#turtle writes tma

[pupil-of-the-eye]

"Ceaseless Watcher"

Date of event: XX XX 2017

An epicene voice echoed down the hallway, catching Elias's ear in his cell. He knew who was coming, of course; he had been watching them since he allowed himself to be arrested a few days before, and he couldn't say he was pleased with how roughly the detective was handling them.

“Basira, what are you doing?” Camille demanded. “Let go of me—”

“Be quiet,” the detective ordered in that impatient way of hers. “You didn't listen to us, so see for yourself.”

A small frown twitched Elias’s lips at the forceful tone Basira took with his spouse before he schooled his expression again.

He wasn't surprised the detective was doing this; he knew it was only a matter of time before Camille was brought in to talk to him. But that didn't necessarily mean he was looking forward to this confrontation, even though a twisted, voyeuristic part of himself was, in fact, looking forward to it.

His own spouse… He could have lied and said that they were the one line he wouldn't cross, that he would leave them out of the Eye's line of sight, as it were, but it would have just been another one of the many lies he told himself about them. He did love them in his own way, but it was a selfish love, one borne of obsession borne of curiosity about the one so heavily marked by the Corruption.

“What are you talking about?” Camille questioned. They were right outside his cell now. “Ow– Basira, you're hurting—” Camille's pale eyes fell on Elias sitting on his cot, dressed in that awful orange prison jumpsuit the guards had put him in, and they fell silent.

“Hello, mon ange,” Elias said coolly, gazing up at his spouse.

They stared at him. They slowly tore their eyes off him and looked back at Basira. “...What is this?”

“He killed two people, maybe more,” the ex-police officer said bluntly. “Just like we tried to tell you.”

Elias spread his hands without taking his eyes off Camille. “Guilty as charged,” he confirmed. He watched as Camille slowly shook their head, backing away from his cell. He stood and placed his hand on the door separating him from his spouse. “Camie,” he purred, the tone of his voice making Basira roll her eyes. He ignored her, keeping his gray gaze on his spouse. Their back hit the wall behind them, and they stopped.

Their ice-white eyes were fixed on him, and they were afraid. He could feel the Ceaseless Watcher's gaze on him as the secret side of himself that he had kept hidden from Camille for most of their relationship began to come to light.

“No,” they mumbled. They crossed their arms as if to defend themself. “No, this isn't—” Their voice died and they shook their head again.

Elias’s expression softened, but he Knew that Camille now doubted how genuine it was. “Camille, darling…” he said, his hand flat against the door to his cell.

“I thought…” Camille shook their head again, blinking quickly as they tried to reconcile the man they thought they knew and the one sitting in prison.

Elias tilted his head and tapped his cheek below one eye. “You thought this was the worst of it,” he deduced. “Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear, but it wasn't.”

And he was sorry; he hadn't wanted to have to lie to them of all people, but it was necessary. If they knew of his plans, they would try to make him stop, and he couldn't have that.

“Clearly,” Camille muttered. They shook their head one final time and turned away. “I can't,” they said. “I– I can't.”

“Camille?” Elias called, but they were already gone, walking briskly back down the hallway. He sighed and rested his forehead against the door. That had gone about the way he had predicted, but he wasn't happy about it.

It would be a few weeks before Elias saw Camille again. After their last meeting, he couldn't in good conscience bring himself to continue to spy on them and violate their privacy.

His hands were cuffed in front of him as he was brought to a small visitation room. The guard attending him wasn't particularly gentle when pushing him down into a chair. “Tch,” Elias scoffed through his teeth. “Is this really necessary?”

The guard didn't respond, merely cuffing Elias to one of the heavy metal table legs, causing the Beholding acolyte to roll his eyes with another scoff. His eyes fell on the other door as it began to open.

“Darling,” he breathed, watching as his pale-haired spouse silently entered the room, accompanied by a second guard, and approached him at the small square table in the center of the room.

Elias guessed from the guards’ annoyed expressions that they weren't thrilled about his spouse meeting him in such close proximity, but what could be done? Camille Bouchard was, when they needed to be, quite a frightening individual.

Camille looked down. When they spoke, it was clear they were speaking to the two guards. “Leave us.”

The guards exchanged a look. “We can't do that. He's a dangerous criminal.”

“He is my husband.” Elias smirked at those words as Camille's hand, the fingers blackened and discolored from the Corruption infection that had killed them nearly two hundred years ago, rested on the back of the chair opposite the one Elias sat in.

“Leave us,” Camille said again, the chair beginning to decay under their hand, the metal itself seeming to die at their touch.

The guards looked at each other again, the unspoken threat not lost on them. They both left the room without another word, leaving Elias and Camille alone. “Hello, darling,” Elias said.

“Shut up.” Elias obediently fell silent, clasping his bound hands on the table in front of him. Camille paced back and forth on the other side of the table, their fingers pressed to their lips. “I am so unbelievably angry with you right now. Two hundred years—two hundred years—and you just—” They turned on their heel to face him and planted their hands on the table. “How long have you been lying to me?”

Elias sighed. His eyes lingered on Camille's wedding band. “It started around the time your first husband disappeared. I saw how he treated you and I called in a favor from Mordechai Lukas. You remember him, I believe?”

Camille rolled their eyes. “I suppose doing that was out of the goodness of your heart,” they said dryly.

Elias took a breath and confessed, “Would you believe me if I said that it was?” He saw the way Camille's expression soured, and he knew they thought he was still lying; so, he decided to tell them the entire truth.

“No,” he sighed. “I suppose not. So, the truth: I saw something in you that I wanted on my side, something ancient and dangerous, but I knew your husband at the time wouldn't have allowed me near you. I also guessed you wouldn't have mourned him, so I had him… removed.”

Camille exhaled and crossed their arms. “Well, thank you for that. So, why did you lie to me? And don't give me that, ‘You'd have tried to stop me’ bêtises again.”

Elias tilted his head to the side. He hadn't anticipated his spouse to prioritize the lies over his more serious crimes. “What about the murders?”

Camille impatiently waved that away. “What about them? I'm an avatar of the End, you infuriating man.” Elias pursed his lips, but he supposed Camille’s harsh tone was understandable.

“Everything dies,” they went on. “What do I care for the cause?”

“Well, then, why are you yelling at me?”

“Because you've been lying to me!” Camille shouted. They began pacing again, gesticulating in agitation as they moved around the room. “I thought I knew you, you know, I thought, ‘This man isn’t like Isaac; he's charming and interesting and intelligent, and he won't hurt me,’” they ranted. “But no, you've been lying to me for two hundred years!”

Unable to help himself, Elias interrupted to say, “Mm, closer to two hundred and one.”

“Jonah,” Camille growled in frustration, making a rather violent gesture with their hands. Elias's mouth snapped shut, and he leaned back in his chair, gesturing for Camille to continue.

“Just– I–” They practically collapsed into the chair opposite Elias and buried their head in their hands. The room was silent for a long moment. When Camille next spoke, their voice was anxious and weak, as if finally asking a question that had been weighing on their mind these last few weeks: “...Did you ever even love me?”

Elias's fingers twitched. “Of course I did,” he said calmly. “I do, in my way.”

They scoffed, a humorless laugh. “Ah, oui? What way is that?”

“Selfishly,” Elias said simply.

Camille slowly raised their head. They stared in angry contemplation at Elias for a moment before standing and rounding the small table. They hauled him to his feet, noting not for the first time the height advantage they had over his current body, and lifted his bound hands to their forehead. “Show me.”

In a rare moment of uncertainty, Elias Bouchard hesitated. “Darling, are you sure?”

Their grip on his hand tightened. “Do it.”

Elias closed his eyes with a sigh. “All right.”

He placed his fingers on his spouse's forehead and felt them shudder as he pressed into their mind, showing them every detail of not only the complexities of his affection for them, but also the deaths he caused, either directly or indirectly, all for the sake of power and personal gain: Gertrude, Leitner, Barnabas, Albrecht.

He also showed them the fear that he himself had felt that awful day when Camille had suddenly taken ill, doubling over in pain and collapsing to the floor, their skin clammy and ashen. Elias had been unable to do anything but watch as the parasitic thing inside of his spouse ate the light and life out of them.

Elias wrenched his wrists away from Camille's forehead and gazed up at them, his gray eyes locked on their face. He didn't speak immediately, giving both himself and his spouse a chance to pull themselves together. “Well?” he finally said quietly.

Camille said nothing for a moment before their angry expression twisted into something closer to resignation. They huffed and, to Elias's genuine surprise, wrapped their arms around him like the jaws of a bear trap.

Elias took a moment to fully grasp what was happening before laying his head on his spouse's shoulder with a contented sigh. He longed to wrap his arms around them, but the cuffs kept his wrists bound between them.

