angry. that's just who I am. my sad button and my rage button are connected.

this was exceptionally shitty writing. they foreshadowed nothing. they built up nothing. this came out of nowhere, in the show itself and in the actual episode.

and oliver is on my shit list forever. I will never watch another show by tim minear and I will never watch oliver in anything ever again. he can fade into obscurity when this show hopefully dies after this season, go back to britain and work in a cafe where he can also let his co-workers be abused by customers and not say anything.

I hope he deletes his insta just like his twitter. actually I hope he throws a little fit first, I hope he has a tantrum about all of the righteous anger he's seeing, and acts like even more of a cunt before deleting. really let everyone know he's a self-centered twatwaffle who can't handle ppl not kissing his ass.

after today's work I have a whole week off to be pissed, and I'm not censoring myself. the only shit I'm not putting on my blog are the violent thoughts I'm having towards oliver and tim, because despite this I'm still a decent human being.

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Can't stop thinking about Cellbit putting himself in harms way to protect Roier from Cucurucho and how, just days prior, Forever did the exact same thing for Maximus.

[quinn-pop]

yet another oc that only exists because i wanted to write something very specific

(middle is a little older, hence her scar healing. i like to think she gets a glass eye at some point)

anyway this is mira! (they/she) since that wip is almost 20k words and counting i won’t give away too much but long story short she’s the result of meta going “one last time, i promise” and adopting yet another kid

also galaxia kinda indirectly picked the name :)

i’ve mentioned before that i headcanon that pretty much all astrals are autistic and this is just kinda an extension of that. whereas meta tends to suppress his emotions and conform to others, mira…doesn’t. she gets uncomfortable and upset and lashes out at people easily, and working through their emotions is no small task.

the main reason i chose to write them that way was for the sake of narrative but i’ve grown attached to it because there’s a lot of ideas there i’d like to explore. stuff about navigating emotions and relationships when existing is so suffocatingly uncomfortable. it’s not something i could center around Kirby himself, but i think it makes sense with a post character development meta knight.

they are very loved (omg oldee cameo???)

kirby was definitely very excited to have younger siblings after being used to being the youngest in the room for so long!! (with the like. one and only exception being gooey.) he’s super affectionate with both of them and wants to have a close relationship one day, but for now mira is pretty unappreciative of that fact lol. they don’t like being pestered for hugs

everyone else is okay tho

(i know that’s hard to read. oops. “obvious bite marks”. siblings being siblings.)

mira also has a very love/hate relationship with the egg kid, being so close in age they kinda Have to get along but in typical sibling nature they also fight a lot. sure it’s probably rough for a while but i think in the end they’d be good buddies. maybe not as close as Kirby and Bandee but still.

anyway i have a lot of thoughts and am very busy but. i’m really enjoying writing about all this lately it’s been fun ^^

[skrunksthatwunk]

you go to a lesbian blog and find it says women only!! no men allowed!!! and go oh! excuse me, um, what about other lesbians? plenty of lesbians are genderqueer... and they go well, okay, go fuck yourself tim chop off your sweaty dick and stop calling yourself a lesbian. you do not have a dick, actually. you think about that fact often, even though it does you no good. you do not tell this person that.

you go to another lesbian blog and it says women only and you try again, and this time they change it to wlw + nblw only (non-men who love non-men :D). and you'll say hey i appreciate that but gender's not really that cut and dry for a lot of people. someone could be both a man and nonbinary, for instance. i just worry that you're looking at nonbinary as a generic third gender, or an extension of womanhood. i mean yeah you include nblw in your tags but all your posts are about pussy-havers exclusively. what's with that? and they say go fuck yourself you pervy man pretending to be a lesbian. you tried to sneak in but i won't let you.

