#at least it seems to have been fully archived

[grumpy-bat-central]

One of my favorite posts from bash.org ever was this convo between two uni dorm roommates:

A: With my engineering degree I'll at least be able to go build roads. What the hell are you going to do with that fine arts degree?? B: I'll paint the crossings!!

[rb19]

From the Archives: "Verstappen 'driving style' myth is a trait of greatness" Jan 19, 2021 by Matt Beer

"As a driver, it doesn't matter if you have an understeering car, oversteery car, slippery surface, grippy surface, you constantly adjust your driving style to that. If you just say 'this is my driving style', this is how it's going to be, you will not be quick. I think you learn in your whole racing career from go-karting to F3 to whatever, every weekend the car behaves a bit differently, so you always have to adjust to it. It's every weekend, constantly you're adjusting your driving style a little bit to make sure that the car is working well. And of course you try to set the car to your liking but it will never be fully to your liking. You always have to fine-tune. Or at least you try it. And at the end that’s what makes a driver fast."

Throughout F1 history the very best have had very different careers, been very different personalities, and on the surface seemed like very different drivers. But if they share one defining trait it's their capacity to handle different situations and adapt to what is required in each moment: they have a wider operating window. Verstappen speaks of adaptability as if it is second nature. Probably because it is. This is a young man who has been carefully moulded into a world-class driver. The devotion to the craft of driving, instilled at such a young age, is why at 23 he has greater intuition and 'feel' than most will have at the peak of their powers. [...] Verstappen's ability comes from his intuition, which in turn a legacy of years of relentless preparation and practice. So, when he finds himself dealing with a skittish rear end, or in greasy conditions, or driving through rivers like in the 2016 Brazilian Grand Prix, he has an extraordinary bank of data to use to handle those challenges. And he can access it automatically. It's why he handles them better than most, why even if a data overlay of a given lap or a comparison of a race stint might have shown Gasly or Albon where Verstappen was quicker, and a binary idea of what he was doing to be quicker, it doesn't fully account for how he was doing it. Driving a car is a dynamic process, with multiple inputs and countless adjustments. It's an immensely complicated sensory puzzle and piecing it all together through conscious thought is difficult, if not impossible. Most of what makes Verstappen so effective is happening on an unconscious level. [...] So, what can lazily be described as Verstappen's 'driving style' is far more complex than that. He doesn't have one way of driving, he has the skills required to drive in multiple different ways and is building more and more experience to know what way works best in any given moment. That manifests itself in such delicate, refined inputs that most drivers can see what he's doing and get close to replicating it, but not quite. And that's worth tenths of a second at a time, especially when it comes to the 2020 task of taking a capricious car and driving around its vices. This is what is second nature to Verstappen now, why the speed seems to come so effortlessly. In 2020 he augmented that with further gains in maturity and judgement. This is a vital second trait that will, car permitting, allow Verstappen to translate his performance into championships. [...]

[phoenixyfriend]

Was chatting about good alternate Cody&Obi-Wan dynamics with @threebea, and one of them we just had a lot of fun with.

Bea:

Cody: We are doing a good job at war. Are you proud general. Obi-Wan: [grump in CW '03] Cody being in a lacky position is very funny to me, if that makes sense. Cody: The boss will surely promote me. Obi-Wan: You're diligent and thorough but we cannot save supplies by powering this with my lightsaber that is not happening. I have always considered that of the two of them, Cody is the reckless hot-blooded one and Rex is the level-headed one. (Obi-Wan's view skewed however having raised one Anakin Skywalker making Cody kicking droids seem very reasonable and thought out.)

Here were my options for Cody and Obi dynamics:

Obi-Wan treating Cody the way he treats Anakin, early on in their working relationship, tentative but working on that angle because those two are the same age and rank so like. Cody might really be as much of a Dumb Young Man as most young men are, yes?

Obi-Wan treating Cody with a hands-off approach because the guy can manage the army while Obi-Wan runs off to stab the Count, right?

Obi-Wan treating Cody kinda coldly because his instinct is to be very delicate and nice to these traumatized young men, but they don't like it when he does that, so he has to be standoffish because otherwise he'll start babying them because they're barely any older than Anakin was when he got his boy.

Obi-Wan treating Cody as a Research Assistant because he's a nerd and sometimes padawans would be assigned to him in the archives, and Cody hovers behind his shoulder the way those students did so he just got distracted and started giving Research Guy orders instead of High General orders.