“You're infuriating,” Camille muttered, turning their head and burying their face in Elias's hair as one hand gripped the back of his jumpsuit, and the other holding the back of his head.

Elias grinned in amusement and kissed their shoulder. “I know.”

“I hate you,” they lied.

“I know.”

---

Mini Fics (Salome, Michael, Peter, etc.)

Mini Fics (Camille, Elias, Jonah, Eleanor, etc.)

[fog-and-isolation]

"Archivist AU" (I): August 2015

Word count: 2,120

Also read on AO3

Summary: Following an ill-fated excursion to Russia, Michael Shelley was pulled from the Spiral by the one person who would have grieved him. Five years later, now the head archivist, Michael can't stop thinking about his future with one Salome Lukas.

*There will be more Archivist!Michael chapters; this one was largely to slow how he changed in and following the Spiral, and how helpful he could have been to Salome in "canon."

Content warnings: MAG099 spoilers, MAG101 spoilers, alternate reality

“Michael, what are you doing under the desk?”

The new head archivist, twitchy as ever, jumped at the sound of his boss's voice from the doorway and banged his head on the underside of his desk. Michael emerged, a small box in one hand as the other rubbed the top of his head, his old beaded bracelet on his left wrist.

“Ow, yes, uh, hi, Mr. Bouchard,” he greeted in a feeble attempt at his usual conversational tone. Elias Bouchard regarded him silently, hands clasped behind his straight-as-a-rod back and gray eyes fixed unsettlingly on Michael's brown ones. The archivist held up the small velvet cube by way of explanation. “I, uh, I dropped something.” He slipped the box into his jacket pocket and gave Elias what he hoped was a casual smile while trying very hard to forget the reason he had dropped the box, but it wasn't easy with that damn door still lurking in his peripheral, only vanishing when he glanced over at where it stood, mocking him. “Can– Is there something I can help you with?”

“I just wanted to come by and see how you were adjusting to your new role,” Elias said, as austere and to-the-point as ever. “I also wanted to discuss your relationship with Miss Lukas.”

Elias closed the door to Michael's office and strode across the room to stand before his desk. The velvet box in Michael's pocket seemed to grow heavier as his boss continued, “I overlooked it while you worked under Gertrude”—Anger rushed through Michael at the sound of his predecessor’s name—“but now that you are head archivist, I am afraid I can no longer look the other way. The Lukases are one of our most important patrons; your relationship with this woman presents a potential, severe conflict of interests.”

Michael shrank under Elias’s disapproving gaze. “M-Mister Bouchard, it's– I can't just… break up with her.” The last four words came out in a vague whisper, as if the very idea were inconceivable. “It's not that simple.”

One of Bouchard’s eyebrows rose. “No?” he said flatly.

“We n– We need each other.” Michael's fingers tightened around the box hidden in his pocket. “I th– We're bound to each other, I think. If it wasn't for her, I'd still be—” His throat locked up and his entire body shuddered at the memory of that place. He shook his head, took a few deep breaths and forced himself to look Elias in the eye. “I won't leave her. I can't.”

Michael began to fidget with the box, drawing it back out of his pocket. “I'd sooner quit.”

Elias let out a sigh. “Don't be so dramatic, Michael.”

“You don't understand.” Michael opened the box in his hand, his movements careful and almost reverent. His thoughts wandered as he gazed down at the simple silver ring nestled safely in the center of the plush silk lining the inside of the box. Salome had once told him that she preferred silver to gold. Something about it feeling less gaudy. Michael’s jaw clenched tightly and his hands trembled as he mumbled, “She pulled me out. She opened the door for me. I-I never would have asked her to do that…”

Elias sighed. “Michael–”

The archivist opened his mouth to insist, again, that he was not going to leave Salome Lukas when the door to the archives creaked open, and a soft voice that seemed to chase away the horrors lurking in Michael’s mind floated through the doorway. “Michael, is now a good—” The pretty, dark-haired young woman froze when she saw Elias standing in front of Michael’s desk. Her face fell. “Ah. Mr. Bouchard.” She looked from Elias to her boyfriend in confusion. “What’s… going on?”

Elias turned from Michael to Salome as the archivist himself tucked the small box away again and hobbled out from behind his desk, grabbing his cane from its place standing beside the heavy oak. The four points of his mobility aid thudded softly against the wooden floor with each step he took towards Salome. He reached her and rested his free hand on her arm as he laid his weight on the cane, her presence lighting up his frustrated, tired gaze with affection and warmth. “S-Sal, hi. Nothing’s, um— I’m glad you’re here. I was, you know, just going on my lunch break. Do you want to come with me? We, we can go to our usual place, if you want.”

Michael gently herded Salome out of the room before she could think of a response, keeping his body—taller and thinner than it had been before his ill-fated work trip to Russia some years before—firmly between her and his boss.

“Mike, what's going on?” Salome questioned, lacing her fingers with Michael's, long since used to how much spindlier they had become, as they navigated the halls of the Magnus Institute, greeting Michael's coworkers on the way out. Salome visited Michael for lunch so often that even some of the non-archive workers knew her face.

Michael heaved a heavy sigh and lifted his and Salome's joined hands up to his lips. “Mr. Bouchard doesn't approve of us,” he murmured in frustration against the back of Salome's soft, cold hand.

Salome scoffed. “He can bite us,” she said dismissively. “Him and Captain Lukas both.”

The archivist looked down at his girlfriend with a frown, their linked hands falling back to their sides. He squeezed her hand. “Why do you call him that, sweetie?”

The dark-haired woman shrugged. “He's a captain,” she responded matter-of-factly.

“But he's not your captain, sweetheart; he's your uncle.” Michael couldn't deny that he was angry – not at Salome, but at Peter Lukas. With the benefit of hindsight, what he knew about his hopefully-soon-to-be fiancée's uncle reminded him far too greatly of Gertrude Robinson: secretive, manipulative, always with an agenda.

Salome fell silent, fog-gray gaze wandering to the large, staring portrait of Jonah Magnus that hung above the doors leading in and out of the institute. Her expression, slight as it was, was contemplative, as if she hadn't thought of her relationship to Peter Lukas that way before. In her mind, the large, quiet man was “Captain Lukas” first, and “Uncle Peter” second.

She let out a quiet huff and moved to walk closer to Michael, her hand squeezing his and her other hand resting on their wrists as they walked out the double doors and into the street. “He won't want me to call him that.”

“Then he can bite us.” Michael bent down and kissed the top of Salome's head. “Again.”

Salome laughed softly. “I love you,” she told him with a small smile.

“I love you more.”

Michael's back and joints often troubled him after his escape from the Spiral. His time in that awful maze of endless hallways and mirrors and paintings of the same had changed him physically; he was a bit stretched out: taller, lankier, with more awkward proportions. This left him with the need for his cane.

Salome didn't care, though. Laying in his arms in his bed that first night after she had pulled him from that nightmare, she knew that she would prefer to have him changed but alive than to not have him at all. Having him back was everything, and from that night on, neither one slept without the other.

Michael let out a heavy breath, like a content golden retriever, as his arms tightened around Salome. The sound of his sigh and the weight of his arms around her pulled her from her thoughts, as gentle with her as always. He kissed the top of her head. “What're you thinking about, hm?”

“I'm just—” Salome took a deep, reflexive breath, a sign that she was utterly at peace. “I'm just glad you're here.”

He pressed another kiss to her hair before guiding her head to rest under his chin. “I'm glad, too. But you know I never would have asked you to go in there for me… Not ever…”

Salome shook her head, cuddling closer to Michael as if hoping to burrow into his chest and rest beside his heart. “I couldn't leave you there,” she whispered.

That was all she said; Michael knew she didn't like talking about it. He didn't, either, so he just nodded and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Salome in his arms, the warmth and weight of her body cuddled on top of his.

He kissed her again, this time on the temple, as he shifted underneath her to relieve a bit of the strain on his back from remaining in one position for so long.

“Captain Lukas wants me to move back onto the Tundra.”

Salome's use of her uncle's formal title wasn't lost on Michael, but he didn't say anything about it; he couldn't expect her to break a habit formed and calcified over two decades in a single afternoon. Instead, his arms tightened around her at her proclamation. “Why?”

“To keep us apart,” Salome responded quietly. “If I'm at sea, then…”

“We can't see each other,” Michael completed for her, his heart weighing heavy in his chest. Arms tightening further around Salome, he turned onto his side, limbs tangling, bodies pressed together. “Sal… Oh, Sal…”

But she shook her head. “I told him no.”