so you go to a lesbian blog with a dozen or so posts about queer people needing to be more weird about it and you sigh in relief. but you still see the men dni. that's odd. hoping for the best, you say hey! i know you mean well but please maybe don't put men dni at the end of the lovely posts on your lesbian blog bc some lesbians are men. and they'll be like ok!! well you're allowed ;) and you say no that's not. no. some men are lesbians not just me. you think about your own dicklessness and wonder if that's why you were given entry. and you add that even if male lesbians are allowed, there's no indication of that. how would anyone know without asking? and they're like ohh gotcha gotcha well men dni + this is for sapphics only!! and you'll be like ok well that treats the concepts of men and sapphics as mutually exclusive identities and i just told you that's not true and you agreed with me so.. i don't think that solves our problem. and they're like. ok. fine. men dni but genderfluid and multigender people are allowed! and you're like no see that's. that's still the same thing.. you're saying the same thing just with different words. if you don't want men to interact but you're fine with multigender/genderfluid/etc ppl interacting then you either don't see them as Real Men (because they don't reach a standard of Full Manhood) or Complete Men (because they're only Part-Time Men), both of which suggest that they are, in some way, not men or less-than men, which is invalidating and defeats the point of the exception in the first place (accommodation) OR that you don't really mean the dni which is confusing and inconsistent and makes guydykes feel weird and uncomfortable and excluded from the lesbian space you're trying to cultivate. and they're like um. ok. so. cishet men dni? and you're like well i think that makes more sense, but what if someone identifies as both a cishet man and a sapphic? again, if we're trying to accommodate the genderfucky populace then that has to be a possibility that is considered. and they say god you people are never happy. what do you want me to do? what am i supposed to say to keep the right men out? and you pause. you empathize with the need for a space free from dudes trying to fuck you straight and feminine. dudes who watch lesbian porn and joke about what they'd do if they were allowed into girls locker rooms. who look at you like a piece of meat, and like someone who looks at women like pieces of meat in the same way he does. you get it. you know. you want a space where you can be sapphic, too. that's why you came to these blogs in the first place. you brace yourself and you say well i don't know that there are "right men" to keep out. i don't know that there's any single label that would accomplish whatever it is you're trying to accomplish. you could go for "sapphics only" or "queers only" and i think that might be the closest thing to what you want, but it's never going to be perfect. creating any exclusive space is going to shut out people you didn't account for, and the broader the label, the more people will be shut out that you didn't want to shut out. and what about people who don't know if they're allowed? what of questioning transbians, where are they supposed to go? and, frankly, i think i might rather my dykey posts get read and appreciated by a gay guy who sees me as a man than a woman who only sees me as a sacred womb, pure from male perversions or violence or whatever. i think community might just be more complex than a dni can handle. and they look at you and say i don't want to not have a dni. i think you're too permissive. you can't just "what about" or microlabel your way into everything. go fuck yourself, i bet you're not even a lesbian anyway. go find a real problem to get mad about.

you go to a lesbian blog. you ignore the men dni because you know you probably don't even count to them. or maybe you do count and, out of respect for your manhood, they'd shun you accordingly. you try to feel okay about that. you scroll past dozens of posts about mediocre men and gagging at straight friends' boyfriends and how gross and undeserving men are of the beautiful women they couple up with and how all women should be gay so they can get treated right and and and and and. you finally find a post about curling into someone you love and feeling at peace and try to lose yourself in it. you know that feeling is what unites you, what makes you belong. you try to focus on it. you think about carding your hands through a butch's hair or lacing fingers with a femme and feeling warm and loved and more yourself than you ever have before. like this is who you're meant to be. you read about lesboys and butch boytoys and genderfucky dykes and big hairy deep-voiced wonderful women (like you want to be someday, like you wish you could make yourself) and you try to ignore the men dni underneath each and every post. and you daydream about meeting someone kind and earnest at a lesbian bar even though you don't think any such bars exist within three states of you and you can't drink and don't want to drink because you need to be in control of yourself at all times so you don't fuck up like you're always about to and here in the nonexistent lesbian bar you feel wanted and safe and in good company. you picture your ideal, happiest self. it is a mistake. ideal-you has a goatee. not the mascara one you smear on and call drag even though you know it's not drag, not really, the beard you call drag because you think everyone would look at you sadly if you told them it was just to pretend you had something out of your reach. a beard that's soft and that you grew and that cannot be smudged away if you get too comfortable with it. the dream shatters. your people pull away from you, their scoffs mixing with the mind-numbing gay girl bedroom pop you learned to settle for just to have something that almost resembled you, they all pull away and turn their backs and do not look at you. you're too close to being a man now, even though you're the same amount of man as before. and they know you're not supposed to interact with men, not as you would with dykes, at least. and it sours. it's all your imagination, all in your head, but it sours.

