#trying to make him learn a pattern that’s unnatural to him

[mariasont]

I know youre working on a fic right now but can you sometime make a fic where a new agent comes to work at the bau (the reader) and early seasons Spencer catches her interest, to which he's completely oblivious? Like just a cute little fluffy fic where two genius idiots can realise they like each other throughout their case together.

(also a lot of jokes from Morgan lol)

Reading Between the Lines - S.R

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x reader

warnings: reader just being in love with dr. reid

wc: 1.2k

The two of you were alone in the police station break room, which had become something of unofficial workspace for the team during the case. You'd been sitting there for a while, mostly pretending to read through a file while Spencer, across the table, actually read his—flipping through pages faster than should be humanly possible.

You'd been watching him out of the corner of your eye for the last ten minutes, trying (and failing) to keep your focus on your own. You couldn't help it. He was enthralling to watch. His long fingers moved smoothly over the paper, turning each page with that ridiculous speed-reading technique of his. And when he tilted his head slightly, his eyes scanning the words so quickly it looked like he was barely reading at all, you were sure you'd never seen anyone more unfairly attractive in your entire life.

And you did mean unfairly in the purest sense. It was undeniably unfair—no, unnatural—for a man to possess such a perfect plethora of qualities, like Spencer Reid did.

You hated how obvious you were being. Every time Spencer glanced up at you, your face grew hot, and you had to fight the urge to duck your head like a nervous schoolgirl. It was absurd. You were a grown adult—a professional in the FBI, for gods' sake. You had no business mooning over someone this hard. But... it was Spencer. How could anyone not?

Eventually, you gave up trying to work and leaned forward on the table, resting your chin on your hand. "How do you do that?"

Spencer glanced up, blinking. "Do what?"

"Read that fast," you said, gesturing toward the file in his hands. "I mean, it's like you're just flipping through the pages for fun, but you're actually... reading them, right? You're not just pretending?"

Spencer tilted his head, his lips twitching into a smile. "No, I'm not pretending. I'm absorbing the information. It's called speed-reading."

You raised an eyebrow. "And you just... taught yourself how to do that?"

He nodded, setting the file down in front of him. "It's not as hard as it looks. Anyone can learn it with enough practice."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone," Spencer said, leaning back into his chair. "It's all about training your brain to recognize patterns in the text and absorb information in chunks rather than word by word. It's just a matter of rewiring how you process what you're reading."

You stared at him for a moment, then a grin spread across your face. "Teach me."

Spencer blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Teach you?"

"Yeah," you said, sitting up straighter. "If anyone can learn it, prove it. Teach me how to speed-read."

For a second, he just stared at you, like he wasn't sure if you were serious. But then his expression morphed into something that looked almost... excited. "Okay. I can teach you."

You tried not to look too pleased as he reached for a book sitting on the nearby counter and slid it across the table toward you. It was some dry academic text about linguistic patterns across extinct languages—typical Spencer reading material—but you figured it didn't really matter what the book was. You weren't here for the content.

"Alright," Spencer said, pulling his chair closer to yours so he could see what you were looking at. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours, and every single coherent thought you had ever had evaporated into thin air. You swallowed hard, staring at the page but unable to actually read anything. "The first thing you need to do is stop subvocalizing."

"Sub... what?" you asked, already lost.

"Subvocalizing," he repeated patiently. "It's when you say the words in your head as you're reading them. Most people do it without even realizing it, but it slows you down. If you can train yourself to read without subvocalizing, you'll process the text much faster."

You nodded slowly, though you weren't sure you entirely understood. "Okay. So... how do I stop?"

Spencer smiled. "It takes practice, but one way to start is by using your finger to guide your eyes. Like this."

He reached out and gently took your hand, guiding your index finger to the first line of the text.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. His hand was warm, touch light as he moved your finger along the page. Did he notice the way you tensed up? Did he feel how clammy your palm was? If he did, he didn’t mention it, his focus entirely on the page. Meanwhile, your focus was entirely on him.

"Try to keep your eyes moving with your finger," Spencer said. "Don't focus too much on each individual word—just let your brain take in the whole line."

Every time you inhaled, you caught the faintest hint of soap and coffee—clean, warm, him—and it was becoming impossible to think straight.

"Okay," you said softly, moving your finger along the line as he'd shown you. "Like this?"

"Exactly. Now, try to pick up the pace. Keep your eyes moving."

You tried, but your focus kept slipping—not because of the text, but because of the way Spencer was leaning so close, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he watched you. You could feel his breath, soft and even, against the side of your face, and you were suddenly very aware of the fact that this was probably the closest you'd ever been to him.

"Am I doing it right?"

"Mostly," Spencer said, his hair brushing his forehead as he leaned even closer to point at a section of the text. His long fingers hovered just above yours, and your heart stuttered at the proximity. "But try not to pause at punctuation. Just keep your eyes moving in one fluid motion."

"Okay," you said again, though honestly, you weren't sure how much you were actually absorbing. Your brain was too busy screaming Spencer Reid is touching me. Spencer Reid is this close to me.

For a few more minutes, Spencer guided you through the process, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he helped you adjust your pace. You couldn’t tell if you were actually improving or if you were just doing your best to survive the moment without completely embarrassing yourself.

"You're doing better already," he said. "It just takes time to get used to."

You smiled back at him, cheeks warm. "Thanks. You're a good teacher."

Spencer’s ears turned pink, and he glanced down, his fingers brushing idly at the edge of the book. "I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before. A good teacher, I mean."

You couldn't stop smiling.

"Maybe next time, you can teach me," he said suddenly.

You laughed. "I don’t think there’s anything I could teach you that you don’t already know, Spencer."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," Spencer said, his voice quieter now, almost teasing. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and for a second, his eyes met yours, before flicking back to the book.

Correction, you wouldn't be able to stop smiling for the next 3-5 business days.

Morgan was leaning against the hallway wall just outside the break room, holding his phone and scrolling casually, when you finally stepped out of the room.

You didn't see him at first��you were too busy floating on a cloud, practically glowing as you replayed the last few minutes with Spencer over and over in your mind. You were smiling so much your cheeks hurt, and you could still feel Spencer's hands on yours.

"Well, well, well," Morgan voice cut through your daydream, startling you so badly you almost tripped. You snapped your head toward him, your heart jumping to your throat. He was grinning like a cat who'd just caught a mouse. "What's got you all smiley? Pretty boy say something sweet, or are you just thinking about those magic hands of his?"

You felt your face burst into flames. "What? No! It's not—"

Morgan held up a hand, shaking his head as he chuckled. "Save it, girl. I know the look of a lovesick rookie when I see one. Trust me—you've got it bad."

You sputtered, desperately trying to come up with a convincing rebuttal, but Morgan was already walking away. "Better make your move before he speed-reads right past you!"

You groaned, burying your burning face in your hands as Morgan’s laughter faded down the hall. Lovesick rookie? Was it really that obvious?

Yes. Yes, it was.

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[maedhrus]

thinking again about the edward little death vision of his father comforting him after a dog bite. thinking about how his left hand is the one bandaged. edward little who once held his hand out to an animal that betrayed the trust he showed it, his wound reopening as once again his empathy is exploited

[littlepeach-world]

Stranded Hearts - (Hwang In-ho x Fem!reader)

Next

Summary: What will happen when the daughter of a VIP ends up stranded on an island with the mysterious Frontman?

Warnings: Family drama, grief, Toxic parent, Parent being condescending and controlling, boat crash, slight injuries, Strom, CPR, Survival Situations, Shipwreck, Isolation, Dangerous Wildlife, Psychological Strain, Angst.

Word count : 2.5k

Notes : Hello! This is my first series I am writing for In-ho because I am a whore for him 24/7. I am really excited for this. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist. Thanks 💙

You stand at the edge of the dock, your arms crossed and your expression reluctant. The brisk wind tousles your hair as you eye the imposing vessel before you. This trip was your father's idea, and you hate every bit of it.

As you board the boat with your father, he keeps a controlling hand on your shoulder. "Remember, this is business. Try not to embarrass me," he hisses quietly.

You give him a brief, humorless smile. "Wouldn't dream of it," you reply sarcastically.

As you walk across the deck, you are met by a tall, imposing figure dressed in all black. The Frontman. His face is concealed by a mask, and his presence exudes an intense aura of authority and mystery. Every movement he makes is deliberate, calculated, as if he commands not only the people but the very air around him. You can't help but be intrigued by him; there's an unsettling power in his silence, a strength in his stillness. Though you just met him, you feel an inexplicable pull towards him, a magnetism that both fascinates and unsettles you.

Your father takes notice and directs you toward him, his grip tightening slightly. "Don't say a word unless spoken to," he mutters.

As you approach, the Frontman turns to greet you. "Welcome," he says, his voice distant yet commanding.

You take a deep breath, offering a nod of acknowledgment. In an act of rebellion against your father's controlling nature, you speak up. "I'm Y/N, I've heard much about your endeavors," you say, even though you don't know a damn thing about them. You hope to convey both respect and confidence, and maybe needle your father just a little.

The Frontman gives you a slight nod in return, his gaze shifting almost immediately to your father. "I hope the journey will be smooth," he remarks.

Your father quickly steps in front of you, brushing you aside as though you are nothing more than an inconvenience. “Y/N tends to act on her own,” he says, almost dismissively. “She needs to understand the importance of staying in line.”

You clench your jaw but don’t respond. After years of dealing with your father's demeaning attitude, you have learned to pick your battles. Instead, you turn and walk away, seeking refuge in another part of the boat.

Away from the main deck and the discussions you find stifling, you lean against the railing and close your eyes, letting the sound of the waves soothe your fraying nerves. Absent-mindedly, you play with the locket around your neck, the delicate piece of jewelry, the only thing you have left from your mom who passed away. 

You eventually find solace in your headphones, the music providing a refuge from your dad’s overbearing presence. The gentle rhythm calms your nerves as you look out at the expanse of the sea. 

Finally, you felt a moment of peace—until chaos erupted.

You notice the birds first. They’re flying erratically, their usual graceful patterns disrupted. The odd behavior catches your attention, and you pull an earbud out, curious.

A sudden chill in the air prickles your skin, and you glance at the sky. What was once a serene blue has shifted to an ominous gray, swirling with dark clouds that seem to gather with unnatural haste. The wind picks up, whipping your hair around your face as the temperature drops even further.

Suddenly, the sky darkens further, and a violent storm emerges out of nowhere. The wind howls, and thunder rumbles ominously. The boat begins to lurch and tilt as waves crash against its sides, each hit sending shudders through the vessel. Panic breaks out among the passengers and crew alike, their fear palpable.

Your father grabs your arm forcefully. "We need to go! Now!" he shouts, his voice panicked and urgent.

The Frontman, maintaining a semblance of calm, is coordinating the evacuation. He directs some workers towards the emergency boats, his authoritative presence a stark contrast to the chaos around him. His eyes then fall on you and your father, and with a swift motion, he gestures for you both to follow him.

"We must get to the lifeboats," he commands, his voice steady despite the tumultuous surroundings.

Gripping tightly onto your father's arm, you are led towards the lifeboats stationed at the side of the rocking vessel. The wind howls fiercely, and rain lashes against your face, stinging your eyes. The air is thick with tension and fear, every passenger scrambling to secure a spot on the lifeboats.

The Frontman reaches one of the lifeboats and urgently ushers both you and your father to climb in. "Get in, quickly!" he orders.

Your father steps into the lifeboat first, turns, and reaches out for you, his hand outstretched. "Come on, grab my hand!" he yells over the cacophony of the storm.

But the storm has other plans. A massive wave crashes against the boat, sending you and the Frontman stumbling. The deck tilts dangerously, and in the chaos, you both lose your footing. The Frontman falls beside you, and in that terrifying moment, both of you are teetering on the edge. You reach out, but there's nothing to grasp.

"Y/N!" your father screams, his eyes wide with terror as his hand misses yours by mere inches.

The turbulent ocean rises up to meet you, and with a scream, you and the Frontman are swallowed by the cold, unforgiving water. The last thing you see is the shadow of the boat above, the lifeboat with your father struggling to stay upright and the Frontman falling alongside you, before the waves close over your heads.

The water engulfs you completely, the overwhelming cold shocking every nerve in your body. Disoriented and fighting for breath, you try desperately to swim upwards, but the relentless current pulls you deeper into the dark abyss, with the Frontman beside you struggling against the same powerful force.

As you begin to lose consciousness, you catch a glimpse of the Frontman. His mask has been torn away by the violent waves, and for the first time, you see his face. Despite the terror and chaos, you can't help but think how beautiful he is. His features are strong yet gentle, his eyes filled with an intense determination.