Hearing the soft hesitancy in her words, Michael pulled away just enough to gaze down at Salome. She had a hard time standing up to Peter Lukas: having been raised in utter loneliness, the only thing she wanted for so long—the reason she never fled the Tundra when it made port—was Peter's approval. So to hear that she shot him down, to learn she told him no to his face, made Michael's chest swell with emotion. He lunged forward, arms holding her impossibly close as he nuzzled his cheek against her hair. His relief was almost enough to banish his anger at Salome's uncle. Almost. “I'm– I'm so proud of you, dove…” he whispered. “So proud.”

A soft sound came from Salome's throat as she eagerly returned Michael's warm embrace. The world narrowed down to just the two of them, the sounds of London just beyond the bedroom window little more than a hum as the couple quietly cuddled together, indulging in each other's warmth.

As the sun sank below the horizon, casting long shadows in the ever-darkening room, Salome mumbled, “I thought I was going to be sick when I told him I wouldn't come back…”

Michael kissed Salome's neck softly and gently petted her hair. “You did well, dove. You really did. What did he say?”

“Not much.” Salome frowned. “I don't think he was happy.”

“And you?” Michael snuggled Salome even closer, not allowing a single inch to come between them. “Are you happy? Right now?”

Salome's frown curled upward into that shy, gentle smile Michael loved so much, and he could hear it in her voice. “Very,” she murmured. “It's easy to be happy when I'm with you…”

“I'm happy, too. You make me happy.” Michael kissed the side of Salome's head, petting her hair in comfortable silence. He had been waiting for the perfect moment, and this, now—laying together in bed, cuddling, loving each other—was it. “Sal, dove,” he began, “Have, have you ever thought about marriage…?”

“Marriage…?” The word, soft and breathless, fell from Salome's lips. She pulled away, but only enough to stare at Michael. She could never bear to be apart from him for long. “Why do you ask…?”

Michael sat up, one arm around Salome's shoulders to guide her upright with him as he dug around in his jacket pocket. He drew the small velvet box and reluctantly removed his arm from his girlfriend to open the small box, revealing the simple silver ring nestled inside. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face at the way her eyes widened and her hands covered her mouth when she saw the ring.

“Salome Lukas,” Michael whispered, “we've been together for almost six years. I've watched you grow and heal from a lifetime of loneliness and isolation. You saved me and stayed with me through the worst time of my life, and you accept me and my… quirks… without a second thought. You've seen my anger and held me through my nightmares, flashbacks, and panic attacks. Despite everything, you're patient and kind and everything I could ever ask for.” He gently kissed her forehead and took a slow, steadying breath. “Salome… my Sal…” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “Will you marry me?”

Only a single word came to Salome's mind, the warmth of love and affection coursing through her: “Yes.”

--

Taglist: @zeelzebub, @justanotherbattyhere @archivist-shelley (I hope you don't mind the tag!)

[librarycards]

whats yr advice how autistic trans ppl seeking a diagnosis should proceed in these deeply transphobic & transmisogynistic times, theres legistlation the juncture btwn transphobia & ableism? for reference Im a TME 1st yr undergrad who is seeking accomodations for ASD and I got interim accomodations before medical documentation but Im not sure if I can opt out of a prof dx or if I want to? I'm really conflicted bc I got "away" with just saying im trying to get accomodations since I started 1/?

2/? at the school (school is on turtle island) but Im not sure if I can defer constantly bc it leads to me having to approach teachers awkwardly - I can't always make it to office hrs - & im fined if i miss dr appointments to assess me. i live in "canada" but there's pretty fucking scary waiting lists & legislation here too imho; I'm not really sure how to navigate these academic and medical contexts when it can influence how easily i can get gender affirming care and letters of mental health 3/3 also i would appreciate anyone providing any tips for TMA ppl as well ofc!! it's crucial for all trans ppl esp the ones most marginalized comprehend the drawbacks of a prof dx if someone is seeking it! i just wanted to be mindful of describing my unique circumstances (also i'm a racialized settler) when receiving advice. i can go off anon & message you too however i know tumblr's not... great as a messaging service or in general

ty for sending and for your patience! okay, this is very complicated and YMMV.

what i'm hearing is that you're weighing the risks vs benefits of going without an autism dx / possibly (?) having easier access to medical transition, vs. receiving a prof dx and having a more difficult time. this is something that i thought about, too, when i was going through the process - i got my 'gender dysphoria' and autism diagnoses around the same time, when i was 18, and i specifically sought the autism one in order to have undergrad accommodations (i already knew I was autistic and had been in autistic community).

for me, and perhaps for you, the accommodation thing was less of a 'my life would be easier' and more of a 'i don't think i'd make it through college without these.' they were mostly housing-based for me, and made it possible for me to live on campus without constant crisis. if you have similar absolute needs for accommodations, i do think you should seek out the formal paperwork. universities are bureaucratic nightmares designed to disadvantage disabled students (and faculty, for that matter) and you need to have every tool in your arsenal to fight back.

i can't speak to transition-related care in canada, but i assume this aspect is similar to the us: providers run the gamut from more to less accepting of (for example) autistic clients, and a diagnosis does not 100% foreclose access to transition. i'm an example of this! i don't think it's worth it to sacrifice your education for the possibility (not guarantee) of a slightly easier time with trans care w/o an autism dx. getting healthcare as a trans person is hard all-around anyway, and i think it's a much more logical choice to get the dx and associated accommodations, and then spend more time researching autism-friendly surgeons (and neurodiversity-affirming therapists to write you the letters necessary for approval).

the only caveats to what i said above are 1) if you could get assessed for another diagnosis that would allow for the same or similar accommodations (many different dx's qualify for extra time, a note-taker, etc etc). if you are committed to getting the surgical/hormonal intervention you want right now, another (risky) option would be to prioritize that and delay university - i don't recommend this whatsoever, but it's there.

my greatest piece of advice is to look frankly at your life and ask, what can i survive, and for how long? can you survive university unaccommodated? can you survive an education put on hold? can you survive a year, two, or five without transition care? these answers will be different for everyone, *and* there is no guarantee that the roadblocks you face as a diagnosed autistic trans person will be exponentially higher than an undiagnosed trans person (sometimes, it's just hard regardless).

one final note - your professors should be available via email to make appointments with you outside office hours. this is part of their job - every semester, some students will not be able to make office hours and still need appointments. i highly recommend speaking to profs as needed about alternative times to meet with them.

so, yeah, that's my 2¢. best of luck <3

[secretly-an-automaton]

Hi, I’m Auto!

This is an intro post; if you’d prefer, just shuffle my blog for a sample of the madness 💚

Pronouns:

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Tag chains:

(and tagging in general)

Feel free to tag me—I won’t always participate if I don’t have the time but I love to see what my mutuals are up to! Don’t be shy about sending asks or DMs either.

What I post about:

(subject to rapid change)

Mostly

Danny Phantom (#dp)

LEGO Ninjago (#Ninjago)

The Magnus Archives (#tma)

Tales of Arcadia (#Trollhunters - I know ToA would’ve made more sense but that’s already claimed in my brain by Trials of Apollo)

Sometimes

Miraculous (#mlb)

Danny Phantom x DC (#dp x dc)

Malevolent (#malevolent)

Starkid musicals - mostly Hatchetverse (#starkid)

How to Train Your Dragon (#httyd)

The Stanley Parable (#tsp)

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(but are rarely found on my blog)

WOE.BEGONE

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Things I write about:

Posted on AO3

Danny Phantom (24 works)

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Unposted (as of yet) but feel free to ask about them

Miraculous

Danny Phantom x X-Men

Trollhunters

Ninjago x Danny Phantom

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Last updated:

December 20, 2024

And that’s all I’ve got for now! Wishing you all a lovely day 💚

Sike; if you want to see a new and …improved… version of this, you can read my friend’s unhinged parody intro post—thanks Rice, your clowning always makes me feel so loved<3

[beannary]

🌿🕯️📡

🌿how does creating make you feel?

i love creating stuff! it makes me feel really good to like get ideas out of my brain and into the world

🕯️was there a fic that was really hard on you to write, or took you to a place you didn't think it would take you?

ok i spent soooooooooo long working on the lore for my toa x tma crossover fic i have so many pages and pages of notes for all the lore which i really do want to post somewhere even though im not going to finish the fic because i just had so many ideas for it and i still do have so many ideas! if turtles hadn't invaded my brain then i for sure would have continued the fic but alas...turgle

📡why is writing and sharing your writing important for fandom?

i mean i already do a lot of daydreaming and imagining my favorite characters in scenarios, i only started actually writing fics and stuff because i was having a hard time like keeping track of the plot of all of my daydreams, like for me personally, i think its important because i like having all my thoughts in one spot, and posting stuff on ao3 or on tumblr keeps all my thoughts in like one space, because i tend to just write or draw on whatever i can, like i have notebooks filled wtih writing, and then i work at a museum and so i will write or draw on the back of like our membership forms??? so i have like so many of those just tucked away in my desk that are just filled with doodles and with my writing. so like for me its less that i actually want to share my writing with the world (although i do like that a lot and i love seeing people like my work) and more because i need a way to keep track of all my stuff and like the simplest way is for me to just post it all to my social media kalsjdhf

[lesbianturtle]

my tma x sonic au is actually just going to be a really weird rewrite of sonic the hedgehog 06

[geese-ball]

previously im-gonna-squeet

bluesky- im-gonna-squeet

Hi Im Elias, I'm British, my pronouns are he/it/xe, and i am fantastically queer

My askbox is always open!! pls say hi or ask something!!