you sigh. you think about how small you are. how short, how narrow, how feeble. how your voice pitches up when you talk to strangers because it's easier to speak quietly when it carries more, and because you're nervous. because it's a chore to talk, like everything is. you think about testosterone. you think about how your family would look at you, the questions they would ask, your answers they would only pretend to accept. the uncomfortable glances and whispered questions they'd try to hide from you. you think about how small you are, and how small you will always be. how you don't know of a way to fix it, but even if there was one, no one would want you anymore. you'd be the only one thinking it made you a cooler dyke. you think about how you don't even want a T-voice all the time, how you'll never be able to switch it at will, because you don't know how and can't bring yourself to figure it out. you think about how your throat closes around every hint of your own attraction. how wanting is perverse, how wanting is invasive, how wanting is embarrassing and too vulnerable so it must stay anonymous, as an online witness, and how you can barely manage to form or maintain friendships because your brain makes you pull away, always spinning out and struggling to recover from the simplest of interactions. how they'll all leave you and you won't chase after them at all and how that will hurt them. how stuck you get. how it looks like nothing's holding you back, how that frustrates everyone who thought you were going to be more than you were. the people you love who understand except when it comes to being ghosted, being shut out. how you don't want to hurt them. how you can't tell them that because you're stuck. how you turn to stone when touched, how you never reach out, how you lose your speech and can't look at people, how your autism is fun and sexy until it becomes real and you never see them anymore, how much you longed for someone who knew everything without you having to explain, and who loved you anyway. how unreasonable you know that is to expect of anyone. you think about that not-even-real lesbian bar. you think about how you still can't drive. how you can't leave your home on your own, without dragging somebody into helping you. how you can't leave your body. how you can't leave your manhood behind.

you think about finding another lesbian blog and ignoring everything. about skimming it for the parts you can juice some meaning from. the parts men ignore and don't understand, and how typical of you it is to do so. or the parts where you're not welcome and you should accept that, because it's for lesbians only. how you are a lesbian anyway. how you're meant to choose lesbian or man, how each is a betrayal of some kind to yourself or your people, your family, your lovely strangers, your rare friendly acquaintances. about the parts that tell you you're not wanted, that you're ugly and lazy and gross and insert yourself everywhere without even asking. about the parts that tell you you are hated, and how lesbians are above it all by rejecting men. how lesbians are each blessed miracles. about the parts that say you should be ashamed of being whatever twisted confused freak you are, of everything, of looking and wanting or not looking or not wanting, of picking and choosing instead of taking it all in with a smile. after all, shouldn't you take it? or is your ego too fragile, as men's so often are? aren't you tired? good. we're not here for your consumption. and we sure as hell don't want your company or "community" or whatever. didn't you read the sign? no boys allowed. and if you want to come in you have to make up your mind. as if you haven't told them the only answer you have. you're both. you're both.

you know you broke the rule by interacting.

but it gets lonely sometimes. you wonder if they know.

[bugsinshoes]

there's this concept that i've been aching to explore and i've finally gotten around to drawing + developing it. may i introduce you to:

laurie's mindscape.

laurie's mind is a vast forest of thick maple trees. unlike stan's mind, her memories are represented by large picture frames, leaned up against trees, or even mounted upon them. the frames are all different, ranging from different carvings, to different shapes. the trees themselves are massive, their branches intertwine and create an illusion of being in a tunnel of sorts. warmth radiates throughout the area, and it feels like an extremely safe place to be. it seems completely harmless, but is it really?

if you were to find yourself straying too far from the surface memories, you would soon find the beautiful warm maples slowly dying out and being replaced with sickly birch trees almost seamlessly, the once pristine and intricate picture frames are now cracked and forgotten, and there's an overwhelming fear of being watched. the markings on the trees seem to follow your movement, as if their "eyes" were looking straight at you.