A fleeting thought crosses your mind — you're probably going to die. But in a strange way, you're okay with it. The thought of being reunited with your mother brings a sense of peace. As your vision slowly fades to black, you hold onto that comforting notion, a small smile forming on your lips despite the cold embrace of the water.

Unknown to you, the now maskless men who faced the same tragic end were also battling against the ocean's force.

He saw you being pulled underwater and acted quickly, swimming towards you with determination. A huge wave crashed into him, dragging him back. Regaining his control, he surfaced and frantically looked around, but you were nowhere in sight.

Through the howling wind and the roar of the waves, he could barely see more than a few feet ahead. His eyes strained against the darkness, scanning urgently through each crest and trough. Then, he saw you. Your silhouette, barely discernible, was being tossed around like a ragdoll by the unforgiving sea.

With a burst of adrenaline, he surged forward. Each stroke was a battle against the icy cold and the relentless pull of the undertow. As he drew near, he saw that you were barely conscious, your movements weak and uncoordinated. He called out to you, his voice hoarse and barely audible over the storm.

“Hold on, I’m here!”

Using every bit of strength he had left, he reached out, his fingers grazing your arm before he managed to grasp you firmly by the wrist. At that moment, a towering wave crashed over both of you, threatening to tear you apart. He tightened his grip, refusing to let go. His other arm encircled your waist, pulling you close to him. You were cold, your breath shallow, and your eyes fluttering weakly.

The weight of your limp body added to the challenge, but his determination was unyielding. He positioned himself behind you, one arm around your chest, and began to swim using powerful, measured strokes. The waves continued their assault, but he fought back with a primal tenacity, kicking hard against the current.

As you both struggled through the darkness, the world around you was a chaotic blur of frothing water and screaming wind. Every muscle in his body burned with effort, but he pressed on, driven by a singular focus: to keep you safe.

After what felt like an eternity, he spotted the faint outline of a lifeboat, its small frame being tossed by the waves but miraculously still afloat. His heart pounded with renewed hope. Fueled by desperation, he pushed forward with everything he had left.

Finally, you reached the side of the lifeboat. With painstaking effort, he used one arm to hoist you over the edge and into the relative safety of the vessel. His muscles screamed in agony, but he couldn’t pause. He clambered up after you, collapsing onto the floor of the boat beside you.

Gasping for breath, he turned to you, who remained unconscious. Your face was pale, and your lips were tinged with a worrying shade of blue. Fear gripped his heart, but there was no time to dwell on it. He needed to act, and act fast.

Positioning himself carefully, he began CPR, applying firm, rhythmic compressions to your chest. “One, two, three...” he counted aloud, each push a desperate plea for you to come back.

Minutes felt like hours as he continued the compressions, his arms growing weary but his resolve never diminishing. His urgent counting continued, voice hoarse but determined. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty...”

Then, suddenly, you gasped. Your eyes fluttered open and you coughed, expelling water from your lungs. Relief flooded through him. He let out a deep breath he didn't realize he had been holding, words of reassurance spilling from his lips. 

-

A few hours later, you stir, your fingers curling instinctively into the warm, grainy sand beneath you. The tiny particles slip between your fingers, a comforting and familiar texture amidst the disorientation. You blink against the bright sunlight filtering through the canopy of palm leaves overhead, the dappled light creating a mesmerizing pattern on the ground. The radiance is overwhelming, and you shield your eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden brilliance.

Disoriented, you struggle to piece together what happened. Fragments of memories flash through your mind—violent waves, a desperate struggle to stay afloat, the feeling of being pulled under, and finally, the sensation of being washed ashore. Slowly, you sit up, every muscle in your body protesting the movement. Sand clings to your damp skin, sticking to your clothes and hair, a reminder of your recent ordeal.

As your vision clears, the first thing you notice is the Frontman. His mask, always an imposing and enigmatic symbol, is now absent, revealing a chiseled jawline and sharp, handsome features that draw you in. His intense and observant eyes hint at an underlying turmoil, a complexity that is both intriguing and unsettling. He is sitting nearby, his posture tense yet composed, his eyes focused intently on you with a mixture of concern and relief. The dichotomy of his expressions is striking; it’s rare to see his face, let alone read such raw emotion on it.

“You made it," he says softly, his voice hoarse and raspy, as if he has not spoken for hours. "We’re on an island. We’re safe… for now."

His words hang in the air, a fragile reassurance that offers a moment of respite. You take a deep breath and look around, allowing yourself to fully absorb your surroundings. The expansive beach stretches out before you, the golden sands glistening in the sunlight. The sound of waves crashing softly on the shore is calming, a rhythmic lullaby that contrasts with the chaos you endured. Just beyond, the thick jungle looms, a verdant wall of foliage teeming with the promise of both wonder and danger.

Despite the uncertainty, a glimmer of hope flickers within you. The realization that you had survived—against the odds—brings a surge of strength to your exhausted body. 

Exhausted but alive, you understand that you now faced whatever came next together. His presence, once a source of intimidation, now provides an unexpected comfort.

You search his eyes, desperate for clarity. "What are we going to do now?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper. The uncertainty in the air settles like a heavy fog around you, amplifying the urgency of your question.

He averts his gaze, staring out across the endless expanse of the ocean as if the answer might be hidden in the distant waves. After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks. "We survive," he says simply, the words offering little comfort and even less detail.

Frustration erupts within you, bubbling up from a place of deep fear and helplessness. "Survive? No shit! That's your grand plan? Unbelievable!" you retort, your voice rising with every word. "Wow, what a fantastic strategy!"

He absorbs your outburst in silence, his face a mask of calm that only serves to infuriate you further. Slowly, methodically, he gets to his feet, the weight of his experience evident in his measured movements. He turns to face you, a flicker of resolve in his eyes. "Come on," he says, his voice steady, "we need to find some food and shelter before we lose daylight."

You cross your arms defiantly and shake your head. "I'm not going anywhere with a stranger! For heaven's sake, I don't even know your name!"

His posture stiffens, and his gaze snaps back to you, now intense and unyielding. "Names won't change our situation," he replies, his voice edged with a steely resolve that makes it clear he won't entertain any further arguments.

He takes a step closer, his presence commanding and authoritative. "Now let's go," he says more sternly, his eyes narrowing as they bore into yours. The finality in his tone leaves no room for negotiation.

The desperation of the situation begins to sink in. The sun is already dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the sand. The prospect of being stranded here, alone and vulnerable, without food or shelter, overshadows your fears of trusting a stranger. With a heavy sigh of resignation, you nod reluctantly and begin to follow him, the path ahead uncertain but the necessity of survival driving you forward.

[hotluncheddie]

I'm on that autistic Steve shit!!!! (sorry no hc of Eddie.... can only focus on Steve ❤️)..... my favorite favorite favorite autistic Steve hc is that he is so so charming so charismatic so cool but it's entirely an act..... like he learned it from books and movies and watching other people and like his emotional / social intelligence is thru the roof bc of that.... I think I saw it described in a fic once as "he knows exactly what people want to hear"..... and I think he does revel in being a chameleon and doing that but of course it's draining!!! my fav is him letting the mask down in front of Very Important people..... I'm writing a fic rn where when Steve tries to mask around hopper he's like "boy stop that you know you don't have to do that here"..... I get such such terminal Nothing Face after a long day and I like to think Steve does too and he's worried Eddie will find it off-putting the first time he shuts down and still wants to hang out with him..... but Eddie is so so endeared by it and is very gentle with him "you ran out of faces, huh baby? that's alright" .....

2jug2head “you ran out of faces, huh baby? That’s alright.” That honestly melted my heart. I had to curl up in a little ball to deal with that.

It’s !!!!! So !!!!!! Sweet !!!!!!!!!

and omg having Hopper be like that with Steve, letting him know in that blunt, simple Hopper way I'm !!!!!! thats so good !!!! I will love love love to read that fic when u finish it !!!! pls tag me if u post it !!!!

but yeah I really really hc Steve as being super high masking, very capable socially, very able to read people. he's used so much of his life to think about others and be what's best in any possible situation. he always wants to be perfect in his interactions with people, wants to 'win' at it. wants to be the best version of himself for every person that he meets. and he mostly does. he's good at it, he's smart and a lot of people follow the same sort of conversions, expect similar things. he’s been around enough people and been in enough situations to have scripts and reactions to most scenarios. he can recognise patterns well and so he does that, but with people, over and over and over. so much so that he doesn't even think about it now, doesn't really even realise what he doing.

he’s very capable, very good and smart socially, but it's to his detriment. it means no one really knows him. it means he doesn't really know himself.

it's like he's a little perfect puppet and when he's alone it feels like this freak monster comes out; with all these feelings and thoughts and emotions that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know if they're normal. and he doesn't know how to tell anyone about it either, how to express it or talk about in the right way.

because he's so so scared of being made fun of, or being alone; of being told off, or being weird. and sometimes it makes him so sad, because he doesn't always know how to stop - he's so quick to respond wth his scripts that he forgets to think about what he really thinks, really feels. and he can't stop.

to unmask, at times, most times, feels herculean - to show someone who you really are? that feels impossible. terrifying. to ask for time to think? to risk saying something wrong? being honest feels deeply unnatural somehow - to be honest about how he feels, what he thinks, what he needs. he just, he's never done that before...

so when he's navigating these people, these relationships he so so cares about. with Robin and Eddie and Dustin and Hopper, even.

this is the slew of feelings he has to wade through when trying to be close to them, to keep them, to do what they ask of him. this is what he has to work through. and sometimes, sometimes they act as if it's so easy. as if it is so easy to say the honest truth when asked 'what's up?' or 'what do you think?' or 'what do you want?'

that's not easy, its never been easy. and it makes him feel like a freak once he realises it should be.

-

yeah idk that got kind of sad, sorry. but like. this is where I imagine him, when you get to the good, lovely, cozy, wonderful parts. I just, I think this is the thing, my lovely wonderful high high high masking Steve - this is what he's going through to get to the good. and its hard.

[lz-didyounotice]

"An hymne to love"

Heyy! So this one is gonna be sad friends. Angst, a lot of it, sad, and of course, a happy endding, for our doctor wouldn't be able to forgive myself if not.

Froggit-

Warning : English is not my first language, Angst, "fluff", description of a dying person. Death

-------------------------------

The interior of the TARDIS felt unnaturally cold, silent even. The whirring noise of the machine transformed into soft purrs barely noticeable to the ear. No one was around except a silent man, trying to make the TARDIS run again. Gripping the machinery, he practically broke one of the levers while holding on to another set of gears, dreading to fall once more.

Tired, he had abandoned flying the old girl to find you. He had tried everything, tried to look everywhere, and everywhen, but the TARDIS wouldn’t allow him to try and retrieve you. Never would he have thought to hurt so much, even knowing this wasn’t goodbye. You were his everything, and he had just witnessed something he wished he could unsee.

The TARDIS felt the Doctor's distress and was sorry for not being able to take him to you. Not that she didn’t want to. If anything, she wanted to see you safe aboard. She simply couldn’t, something making her unable to trace anything, and if there were any coordinates, she wasn’t able to land. Trying to lift his spirits up, the TARDIS had anl idea.

Still sitting on the floor, both his knees close to his chest, a soft music came to his ears before becoming a full-blown melody. Looking at the TARDIS with a questioning look, he finally realized what was playing. It was old, yes, but full of memories. For the both of you. It had played on your first rendezvous, had you danced the last minutes away as if nothing in the world could disturb this moment.

Leaving the ground, he tried to find the source, still wiping the silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Passing by his room, he realized it was coming from yours. Why wouldn’t it? Is that what the TARDIS wanted to show him?

The door was still slightly open. Pushing it, the Doctor was met with a brightly lit room, colorful souvenirs on every shelf. Passing his fingers on each of them, he finally found the record player, preciously presented on a small table in the corner of the room. The disc starting to loop, the Doctor stopped it before looking behind him. All he wished was to lash onto the covers, the room still full of your scent, to find comfort in it. But as he looked at the bed, all he could see was one of your favorite sweaters, softly folded at the end of it. In the collar, a small TARDIS blue envelope was still visible.

With trembling hands, he took the small letter, admiring the work of it. What troubled him was the circular pattern on the front. Gallifreyan? When did you start learning it?

The clean lines, with no trace of a shaking hand, made him believe you had worked for it to be perfect. To perfectly spell his name, with all the love you could muster. He practically renounced to open it, keep it close to himself, but he was hurting too much to not see what you had left him.

Before opening the small letter, he switched his tweed jacket and his shirt for the black hooded sweater you left. And sitting on the bed, he took a large breath before opening the small blue rectangle.

—-----------------------------

“Hello Doctor,

Nice to see you again! How have you been? I’ve been doing rather well, at least when I'm writing these few words to you.