WARNING: i reblog gore

my spotify

Fandoms:

dimension 20/ dropout tv, toh, hermitcraft, creepypasta, doctor who, empires smp s1, life smp series, heluva boss, hazbin hotel, James Acaster, gravity falls, ride the cyclone, tma/ tmagp , rottmnt, tottmnt, spider-verse, garrett watts, gbbo, Will Wood, Dan and Phil

General things i love:

learning, sharks/marine biology, science, creepy/scary stuff, men, little guys (creatures, beasts), cats

My writing:

Gerry and Michael get a cat (doorkeay fluff) (ao3)

3 times Tim tried to get Jon & Martin together, and 1 time he realised he didnt have to (ao3)

sometimes domestic bliss is an angry goth and his 12ft tall delusion incarnate monster bf (ao3)

Donnie burnout fic (ao3)

i still dont know who you are, i only know that im still lonely (donnie gets a service dog) ch 1 ch 2 ch 3 (ao3)

The turtle and the rabbit

OCs: Timothy Googly, Missile Launcher Hamato

[razmerry]

I added 403 tags in 2021

#warriors - 127 posts

#rvb - 79 posts

#drawtectives - 30 posts

#drawfee - 28 posts

#tma - 27 posts

#wwdits - 27 posts

#sanders sides - 26 posts

#star trek - 21 posts

#comics - 20 posts

#venom - 18 posts

Longest Tag: 106 characters

#and the clan starts going through a famine bc the researchers are unintentionally disrupting their hunting

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

I did the challenge that was made by @satzzzwarriorcats and it’s very fun! 

219 notes • Posted 2021-06-09 15:04:22 GMT

#4

OKAY Drawtectives Finale fanart part two. I died laughing every time I thought of Emery in arm jail so I had to draw it. 

catch me on the ground after getting so attached to these characters,,., blease they gotta come back

223 notes ��� Posted 2021-02-28 17:37:33 GMT

#3

me: ugh I hate tropes

the trope: a person is host to some powerful entity and they have witty banter with each other

me: omg a person is host to some powerful entity and they have witty banter with each other

Featuring: Venom (moreso from the 2018 movie), Hector and Vincent (Wereworld), Jeremy and the SQUIP (blended from the book and musical), Prosper and Alastor (The Dreadful Tale of Prosper Redding), Greedling (Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood), and O’Malley and Doc (Red vs. Blue). 

282 notes • Posted 2021-06-19 19:35:38 GMT

#2

Drawtectives: Orc Lore

So in honor of S1 of Drawtectives almost being over, I decided to rewatch all the episodes and compile all the “orc lore” Jacob spills, because it is delightful. I know people have suggested doing this but I haven’t seen anyone actually compile it all, so I’m sorry if you already have and I missed it. Also there were some things I left out because they felt more like just a joke, or weren’t important enough, or too non-specific. Some of the lore is contradictory but it’s so impressive for improv worldbuilding. Anyways! Enough of that. Read on: 

Episode 1:

- York is orc on his father’s side, human on his mother’s

- His father is the tribe’s leader

- “Humans are kind of like pets to me”

- “I don’t know anything either, but I’m basically unkillable�� - just a good York summary

- Has a case he keeps bones in

- Murder is a normal thing at orc parties

- The bone economy is introduced

Episode 2:

- York cannot write (does not understand the process of writing?)

- Orcs heal sickness by violently shaking the afflicted

- York is pretty good at mental math

Episode 3:

- Common misconception; York can read, just in the “orc runes”, not English

- Does not know what dollars are

- The bone economy is expanded upon; dragon bones are very valuable

- In orc culture you are polite to people who can kill you; rudeness is reserved for those you feel comfortable around

- York only learned about “motives” recently

- York is unaware of what jokes are

- He has never cried before?

- Food is eaten raw and possibly still alive

- In the bone economy, “candle bones” are worth 5 turtle bones, turtle bones are worth 5 rat bones, and a rat bone is worth 5 bug bones (bug bones are being phased out as a currency)

- Northern bugs do have bones

- Things that are the best to eat are the hardest to kill

- York’s hairstyle is popular, because he forced others to adopt it

Episode 4:

- “I’m about to humor your boy out the window” is just a very good quote

- York has trained warhounds before

- Wild trains live in wild train country. They cannot be slain or tamed, and are incredibly fast. It is the only thing York is terrified of 

- Orcs cannot refuse an invitation; half-orcs must give a tentative maybe

- Wild trains are a serious threat to York’s tribe

- York has “bad blood” with the Wild Lands

- Bikes are used to escape wild trains

Episode 5:

- Only one channel on TV is received in the Northern Tribes; orcish soap operas are most common - “Tusks of Our Lives”, “Maul My Children”, “One Fight to Live” (which has 37 seasons)

- Only one band in the Northern Tribes; Birds of Prey

- York is unaware bands other than that one existed

- York does not know what a camera is 

- Also does not know how TV works (”little people inside the box”)

- Cannot recognize his own face in a photo 

- Only lemons grow/are sold in the Northern Tribes

- York had a “yellow-slick toad” named Tammy as a child; previous crying point disproven as he cried at least 15 minutes when it died

- Wild trains are also called “ground planes” sometimes

- York has murdered his brother in an “unrightful claim to the throne” and “blood feud”

- He is apparently an orc prince; this does line up with the lore about him being the tribe leader’s son

- (Non-orc worldbuilding: boker, billiards, Grendan Fury, Go Bish)

Episode 6: (the piss episode)

- Orcs… do both at once, as it were

- He doesn’t wipe………

- “Pee is compliment, blood is insult”

- Class discourse is an important discussion in orcish culture

- Mirrors do not exist in the Northern Tribes

- Northern cats are apparently eight feet long and eight feet tall, roughly cuboid, and kept as battle cats

- “Northern hill squirrel”

Episode 7:

- Orcs are strongly anti-tobacco; instead they do mushrooms

- YORKY SNACKS

- York once held onto an antelope for two weeks

- “It takes five pickles to hold a potata” - common orcish childhood quote

- Fuzzy potatoes are a crop in the Northern Tribes; they are hard to perceive, and if you don’t put on your “pickle glove” before you hold one things will get real weird

- York does possess the ability to write both “eat my butt” and “wow now thatsa potata”

Episode 8:

- Orcs have two stomachs, requiring more food to fill them; they don’t need to eat for two days after the stomachs are full

- He “empties both stomachs at once”

- York has been in many knife fights

- Expansion on wild trains: they can be killed, evidently, but only if you sneak up and attack their engine compartment while they’re sleeping, if confronted you must lure them into a false sense of security. Wild trains do know when they are being depicted in art and can sense it, will attack (?)

- Whatever leg wrestling is about

- Apparently once York killed a rhino by fanning his hand but I’m not sure if that was real or just to push Emery’s buttons

- “Is he doin slammer on me” - I just really like that

- Orcs are only babies for a couple hours

- YORK FEET PICS

- Possibly non-canonical but Jacob said York is on his Rumspringa and that is very funny

Episode 9:

- Non-orc actors and programs are being shown on orc TV?

- Orcs do not have dimples

- Old actors are called “road dogs” in the Northern Tribes

Episode 10:

- Ghosts exist in this world, but not in the Northern Tribes (“when people die, they die hard”)

- Reconfirmed: York is good at math

- Spilled milk is cried over in the North (it will make York cry)

- Has no pockets

(Updating:)

Episode 11:

- Not much but it’s a big one: 

Orcish elders have knowledge of Julia (and her artistic decisions)

One-Shot Stream:

- Orcs “feel time differently” - described as being like dog years (1 day feel like 3 days)

- Semi-related: orcs believe that people are never coming back when they leave and are surprised when they do

- York believed only murder was a crime

- Dogs love York

- York does not know what his birthday is

- After a birth in the Northern tribes, people “take a stick and scratch in the mud” the words ‘He was born’ so others know

- He doesn’t know what glass is? 

- “Faster than you can shake a leaf at a twig”

563 notes • Posted 2021-01-13 23:31:21 GMT

#1

HOLY COW I MISSED THESE GUYS!! 