Aaaaaanyway we got in on that last one.

Obi-Wan definitely had to call him Padawan at least once Cody: ... [Looks around nope just him]

Cody: I expected to be mistaken for my brothers due to our faces. I did not expect to be mistaken for... Anakin Skywalker? Did I get that right?

Rex: My general called me mom once. I think he was joking? but I'm not sure.

One day, Cody has to come into the Temple for some professional reason, is told that Obi-Wan is in the archives, and walks into the sight of Obi-Wan wandering the stacks with several teenagers following him like ducklings, giving instructions with just "Padawan, could you grab that one?"

When Cody asks how they know which one he means, they tell him they don't. They just go with whoever's nearest the given task.

Cody: But he doesn't do this to any other clone [he does] Rex: You stand just behind his shoulder handing him files all day.

You Are Doing The Padawan Thing

Cody initially worried because implied Obi-Wan thinks of him as a student/not fully ready for the responsibility of being a commander or whatever. Obi-Wan: ? No I just… You're Padawan shaped. I can't explain it any better than that Cody gets it the most because he happens to stand exactly where Anakin used to stand the most often. Ironically, Obi-Wan tries hard to call Anakin by his name as a respect to his no longer being a student thing. Cody is firm about military discipline calling Obi-Wan sir and General because if he called him Master Kenobi or Obi-Wan the 'mistaken for Padawan' thing would happen three times as often. Cody: [grumbles] Alpha-17 didn't have this problem. Rex: Alpha-17 drew a line between himself and the Padawan day one to avoid it I think.

Alpha also has been acting like a middle-aged man since he was five. The disdain. Dripping.

Which actually didn't save him he was just more openly insulted when it happened once so Obi-Wan made sure never to do it again. Alpha: I was trained by Jango Fett himself and have proven myself a full fledged captain. I am not a Padawan :/ Obi-Wan: [listening to the speech] noted Cody: [far too polite to ever correct Obi-Wan] What did you need, General? Probably reinforced Alpha acting like an old man. I think he even calls Anakin kid? Anakin: I'm older than you you're the kid 😦 Obi-Wan: Padawan don't argue with the captain. I need a five times Obi-Wan called Cody Padawan (and one time when it was Alpha-17) fic now lol

Anakin: Why does he get away with-- Obi-Wan: Because I feel that if I call him Padawan by accident again, he may break something. And we don't have the funds for that.

Anakin: [in the room once but realizes Obi-Wan was taking to Cody] Anakin: Am I jealous by rival son/Padawan or am I amused that Obi-Wan is going senile?

"my baby boy" vs "generic younger person whom I feel some fondness for"

It's like. Old southern men who refer to anyone younger than them as "son" or "miss."

Obi-Wan: It's even gender neutral I don't have to remember names at all. Obi-Wan also probably called Ahsoka 'Anakin' a number of times, but that's due more to the A name combined with her jumping off something a Padawan should not be jumping off of. He mostly defaults to Padawan but a scolding 'Anakin! No!' Comes out every now and then for her. Obi-Wan: Anakin! No! Anakin, beside him: What? Obi-Wan: ...Sorry, force of habit. Ahsoka! No!

[taniahylian]

Matilda's memory loss

This is a theory I thought about the other day after finishing the 2.5 event, Showdown in Chinatown (so if you haven't finished that event, click out if you want to avoid spoilers), but before I fully explain it, I'll give you some context.

In the first stage of Chapter 3, we're introduced to SPDM with a teacher asking the kids about the war between humans and arcanists that happened in Constantinople. First, Sonetto gives an answer that pretty much puts all the blame of the war and the eventual result (the arcanists being defeated) on the arbitrary and violent nature of arcanists. Then Matilda interferes with information that was provided to her by her grandpa.

Matilda's version of the story is pretty much the opposite to Sonetto's; the humans ransaked Constantinople to gain access to the literature of arcanum, and then isolated and blamed arcanists, forcing them into hiding.

Although the truth is most likely somewhere in between, you can probably see that Matilda's version is more in line with Manus Vindictae's way of thinking; humans have been marginalizing arcanists for centuries and stripping them from any position of power (although of course the Manus use this as an excuse for revenge, which Matilda never suggests). More so, it hints at Matilda's family knowing something about the origin of the name "arcanists", which I wouldn't be surprised if it has something to do with Arcana herself.

Now, what happens next? The teacher inquires further to see what else Matilda can tell them about this version of the story and the song it came from, however, strangely enough, Matilda can't remember anything else.