if you are brave enough to push through this unsettling environment, you would be greeted by something much much worse. the colour of the mindscape seems to completely disappear, leaving nothing but greyscales and pale sickly colours of similar vein. wandering too far into laurie's mind would end you up in her suppressed thoughts, a horrible place filled with her innermost guilts and traumas. the air is frigid, and that feeling of being watched becomes so so much worse. it feels like the gaze of a thousand eyes is burning into the back of your head, and it will. not. cease.

after a while of walking deeper and deeper into the recesses of laurie's mindscape, you'll find yourself in a clearing of sorts. in the centre stands the gravity falls water tower, albeit in an extremely decrepit state. the wood is rotting and the metalwork is rusting. even more birch trees lay here, their markings all strangely facing towards the tower. something happened here, and it's clear laurie doesn't want to remember what.

[berryblu-soda]

Anyways update i just didnt bother to post earlier:

fr God is good and the whole car crash my parents got into last week was so incredibly mild in terms of injuries!!!! worst was a bruised knee im pretty sure

ALSO-

*taps mic* HUG YOUR FREAKING LOVED ONES OR SO HELP ME!!!!!!!

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

nothing interesting here it's the exact same scene i just like seeing it

[pink-lemonadefairy]

🌻 ₊˚⊹ ࿔ 🌳

[sparky-is-spiders]

Pleeeeease tell me about the time travel jonsasha fic. I'm assuming it's jon who goes back in time? From where, end of s5? 👀👀👀 Is it preestablished js, or canon compliant until the time travel? Are they going to try to kill elias......

Alright. So. This answer doesn't need to have context but I'm going to provide anyway, so buckle up for several paragraphs of rambling. Under a cut for length.

Anyway so last year I made this post. It's not required reading but it is relevant. Basically, in my first six months(?) or so in the fandom, when I was big into jm, I read a buncha time travel fix-its. I've sorta moved away from them (heads up this fic will NOT be a fix-it) but at the time I really enjoyed them.

(To clarify, nothing wrong with liking time travel fix-its or not wanting to touch the implications. Time travel identity theft isn't real and we're all here to have a good time. If that's your jam you do you)

Now. The Thing With Time-Travel Fix-Its is that there's going to be a past version and a future version of your intrepid time-travelers and you're going to have to Deal With That, and a common method of Dealing With That is the time travelers waking up in their past bodies. Pretty normal, not unusual, dodges some complicated tangles re: having two versions of certain characters floating around, a perfectly understandable choice that nontheless carries Implications.

Namely: what does it mean to take the place of your past self? For you? For them? For the person they could be? For the people around you (who may as well be interacting with a stranger)? Is that really you? Are you really them? Could overwriting your past self count as murder/identity theft/Bad?

And I thought about it. And I thought about it. And I thought about it. And then I got super into jonsasha dual archivists AUs.

Okay. Context over. We can (finally) talk about the fic.

So, I am a simple creature and Jon is my darling beloved. So I didn't want to just kill him off before the fic even begins (although. hmmm. tempting, actually). But i did need him replaced by s5 Jon. So. What if he was just... displaced? Shoved out of his own body by an imposter? A ghost invisible to all? Alone? Afraid? Watching his friends interacting with an unknown but possibly malicious entity? And thus, the Time Travel Nonsense AU was born!

So there's no outline and it hasn't had a lot of Rotation Time in awhile, but I do have a series of loosely connected Ideas down so you can have those.

Something else is living in S1 Jon's body. He doesn't know what it is, or what's happening to him. He can't really interact with his surroundings, either. Can't be seen, can't speak to anyone, can't do anything but watch. Even the thing puppeting his body doesn't seem to know he's there. And it behaves... strangely. It has some of his mannerisms, and it acts like him, but a little to the left. It's uncanny, watching something that is him-but-not-him like that... and it's lonely.

(S5 Jon is going to be an "it" because S1 Jon is perceiving S5 Jon as a monster/creature (although I do believe in it/its Jon supremacy, to be clear)).

He tries to figure things out on his own. Tries to signal for help. Tries to take his body back. Tries to speak to the new occupant. Nothing.