If you're wondering when I had the time to write this, with the many adventures we had these past months, I would probably say, every time you saw me watching you tinkering away on the TARDIS. You tend to imagine some rather dashing curses when you're struggling with her. I couldn’t help myself from writing a few down to use around my dear Donna when we saw each other. You would be surprised with how many of them fit well with some of her coworkers.”

Another night had arisen in the TARDIS, returning from yet another adventure. As always, the Doctor was full of energy while you struggled slightly to follow his lead. That night you were unable to sleep, the Doctor still not beside you. In your pajamas, you went to the console room, notepad in hand to try and get yourself to sleep.

The Doctor softly cursing while he tried to make the TARDIS behave correctly, you on the bottom of the stairs observing him, a soft smile on your lips as he made offended faces after a new blast of energy trying to eat what was left of his eyebrows.

You had thought about writing him a comfort letter for a while now. You didn’t know what state he would be in if he saw you die, even if he already had done it in the past. So pushing your pen down on the paper, you wrote away, finally falling asleep against the rail, notes closed on your knees. The Doctor's jacket covering you as he finished the last modifications on the console.

In the end, he had picked you up, planting a small kiss on the top of your head before heading you both to bed.

“If you're reading this, it means something has happened to me. Something rather terrible, I imagine. And before you start blaming yourself for this :  no it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have predicted it. I don’t want you to feel guilty about something you had no control over.

You remember the day we met? It was a rather tragic one, wasn't it? And even back then, I knew we would see each other again. This is not a final goodbye, my dear husband; it will always be a new beginning. A new life. New memories to make, soon enough.“

Today was supposed to be a calm and relaxing day, a small trip to yet another galaxy. However, the TARDIS had other plans, taking you somewhere you both were needed.

It couldn’t have gone more terribly. Your trembling hand, holding at the gaping hole in your chest. A pain dulled by adrenaline, making you unable to distinguish what you saw before yourself. You felt your breath taken away from you, slipping out as the Doctor saw your body trying to hold its way up.

“Doctor…” Was the only word you could muster as you fell into his arms. Him trying desperately to keep you awake as he felt you slipping away.

“(Y/N)... (Y/N)! Please stay with me, come on, don’t do this to me…!” Tears and cries intensified as he understood he couldn’t do anything to stop you from dying.

The hole in your chest was too wide, too many organs touched, and your lungs slowly filling themself with blood.

Trying his best to take you both to the TARDIS, both of you to safety even if you were going to die soon. Still in his arms, you had tried to reach his face, wanting him to stop this torture. To stop running with you by his side. But you couldn’t move much, your energy getting away as memories of the both of you flooded your head.

“Sure I won’t look the same. But will I love you, if it wasn’t more than I always did? Absolutely. I mean, did you really expect me to not love you when I would eventually have to pass on my memories? Every one of them, filled with love, caring touches, tender kisses, even in the worst situation. How could I forget the man who showed me the universe in such a way?”

The TARDIS floor was too cold, and so were your hands. Both of you in a tight embrace, as once again, you promised each other eternity. Tears falling down on both of your faces, as you knew it would be a long time until you met each other again. As final memories pass by you, sleeping away in a final breath, you close your eyes, a small smile still on your lips. Happy to have been able to save him.

Soft cries resonated into the silence, tears falling as the Doctor clutched your corpse, hoping he was only dreaming. Repeating in a desperate voice for you to come back, to not leave him like this. All he could see and feel was pain as your skin turned white from blood loss.

“And wherever I will be in this world, I’ll make sure you find me. Big red messages on post offices, try to draw your name in the nearest wheat field, find the tower Elizabeth once more. I even would go as far as track the TARDIS down with the small emitters you showed me how to craft.

But it might take a few years for any signal to appear. I simply don’t want you to wait for me to go on a new adventure, to find a new crewmate to wander the universe with. This will take time, I know it will hurt a lot. It always sucks to lose someone. In this time of dread, I just don’t want you to feel alone. Not once. You will need someone to keep up the spirit, a person to keep you on your toes at all times to make the waiting worth it.

I will find you again. I always did and I always will.

I love you, See you soon Doctor“

—------------------

This letter always stayed close to his heart. As time went by, he had finally accepted to let the future be unknown. He never had given up the hope of seeing you again. Always searching for any signals you could have transmitted. But it got more difficult as the days passed by. As for now, he had followed your wish, found someone else to travel with. And Clara made his world a lot brighter without any doubt.

Today, they had departed for the countryside of England, the Doctor having found a signal all too familiar. He didn’t want to give his hopes up, doubting it for being a sick prank, a coincidence of the universe. But this message was something he had yearned so desperately for many years. “Honey, I'm home.”

“Doctor? Where are we going?” Asked Clara excited to go on a new adventure.

“We're going to visit someone…! I haven’t seen in a long time!” He answered with a big smile.

Clara was not a stranger to the Doctor’s antics, a madman with a childlike attitude, trying to borrow the pain he felt deep down. But today was not one of those days. He was properly happy, a smile she had never seen before. It made her wonder what could make him forget all the rest.

As soon as the TARDIS landed, the Doctor came out first. Before him, a beautiful young lady stood. She was rather tall, with short ginger hair, adorning a smile he knew all too well. When their eyes met he couldn’t help a small tear from falling onto his cheek.

“Doctor…”

“(Y/N)...”

Within seconds, both were in one another's arms, basking in the familiar scent, as tears fell down. You had feared for it to be a mirage, your mind playing tricks on you once more, but as you felt his arms tightly around you, you could only smile.

Too long had passed. Too many years of searching for you, to finally find you here, finally in his arms, your lips now meeting one another's, full of love and longing. A tender kiss to say a thousand words. How much you missed the others presence, how lonely it had been, how much you had hurt while away. All your love in such a simple gesture.

“Hello Honey… I'm home” Did you finally have the courage muster out of air.

Taking a step out of his grasp, you turned yourself around, presenting your new self, a large smile on your lips.

“So? How do you find me?”

Your last face being largely different, you wanted to know what the Doctor thought of it. I mean, you had stolen his luck with your ginger hair. You were also wearing a black leather jacket way too big for you, but it felt comforting with the slight heaviness of the material pressing onto your shoulders.

“How come you are ginger, that’s not fair, I want to be ginger, I've never been ginger.” Did he finally say with a small pout on his face.

“Only thing you notice?”

“You're taller than me… This is new.-” realizing the lack of heels at your feet.

Fiddling with his pockets for a moment, he finally took three rings out of his pocket, all attached to a golden chain.

“Those belong to you I believe.”

“You kept them?”

“Of course, I kept them, darling, we’re still married as far as I'm aware of.”

Slipping the rings on, you finally felt completed. A unit ready to face the world together once more by each other's side.

—---------------------------

Bonus : 

“Wait, is that a new jacket ? I like it. " You noticed on your dear husband.

“Really ? It's a bit longer than the last one.”

“I see that, you still have bow ties tho-”

“Oi! Bow ties are cool- And I wouldn't be your bow tie maniac without them now, would I ?”

“You’ll always be. With or without.”

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma In-Depth (Part VIII) UPDATED!: Missing Conversations and Mulder Gettin' His Groove On

In the aftermath of Three Words, we are left with a few resolved questions-- Mulder knew the baby was his, Mulder didn't resent Scully, Mulder and Scully eye-bantered about the baby issue in her kitchen with the Gunmen, etc.-- that help to more fully make sense of that episode and the tail end of Season 8.

However. We are then given a giant, gaping hole of nothing that bridges the gap between the heavier mood of Three Words and the buoyantly tender one of Empedocles.

So, that leaves us with speculations, probabilities, and body language.

**Note**: This post has been updated to include @baronessblixen's thought on Mulder and Scully's conversation (did they or didn't they?) The nuance of "a little of both" is also a solid possibility.

FILLING IN THE BLANKS

During the events of Three Words, Mulder and Scully maintained a pattern: she pulled, he pushed, she was frustrated and anxious to the point of tears, he was frustrated and fearful to the point of honorable death. Neither wanted to push or pull away too far from each other, always drawing back in close proximity. Most importantly, Mulder gave her short tender or joking glances but never touched her.

The touching is important.

Usually, it's Scully who withdrew in times of crisis: not because she wanted to ice Mulder out, but because she wanted to maintain her wall of strength. Knowing that a touch from her partner will unspool it, she tried (tries) to escape emotionally tenuous situations before losing control. Mulder, however, learned to draw to her in emotional crises (Anasazi, Herrenvolk, Paper Hearts, Redux II, Emily, etc.)

That pattern contributed to Scully's bafflement and concern in Three Words: Mulder attempted to keep his trauma under wraps but gave himself away by withdrawing physically. She already sensed something off with him in the hospital (script here, thanks @x-files-scripts); but each successive conversation reinforced that by the unnatural space he enforced between them.

I've previously discussed at length why he stayed at a distance (post here, here, and here.) In short, Mulder was trying to keep up a facade-- his cool exterior, if you will-- so that his partner wouldn't prod or pry or urge (or send) him to professional help. Mulder's a "lash out to fix a problem instead of searching within to find the solution" kind of guy; and besides, he likely saw his situation as hopeless. Most therapists and psychologists didn't (don't) believe in aliens, let alone alien abductions; so, the only place he could find professional help would be in his circles-- where he's already a very well-known community figurehead. (While I don't think the latter was a consideration during his Three Words kneejerk, it at least points us to a possible solution post episode.)

Another problem: falling in-step with this season's useless (and often infuriating) scripts-to-screen translation-- post here for the paternity question but also script here for Mulder and Doggett's needlessly baited escape from the DOD facility-- we're not shown the gap between Three Words and Empedocles. We're left to assume Mulder and Scully had an off-screen conversation that resolved the distance between them... but I have doubts that was the case.

DID THEY OR DIDN'T THEY TALK?

It's often referenced that Mulder and Scully don't talk outside of work (ex. stated straightly in Detour and hinted slyly in Rain King.) The show leaned so far into this narrative that the only proof we have of an on-going relationship between the two in Season 7 is Scully's tie twirling, flirting, and unabashed possessiveness post Millennium and pre-all things... and even then, it might not be proof enough for some (or most) viewers.

The reality is, Mulder and Scully spent hours and hours and hours investigating, researching, and surveilling. We've seen plot relevant conversations during work hours that aren't just about work (i.e. Mulder asking Scully about her brothers in Roland), leading one to conclude that they've had very interesting and tantalizing talks when not currently occupied with a case.

Did one of those tantalizing talks happen off-screen between Three Words and Empedocles?

We have two options before us:

Mulder and Scully did talk. This would require a shift in their dynamic post Three Words; and the instigator would likely be Scully. She was already emotionally raw, growing more compromised, and stretched to her limits by the previous episode. It's not a far-fetched theory for her to have requested space or time to recover; and that shift in their wonky new routine would have off-set Mulder, and possibly pushed him out of himself and back to her. There are two hitches to this theory: it would require time to pass (not as big of a deal), and a conversation that would all too easily click them back into their touchy-feely dynamic previous to the events in Empedocles. The latter part is key: him feeling the baby in her hospital room is framed as his first time reaching out to connect with it-- and that would leave us with another question: did Mulder reach out only to Scully in the gap between Three Words and Empedocles; and if so, was she okay with that? There was no barrier or awkwardness on her side in Empedocles, so that points to a negative on the "reaching out to her but not the baby" theory (proved by her distress when he avoided the baby entirely in Three Words.) This means: to have a conversation, they would have had to reconcile without touching at all... which might (would) also further upset Scully; and, thus, disrupt her placid temperament in Empedocles. Ultimately, this theory leads to more questions than answers; but it can work, though not perfectly (depending on the viewer's interpretation.)

Mulder and Scully did not talk. This works with the lore of the show: Mulder and Scully don't generally talk, but their body language does. Moreover, it would also fit with the insanely fast-paced timeline of Season 8 (and The X-Files in general)-- Three Words happening within days, Empedocles chockfull with unacknowledged air fare and car rides, etc. On top of all that, it would also fit in with Scully's light-hearted moments in Three Words-- continually trying to draw her partner into a better outlook or mood-- and her eager openness in Deadalive, Three Words, and Empedocles. This means: it wasn't a conversation that settled Mulder and Scully-- it was Mulder who came to a resolution of sorts and showed up in repentance and reconciliation. Ultimately, I think this theory fits more with the show writers' vision of the characters; and would work seamlessly if the two episodes were fitted tightly back-to-back.

Mulder and Scully do a little of both: This idea was taken from @baronessblixen's tags; and it absolutely sounded like something those two would do. To quote: "...a combination. Mulder found more of his footing. And I think they had a conversation-- maybe just a light one-- that just touched on things because they weren't there yet." This means: Mulder and Scully got to clear the air between them without progressing too forward too fast-- which gives Mulder talking without touching leeway and hands Scully reassurance without rejection.