She even goes as far as remarking how weird it is, since she had been humming it just the night before. And it's not like Matilda usually has bad memory; being the third best student in the school, she's bound to have above average memory, so it's even stranger that this is happening to her.

Now, my first assumption (and I most ppl's probably), was that the Foundation was brainwashing the kids and making them forget the outside world... but that's not the case; all of the kids Vertin asks later on remember at least something from their life before joining SPDM. More so, I always saw it as a plothole that the Foundation could erase memories, but then didn't do that to make the kids (or at the very least Vertin) forget about the disastrous parade ceremony, that even Constantine admits was a bad move on their part.

I even thought maybe the whole artificial sonambulism they put Vertin through might have been to, not only keep her in a coma, but also to erase whatever bad memories she had of the foundation and therefore make her more obedient. But as we see in the Tuesday's event, Vertin clearly hasn't forgotten about her friends or how they died.

So... what caused Matilda's memory loss then? Well, the answer is simple: her mom. Hear me out.

During the 2.5 event, we learn that Scott stole and sold 5 arcane items from the Foundation's archives, but her motivations and her methods seem very suspicious, so Black Ibis, a member of the Vigils, keeps her under surveillance after they're unable to learn anything by interrogating her. And this vigilance pays off; she is soon contacted by none other than Matilda's mom.

By the looks of it, Matilda's mom is able to hypnoptize other ppl at a distance (we don't even know where she is), and contact whoever she wants by the use of crystals. She can also lock memories of ppl to prevent any information she doesn't want to fall into someone else's hands from being retrieved. That's what she did to Scott... and to Matilda too, probably.

Listen, Matilda's mom is very suspicious. Black Ibis mentions that one of the items stolen could perhaps be used for "that ritual" (probably Arcana's resurrection), and so whoever stole it likely has that as a goal. However, it seems she's been pretending to be in the Foundation's side all this time, to the point she sent her daughter to SPDM and she herself was staying at a Foundation's safe house. But of course she's highly intelligent and talented, and so, to prevent any sensitive information from being found by the foundation, she locked some of Matilda's memories, just in case the Foundation would try to pry into Matilda's mind.

Matilda very likely even knows where her mother is, but that memory is locked. If her powers were more developed, however, she probably would be able to break this barriers and find her. At least that's how I interpret what her mother said to Scott.

But why lock the memories about the song Matilda's grandfather used to sing? Probably because the song, somehow, is associated with Manus Vindictae, Arcana, or some other group that the Foundation deems as dangerous. Remember that Matilda comes from a long line of pure blooded and extremely talented arcanists (as is explained in her first bond story); exactly the type of arcanists that would be most likely to be approached by the Manus.

In any case, I hope we'll find more about this in the future. Let me know what you think!

[melody-busez]

in light of the absolute roller-coaster of catastrophies that was Part 52 and the very understandable wave of pessimism that followed in the fandom I'd like to say that yes, I might just be delusional, but I fully 100% believe that Malevolent is going to end well, and that it having a tragic ending would ruin the whole story.

Malevolent is about Hope, hope in the face of the impossible, hope in the face of things infinitely bigger and more powerful than you, hope in the face of absolute, utter desperation. and it worked so far. when Arthur and John were at their worst, when surviving seemed impossible, hope is what kept them going and what ultimately made them overcome everything they've gone through so far (not unscathed, for sure, but alive and together).

so when you look at the podcast as a whole, at the message that it's trying to convey, what sense would having it end in tragedy make? for example, having either John or Arthur or both die. that their hope was ultimately useless?

I like to compare it to the ending of The Magnus Archives (SPOILERS!!!!!) and how, in that case, a tragic ending was fitting. TMA's whole point was that by the time most of the characters realized stuff was Bad, they were already long since doomed (anglerfish metaphor!!). there was ultimately no hope or choice for them, but the choice they did have was to go through it together. Jon and Martin died together, bringing the Magnus Institute down with them. it was a tragic end that left all of our hearts in shatters, but it was also the perfect end to their story. (END OF SPOILERS FOR TMA)

having said that, Malevolent is not like that. ending in tragedy would go against everything the podcast has been trying to say.

so yes. I fully believe that both Arthur and John are going to live, and that John will get a human body of his own. I could even enter the realm of unpopular opinions (at least based on the fanfictions I've read) and say that I'd love it if Arthur got his sight back, stripping John of his usefulness and leaving him to grapple with the fact that he can be loved and needed simply for who he is, and not for the service he can offer.

again, I might be delusional but I'll be very disappointed if Malevolent doesn't end well. probably bittersweet, sure, probably not a perfect happy ending, but still a good one.