822 notes • Posted 2021-08-01 19:39:55 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[dinosaurs-last-day]

Welcome to my Blog!

Hello! My name’s Remy! I’m 19, nonbinary (i sorta like the term autigender and i use they/them pronouns), and an asexual lesbian. 

My url used to be genderqueer-turtle, but I changed it...

This is my linktree with my other accounts. Follow me on Twitter and TikTok for more fandom content! And my Instagram is just personal updates and cool stuff I do!

I’m a writer, a performer, and an all around nerd. I’m pretty friendly and am always willing to listen, so feel free to dm me or send me an ask if you want to vent, just chat, or anything! I have a discord as well, so if you want to chat through that, dm me so I can give you my account info!

I love asks and they make me smile, so feel free to send basically anything!  I post a lot of LotR,Steven King's IT, TMA, RWBY, and a bunch of other random stuff! Sorry if I spam your dash, that may happen.

I write fanfics! I'm currently working building an up to date master post but feel free to ask for my ao3! I love sharing my writing

One of my fanfics, Music to the Heart, has playlists for the characters! Check them out here! 

I also take writing prompts! Just leave them in my inbox and I’ll get to them as soon as possible. I don’t really care if you use anon or not for writing prompts, but if you stay off of anon, you’ll get tagged when the story is ready and I can dm you for any details you might want included! 

DNI: anti-lgbtq+, a map, a terf, exclusionist, or pro-r3mr0m.. I will block people who try to support any of these in any way.  I don’t like to talk politics, but sometimes I will reblog political things. I don’t want drama.

Send me an ask or a dm if you want me to tag anything, literally anything! You don’t have to explain yourself, I completely understand. And feel free to correct me if I tag something wrong or reblog something with misinformation! I’d really appreciate that!

Anyways, thanks for checking out my blog! 😊

[tma-valentines-exchange]

Stance on Asexuality and NSFW content

There have been some concerns and controversy regarding NSFW content being made for Jon, a canon asexual character. While we are still in the interest check phase and are thus still undecided whether NSFW content will be allowed within this exchange, I feel there is importance and value in addressing this issue regardless.

Disclaimer: I am an asexual person, but I acknowledge that exploration of sexuality is almost always a work-in-progress. So I am still learning more about asexuality everyday, and I am in no way a spokesperson for all aspec people.

However! 

TLDR; Asexuality comes in many forms (eg sex-favourable, sex-averse, sex-indifferent, and even fluctuating between different forms), and they all deserve celebration and exploration. Hence, if we choose to allow NSFW content in TMA Valentine's Exchange after Interest Check, we will also allow NSFW content involving the canon asexual character, Jon Sims. 

Whether you are an allosexual (ie non-asexual), questioning or asexual person, it can be difficult to talk about asexuality so I’ll state here that I’m very open to conversations on asexuality so if at any point, anyone wishes to talk about it, just drop by in the DMs or asks. If you prefer, you can find me @nyctolovian instead! ((But please do be respectful haha I won’t respond to trolls and bigots.))

- Nycto 

Interest Check | Carrd | Schedule | FAQ

More discussion of asexuality under the cut

Asexuality is much more fluid and complex than it appears to most people. (It’s also a spectrum but that’s a discussion for another day... Here’s a cute comic though!) Asexuality is only the lack of sexual attraction, and that does not say anything about their feelings towards sex/sexual behaviour. There are many subtypes of aces (which I like referring to as “flavours”).

Some common terms to express these differences are: sex-favourable, sex-averse/repulsed and sex-indifferent. (Not sex-positive and negative!!) This post explains the terms a bit. There can also be fluctuations between these "flavours”. They can also differ from context to context. For example, one can be sex-favourable when it comes to fictional characters and sex-repulsed when it comes to themselves. 

All “flavours” are valid and doesn’t make the person any less asexual. And that’s why Jon can both be ace, and engage in R18 scenarios! Putting him in sex scenes doesn’t “erase his asexuality”.

His “ace flavour” and where he is in the spectrum is not specified in canon either so he’s honestly Free Real EstateTM. Some write him as sex-repulsed and that’s cool! However, if you wish to write him as a different flavour, here is a non-exhaustible list of reasons why ace people in general might engage in sex:

To bond with their partner

Because sex is pleasurable and fun

For sex work

To have children

For the physical release

As an asexual person, I love seeing variety in asexual rep. Fics with ace Jon being sex-repulsed and cuddling with his partner is just as important as fics with ace Jon being curious or kinky. Variety is realistic and validates aces of different flavours!

That’s why: Go ahead! Write Jon being incredibly asexual and still wanting sex! I think it’ll be loads of fun!

Personal headcanons since you’re already here haha! I imagine Jon to fluctuate between sex-favourable and sex-indifferent actually. Depends on his mood. BUT! I also imagine him to be averse to on-mouth kissing. Just seems oddly gross to him. Hence why we never hear kissing on tape! Because Jon! Doesn’t! Like! Kissing!

Here are some links to more wonderful posts on the topic:

“AO3 tags-Asexuality” by dathen

“Asexuality and Fandom” by thoughtlessthinkythoughts

“The B(ace)ics: Asexuality 101″ by themacklemorebrothers

“Writing sex scenes with asexual characters” by anagnori

This post by acemartinblackwood

My favourite comic about asexuality involving turtles by dragonheartftherpays

Oh. And PSA: This week is Ace Awareness Week 2020!!!! Shoutout to my fellow aces whoop!

[just-antithings]

Mod Turtle here. TMA antis are a baffling crowd. They generally believe that if you write any fanfiction with sexual violence in it, even if it’s portrayed as evil or just mentioned as something in the past, you’re a bad person. 

There have been several block lists of TMA antis just going through the noncon tag on AO3 and encouraging blocking, reporting, and harassment regardless of the content of the story. 

These same antis are fine stanning characters that engage in gaslighting, abuse of power, murder, and torture. 

can y’all be normal about representation and not threaten violence for 5 minutes

[pupil-of-the-eye]

"Body-Swap"

Date of Event: XX XX 1867

The echo of her footsteps on the stone floors and the dancing shadows cast by their torch on the walls of the tunnels beneath the Magnus Institute were Eleanor's only companions as they followed their husband down the corridors in the dead of night. She had woken up when Jonah quietly climbed out of bed and retrieved his walking stick. At first, she'd thought he had just gotten up for water, but when he didn't come back, she got worried and decided to look for him.

     Eleanor had emerged from her and Jonah's bed chambers on the top floor of the Institute and closed the door behind her with a soft click. She looked around Jonah's office for a moment before hurrying down to the basement archives. She wasn't blind; she knew about the tunnels built by Smirke. She knew they were part of her husband's decision to relocate the Magnus Institute to London, but she didn't know what was so important about them. But that didn't matter right now; for now, she needed to make sure her aging husband was all right. She worried about him.

     It wasn't easy to watch the love of one's life grow old and feeble, and Eleanor worried every moment that someday he would push himself too hard and be unable to recover from it.

     When Eleanor reached the end of the tunnels and climbed the spiral stairs up a tower, she wasn't entirely sure what she was seeing at first, then she realized that she had entered some kind of room that allowed for a full range of vision for what she thought might have been prison cells surrounding the tower, but she didn't look too closely. But it was the stone seat in the center of the room that caught her attention. Holding her torch higher, she slowly approached the throne, which faced away from her. “Jonah…?”

     Eleanor slowly circled the throne, and a bloodcurdling scream tore through her throat when she saw a young man she didn't know kneeling before her husband's eyeless corpse.

Jonah put his blind body into the throne in the center of the Panopticon. He sat down hard, facing the chair, head in shaking hands. He knew that his consciousness taking to the new body would be an unpleasant process, but he was so disoriented that he didn’t know someone was behind him until he heard the bloodcurdling scream.

     Eleanor. Damn it all, he had planned to wait until she woke up in the morning to explain what he had done so they wouldn’t have to see him like this – weak and bloody and in no fit state to present himself to her the way he needed to. Damn it all, damn it all! This was not how it was supposed to go.

     Jonah turned, bandaged eyes gazing up at his ever-youthful wife, picturing her mortified expression with perfect clarity. He held up his hands placatingly, feeling the warmth of a torch on his kneeling body. Eleanor must have dropped it on the cold stone floor in shock when she’d discovered her husband's corpse, the eyes messily removed, and a complete stranger knelt before it. Jonah could feel the Eye feeding from Eleanor’s fear and terror of the situation.

     “Eleanor,” he said in what he hoped sounded like a soothing tone and not an exhausted wheeze, “it's me. It's—”

     Jonah grunted when Eleanor pushed past him. Though he couldn't see her through the bloodstained bandages, he Knew that they were leaning heavily against the throne, staring with tears in their eyes at his own eyeless corpse.