I, personally, pick the second theory. Mulder's actions in Empedocles--showing up at her doorstep right before her morning (or afternoon) shower, sweeping her off her feet with a present and pizza man banter, hovering until she motioned for him to feel the baby, ordering her pizza from his place in an attempt to displace the pizza man, etc.-- are completely unexpected by Scully. She answers the door, perplexed; is amazed and amused by his "the pizza man is not above suspicion" tease; "touched" by his personal package and surprise pizza delivery; and confident enough in his stability to rib him about being replaced by the pizza man in his absence. To me, these read as the actions of a woman not at all "conversated" with her partner: surprised, pleased, and overjoyed he'd come around on his own, baffled, disjointed, and silent at his about-face in proceeding episodes. Most pivotally, there seem to be no boundaries laid down between them, which leaves Scully feeling she can't command or demand he stay by her side in future episodes-- another point against conversation.

**Update**: I retract the previous paragraph slightly-- Scully and Mulder could follow in the footsteps of Empedocles for both scenario 2 and 3; and their attitude would fall a little more in line with 3's mild conversation than 2's non-communication. Everyone can pick for themselves, of course~.

Because, again, the context of their touches changes the interpretation of their reunion: is he still withdrawn, yet temporarily stepping up because of the glow of her and the baby's safety? Did he touch her previous to the gift exchange and her hospitalization? Or did he hover closer and closer with presents and banter, trying to smooth over yesterday(ish)'s events before the abruption took place?

This point will have to be picked apart more in-depth in later posts; but in the meantime, the theory is out there to analyze.

MULDER GETTIN' HIS GROOVE ON

An important aside: Mulder and Scully and his package.

The original scene (script here) reads as more exasperated on Scully's part-- "what's my crackpot partner doing here with a gift in his hand", if you will-- and more jocular and unabashed on Mulder's. It's an interesting take, and not out-of-character. The final render of that scene, however, changes what we can infer from the characters. Perhaps that's mostly due to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson's chemistry, camaraderie, and history-- based on the note "the actors will know how to play it" (script here)-- or perhaps it didn't quite align with where Chris Carter wanted the characters to be. Either way, it's a smart change, I believe, in the unspoken aftermath of Three Words.

What is interesting is the "nice package" comment from Scully, and Mulder's shy initial misinterpretation with regards to his package. Beyond the comedy of the moment, it gives us a peek into Mulder's head: namely, that he is not dead, that he is still very aware of Scully, and that he didn't drop in and isn't hanging around strictly for pure or impersonal purposes.

Mulder usually sloughed off or was flustered by direct compliments, romantic and platonic, from other parties (i.e. Agent Henderson in Young at Heart and Cassandra Spender in Two Fathers.) His response here-- which I shall dive deeper into in a future part-- shows he truly thought Scully was complimenting with intent (propositioning, if you will); and that he was more than willing to reciprocate.

Not only that, but his misinterpretation bleeds right into his overtures for the baby. Mulder took a trip to his mother's-- meaning he still has her house, months later (another interesting thought to dig into)-- to root around in and find a suitable gift. An honorary Mulder family relic, too: another sign he saw this child as his own, despite his oft conflicting, paranoid doubts. This assumption aligns with David's astute observations of his character while filming the Revival: "William is the child that Scully had while we were together. It could be mine, it could be an alien, but I don't know. It's my child, I think. Mulder would live his life as if that was his child." Despite the doubts he voices in Essence's opening monologue, Mulder acts as if he claims the baby as his. And it's not surprising: the signs are there (covered in all of my previous meta parts) but smudged or written out by writers intent on baiting the answers as much as possible (again, post here.)

So, what does this mean?

CONCLUSION

Sometime between Three Words and Empedocles, Mulder gets enough of his act together to reflect on and tweak his behavior, schelpping up to and back from Tena Mulder's house to bear gifts for the offspring, caveman papa style. In addition to that, he lays down a few more walls; softens up; shows open, genuine interest in his child; and begins to rekindle his and his partner's relationship. Most tellingly, he touches Scully for the first time during her health scare; then for the first time with purpose after she and the baby pull through.

The question of what was said between them-- or even if there was anything said between them-- will never be answered. Knowing Mulder and Scully, the possibilities could go any way depending on one's own interpretation. Hopefully those possibilities have been fleshed out more thoroughly and reasonably in this write-up.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[happyk44]

Here's how it goes. You are five children in tight quarters. Four of you have never known life without another person by your side. The oldest of you remembers and hates it. It is hot and humid. There's a rock. The rock is pretty nice. You were expecting a sixth kid.

Good to see your mom finally learned something.

You play games together. You have dreams about the world outside the darkness and the tiny light of flame from your oldest sister's fingertip. Then you go up and out. Splattered on the ground in ickiness. Your father is is throwing up and some boy holding a gold plate is standing in front of you with wide eyes. Your youngest sister punches him out the way and you run.

You run and run and run and run until there's nowhere left to go. You get clean from a river. The youngest boy soaks in it deliriously. You are all happy for him. He's found what he dreams of - even if only a small version of it. You pull clothes from a clothesline and get dressed. You cut your long messy hair with knives instead of lowering your head into stomach acid and it is quicker than you've ever known.

It is blisteringly bright outside. You are unfamiliar with light, and distrusting of heat, but it's still pleasant. You can see the trees and the sky and the grass.

The light gives proof you are free.

You hide when the darkness comes. The moon is bright, but you are haunted by years of sitting in pitch black. Is he swallowing you up again? Is the darkness his threat? Your oldest brother doesn't mind the darkness, has never truly been bothered by it, and watches you while you sleep. Your oldest sister builds a fire from branches and leave and the flame on her hand.

You know they will protect you. They are more a mother and father than you have ever known.

You awake and regroup. The boy comes back. His hands are raised above his head and he tells you what he knows. He is your brother, the youngest of you all. He was hidden by your mother. Replaced with a rock so he was not swallowed whole. He is the one that freed you from your father's belly. He wants you to join him, to battle your father, your family, to win and truly be free.

Disbelief hits you first. Then jealousy. Why did he get freedom, and you did not? It does not much approach the older two - your mother could not have known. Swallowed one, but surely he wouldn't swallow two. Swallowed two and set a pattern.

He never should've swallowed three.

It takes a while but you agree, following tensely behind this boy. Your mother sees you and cries. She is so happy. You are not. You do not know this woman. The oldest two do not have parents. The younger three only know the oldest girl and the oldest boy. But you all smile and tell her that you missed her too. You did not. You never knew her. All you know is that she handed you over and let him swallow you, one, two, three, four, five.

Still you stay and prepare to fight.

---

You are the oldest of six teens. Your life did not begin with kindness, but still you are kind. You clean your siblings' wounds from battles fought, and make dinner for them. You listen to their fears and pains and hold them close when they are scared. You fight with fire-laden hands meant for warmth and cooking good soup. You yearn for the day you can run across plains, barefoot and happy, to discover new places, instead of to fight.

Loneliness was a bitter thing when you were born. Alone you sat in darkness until the first boy fell. He was tall for his age, and unnaturally quiet. You found solace in him. A companion. He is your closest friend, the first you seek out.

But now he sits in shadows and sinks into dirt. He hears whispers that no one else can, and brings home pulsing orbs he leaves in his room. None of you can touch them. They pass right through your fingers when you try. When you ask, he tells you that they have been calling to him, asking him to take them home. He tells you that they are still asking for home.

"Where is home?" you ask, afraid of the answer.

"Not here," he says. He looks down to his bare feet and curls his toes into the stone floor. "But I think it's down. Deep down."

The deep down is dark and frightening. You remember it, walking to find allies in your imprisoned uncles. It is different from your father's belly, but encompassing all the same. It is not warm. It is not soft. It is not comforting. It is not home.

But you hold back your protests and squeeze his hand. You are scared of loneliness. It is a cold and empty thing. But you love your brother, and he desires the dark. Your middle brother desires the wet of the ocean, which you cannot stand, and the littlest one wants power and a throne. Your youngest sister will stand by him, creating structure and order and perfectly positioned paintings in the aftermath of this war.

Maybe Demeter, the middle sister who digs her hands deep into dirt and talks to trees and dandelions, will come with you. Surely she will want to travel across plains. Discover new nature. Discover new worlds. Meet new people.

Never to be alone again.

--

You are the oldest boy, the second born of six children. You have never known loneliness. Not physically. You have always had someone by your side. But they do not understand you. Even in the darkness you knew you were strange. Your dreams did not line up with theirs, covered in shadows and whispers and confinement.

Your older sister holds your hand and you smile, thinking of how she will not come with you to where you must go. It calls to you. It always has. These people that roam may not know about you yet, still worshipping the old gods, the ones who have faded away, but when they fall, it is you they call to. Of course they do. Your predecessor isn't around to take them in anymore.

You have not know quiet in all your years. The sounds of dying and dead never ends. In the night, you go and find them. You bring them back to a quiet hutch and set them down. You are not ready for your post yet - the battle has not been won. But it sits waiting, far beneath your feet.

It is a secret you will tell no one, save for a young girl with flowers in her hair and smile brighter than the stars. You will tell her because she will understand what it meant to be given a name that is not yours. Your mother named you in hope and awe, yet when your sister whispered, "Who are you?", you did not answer. You waited in silence.

And quietly and suddenly, you knew. With brilliant clarity, you knew.

"Hades," you said, and years later, people, both the ones who worship the old gods and the ones who your youngest brother has made out of dirt and clay to know nothing but the six of you and your victories - they will confess to one another, "I am scared of Hades", and they will mean both man and home.

Your family fears the darkness. You oldest sister and the following three knew nothing but the pitch black. They still do not trust it. And your youngest brother shines brightly static yellow light. He gazes upwards to the sky. You gaze down to the depths.

They will not follow you.

But you have a duty to follow, the calls to answer. You are not afraid of the dark, and when the war is over, you will descend and finally feel alive.

--

You are the third-born of six children, the second girl, the one who should never have been swallowed. You remember the pity on your older siblings' faces when they held you close in the darkness, only illuminated by the flames of your oldest sister's fingertips. The pretty light calmed your crying and fear.

You remember how it felt to escape the castle. To feel the earth beneath your sticky feet. It swells with you. Everything breaths. You talk to plants and they do not answer, although your family thinks they do. But you talk because they are alive. Because they respond. You can feel it in your veins.

Your oldest brother understands. Your second brother does too. But they are so different from you. You don't know how, but you can just tell. Something is different.

People call you Gaea, the earth, and you think, No, that's wrong. You are the earth, but you are not the earth. You are Demeter.

And you are unsure.

You fight militantly. Distance is your friend. You can feel the enemy patter against the ground, feel the way the trees sway and move. When you pull back your bow, your uncle isn't even in your sight. But the arrow lands dead center and he falls.

The arrow splits and wood crests and grows. Roots drag him down. Spilt blood is drank, water consumed. The very air in his lungs his stolen from his chest as he is devoured by your nature. Every nutrient in his body is taken as the roots spread within him and the tree grows.

You are not the earth. No, the earth fuels itself. You are a separate creation. Like your sisters, you think. Your brothers are different. They are limitless. But you, your sisters - you follow rules. A plant needs water and air to grow. You could not force it to grow without it.

It is in your victory do you consider what you will be. Your garden is not pretty. It is practical, important. Each row of plant exists within structure. Too close and one may steal from the other. Too far and they cannot share. Include certain herbs to deter bugs. Till the soil to renew the earth. Do not overwater.

Bury your uncle and let the grain feast.

--

You are the fourth of six kids. The second boy. The middle child.

Like the ocean, your moods are everchanging. Your oldest brother is the only one who can always quell them. Your youngest brother riles you up too much. It's his fault, you think, when they yell about your fighting. Look at the wind on the sea, how it builds the waves to fight.

You love your oldest sister. Of all your sisters, she is your favourite. She opposes you, warm and calm to your wet and wild, but still she sits with you and soothes your wounds.

Sometimes you worry something is wrong with you. You do not feel pain the way they do. And you are needy. Even more so than the oldest, who was alone for so long until your brother came along. You have known people all your life. Even freed of your father's belly, they have not left your side. And yet you cling. You hold on. They struggle to escape, but you hold them tighter and tighter.

Your older sisters are tactile, but they do not cling the way you do. They do not pull the others in and demand they stay.

Years later you will sit on the rocks and watch as a riptide drags a poor child down and you will understand why you cling.

Your siblings are more elegant than you, more firm, and steady. You run across the earth and struggle to stay upright. It's like your feet were not made for the ground. They fight sharp and deliberate. Each strike is pointed.