[4ngelsstar]

Imagine:

A Yandere!Jinx breaking into your house immediately after finding out you’d stolen something from her during a time when you were being.. intimate, to say the least. She’d been smitten with you, but upon figuring this out? She was completely enraged. She didn’t know exactly what she was going to do, but she was going to do SOMETHING!

Maybe she would kill you, but perhaps she was too infatuated?..

She still has to think about it.

After all, she’d killed people for you just because they flirted with you or looked at you in a way she particularly didn’t like. She’d spent so many of her moments with you, practically groveling at your feet. She’d begged for you to stay with her, to love her. And you said you did!

Maybe that was a lie.

And upon arriving in your room, pistol in hand, she finds you sound asleep. But, looks like you left a small hatch beneath the rug open.

She scoffs, thinking this is way too easy. After stashing her gun away, she begins to descend down the ladder, Jinx glances back up at your sleeping form as you stir. She.. honestly doesn’t know how to feel, she doesn’t even wanna look at you right now until she figures what to do next about all of this, given the fact Sevika’s on her BACK about this being an important plan they need to execute. Something he would’ve done as well.

A huff escapes her and finally goes all the way down, being sure to close the hatch quietly before fully getting down. She was now in a rather dark and dusty room. She waved her hand in front of her mouth and nose, wanting to cough.

But who’d know if that’d wake you.

So, Jinx restrains it and decides to start searching around for a light source, given she didn’t bring one of her own.

It doesn’t take her long until her hand feels up a string connected to, what she suspects, to be a light source. Quickly, she pulls on it, and light illuminates the room. To her amusement, she grinned in delight.

Though upon inspecting the room?

She’s met by practically an entire SHRINE dedicated to her, and her alone.

Various photographs with the banal hearts surrounding her, scribbling out anyone else if there even was.. you seemed to have just cut that part off. Most of those photos are connected with more papers, reading out dates in red ink with little notes talking about what she was doing, how pretty she looked, and so on. But, there were some that were pinned to the walls around. There were dozens upon dozens of crumpled papers littered around, a bunch of her possessions now prized in this room like they were crafted by a god themself.

Not only that, but there’s a small journal on a nearby desk, along with writing which has been obsessively scribbled upon the walls of the hidden room.

And she began to read them..:

‘I love her so much.’

‘She’s mine.’

‘So pretty.’

‘♡’

…

She stands there, completely dumbfounded upon what she’s found.

Her mouth remains agape.

..So that’s why you took those plans from her: because you thought she wouldn’t notice, thinking that they weren’t going to cause that much of a deal, and henceforth - allow you to continue indulging in your obsession with..

Her.

And that’s when she hears the creaking of the hatch opening once more.

.

.

.

Dividers: @cafekitsune & @strangergraphics-archive

[twilightofthesandwiches]

Okay, so, I know this is kind of a Stupid Thing to Focus on but… I’ve been rewatching ‘Friends Forever’ (still one of my favorite and most complex and most heart-wrenching Ice King episodes) and I’ve been thinking about the bit where Ice King tries to research how to be smart…

We can see him reads from what very much seems to be part of Simon Petrikov's journals. Considering that it details the aftermath of the Mushroom War.

In addition, while the shelves are made of ice, much like the bookshelves Ice King has in his throne room, this is clearly a much... robust archive

which much more resembles Simon Petrikov’s library/research room.

The table IK uses also seems to be a match to the one in the research room. At least in terms of colors

So, it might be a different Room Full of Books that Simon placed in his Castle before he truly 100% lost it, or it might be the same one we see in 'Betty' but with a minor continuity error when it comes to what the shelves are made from. Either way, from the aforementioned journal, we know this library probably contains books Simon had personally written

But considering the Amount, probably not all of them. (Especially if you assume there are two separate library rooms). Maybe he came back to his old house to gather up all the prewar academic books he owned, but that still seems like an Unusually High Amount of Books. I think he probably kept gathering and writing books as he was slowly turning into Ice King. Like, by the time the show started he was basically totally gone - but a couple hundred years ago he’d have brief moments of lucidity and start writing again or searching books that could help him deal with the curse.

Which makes me wonder about this book.