     “What did you do to him?!” Eleanor demanded of Jonah, even though they didn't know that it was their husband they were speaking to. Why would they? They knew Jonah to be an old man, the old man that now sat blind and mutilated in the throne in the center of the Panopticon, evidently at the hands of the much younger man who she didn't know that now sat bandaged and bloody on the floor. Jonah knew how this must have looked, and his stomach twisted at the tone Eleanor took with him. He never wanted to make her sound like that. Not them. Never them.

     “Eleanor,” he began again, “please, just give me a moment to explain—”

     Jonah fell silent at the sound of a pistol’s safety flicking off, and he knew he would need to tell Eleanor something that only he would know if it meant convincing her that he was who he said he was. “You and this man,” he said, gesturing to his own corpse, “first made love in a room at an associate's estate during a masquerade ball held in 1819 after the death of your first husband.”

     Slowly, Jonah heard Eleanor's fearful breaths gradually begin to steady; that had been something they had been worried about going public, and he knew it. “That– That was almost fifty years ago,” they whispered. “You can't– You can't know that.”

     “But I do.” Jonah reached out, feeling for Eleanor's hand. “Because I am your Jonah, darling. I am.”

     Jonah heard a metallic clattering as Eleanor dropped her pistol. He felt her kneel beside him and touch his face. He leaned into her touch, pressing a kiss to the palm of her hand. There they were: the closest thing he had to an anchor anymore. ��There you are… That's my Eleanor…”

     Eleanor's hands shook as she held Jonah's face. “J-Jonah…?”

     Jonah's lips curled into a smile against Eleanor's hand. “Hello, darling,” he said, the exhaustion in his voice betraying how awful he felt after transplanting his consciousness into this new, young host body.

     “Jonah… chérie, mon amour, what the hell did you do?” Eleanor's voice was weak and shaky, and Jonah carefully pulled her into his own trembling arms.

     “I found a way for us to be together forever, my love,” he murmured into her hair. It wasn't a complete lie, but it wasn't the full truth, either; not that Eleanor needed to know that. She didn't need to know the truth of his goals for his distant second attempt at Rite of the Watcher's Crown. All she needed to know was that he worshipped her.

     He tightened his arms around Eleanor, who all but melted in his embrace. He buried his face in her pale hair and breathed in her scent. “I missed holding you like this…”

     Jonah sighed and softly kissed the side of Eleanor's neck, and she slowly, hesitantly, finally returned his embrace. It had been so long since he'd been able to hold his spouse the way he wanted to; so many years since his body had begun to age and wear down, unable to keep up with Eleanor's End-given youth and vitality. Nearly eighty years old, and she didn't look a day over thirty. She was so beautiful – his own Venus de Milo.

     Eleanor pulled back and touched the bandages wrapped around Jonah's head. “What did you do?” they asked again, their voice a soft whisper.

     “I'll explain later, darling,” Jonah murmured, the weariness and instability taking over his senses, stabbing into every inch of his flesh like hot, poisoned needles. “Right now, I— I need you to help me back to bed…”

     Eleanor nodded, standing and hauling Jonah's weak body up. She slung his arm over her shoulder, then glanced at the old, blind man sitting in the center of the room. She had known and loved Jonah for most of her life, and it felt wrong to just leave his body, his original body here alone like this. Still, she trusted him, so she left his old, blind body with a gentle kiss to the forehead and began to make her way back home, Jonah's new vessel leaning heavily against her.

     The journey back through the tunnels was almost silent save for the echoing sounds of Jonah and Eleanor’s footsteps and Jonah's labored breathing. “You should have told me you were doing this,” Eleanor finally said softly as the couple reached the beginning of the tunnels and Eleanor pushed the hidden door open. From there, they moved up three floors to Jonah's office and to the locked door to their private chambers.

     “You would have tried to stop me,” Jonah replied, his voice ragged and breathless. Eleanor helped him into sleeping clothes and into their bed.

     “But you could have warned me.” Eleanor sat in the armchair near the bed and rested her chin in one hand. “I nearly shot you.”

     Some of the tension and discomfort in Jonah's new body faded away as he burrowed into the blankets. He held out his hand for Eleanor. “Come here, darling…”

     Eleanor hesitated. She knew that this was her husband, but it still felt so fundamentally wrong to be in bed with him. This wasn't his body. This didn't feel like him. Finally, she said, “It's… difficult.”

     Jonah let out a quiet groan at Eleanor's words. “Ma deésse, please, come back to bed… come to me…”

     Eleanor hesitated a moment longer before giving in to Jonah's weary, needy tone, though his voice was unfamiliar. She stood from the chair and joined her husband on their bed underneath the blankets. His quiet grunt and groan didn't go unnoticed.

     “You're hurting,” she murmured as Jonah pulled her close, his movements sluggish and arduous. He sighed against her neck.

     “I… didn't want to worry you, my love,” he exhaled, nuzzling his bandaged face closer to her neck and breathing in her scent. He groaned. “I… I knew the process would be… difficult… but God, having you here eases the burden.”

     He pulled her closer, the wrongness of his new vessel almost overwhelming his need to have them by his side. But Jonah Magnus was a determined and selfish man, and no amount of physical discomfort would stand in his way of holding his Eleanor. Another heavy sigh passed Jonah's lips as sleep took him.

---

Mini Fics (Salome, Michael, Peter, etc.)

Mini Fics (Camille, Elias, Jonah, Eleanor, etc.)

[fog-and-isolation]

“Statement” (I)

Date of event: 4th April 2018

The tape recorder on Jonathan Sims's desk clicked on suddenly, and he tensed. Someone he couldn’t see was in his archive. He raised his voice. “I know you're in here. Show yourself.”

A sudden sense of grief washed over the archivist as a short, thin young woman appeared in the far corner of the room. “You're Salome Lukas,” he announced.

“...Sah-low-mey…” The woman murmured, as if the name was unfamiliar to her. She tilted her head in a way that reminded Jon of how the distorted Michael used to. The right half of her hair was a stark, ghostly white, a sharp contrast to the dark brown on the left. Her voice was soft and she spoke slowly and almost confused as she seemed disconnected from the world around her. “The new… archivist…”

“Are you here to kill me?” Jon sighed wearily. It would be his luck that the niece of Peter Lukas would be here to kill him now.

Salome shook her head vaguely. “Nnno,” she murmured, “I don’t think so…”

“Oh,” Jon breathed. “It’s just that you tried to kill Gertrude, so I thought you might try to kill me, too.”

Salome tilted her head the other way. “...Did you… want me to kill you…?”

“No,” Jonathan said quickly, raising his hands palm-forward. “No, that's fine. Thank you. So, if– Why are you here?”

Salome angled her head down. She was definitely somewhere else, even as she responded to the archivist’s question. “...It's quiet down here… when Viscera's not attacking…”

“No, I mean”—Jonathan sighed—“Why are you here, at the Institute?”

“Oh.” Salome braided a lock of her hair absent-mindedly. Jon's eyes caught sight of a series of pale white scars littering her wrist. He looked away when they began to twist into spiralling patterns. He didn’t know if it was his eyes playing tricks on him. “...My uncle is… acting head of this place… so…” She shrugged. Jon glanced at her wrist to see that her scars were uniform lines again.

“Right. Would you like to make a statement?” The question was rushed, on the archivist's tongue and out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Salome Lukas stared at him in silence. “It’s just– you've featured in some of our other statements, and you knew Michael and Gerry Keay, and—”

Jonathan took a step back into the shelves of boxes containing files and paper statements as Salome walked through his desk, her body now suddenly very wrong – the entire right half of her body was made of the fog that she breathed, flesh shifting seamlessly into swirling mist right down the middle. Where her flesh body should have been impeded by the desk, it broke apart into that same cold, white fog. It was clear to Jon now that this woman was not human.

His back hit the shelves behind him when Salome stopped, only a few feet away from him. She had passed clean through his desk and now stood behind it across from him. From here, he saw how pale she was, the dark circles and dried tear streaks under her cold gray eyes that finally seemed to see him, the hollowness of her cheeks, the ashen tone to her skin. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Jonathan knew that the transition to becoming an avatar required the avatar in question to die or otherwise change in some awful, fundamental way. Had this woman starved to death? Something he’d said had seemed to bring her back to herself somewhat, but he wasn’t sure if that boded well for his chances.

“Why do you know those names?” she inquired. Her voice was still soft and almost weak, but she was putting her words together a bit more easily now. She still felt distinctly non-present to Jon, though, as if where she stood was instead a void where someone was meant to be. If he closed his eyes, all he would have only sensed that emptiness. It felt not dissimilar to aching, longing grief.