You do not fight.

You play.

It's all a game, the whim of the tides. Despite your stocky shape, you are fluid and flexible. Let them run then drag them back. Let them breathe then let them drown. Or spear them viciously. Rip them to shreds. Make them watch the others die in terror, knowing their time will soon come and you do not care how much they beg.

It's your laughter they hear last, booming loud like the crash of the waves in a storm. It's not your fault. You don't know what pity is. You cannot understand it. The ocean does not give life to those who live outside of it. The ocean is salty impure heaviness. Survival must be fought for in the cold and wet.

In the time that comes, when the war is over, you will feel languid and calm for the first time in your life. You all have won. There is no pious uncles, no bitter father to destroy. But soon your oldest brother, the only one who can calm your destructive moods, disappears into shadows and darkness. It appears open and endless to the eye, but you felt the confining walls the day you stepped in.

You do not like confinement.

But the others are still here in the house you've made a home, so you remain a lapping tide. But your littlest brother and sister leave to the mountains and the skies and you cannot follow them that high. Your earthern sister who came just before you leaves for the inland. For pure water wells and settled dirt and people willing to learn. You try to follow but she bats you away in horror and disgust.

You don't know how to handle this. This isn't what is supposed to happen. They are not supposed to leave. You cling to them, and they stay. Their skin grows heavy with your weight and they stop fighting.

They don't leave.

All you have left is the oldest of you all, and you follow her diligently. She tries to still your shifting moods, but it's hard. People get hurt and you cannot care. But she does. She cares so much and you do not understand why. One day you wake up and she is gone. The fire is out, and the people you were with have vanished too. You call out for her and she does not respond.

You scream, angered, that those who were yours have left. They have escaped your wet hands and dried your dew off their skin. They have vanished to places you cannot follow.

They have abandoned you.

You sink into the deep and dark and free and build a new life. Your uncle, a crochety man who did not fight on his brother's side, will tell you it is your time, that the age of Titans has ended, long live the age of the Gods. He will crown you king. The kingdom stands before you, a rule you have never wanted, but now crave. These people belong to the ocean, to you. The water holds them down, gives them life.

They can never leave.

--

You are the youngest sister, the fifth born. People call you strict and cruel. However, your oceanic brother adores your vengeful nature and watches eagerly as you fight. Blood hits your clothes and you grimace. You prefer when things are clean and neat. Tidiness is important.

Your siblings are all entrenched in nature - fire, death, earth, ocean and sky. But you do not see nature. It is a pretty thing in the background of the picture. Today you are violent, but in the future, you will have more meaning.

Women are not well seen in this world, often ignored unless desired, dismissed and put to the side, unless important. Your brothers stand out too much, and your sisters are too entranced by their nature - the oldest to comfort and give warmth, the second to nature and grain. So you are the one who ventures out to the villages that your enemies peruse. You are the one who blends in with the castle staff, who listens in on war plans, and steals secrets.

You are the one who leads your brother to your father.

You are the one who watches him die.

You know that when the war is over and your time has come, you will be much more than a quiet face ducked down and scurrying across halls. You will do much more than drag men to their knees in the thick of night and make them bleed across your knuckles for disgracing the name of family with their lecherous ways.

In the years that come, you will have a warring son and people will laugh at his bloody ways, assuming he comes from his father, the man who won the war. But you know that he comes from you, blood across your knuckles and carrying battered women safely home.

--

You are the youngest of six. When you are but a babe, your mother holds you on her knee and tells you of your siblings. In the darkness of your father's belly, you know that they wait for you to rescue you them. You think of them often. You wonder if they know of you. You imagine how grateful they will when you save them.

When you take your first steps your mother hands you a sword. It is bigger than you are and your fist is small and chubby. Still you learn. You train every day. You learn every weapon you can. Your mother visits and reminds you of your duty - save your siblings, destroy your father, inherit the world.

You rarely leave home. It's dangerous, the nymphs say. Be careful, your mother whispers. Tell no one of your truth, the Kouretes demand.

Fear comes crawling in swift and unbearable. Your mother leaves you with texts for your future, so you may be a good and honorable king. The nymphs tell you of your father's nature, so you will not make his mistakes. Every day you train, every day you learn, and every night you stare empty at the cavern ceiling, terror building a home in your head.

What if you fail? What if you cannot win? What if your siblings do not think you should be king? What if you do something wrong and you are overpowered like your father? You reassure yourself every morning. Of course, you will win. Of course, your siblings will believe you to be king. You will be a good and honorable king. Your people will love you. No one will wish to knock you off your throne.

But still every night you fear.

You meet your father in person for the first time, dressed as a lowly cupbearer. He is not as fearsome as you once imagined. He looks normal. Part of you is distressed by this. Your fear eats it up.

Still, confident and sure, you hold out his goblet and watch as he drinks. Your siblings come up, unclothed and covered in grime. They are all pale and horribly thin. Their hair is matted and unclean, chopped strangely at the ends, as if burnt instead of cut.

You prepare to speak, to usher them to safety as your father still vomits behind them. But the tallest girl, taller than you, throws a fist you were not suspecting, and down you go, and off they run.

Chaos ensues. Evasion is easy but still takes time. By the time you are free of the castle and your father's roaring rage, the sun has set. You climb to the top of the mountain you've lived your entire life under and call out to Selene. She rides her chariot across the sky and returns with helpful news.

Your siblings do not trust you. You don't understand. This is nothing like how you planned it to be. The plan was simple: you tell them of yourself, they are grateful and come with you, you prepare them as you have been prepared, and the battle commences. They obey your every word and listen thoughtfully to your plans.

They understand that you are a great leader, and will be a good and honourable king.

But they are not doing what they are supposed to. They are whispering amongst themselves, while the shortest girl hold fire in her hands and the tallest boy keeps a steady eye on you. They are not coming with you. They are not following the plan.

They are not listening.

It takes too much time for them to agree. They meet your mother and seem... strange. Surely, they should be more excited. She has told you about them in deep detail, from every hair on their head to the specific colour of their eyes, to the way they looked when they fell, and the horror she felt for being unable to protect them. She loves them dearly. Why are they standing so stiff in her hold?

Your siblings are nothing like you expected. Every day they continue to ruin the carefully crafted dream you put together. Your brothers are strange and different from you. They don't feel the sky in their lungs, or appreciate the birds. The oldest is too silent and unsettling. He is stronger than you expected, and makes enemies fall to dust beneath his fingertips.

His capabilities terrify you. Your fear eats it up. What if he desires the throne? it whispers. He is the eldest.

I will be the one to kill our father, you argue. I will inherit the throne.

Surely he would be more fit to kill your father, your fear laughs. He is entrenched in death and darkness. You are bright and loud. He will see you coming, but your bother will be a surprise.

Luckily, the oldest seems uninterested in ruling. But the others listen to him in a way they do not listen to you, and it angers you. What if they tell him to take the throne? Would he do it? Would he demand it?

Would he kill you for it?

Your other brother is a nuisance. He doesn't stay within the lines. He is wild and wicked and never listens. You repeat your plans over and over again. Everyone agrees. Then he runs forward, laughing loud and giving away your position each time.

He is vicious and angers easily. A simple disagreement turns into a bloody fight in a minute. Then he laughs it off, easygoing and calm, before clinging to your back like an octopus. It is baffling and bizarre. The others shrug and tell you he has always been like this. You cannot understand.

Your sisters are better. Although the youngest argues with you on everything. When your plans fail, she cuts in and creates a new one. Days pass, plans fail, and suddenly she stands tall and demanding, telling you that you are wrong. Her plans work. It makes you bitter.

You have planned and plotted for this war since the day you could walk. You know that your plans can win this battle. It is not your fault that your siblings do not listen.

But you grit your teeth and accept her assistance. She's rigid and off-putting sometimes. But she's pretty in the early moonlight. Fascinating when she's focused. Sometimes you feel you are the same - order, neatness, structure.

Justice.

You follow her once and watch her threaten a wealthy man for forcing his young wife to acknowledge his concubine's children as proper heirs and care for them as her own. You do not know which upsets her more - the concubine or the husband's actions. But you feel warm when she drops him to his knees and threatens to return if he does not make it right.

Truthfully you don't understand what she sees so wrong about the situation. But the fire in her voice and the fearful trembling of her victim invigorates you nonetheless.

The second-born sister is better behaved, albeit more stubborn. Still you get along fairly well. You do not understand her fascination with bread. You understand she starved for many years, but... it's just bread.

The oldest of you all is most soothing. But when she stills the fights that break out, she does not default to your opinion. She wants to hear everyone, both sides of the argument and witnesses. Even when the nautical one is involved, despite the fight nearly always being his fault. It is not your fault he doesn't listen and must be corrected every time.

She tries to relax you in your frustrations, but you do not understand her conviction to hear everyone out. And you do not understand it when she tells you you were wrong.

You do not understand many things about your siblings.

You begin to fear you do not understand many things about the world.

Still you win. Your father is defeated by your very hands. You cut him into pieces and box them up to bury across the plains of Tartarus. Even if he escapes, he will have many long years to piece himself back together. And even if he manages that, he will have no chance of escaping Tartarus.

You retire to the home you have made with your siblings in these last few years of war and it is strange. There is nothing on the horizon, no impeding responsibility to look towards. Your destiny has ended. The crown on your head feels too heavy. You hold it in your hands and stare at the glistening metal. Your reflection is warped and distorted.

You don't know what to think.

Is this how your father felt, you wonder. Did he destroy his father and take his crown only to find it felt too heavy and he could not see his face in the glistening metal? Did he feel hollow and strange inside? Did he not understand the world either? Is that what made him cruel?

You place the crown aside and dispell those thoughts. You are not your father. You are better than him, greater than him. His defeat by your hand proves that.

Careful, your fear laughs at the back of your mind. Your father likely thought that too.

[popatochisssp]

happy late thanksgiving, poppy!!!! i hope you spent your day relaxing! also, has nobody asked for the full transcendtale story yet? if not then consider this my formal request lol! xx

I had almost forgotten about it, but you're right! So here it is!

Transcendtale

Monsters are at war with humanity.

Or at least, with one human.

A sadistic, single-minded human has set their sights on the Underground, locking the monsters within into an endless cycle of RESETs.

In the beginning, most monsters were only peripherally aware that something was wrong—recurring déjà vu, nightmares that felt like memories, knowledge of things they didn’t remember learning.

But as the RESETs persisted, this awareness grew stronger and stronger, compiling across many, many repeated timelines until people really were remembering things.

The natural change in their behavior only seemed to encourage the human to keep repeating the cycle, almost as if to see what would be different this time—strengthening the awareness further.

Monsters began to talk to each other about it, realizing they’re all experiencing the same; realizing that the looping of time is actually something that’s happening.

A lot of secrets end up out in the open, once people start talking.

The machine back behind Sans’ house is one such secret, actively recording data on the anomaly that seems to be tampering with the timeline and providing solid proof that what they’re all going through isn’t a shared hallucination.

No one blames Sans for not coming forward with that information earlier, of course, being that his memory transfer across RESETs is so poor.

The guy can pick up context clues and read a room fast as anything, and being able to check on that data when he felt something odd was going on helped catch him up to speed, but in terms of actually remembering…

Well, it seems that the strongest recall of memory across RESET timelines is linked to levels of Determination, and there are many things to be said about Sans but ‘determined’ is not one of them.

Still, his data is helpful.

Monsters begin to try to organize, trying different strategies to combat the human’s relentless assault against them.

Gradually, the Underground becomes a siege, or something like it, a handful of the same days repeated over and over again to the point that the monsters living them—now remembering them all—feel like years are passing.

In spite of trying everything they can think of, the human manages to thwart them at every turn—or if they do manage to turn the tide for a short while, the human comes back again and again until they force their way through.

Potential solutions escalate, from attempted diplomacy to guerrilla tactics to the height of desperation.

It would be one thing if it was only the (repeated) extinction of their species they were fighting against, but another entirely to know that when the human finishes with everyone else and kills Asgore, the entire universe ends—not a single timeline in thousands extending past that point.

No one’s been left alive to see what happens, but inevitably everything ceases and goes right back to the start, for the killing to begin anew.

It has to stop before then, whatever the cost.

The human is far too strong for any one monster to handle, even groups of monsters, and they know that because they’ve tried, and the human will always come back, learn their patterns and break through.

It’s no job for any monster.

They consider that they may need a god instead.

Asgore, the strongest boss monster of their number, absorbs the six human souls, becoming something terrible and powerful and deeply unnatural.

………

It takes the human under a hundred tries to get through him.

The monsters are at a loss, for awhile.