I know that it’s just a silly funny joke, but…

Like, a Big Undertone of ‘Friends Forever’ is Ice King’s insecurities and frustrations with his own stupidity and lack of maturity. And with Simon’s library showing up in the middle of the episode like it did, it’s hard to forget that Simon used to have the intelligence and maturity needed to speak with all of these living furniture on equal terms, but his mental facilities have been eroded by the madness of the Crown and now he can’t and these frustrations manifest even though Ice King isn’t fully aware of that fact.

And this book, I know that the title just playing directly into Ice King’s insecurities is just the Joke but also…

I’m thinking about Ice King/Simon when he was a bit more lucid. Aware that he’s going mad and it's getting harder and harder for him to think clearly and that makes it so much harder to find a solution and expressing a lot of that same anger that Ice King expresses outwards towards the Living Furniture - inwards.

I’m wondering if Simon specifically sought out that book because he felt like he was ‘turning dumb’.

I’m wondering if Simon could’ve written this book. Some sort of last final act of impotent rage against the person he was turning into, frustration at his growing inability to think like he used to, even though he couldn't even remember his own name anymore - only that he was the 'Smarty McBrainypants' part of his old identity.

That would explain why it’s such a worn and rugged book...

[nameless-pirate]

Sabo: fluff headcanons

Summary: just some fluff headcanons for Sabo! Tags: fluff! Notes: This was a request! Sabo is a bit hard to read as we don't have much to go on, but I hope I did him justice.

Fluff relationship headcanons

Sabo's love feels like the sun in winter or the cold wind on a hot summer day. It brings you hope.

You started off as friends in the Revolutionary Army. You would spend a lot of time together, training, reading, or going through mission files. One day, you were sent to check out the situation in one of the islands near the base. You happened upon a huge parade, and Sabo grabbed your hand, so you wouldn't get lost. Nothing has been the same since.

Suddenly, you craved his touch and presence. You didn't even dream of him feeling the same way, and you hoped it would eventually go away. “It will pass”, you told yourself. When Sabo suggested going swimming, you immediately said yes. You two would do that often in the bay. Swim first, then eat at the beach, watching the sun go down. Everything seemed normal until you two sat down on the blanket. You dug your feet into the sand, and as soon as you reached for the basket, you heard Sabo say, “Yeah, I don't think this will pass”.

You looked at him surprised. His wet hair stuck to his forehead and small drops were going down his nose and temples. “What did you say?” you asked nervously.

In Sabo's mind, it was meant to be a confession. Instead, he blabbed. About your smile, eyes, your skin, how great you are, how comfortable he feels around you, how competent you are on missions, and how he can't for the life of him get that feeling from holding your hand from his mind. It felt right. And before you knew it, you leaned towards him, bringing your face closer, and to this day, neither of you knows who kissed who first. But it felt right. And the sun may have been hiding behind the horizon, but a new flame started burning between you two.

You always sit next to each other, arms and legs touching. Some people in the army say you're glued together.

Sabo trusts you completely. He's not one to be jealous or tell you something is too dangerous for you to handle. He believes you can do anything.

Loves to hold hands.

Kisses your fingertips.

Every now and then when you cuddle, he peppers your face with kisses.

After his memory came back and he became the flame emperor, there's a whole new side to Sabo. He's still your love, but now you get to understand him fully. To see him as a whole.

One night, he doesn't come to bed. You find him in the archive room, rereading old newspapers and gathering all he can about Ace. You don't say anything, but you stay to help him.

Now that he can't swim with you, he stays on the beach and watches you.

But it irks him that something you used to do together is no longer an option. So he's determined to teach you how to climb trees properly.

You used to be jealous of Koala, but now the three of you are friends. You often drink beers together in the evening, and somehow you end up teasing Sabo.

His favourite sound? Your laugh. If he can't make you laugh, he starts a tickle war, which you always end up losing.

Whenever you go on missions without each other, you leave notes or short letters. You have two chests stored: one with your letters for Sabo and one with Sabo's for you. You wear the key to the one with his letters on a little chain on your neck. He keeps his in a little pocket in his hat. You promised each other to open the chests only if something happened to the other person.

Can't go to sleep without a goodnight kiss. He actually likes to fall asleep cuddling, and it doesn't matter who's the big spoon. Your presence and touch is what makes it easy for him to drift off.

He will never leave without a kiss either. Sometimes he wakes you up just for a little peck on the lips. It's his good luck charm. At least that's what he says.