“I met them,” Jon said. Salome was several inches shorter than him, but there was still an odd sense of danger to her. “Michael, a few times, actually. They both mentioned you by name.”

“You met Michael and Gerard…” The gray of Salome’s eyes swirled like the fog that comprised her body. “And you said you wanted my statement.” She sighed. “Captain Lukas would be disappointed in me if I did that.”

She laughed, just once, softly and coldly, the sudden force of air causing her emaciated, intangible form to burst apart for a moment before pulling itself back together into something that was almost human. “I don't see why not,” she shrugged. “I don't care about what he thinks anymore.” She finally looked into the archivist's eyes. It was unsettling. “So… How do we do this?”

“Well, you sit there–” Jon glanced and gestured pointedly at the chair on the other side of the desk. “And I record your statement.”

Salome glanced back at the chair behind her. “Is that all…?”

Jon nodded. “Yes. Uh, please– Please go sit down now.”

The entity shrugged again and walked around Jonathan’s desk, dragging her fingers along the top of his desk in loose waving, spiraling patterns. She sat down in the chair opposite the archivist’s desk.

Jon sat in his chair. “Right.” He pulled the running tape recorder to the middle of the desk, between himself and Salome. The archivist cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was dry and detached. “Statement of Salome Lukas, regarding her becoming. Statement taken direct from subject, 4th April, 2018. Whenever you're ready, Miss Lukas.”

Salome chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment before she felt her story be pulled out of her. “I didn't know about the Powers until I was almost twenty, but I think I'm getting ahead of myself.”

“It started when I was six years old. I had been in foster care for the previous two years after my parents were taken by the Twisting Deceit when I was four. I watched it happen. It’s my earliest clear memory of them. Some neighbors must have heard me crying and called the police, but the time between Mum and Dad going through a door that shouldn’t have been there and my going into the foster system is a blur. The families did their best, I think, but I was… a special case. How do you take care of a traumatized toddler with newly-discovered abandonment issues and an irrational fear of unfamiliar doors? You don’t. …It took two years for my uncle to come for me.”

“Your uncle being Peter Lukas,” Jon said for clarification.

“Yes. Two years… I don’t know if it took him that long to find out about me, or if he just didn’t bother for all that time. Either way, he showed up, told me he was my mum’s older brother, signed a few papers, and then I was his daughter with a room of my own on the Tundra.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, “he adopted you?”

“I guess he must have,” Salome responded, “but he never actually used the word ‘daughter.’ Whatever the law said, I was his niece, at most.”

She took a breath and continued. “He brought in a rotating cast of nannies and tutors whose names I never learned and whose faces I don't remember. I saw the Spiral’s door out of the corner of my eye once or twice before my tenth birthday. I never went near it. I didn't know what it was, but I knew I was afraid of it. It must have known I'd never open its door, as much as the Powers can know anything. I think it was mocking me.”

“When I was ten,” she continued, “I found a Leitner. I didn't know what it was, of course. It was this plain spiral-bound notebook that I wouldn't know until years later was tied to the Eye. I used it as a diary for three years.”

“Good lord,” Jon exclaimed.

“Mm. I didn't have any dark, horrible secrets for it to feed on; I was ten. But I did have trauma, thoughts, and desires that I didn't want anyone to know, and that was enough for it to work on me. It made me paranoid. I lost the book when I was thirteen, but I didn't miss it.”

Unable to help himself, the archivist asked, “What did you want?”

“My uncle's affection, or even just his attention. I got it in my head that in order to get that, I had to do what he wanted me to do. And before you ask, Archivist, because I know you're going to: he never said it, but what he wanted me to do was isolate myself, keep my thoughts and feelings pushed deep, deep down. Serve Forsaken. I didn't learn that until it was already too late and things went… wrong. Or right, depending on your perspective. You mentioned Gerard? We met when we were twelve. He was a couple of months older than me. His mum and my uncle introduced us.”

“Why?”

“Why else? To ‘unite the Lukas and von Closen lines’.”

Jonathan frowned with furrowed brows. “Good lord. But nothing ever came of it?”

With a shake of the head, Salome replied, “No. We went on one date to appease them when we were fifteen and then never spoke of it again. We were close, though, or as close as we could be when we rarely saw each other. He tried to show me what Peter was doing, but I didn't want to see it. I always said, ‘He just doesn't know how to raise me. He's doing his best.’ Even then, I didn't know about the Powers. Gerard could have told me, but I think he thought he was protecting me from them by keeping me in the dark about it all.”

Another breath. “...Things started to change when I started going to the Magnus Institute.”

“You worked here?” the archivist asked in surprise.

“...Sort of,” Salome said slowly. “I wasn’t on the payroll. I took over my uncle's quarterly financial meetings with Elias when they finally got sick of each other. I didn't want to. I didn't like this place or Elias—probably because of my ‘diary’—but I thought it would make Peter happy, so I went along with it. That's how I met Michael Shelley.”

The archivist sat forward in his seat, remembering the stuttering voice of the man from statement #9522002 who would die to the Spiral and the machinations of Gertrude Robinson and become something inhuman, like the young woman sat before him. He knew she had known the distorted being calling itself Michael, but learning that she had known Michael Shelley was news to him.

“He was covering for Elias's assistant the morning of my first meeting with him. I approached the desk, and Michael smiled when he saw me. He smiled. That stuck with me until the next time I saw him. I'll spare you the details, but Michael and I met a few more times over the next year and I learned that he was… so unlike anyone else I'd ever met before. He was open, kind, sweet, and… and so utterly human.”

The sudden faraway look in Salome's gray eyes said what her words didn't. “You loved him,” the archivist guessed.

“Yeah,” Salome confirmed. “He saw me, Archivist. In ways no one else, not even Gerry, did.”

Gerry, Jonathan noted silently. He was under no delusion that the woman Salome used to be was being miracuously revived by her talking about Michael Shelley; that wasn't how this worked, and that seemed especially the case for the incredibly lonely young woman sitting before him. Her voice was starting to crack as her statement went on, and he wasn't surprised when the Eye informed him that this was the most she had spoken in a very, very long time.

“I invoked the Lonely’s power for the first time in a cafe, a little over a year after I met Michael Shelley. Gerry and I had met for coffee one day, and after some time of… I must have zoned out, because I don't remember most of it. At some point, Gerry asked about the meetings, which got me started talking about Michael. Lucky me, Michael came into the cafe at that exact moment. He sat behind me but he was listening to some music or other and didn’t notice me. Gerry tried to get me to talk to him, which is when things went wrong. I told him to be quiet, and…”

“Invoked the Lonely,” the archivist completed.

“Yes. I was able to put things back, but… I didn’t know what had happened, but I knew it was my fault. Michael was fine; everyone was fine. Nobody noticed what I’d done,” Salome said, “but it still scared me. I didn’t like it. So, I ran.” She looked at the archivist for a moment, her gray eyes unfocused. “Do you know… what my uncle said to me when I got back to the Tundra?”

“What?” The archivist was on the edge of his seat now, the Eye compelling him to catch and digest every one of Salome Lukas’s words.

“He said, ‘I’m so proud of you.’”

“And that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” the archivist asked, recalling an earlier part of Salome’s statement.

“Mmhm. Peter knew exactly what to say and when to say it to keep me obedient. And it worked. After that, I learned about the Powers, and here we are.”

The office was silent for a long while. “Tell me about Michael Shelley,” the archivist said. “You mentioned loving him, so he must have been important to you.”

“He was,” Salome confirmed. “We actually started going out not long after the cafe incident. He was…” The avatar gestured vaguely. “He kept me tied to what was left of my humanity. He anchored me to myself. He loved me, and I loved him.”

“But you didn’t tell him about the Fears?”

“I thought I was keeping him safe,” Salome said. “But maybe I was just afraid he’d leave me if he knew what I was. You know what happened next, don’t you?”

“That’s why you attacked the archives,” the archivist realized. “Because Gertrude sacrificed Michael Shelley.”

“Losing him was… hard,” Salome whispered. “I was grieving… I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. All I did was cry until my grief eventually killed me a few weeks later.”

“And that was when you attacked the Institute.”

“Yes. I sent a few of the braver souls into the Lonely when they wouldn't get out of my way. I was so close to killing her.”

“What stopped you?”

“...Michael.” Salome’s voice broke, though Jon wasn't sure if it was remnants of the grief that had changed her so fundamentally or if it was just because she wasn't used to talking so much. “The Distortion had become Michael… My Michael… If I hadn't already had my emotions ripped out of me, I don't know what I'd have felt. An extension of the thing that had taken my parents, my boyfriend, and sent my life into a downward spiral took the form of my Michael… speaking the way he did… holding me the way he used to… saying my name…”

Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Salome seemed to have lost hold of herself again, and heavier fog spilled out of her mouth. “Miss Lukas? Are you alright?”