Their biggest and strongest boss still isn’t enough…

…can they make a stronger one?

Normally, this would be a ludicrous thought—just making a stronger monster—but Sans isn’t the only one whose strange secrets are out, now that everyone remembers RESET timelines.

Flowey’s busted too—at least, to the extent that he’s an artificial monster brought to life by dust and DT.

Initially, he was on the human’s side for………reasons………but being killed a few hundred, thousand, whatever times has a way of changing one’s loyalties, and he’s been (begrudgingly) siding with monsters for awhile.

So when the suggestion is laid on the table—make a new bigger and better monster—Flowey has a couple cents to throw in on the matter.

That still wouldn’t be enough.

He fought the human once before, and even something like him plus all the human souls they have couldn’t keep them down for good. If they want that to work, they’re going to have to find a way to make it really tough, and good luck with that because it’d probably take the equivalent of all monsterkind to have a shot at taking that killer down.

…The equivalent of all monsterkind.

That…is an idea.

A terrible idea, horrible, unthinkable, no one wants to discuss that further.

Until.

The RESETs continue.

Death, again and again and again.

Suffering, with no hope of an end anywhere in sight.

Desperate times…do call for desperate measures, and eventually even the most ghoulish way out of it is given its due consideration.

So…what if they do use all of monsterkind?

What if everyone pooled all of themselves—their magic, their souls, their hopes and dreams—everything, together with the human souls.

Could that be enough?

With the few faint memories Flowey has of a pacifist timeline, he posits a less than confident, “Maybe?”

It’s not a no, and it’s the best they have to go on.

They have to try something.

A vessel of some kind will be needed, something capable of containing all of monsterkind. They have an excellent roboticist in Alphys, who has already made one robotic body for a monster to occupy and is relatively confident she can do it again.

The logistics will be different from that, of course. It was simple enough to make a shell for a willing ghost monster to occupy, but they’re all out of ghost monsters capable of taking on a body, so…

It’ll have to be piloted…the way Flowey occupied his vessel.

Monster dust laid onto the vessel and brought to life by DT.

Someone needs to volunteer to do it, to be resurrected into a soulless body after their death, to give intent and sentient function to the vessel of everyone’s hopes and dreams and use their power to bring an end to the perpetual terror hanging over monsterkind.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Undyne is the first to volunteer.

…Then Asgore.

And Toriel.

Papyrus.

Mettaton.

Many others.

It won’t take.

The human runs through several presumably confusing yet intriguing timelines where the Underground has gone empty, save for Flowey trying to distract them and Alphys in her lab trying desperately, fruitlessly to get her mysterious project to work.

At least, before they kill her and begin it all again.

Eventually, Alphys manages to at least figure out what the problem is, why the vessel keeps malfunctioning and the volunteer monster’s dust never seems to properly take.

She determines that when DT extract is introduced to the volunteer’s remains, it awakens and joins with whatever existing DT that monster had in life. This amount is typically small, as most monsters can’t handle high concentrations of DT, not the way humans can.

But this time, it happens to be doing the same to the vessel—a construct made of nearly every monster in the Underground.

Flowey was a different equation, monster dust added onto an inanimate vessel with zero DT of its own, and now with a vessel overbalancing the amount of the unstable element, it’s not working.

But it could.

If…

If the volunteer monster were someone with extremely low DT, so that there would be less to activate when the extract was introduced…

Suddenly, everyone in the room is looking at Sans and he is less than enthused.

Dying over and over again was one thing—he was just about used to that, at this point—but dying and living again? As something neither monster nor human? With the grand responsibility of avenging the entirety of monsterkind, nearly literally carrying everyone’s hopes and dreams on his shoulders?

That sucks.

There was a reason he didn’t volunteer, but now it seems like he’s being voluntold—nobody’s saying it, but…he has to, there’s no one else with DT as low as his and everyone knows it, the numbers from the machine being what they are, the human already bearing down on them for yet another assault, they’re all counting on him to agree.

So, he says—

“NO.”

Papyrus refuses this option point-blank.

There is no way in hell that he is letting his brother do that alone—he will have to be there too!

He is spoken to and encouraged and pleaded to be reasonable. All of monsterkind’s peace is at stake, of course he cares about his brother, but he must see that everyone is making sacrifices to end this horrible cycle once and for all.

And yes, certainly, Papyrus can see that. Obviously, he can—he’s made a lot of moral concessions himself over the past few time-looped years, he and Sans both have fought and been killed and willingly sacrificed themselves, and all manner of other terrible things, over and over and over again.

And they’ve been happy (for a given definition of ‘happy’) to do so!

But this is the line.

His, anyway.

He will not let Sans do this thing unless they can find some way for him to be there too, and he’s not budging—so figure something out.

(Sans could’ve protested and just willingly damned himself, but grateful for Papyrus’ interference, he…didn’t.)

So fine, apparently this is the hill that everyone will die on—again and again and again and again—if they don’t ‘figure something out.’

The problem is now how to make it so that Papyrus can ‘be there’ after he chronologically needs to have been incorporated into the vessel with all the other monsters.

Well… his soul needs to be there.

Does he need that to exist? To be present?

Sans won’t have that and he’ll be around, if this works the way it’s supposed to.

Flowey doesn’t have that and he’s around.

Maybe…

Maybe there’s a way to take a snapshot of a living monster—a scan of their knowledge, their memories, their experiences and thoughts and personality—and save it, like a program, or…an AI?

It wouldn’t have a soul but clearly that isn’t a requirement for sentient life, functionally it should be all but identical to a person’s continued existence.

…It raises a whole lot of ethical and philosophical questions, certainly, but if it can be done, it could be a very, very good thing.

After all, monsterkind was more or less going to be gone after this, a Pyrrhic victory to finally end their never-ending nightmare at the cost of all their lives.

This way, they could be preserved, in a digital space or a virtual reality, after their physical bodies and selves were gone, and that’s worth something, isn’t it?

At least a notch above total, permanent extinction.

Many monsters agree, previously resigned to total cessation and hopeful to carry on in some form, to have scans of themselves done when the tech is sorted.

Papyrus is of course among their number, and entirely too smug about it since all this was his idea…or at least, Alphys wouldn’t have developed it without his ultimatum, so it’s basically the same as being his idea!

And ultimately, with the assurance that he won’t be alone on the other side…

Sans agrees to volunteer.

The human’s final timeline is a very different experience than what they’ve become used to.

Sans, resurrected into a body filled with truly godly power, is their only opponent, one they never would have had a chance to beat.

With ease, he removes all of their options—refusing to allow them to FIGHT or to use MERCY. He blocks their path, corrupts their SAVES, and severs their connection to whatever entity has granted them to power to do what they’ve done…permanently.

The human falls, like a puppet with its strings cut, and simple as that…

It’s all over.

The barrier is broken, almost as an afterthought, and the few remaining monsters that can go up to the Surface.

Monsterkind itself exists almost entirely virtually now. As a species, they’re on the down-low with regards to humanity, off the grid, as there’s only (currently) three among their number who exist physically and trying to establish anything official with so few feels…trivial.

Some monsters are looking forward to obtaining robotic bodies of their own to begin interacting with the surface world, but others are content to remain digital.

It’s not exactly a happy ending…but it’s not an ending, and monsterkind has transcended from one phase of existence to the next, and will adapt accordingly.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans)

A soulless consciousness inhabiting an exoskeletal body that at least mostly resembles his old one—a favor from Alphys—shining chrome and white plating with prismatic flecks of rainbow that catch in the light. Heavily dysphoric about his body and averse to seeing ‘himself,’ he's always covered up and tends to avoid reflections.

No longer reality-bendingly strong, without the power of the human souls, but still in possession of the condensed power of all monsterkind and fully capable of unleashing terrifying strength and magic if needed. …He would rather not.

Because he lacks a soul, his emotions are distant and muted, and because he was resurrected and not scanned in great detail, his memory is mostly intact but can be spotty—especially with regards to things that happened between RESETs.

Spends a lot of time thinking about personhood and existence—is he who he was before, now that he doesn’t have a soul? Can he claim those memories, that self, or is he too different? Does he even count as ‘alive’?

Trying to find meaning in his current state of being, roaming the Surface and seeking small pleasures and maybe the hope of some kind of inner peace out in the world.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus)

Technically not The Original, a scanned digital copy of everything that made Papyrus…Papyrus—and completely fine with it, entirely bypassing the philosophical questions his brother dwells on. As far as he’s concerned, he’s himself: he has all of his thoughts and memories and feels like himself, so he is! Easy, why make it so complicated?

Exists mostly in a virtual state and can traverse through and access most any electronic device, but he can also manifest physically as a hard-light projection via any device that emits light. He has access to most of his brother’s systems and can communicate or project himself through him as a conduit…unless said brother has intentionally blocked him out

A bit different than he was before all the RESETs, a little looser with his moral code and more of a wisecracker—he lived a lot of years under siege and had to adapt to an enemy that really couldn’t be better and didn’t want to try, and filling in for the jokes his brother had become too downtrodden to tell

Spends his time everywhere and nowhere, surfing the ‘net and making a splash as a holographic DJ and periodically checking in on his brother to make sure he’s as okay as he can be—basically doing everything he wants to do, whenever he wants to do it

…Possibly nurturing a slight god-complex, but mostly just enjoying a new phase of his life with near-limitless access to anyone, anything and anywhere, totally untethered by all of his previous mortal limitations (…okay yeah, it’s a god-complex, but it’s fine, don’t worry about it)

[brainrotgoverner]

Cinderella boy pokemon AU; #1

~Buddy~

Liepard ♀️

Starter. Ex Libris gives a pokemon egg to everyone once they hit the age of 10, the same age they are allowed to start collecting narratonin, so the pokemon can assist the key bearer. Buddy hatched a purrloin which later evolved into a Liepard.

Liepard's are elegant and sleek pokemon with gorgeous fur, despite their apperences, Liepard's are generally vicious and moody.

Buddy's own liepard isn't any different with generally unfriendly attitude towards strangers. She doesn't shy away from scratching her own trainer if he happens to displease him yet will act like a kicked lillipup if she doesn't get hourly kisses and pets from Buddy.

She is also Buddy's stylist and personal trainer as every morning she spends 15 minutes grooming his hair to perfection and all the excersize Buddy really needs is carrying that spoiled apex predator, which is almost the same height as him, around when she feels like getting babied.

Arbok ♀️

Tamed pokemon. Ekans is a regular pokemon in the abondened corners of the ex libris dungeon, before he got his first pokemon, Buddy used to spend hours trying to befriend this one. Getting poisoned countless times in the progress. The second Buddy got his first pokemon and pokeballs, he ran to the dungeon to finally catch her. He was so excited that he fumbled the pokeballs so the Ekans headbutted one herself.

She enjoys eating lots of treats, getting tiny scratches with a tiny toothbrush and regularly committing to Buddy's life by wrapping around him as he sleeps.

In her defence, she really loves cuddling and doesn't realize she is squeezing too hard in her sleep. Buddy doesn't mind it one bit.

Ariados ♀️✨

Shiny (I couldn't miss the chance to make her purple) and Buddy's first catch. The abondened corners of the dungeons of ex libris attract many small wild pokemon and makes it a prime spot to train. Spinarak's prefer forests so Buddy never saw one before catching her.

It wasn't until a whole month later that he learned his spinarak was shiny.

She enjoy creating eleborate patterned lace webs to decorate with and seeing his trainer add them to his clothing. Ariados' has extremly sturdy webs so Buddy regularly wears them and uses them to accessorise. (And, well, she gets sad when he doesn't.)

Salazzle ♀️

Rescued pokemon. Buddy found her as an injured salandit and sneaked her inside the Ex Libris headquarters until she healed.

But she never left and now Buddy has a giant poisonous lizards bigger than him.

Salazzle is an extremely affectionate pokemon. Combined with her natural strength, you get a pokemon who can easily pick Buddy up and carry him around despite his protests.

Nidoking ♂️

Caught pokemon. When Buddy first met him, he was an unnaturally large Nidoran that he first mistook as a Nidorino that had a knack for knocking down trees. It took three hours and countless pokeballs before Buddy finally added him to the team and learned that he was still just a Nidoran.

His unnaturally large proportion continued on as he evolved, allowing Buddy to ride him when he was just a Nidorino with no trouble. As a Nidoking, he can easily tower over other of his kind when he is on two feet. But because of his mass, he can't support his weight for too long and always walks around in 4 feet. He almost always has at least one of his teammates hitching a ride on his back.

He is extremely aggressive and territorial. Lashes out easily at strangers which forces Buddy to spend every waking hour keeping him in check. Thankfully, he seems to accept his trainer and teammates as his pack. Showing incredible patience to their shenigans.