The fic initially opens with a transcript of his statement regarding the experience. It's technically for everyone but it's addressed to Sasha specifically. I don't know what happens with it after though.

At some point, he does manage to make contact with Elias. It's So Weird how only his boss can see him, but it's something at least. Especially because he's so goddamned lonely.

He's a ghost at his own job and in his own house. He hasn't spoken to anyone in weeks. The others think his replacement is behaving a little oddly but seem to be getting along better with it than they ever did with him. It's revealing things about him as if it was him. It feels horribly invasive, and lonely, and frightening, and awful. His only source of comfort is Elias, and they start a sort of weird situationship sorta thing. It's a good thing Elias is so helpful and trustworthy huh?

Maybe Sasha finds the tape. Maybe she just thinks Jon is acting Weird. Either way, she gets to snooping and is drawn closer to the Eye.

Elias, meanwhile, is trying to get Jon marked, and closer to being the Archivist, and back in his body, AND trying to figure out what it was that replaced Jon. Jon is trying to do the last two. Idk what s5 Jon is doing. Maybe finding ways to break whatever binding will cause Elias' death to hurt other institute employees?

Anyway, after a certain point, Sasha is connected enough to the Eye (and Looking hard enough) that she can see S1 Jon, and they start working together too. Maybe they try to keep it secret from Elias? Idk.

S1 Jon will get his body back, and S5 Jon is eldritch enough to probably not need one.

Ok honestly by this point things are reaaaaally vague if I'm being real. So, lightning round:

The JE situationship breaks off due to Elias'... everything really (I mean, once its revealed that he's evil and sinister and stuff).

Jonsasha's misadventures trying to get Jon's body back result in them racking up marks.

Sooooo much of this is me being enamoured w/ outsider PoV... time travel but from the perspective of someone who ain't travelling. Another important aspect is S5 Jon trying desperately to fix things but failing because the whole project is Doomed and he is being sabotaged from the start by an invisible force (himself).

Also S1 Jon accidentally making things worse for himself because all the information available and his general situation push him to do so.

Sasha survives the Not!Them (obviously) (how? good question!!)

Jon and Sasha have a weird complicated Thing. Their research into S5 Jon sort of separates her from the others and they kinda become drawn into their relationship and stuff. Also from the whole "same master same monster" situation they got going on.

There's going to be a short tape transcript of Jon telling Sasha about his situationship with Elias. Idk if I'llbe able to indicate it over audio transcript but they are both sitting on the floor or cot or whatever and Jon's head is on her lap.

Jonsasha are t4t and autism4autism.

I have a really specific image in my head of them running out the institute's front doors while holding hands, very near the end of the fic.

They do run off somewhere (maybe Scotland still idk) and they do read the 160 statement. Together <3.

And yeah that's everything. Got vague and floaty near the end there but to answer your questions: yes, yes, canon-compliant until time travel, and maybe at some point idk.

[xhanisai]

.

[greghatecrimes]

Your bio says “CEO of Autistic Thirteen” but I personally believe Pioneer to be a more accurate title. Love your page<3

Anon, I read this when I was very sleepy last night and it genuinely brought me to the verge of happy tears. Thank you❤️

[brittlebutch]

hi neo hope ur doing good !!! just spent some time clickin around on ur neocities and its AWESOME !!!!!! super loved all ur different shrines, really neat ^_^ also ur OC stories r amazing!!! coming home after a Long day of masking and reading stories abt autistic people Being Autistic was very very very refreshing... idk just was really excellent ^_^ anyways hope yr doing good and things r well for ya :)

AAAA Canis thank you so much <3 <3 happy to hear you had a fun romp through my neocities and happier that you liked my OC fics!!

it's been a lot of fun to really lean into the like, Weird Autism of it all and not have to worry about like, making sure it still sounds like 'the character's' voice, like i do when i write fanfic. it's neat!!! almost kind of a learning curve lmao; i keep finding myself drawing back a little like 'no wait i have to make sure it Fits the character' and then realizing 'wait I define the character, so it already does!' i love it <3 so i feel like i'm especially happy to hear that it's enjoyable to read; i'm really excited :3c THANK YOU for the ask and also the AO3 comments, i really appreciate them so much <3