“This must be your first time meeting the All-Alone,” came a third, far-too-cheery voice from behind the archivist. Jonathan sighed and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, and Salome barely seemed to take notice of Helen’s presence at all. The Distortion rounded the desk and stopped behind Salome, curling its fingers over the Lonely avatar’s shoulders and resting her chin on her head. “You know, Archivist, Sal is very rude. I just want to be her friend; is that so bad?”

One look at Salome was enough to know that she was trapped inside her own mind once again. Jon frowned. Salome Lukas was an inhuman monster, like the Distortion, there was no doubt about that. But even so, she seemed so deeply sad all the time. She was only a child when Peter Lukas took advantage of her losing her parents and had her raised in almost complete isolation until she was so desperate for his approval that she played right into his hands; Michael Shelley had almost saved her, but between the Spiral and Gertrude Robinson, that was never going to last. The loss of Salome’s parents and, even more catastrophically for her, Michael Shelley had destroyed her, turned her into this grieving, hollowed-out thing that now sat before the archivist: the All-Alone, as Helen had called her. A fitting title. It wasn’t fair.

“...You…” Salome murmured, hollow and lethargic, “...aren’t him…”

“I wasn’t him when I was Michael, either,” the Distortion replied cheerfully. Mockingly.

“No, that’s enough. Helen, get out,” the archivist commanded, but Salome was already gone. Without its unwilling perch, the Distortion scoffed and crossed its arms.

“See?” Helen gestured at the empty air where the All-Alone sat a moment before. “What did I tell you? So rude.”

The archivist sighed. “Statement ends.”

Click.

---

Mini Fics (Salome, Michael, Peter, etc.)

Mini Fics (Camille, Elias, Jonah, Eleanor, etc.)

[fog-and-isolation]

//OOC: Finally incorporating this pathetic wet cat of a man into my writing.

[fog-and-isolation]

Do not use to train or feed AI

---

"Conflict"

Date of event: 2nd February, 2010

Read also on AO3

Its hands felt wrong as they touched and caressed Salome's gaunt face. They didn't feel anything like her Michael's–warm and soft with calluses on his fingers from papercuts he had gotten working at the Magnus Institute. These hands were different: Massive and cold, spindly and rocky and stiff and leathery, with none of the gentle affection that Michael Shelley had shown her, and instead a slow, hungry sort of curiosity, as if carefully trying to identify a potential meal by touch alone. “I… know you…” it murmured. There was a hint of anger in its voice. “I know you. Your face…” It curled a long, bony finger beneath her eye, the deadly sharp end drawing blood. “Is a wonderful dream I long to forget.”

     The creature withdrew a clawed hand as if to prepare to slice the All-Alone's throat to the bone. Salome flinched, closing her eyes against the madness of the Distortion and its corridors, as if denying the twisted reality in those impossible mazes would make it any less true.

     “Ha…” Salome felt the monster tuck a lock of white hair behind her ear. “Are you… frightened of me, little mourning dove?”

     Most of Salome's emotions and feelings, as carefully guarded as they were, had been ripped out of her when she became the All-Alone. All but two: fear and grief.

     “Yes,” Salome whispered. She didn't open her eyes. She feared if she did, she would find her parents’ twisted corpses there waiting for her, despite being long digested by the being she found herself trapped inside of. “I… I'm afraid of you.”

     There was a smile, wide and grotesque, in the creature's voice when it next spoke. “Good, that's good… Oh, he loved you, you know…” The creature cooed and caressed Salome's face and hair. “He loved you, and you're afraid of me~”

     It suddenly released Salome's face with a snarl and began circling her, its stretched and rail-thin form towering over her even as it bent and contorted and twisted in on itself to fit inside the room. Finally, the All-Alone opened her eyes again. Her vision was blurred, and she couldn't tell how much was the madness of the Spiral and how much of it was her own tears. “You took him from me,” she rasped.

     “Yes, I did. Of course, if it weren't for Gertrude Robinson, your Michael would still be alive, and you and I would be having a very different conversation.” It stopped its circling and twisted its upper body around to peer down at Salome. “Oh… are you crying, mourning dove?” It reached out and rubbed beneath her eye with the heel of its palm. “So frightened, poor, fragile thing…”

     “Why won't you kill me?” Salome whispered.

     “Because as much as I despise being tied to you through Michael Shelley , I don't want to kill you,” the Distortion hissed in Salome's ear. It was then that she realized, through her haze, that the creature wasn't speaking. She didn't think it could speak, not here in its corridors. She didn't know how she was understanding its thoughts and intent, but she was. She didn't realize that it was because of the simple fact that she was inside the Spiral, inside the entity that gave the Distortion its form and its power. And the Distortion wanted her to hear it.

     A weight fell over Salome, her grief resurfacing again. She sank to her knees, and even that was somehow listless. She didn't have the strength to hold herself. Her arms remained heavy and limp by her sides. Her eyes fell closed again, and Michael crouched beside her. Its presence felt so much like his , but somehow still so wrong.

     It wrapped its arms around her and pulled her into its sharp, bony lap, rocking back and forth and stroking her hair in some awful mockery of comfort. “You're confused…” the creature cooed. Its voice came from every direction that was and every direction that wasn't. “ You don't know what to feel, do you, poor thing… Ah, what a vision you and I must make, hmm? Whatever you are and whatever I am…”

     Salome curled into herself. “Kill me,” she pleaded in a weak voice, “Please, please just kill me. ”

     “I already told you,” the Distortion said, voice suddenly sharp as one of its huge hands gripped Salome's chin, “I don't want to.”

     Then, without hesitation or fanfare, it kissed her, but it wasn't right. It didn't seem to know what it was doing, just angrily mashing their mouths together to see what worked. Salome didn't fight it. Her arms stayed limp at her sides as the creature that took her Michael's name and identity slowly figured out how to kiss her. It was more aggressive than any kiss from her Michael; even in their more intense moments together, Michael Shelley’s touch had always been gentle. Not like this horrible, rail-thin thing smashing its mouth against hers.

But then, when it seemed to figure it out, it made a sound that was not unlike the small, happy way Michael Shelley would sigh against Salome’s lips as they kissed. The Distortion took a deep breath, its too-wide mouth curled into a smile that Salome could almost describe as goofy as its long, many-jointed arms wrapped tighter around her. It made that soft little sound of contentment again, before growling in disappointment when Salome suddenly backed out of its grip, her body suddenly breaking apart and coming back together like disturbed fog. She sat a few feet away from the Distortion, hugging her knees to her chest.

     “What is it, mourning dove?” it hissed.

     “Did he suffer?”

     The question hung in the air. “Yes,” the Distortion admitted calmly. Its hands, swollen and sharp, reached out and caressed Salome’s sides. “You don’t really want to know the details, though, do you? You don’t want to know the way he cried and screamed as everything that made him who he was was torn bodily from him… You don’t want to know how badly he wanted to hold you one last time, to kiss you, to marry you—”

     “Enough,” Salome interjects. “That’s enough. I don’t– I don’t want to hear this. You–” Salome looked at the thing. Really looked at it. Here, in its corridors, this was its truest form. She knew that. The Distortion was thin and limp. It didn’t move so much as it shifted, like a shattered mirror clumsily repaired reflecting something that might have once been Michael Shelley. Up close, she could barely look at the thing without feeling a dizzying migraine thrumming in her skull. She closed her eyes again and hid her face in her bony knees. When she spoke, she didn’t sound angry; she sounded tired. “You’re not him.”

     “I’m the closest thing to him you’re ever going to get again.”

     The creature curled one of its hands—spiky, swollen, and wrong—around the back of Salome’s head and pulled it to rest against its limp chest. “You killed him,” she murmured. “You killed all of them.”

     A clawed hand stroked Salome’s two-toned hair. “Something that was not me killed them… I am… something different now. Something new.”

     Salome shook her head, suddenly limp with exhaustion. “It… doesn’t matter…”

     “That’s it, that’s it…” The Distortion cooed, rocking Salome back and forth again. “Good little mourning dove, pretty little songbird… You’re all mine now, you know… Mine to hold and kiss and play with…”

     “...Yes…” Salome whispered. “I… I know.”

--

Read more on Tumblr (Salome, Michael, Peter, etc.)

Read more (Camille, Eleanor, Elias, Jonah, etc.)

@zeelzebub @justanotherbattyhere (Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!)

[fog-and-isolation]

//OOC: They're properly on AO3 now, too. Both works have a few changes, most notably Jonah's Beholding abilities in the fic about Eleanor's becoming and the addition of day/month/year dates in the titles of each chapter.