Galarian Slowking ♂️

Stolen pokemon. Buddy saw him at a night fair he snuck out to. He was dangerously underweight and overworked as his trainer used him for 'shows' and neglected to give him breaks or water. After seeing the Slowking pass out from exhaustion, Buddy sneaked backstage and stole him.

After feeding and tending to him, Buddy released the pokemon and went back to ex libris. Around 2 months later, he woke up to his Liepard snarling up a storm and the same Galarian Slowking standing in his room. After that, he never left.

He generally prefers to do his own stuff but hates to be left alone. Carrying his stuff to whatever room Buddy is in so he can tinker with his stuff and bask in his trainers presence. He also enjoy getting fed by hand and claimed the end of Buddy's bed as his own.

[charaznablescanontoyota]

ticket + al ?

[this is an au just go with it trust the process]

al doesn't always get on the train in the morning. sometimes he sleeps in and skips class, sometimes he goes and has a long breakfast at the diner around the corner. sometimes he borrows the keys to winry's car and drives out to the lake to fish until the sun sets. but more times than not, he wakes up, makes coffee, and takes the train into the city. even if he does still skip class when he gets there.

today is one of those times. the commuter line is always two minutes late, and always crowded, so al gets to the platform ten minutes early and waits. he doesn't always do this. but he's feeling a window seat today, and he's also feeling...maybe getting to campus and then fucking off to the library. there's a reference book on quantum physics he's slogging his way through at the pace of about one chapter a week.

he gets a window seat in the same car he always sits in, and slides his walkman headphones over his ears. this is the least populated car on the train, which means that no one will talk to him. he's tried the other cars before; someone always does, whether it's a stranger or someone who knows him from class. sometimes it's nice. sometimes al gets starved for social interaction. but mostly, he wants to be left alone for the journey, and he knows no one will sit anywhere near him in this car.

except - well, except for the fact that a girl he doesn't recognize does exactly that, and sits down in the seat directly across from his.

"um," al says.

"shut up," the girl says. she's dressed all in black, probably his age if not a little younger, and her short hair is all on end like she's been running her hands through it. "you - you know something, don't you?"

he takes his headphones off slowly. "something about what?"

"you're not always on the train," she says.

"well," he says, and stretches the word out, stalling. he's beginning to get a sense for what this is about, but he doesn't want to believe it yet. "sure, i don't take it every day."

"not what i mean. you know what i mean."

"should i?"

"the guy is about to come in and ask for tickets," the girl says, exactly as the door to the car slides open and it begins to happen. "the two high school boys right near the door don't have theirs, but he'll let them go one stop before they have to get off. the lady one down from them is going to spill her whole purse out trying to find hers, and lose a tin of mints, a thing of chapstick, and -"

"stop, stop," al says, and waves her off, feeling vaguely nauseous. "i get it, okay?"

it happens the way she says it will. the way al knows it will. he and the girl both get their tickets punched, and don't talk again until the train is moving.

"what's your name?" the girl demands.

"al," he says.

"audrey," she says, in reciprocation. "do you have one of these? a number?"

she shows him her palm - the number 9 is printed there, etched on her skin in bright, unnatural green. only a little over a week. it's impressive that she's already picked up some of the patterns on the train, in that short a time. al realizes he's been reflexively curling his own right hand up into the sleeve of his coat, and grimaces.

"yeah, here," he says, and shows audrey his number.

her eyes go wide. "two-fifty? that's -"

"- almost a calendar year." he takes his hand back, tugs his sleeve down over it. "i'm aware."

"well," audrey says. she sinks back into her seat looking horribly perturbed, folding her arms over her chest. "fuck. have you tried learning the piano yet?"

"you think that would help?" al raises his eyebrows. he's not thought of that one before. "i could try it."

audrey opens her mouth, shuts it again. squints at him like she's trying to gauge if he's fucking with her.

"it's from a movie," she says.

"oh. i don't really watch movies," he says cheerfully.

"je-sus," audrey exhales. she runs a hand from her hair, pushing it so it sticks up in the other direction. "alright. well, what have you tried?"

[koeqmm]

Leonardo Guillero for @someone-elsa‘s Something About Chanthira

Age: 40

Occupation: Unemployed

Sexuality: Straight

Past: Leonardo grew up in a wealthy family from Nuevo Corazon, Ciudad Enamorada, where everything was handed to him on a silver platter. His father never committed to one woman and always brought new ones to their house. These women never stayed for more than one month, causing him to grow up with some mommy issues. Because of all this his father spoiled him non-stop. Leonardo can get everything he wants and he knows that, but he is never afraid to try new things, even if he doesn't commit to them all the way; all of this bringing him to his latest career, being a spy, a place he has been working in for the last 5 years, the longest one he has been interested in something. Leonardo can spot a lie from miles away, his training and acceptance into the career being paid off by his father. Though recent rumour is he tried to leave the job, making his dad reach the boiling point, calling him out for being spoiled and telling him he is “a non-committal, money robbing leech”, finally disowning him and leaving Leonardo without a job he can jump on too next.

Leonardo's relationships don't last that long. He genuinely tries to find a connection with the women he meets, but always fails, something he probably learned from his dad. He is always the one dumping the other person. The one time he was the dumpee was when a girl broke up with him because he treated her too much like she was his mom, but Leonardo just thought that was crazy. Recently he turned 40 and finally thought to himself that it was enough. He needed to find a girlfriend and stick with her, even marry her. Maybe in this challenge he will finally find the true love he deserves, someone that gets him and likes the same things he does. After all, he says he's “in-between jobs”.

Likes: Camping, bowling, working out, spicy food, playing guitar, staying up late partying, buying lots of clothes, fishing, gossiping, electronica music.

Dislikes: Getting into arguments and disagreements, being forced to do something, soup or any type of liquid food, being on the phone for too long.

Turn-ons: Red hair, blonde hair, athleticism, a sense of humor, ambitiousness, nature enthusiasts, tattoos, preppy and polished style, costumes.

Turn-offs: Ambitionlessness, being too knowledgeable, rocker fashion, any hair that has an unnatural color.

Dealbreaker: Not being exclusive in the relationship.

What is Leonardo looking to get out of this experiment? He is looking for someone who will sweep him off his feet, maybe someone who will finally break the pattern of girls that, in Leonardo's words “don't really get him”, and share a life of trying new activities.

Questions for Chanthira:

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

What is a fun fact about you nobody knows?

Posepack and hair used, also for his party outfit I used this

[extremelynerdycat]

Ok, so here we go.

A way to start off or explain some of my aus would be this idea of "soul form" that I've been having.

Basically, in the past isles, there would be this spell. It would shapeshift people into their soul form.

Soul form would be like, someone's TRUEST form.

Soul form would represent someone's personality, mental health, and favorite things. People would usually prefer their soul form, unless they lie to themselves a lot.

Soul forms could be based on the titans interpretation, meaning he could pick people to give gifts to via their soul form.

Maybe people go into soul form for holidays? Or a specific holiday? Or a celebration? Maybe a certain festival? Perhaps people do it all the time?

Maybe witches and demons go into their soul forms once they come of age and it's just a custom there?

I could see soul forms either changing as a person changes, shapeshifting them, or needing to be updated by performing the spell again.

The spell might also be temporary, shifting a person back to their original/physical form after a while.

Okay, here's how it relates to my aus.

Titan Caleb, Basilisk Caleb, Collector Caleb, Golden Guard Caleb, Palisman Caleb, Witch Caleb, and more could use this as a starter!

You see, Caleb would learn of soul forms at some point. Maybe Evelyn is performing a spell to go in hers? Maybe there's a festival where the spell will be mass done to everyone there? Somehow, he'd be told of them.

Caleb would try it out.

Boom. There you go. Soul forms could start plenty of these aus. Caleb just does it for a bit, and then decides to assume that form regularly.

Maybe he's got a Titan soul form because the titan likes him a lot and wants to help him out? Maybe a basilisk to help him carve his own path?

Perhaps that leads to Philip not recognizing him when they reunite? What happens then?

Furthermore, a part that would definitely make this better would be that his soul form, whatever it be, is unique. Let's say, soul forms usually are just dream outfit, hair color, and other small features. They can be unnatural pigments, but not too extreme that it would count as becoming a whole different species. Past humans on the isles were recorded to have normal soul form patterns as well.

Then Caleb suddenly gets a cross species form. How does that go? How does that affect things? What happens then?

Anyway, feel free to use my ideas, just somehow show me what you make! I'd love to see it if any of you who read this get inspired by my little aus.

[arcengal]

***Warning (GoW Ragnarok spoilers)***

When I was learning to drive, I had troubles reversing around corners. My instructor was a lovely but strict lady, and she was patient in helping me micromanage hand movements while my brain caught up to what my hands should be doing. The same happened when I was learning to parallel park - I knew the steps (and still do) but not the correct timing for it. Eventually I got good enough to pass the test, though I’m still crap at it nowadays.

I asked her “Do you ever get someone who aces everything first time?”. “Yes, and they’re the worst to teach. What I end up having to do is steer the car into a totally unnatural position and tell them they have to fix it. Most of the time they can’t; because they’re such a natural driver, they haven’t developed the thinking skills to get themselves out of situations like that and. They NEED those skills to be safe on the road, so we have to brute-force them into learning it.”

That’s exactly what happened to Heimdall. He was born privileged as fuck, able to read people’s motions faster than most people’s brains can react. He could punch through walls and had access to all of the Aesirs’ magic.

But, as soon as he found someone who could actually land a punch on him, he cracked. He went total scrub mentality, lost all his composure and didn’t try to learn anything about the fight. Okay, Kratos had a magic spear, but the rules of the spear aren’t that complex - it makes teeny explosions and he can throw an unlimited number of them. Heimdall never learned to adapt, he never learned to analyse new patterns and hazards - he could just dodge punches and normal weapons all day, and thought that plus his connections with Odin would just carry him until the end of days.

And even when he had a chance to stop, even when he was given a moment to pause and think “oh fuck I can’t beat this guy” and thank the All-Father that Kratos was willing to stop when Heimdall had begged him to... He just couldn’t stop running his mouth because, for a guy with the best vision in the Nine Realms... he was blind to his own weaknesses.

Oh and he was an asshole too.

What a game.

[astrailblazing]

Ehren Krantz

BASICS

Name; Ehren Krantz Species; Gamilan Age; 48 Gender; Male, he/him Sexuality; Aromantic demisexual Callsign/Alias; "Stray" Rank; General, formerly Ship; The Yamato

-

APPEARANCE

Physical Basics; Pale blue skin, dark burgundy eyes, very dark brown hair worn in a short undercut and typically neatly combed, though he used to wear it longer. He's tall and lean, which makes him look thinner than he is, just enough to make him seem slightly unnatural. Tattoos/Scars; No tattoos. His only significant scar is from the same incident that cost him his memories, a series of shrapnel scars that go from just above his right eye socket up into his hair. His hair won't grow where the scar is, which is why he wears it short now. Posture; Military-perfect, almost always, though it's based solely on muscle memory. Even when he's somewhat relaxed, he's still rather stiff.

ATTITUDE

Personality; Considering he has amnesia, he's still sort of figuring out who he is. At times, he can be very sharp and ruthless, while at others, he's very gentle and almost sweet. He's trying to decide which of these sides is the 'real' him, even though both are. As he remembers nothing about his past, he also has a not-inconsiderable amount of anxiety over what he might have forgotten. Likes; He likes to watch the stars go by, and he's discovered a sweet tooth since trying Terran food, and that he enjoys strategy games. Other than that, he's still learning. Dislikes; Emotional vulnerability. He's not having a fun time rediscovering himself on Yamato. Strengths; He's discovered he has a good head for strategy, and his aim is impeccable, but he hasn't learned much in-depth yet. Weaknesses; The amnesia, in his opinion. Also, he sometimes spaces out completely, just disconnecting mentally, and there's no pattern or predictability to when it happens. Motivations; He wants to know who he is. Once he's learned that, he wants to know who he was. After that, he intends to find a way to reconcile those two things, and then... well, he'll go from there. For now, he's just tagging along with Yamato because they saved his life, and though he knows they're supposed to be his enemies they don't seem so bad, really.

KIT

Dress; He's not really comfortable wearing a Yamato uniform, but his only uniform was pretty badly damaged, so he doesn't have many other options, as he's equally uncomfortable in casual clothes. He makes do with uniform pants and a long-sleeved undershirt and his old uniform jacket made into a vest. Weapons/Tools; He's not trusted with a gun, which he knows is a smart decision but still is mildly hurt by, but he does carry a stun baton to defend himself with. Skills; Though he's still learning what skills he knows from 'before', he's found that he's very skilled at maintaining weapons and hand-to-hand combat, but he can't cook to save his life. He's good at making do with what he has, and can jury-rig a lot of things when needed.

BACKSTORY

As an amnesiac, he doesn't remember much of his past. What he knows is this; he was a General (from the rank tags on his uniform), he is a Gamilan (from the shade of his skin), and he is currently in enemy territory (though he's less and less sure of that one).

What happened, as far as he can piece together, is that he was on one of the many ships that challenged Yamato on her journey, and was summarily obliterated. Somehow, he'd gotten into an escape pod, and survived the otherwise complete destruction of the ship with only a head wound.

(What actually happened is that he was one half of a set of twins, and his twin knocked him out and shoved him in an escape pod so that at least one of them would survive. The amnesia was not part of the plan.)

Anyway, his escape pod got picked up by Yamato, and since he was injured, they patched him up... and that's when things get complicated. They wouldn't just throw him back out, of course, as humans are frustratingly compassionate, but they couldn't exactly just leave him to his own devices, either. And the amnesia both simplified and complicated things.

Eventually, after some uneasy walking on eggshells, a sort of mutual respect started to form, and gradually he went from an unconventional prisoner to a guest that's under a closer watch than most. Sometimes he consults on strategy- nothing vital, but side projects or hypotheticals.

Who knows what will happen when Yamato reaches Iscandar, though... something will have to give.

IMAGES

Sorry for the shitty photo quality...

[kintsugiscars]

-; autonomy

Lex has very little autonomy within the Scions, and that's by choice. He learned very young that the only way people wouldn't be scared of him was if they perceived him on a leash.

It was when he and Alphinaud fled to Camp Dragonhead that he made his first choice. He was 16, Alphinaud 14 - both of them hardly more than children. When they finally got their bearings inside from the snow, Lex realized he had a choice to make. He could break down, give into terror and grief and loss like the scared kid he was; or, he could become the Warrior of Light - a beacon they both needed. One of them had to be strong, and it wasn't going to be Alphinaud. So, he buried his fear and grief and became a smiling, helpful hero. He didn't make choices - all he did was go along with whatever Alphinaud needed and supported his little brother.

Around then, Lex tried to sneak back across the border. He had just lost G'raha to the Crystal Tower, and wanted to apologize to Rammbrose for the injuries he caused. Being a kid, his disguise wasn't the greatest. This didn't stop him from being able to go through Mor Dhona, as the Crystal Braves who recognized him were terrified of what he could do. The Warrior of Light was a force of nature, now untethered to a single cause.

That very real fear, that people were scared of him just because he was a fugitive, made Lex realize that there was only one way he was going to be able to survive. And that was to give someone his leash.

After that point, and once the Scions regrouped, Lex makes noticeably less decisions for himself. He defaults to what the Scions what, or more specifically: what Alphinaud, Alisae, G'raha, and Tataru want. He plays along with every ploy, with every desire they have. Even when Urianger betrays him multiple times, he's okay with this. He played his part as a pawn well - the only part he allows himself to have anymore. His speech patterns also change to reflect this. When he is the "Warrior of Light" he speaks formally, and with proper enunciation. He mimics some of Urianger's speech patterns, as well as Alphinaud's. This is unnatural for him and something he actively does.

This does frequently conflict with his desire for a pacifist solution, but he justifies his "disobedience" with the script he lays out for himself. The "Warrior of Light" is someone that would try for diplomacy and pacifism anyway so it would be "allowed".

His sense of needing to be kept on a leash only increases after his body changes post-Innocence fight.

[galilea-naerie]

Galilea noted Rhys’s words about the soldiers, the concern etched into his voice as he spoke of the patrols and the dwindling supplies. The injustice weighed heavily on her. To leave a kingdom to suffer in illness while its ruler withheld aid was a cruelty she couldn’t comprehend, especially as a healer. Rhys’s kingdom had been abandoned, but it hadn’t broken. His people had turned to one another, forming their own systems of care and protection. Rhys, in particular, seemed to bear the burden of leadership with a grace that surprised and impressed her. She admired how he spoke, not with despair but with resolve. He wasn’t a king, but the way he moved and the compassion he displayed for his people stirred something within her, something far too warm, something she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on too long. When they arrived at Mrs. Lindly’s house, Galilea greeted her warmly alongside October, their smiles gentle yet reserved. They had both learned not to overwhelm people already steeped in fear and grief. As Mrs. Lindly described her husband’s condition, Galilea mentally cataloged every symptom, making a note to write it down later in her journal. Documentation was critical. Patterns and clues often emerged in the smallest details. The woman’s own symptoms gave Galilea pause. The tickle in her throat, the rasp, the tenderness. Her heart sank, though she kept her face neutral. Mrs. Lindly clung to hope, but any and all illnesses had a way of creeping into households, claiming one life and then another. “May we wash our hands before we begin?” Galilea asked, her tone calm. Mrs. Lindly nodded, showing them to a small basin. Galilea and October scrubbed thoroughly, their movements synchronized and deliberate. It was a ritual they both took seriously, even if they knew it wasn’t enough to protect against the parasites. The act steadied her, a reminder of her purpose. When Mrs. Lindly insisted on staying by her husband’s side, neither Galilea nor October argued, though unease prickled at the back of her mind. What she would see would spread like wildfire, but she hoped Rhys would have it handle it. But Galilea understood the desperation in the woman’s eyes. She admired it, even, the way she clung to her husband’s hand as though her presence alone might anchor him to the living. Galilea knelt by the man’s bedside, her fingers pressing lightly against his wrist. His pulse was weak and erratic, a fluttering shadow of life. But it wasn’t the pulse that caught her attention. It was what she felt beneath it. The faint, unnatural movement, something else shared his body. Her stomach tightened. She glanced at October, who had already begun unpacking their tools. He was exactly what they needed. “We need to act quickly,” she murmured. October handed her a vial of numbing tonic, its shimmering contents catching the light. Together, they worked in silent precision. Galilea noted the gray pallor of the man’s skin, the clusters of boils along his neck, and the faint crackle in his breathing. The disease had advanced far. She wasn’t sure if he would survive, but they had to try. “This is where we shall start,” Galilea said, gesturing to a particularly inflamed cluster of boils. With a sharp blade, she made a small incision, the blade parting the skin cleanly. The sight beneath the surface was horrifying, but expected. The parasites writhed in the wound, their translucent bodies pulsating faintly. Galilea suppressed a shiver. No matter how many times she had seen squirming worms, their image unnerved her. “So we finally met our enemy,” October muttered as they removed the first parasite, placing it into an enchanted dish that would keep it contained, until they could test on it. The creature squirmed weakly, its glowing form unsettling against the glass. They continued in grim silence, extracting parasite after parasite. Galilea’s hands were steady, her focus unwavering. Each removal was quick, and hope that would find something they would react to it. They were resilient, their movements defiant even outside the body.

As October stitched the incision closed, Galilea studied the parasites more closely. Their delicate, translucent forms contradicted their strength. She leaned in, watching the way they moved, almost as if they were searching for a new host. “They’re stronger than I imagined,” she murmured. “And smarter,” October added grimly, his gaze darkening. “I don’t like how they’re moving.” Galilea nodded. “They seem to be adapting.” Her thoughts raced. The parasites were unlike anything she’d encountered before. They didn’t just survive. tThey thrived, feeding off their host with a cruel efficiency. Destroying them would require understanding them, what they needed, what they feared. She turned her attention back to the patient. His breathing remained shallow but steady, a fragile thread of life. Mrs. Lindly watched them with wide, horrified eyes, her hand now removed from her husband’s grasp. As if there mere act would cause her illness to creep into her. Galilea felt a pang of empathy. “You should rest,” Galilea said gently, though she knew the advice would go unheeded. Galilea simply turned to October. “We need to analyze these parasites further,” she said, gesturing to the small dishes. October nodded, packing up their tools with practiced efficiency. As Rhys stood nearby, Galilea stole a glance at him. The way he moved, the way he spoke. It was clear he cared deeply for these people. He wasn’t just surviving in this nightmare; he was leading. He kept stirring far too many things within her, a feeling she hadn’t expected. Admiration, yes, but also something deeper. Rhys had proven himself to be everything a king should be compassionate, resolute, and selfless. It was a stark contrast to the ruler who had abandoned this kingdom to its fate. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to stand beside someone like him, not as just a healer, but as something more. The thought was fleeting, but it left a warmth in her chest that lingered even as she turned her focus back to the task at hand. “October and I should return as we have many things to test to run.” She spoke softly, just enough for Rhys to hear. “She is panicked due to what she saw.” She looked at Rhys, knowing he would handle it as October and her had plenty of work to do.

For a moment Rhys admired the nymph before him, the way she tucked her hair back and how it exposed more of her neck to him. If only he were in different circumstances in his life to indulge in the beauty of a being like her, but instead he was bogged down with being one of the few of his people not taken ill and taking care of them. That was not to say he did not hold a desire to care for his fellow people, he was happy to do it and they took precedence at this juncture, but it left little room for him to live for himself. But in his time Rhys had come to believe that few ever got to live for themselves and those that did lived lives of riches he would never know himself. Finally he nodded to her, “Of course. There is a family just up the road from here that should receive your assistance first then.” He explained to her and waited patiently as the nymph’s gathered up what they needed, but then Galilea spoke again, “Soldiers?” He questioned, worry creeping up the back of his throat and gripping on life a vice. “It is unusual. Very unusual. Soldiers have not patrolled these streets in months. We were told the king wanted to preserve our army from the spreading disease so they would not be checking on us.” And with that had come the dwindling of supplies. Supplies only being dropped once or twice a month now and usually in the dead of night. They were told once again it was because of disease, but more often it seemed like a ploy to taunt its people and only feed the rats. It was not until people who had retained their health like Rhys got wise to what was being done and began waiting in the dark for the drops when it was suspected they might be coming out. A small government-like structure had begun forming on its own with people like Rhys who had sick to look out for. They took care of one another and communicated frequently. It felt as though the king had turned his back on his people and they needed to take care of each other somehow. “Both of you must keep your heads low, do not draw a great deal of attention to yourselves, and I will do everything to keep you protected.” Magical being like themselves did not live in this kingdom and while a hostile attitude was not expressed towards magical beings Rhys still felt it was best to keep their presence as unknown as possible. He lead them both out into the street and on a brief walk down to the house he had been telling them about. He knocked on the door and looked to the window, spotting someone within peeking back out at them before the door then opened, “come in, hurry.” The woman’s voice ushered them in, “there were soldiers earlier. They came to the door asking if there were any sick here. I denied it. I suspect they knew, but they moved on anyway.” Mrs. Lindly explained to them. She looked at the two nymphs beside Rhys and a small shimmer of hope seemed to come over her rundown and tired countenance, “Oh you must be here to test out medicines on my husband. Follow me.” She motioned for the group to follow her to the back of the small house and pulled aside a curtain door. Her husband lay on the bed. His color grey, boils and bumps blistered along the back of his neck, his cough crackled and wheezed like Sandrina’s did. But it was clear this man was far more advanced in his illness, walking far closer to death than Sandrina. When Mr. Lindly’s wife attempted to rouse him all the man could do was turn his head, eye unopened, and seemingly unaware of the other voices that surrounded him. Mrs. Lindly fussed over him, fluffing the pillows behind him and attempting to prop him up. “I could still get him to open his eyes yesterday, but today he does not wish to wake.” She explained to them, grief already written on her features though she seemed to be attempting to repress those feelings until it was truly over. “And you have not been sick?” Rhys clarified with her. She shook her head, “No, but I have begun to feel a tickle in my throat.I have noticed a raspiness when I breathe from my mouth. And I do feel tender around here.” She said lightly pressed along her collarbone.

She seemed to be denying to herself that it might happen, but Rhys was aware that those were symptoms Sandrina had told him about early on as well. And certainly Galilea and October had picked up on it. “He began to fall ill a couple weeks ago and he’s been declining ever since.” She explained to Galilea and October. “Whatever you need to do if it will help me.” She continued, her hand clung to her husbands, her thumb gently rubbing against the back of his hand as though to assure him. All gestures Rhys had been observing from his neighbors with their loved ones. They all seemed to sense the lingering presence of death and cling to their loved ones for what remained. “Do you wish to stay while they work with him?” Rhys asked her. The woman quickly nodded, “Please. I cannot leave his side.” She explained, a break in her voice making clear how close she felt she was to losing her husband. Rhys nodded, “of course. Is there anything I could get you?” He asked her gently. “Would you make us some tea?” She asked him and Rhys nodded. Across the small room there was a chair that he pulled closer to her husbands beside so she could sit with him and then Rhys went to the kitchen to prepare her some tea and give Galilea and October some space to work on their patient.