When you fight, it gets explosive at first—all screams and cries. Sabo often leaves so you can both calm down and comes back later to have a proper conversation. He doesn't want to scream at you.

[nintendont2502]

finished season one of tma last night ! just gonna dump my thoughts here before i start season two (so i can come back and see how wrong i was lmao)

jon's va is a PHENOMENAL actor, holy shit. like dont get me wrong theyre all amazing, but oh my GOD

speaking of, while im sure the out of universe reasoning for jon putting his entire archivussy into the statements is just bc it makes them more interesting to listen to, i still personally choose to believe that the institute purely hired him for his voice acting skills

theres something.... interesting with jons role that i cant stop thinking about. jane prentiss only referring to him as "archivist". the transcripts (or at least, the ones im using) only referring to him as "archivist". his first impulse being to grab the tape recorder during jane's attack and record the entire thing. the title of archivist is kinda beginning to feel more like... a mask i guess? something that takes over and kinda overshadows your old identity. youre not jon, youre not gertrude - youre just "archivist"

(also something about martin being forced to move into the archives (almost becoming part of the archives) and sasha literally having her identity subsumed and stolen by. whatever the fuck not!sasha is. both of those occurrences only happening because they were acting on behalf of the institute. kinda noticing a trend of identities being lost or stolen or changed because of (and maybe by) the institute, but that could just be a "i connected two dots" "you didnt connect shit" moment yk)

i fully believe the role of archivist is cursed. like one hundred percent. theres something up with that shit and theres no way in hell theyre being paid enough to make up for it

tbf theres no way in hell anyone heres being paid enough to make up for the bullshit they go through. id say they should quit but,,, i dont think they can

except maybe martin. please martin. go live a normal life and write your poetry and stop needing to corkscrew worms out of yourself

"i refuse to become another goddamn mystery" :((

i dont trust the institute. at all. i think at best theyre just a shitty workplace willing to turn a blind eye to some things for the good of their research, and at worst theyre actively hiding something or lying about what they are. theres just been. so many small details that rub me the wrong way yk - the archive team not being allowed to research cases that involve the lukas family in case they pull funding, sasha mentioning research students testing artefacts, the way MAG 37/Burnt Offering starts with jason begging the institute to save his son before acknowledging that theyll never do anything (makes me wonder how many statements they read and dismiss. how many statements they never read. how many people have died because of them?) - and i mean fuck just the general regard for employee health and safety seems to be non existent. also. yk. someone in the building probably murdering gertrude. thats a big thing

worms and rot and decay in the walls and a dead body in the basement. i dont trust them at all

this is definitely just me picking up what the episode was clearly laying out but holy shit gertrudes death feels *wrong*. all this build up, all the signs pointing towards it being something supernatural (the archive being filled with veins (?) in The Dreamers, the ritual site filled with photos of her in Burnt Offering, jane directly threatening the archivist in her statement (which wouldve been gertrude at the time if im not mistaken)) and then its just?? a gun?? and no one finds her body for a year???

that being said the mental image of jane and her merry band of worms sneaking into the archive just to shoot gertrude with a Regular Ass Gun is fucking hilarious

the only episode that really got to me was A Sturdy Lock, and i think that was just bc i got unlucky enough to listen to it on the one night i was home alone. woke up at 4 am, stared at my doorknob for a few minutes and forced myself to go back to sleep

favourite statement is probably a tie between The Dreamers (i love how perfectly it captured the distorted, off, slightly... disturbing vibes i get in my dreams, and as someone who was really vivid really weird dreams - it hit close to home) and Hive (bc holy SHIT jons acting in this was insane. jesus christ. the writing was incredible too holy fuck)

favourite *episode* is Infestation, just bc im a sucker for hearing Jon out of character (for lack of a better term - its fuckin *weird* hearing him emote. i love it) and i love getting more of the other archive staff (especially martin. martin my beloved martin my light more martin forever please and thank you). also jon admitting that he does believe most of the statements and hes fucking terrified of them hits like a truck when youve been making "jon doesnt believe something - take a shot" jokes for the last 38 episodes like i was

jons such a bitch /aff i love him. pathetic wet cat of a man

i fully expect him to try and kill someone next season. potentially himself. hopefully not martin

leitner and your fuck ass books when I Fucking Get You

where is sasha. where is my girl. give her back.

mahtiin :(((

[viviennevermillion]

The Sedative

✧ notes: i have a serious dan heng fic in the works too i promise, in the meantime, take this light-hearted crack fic

✧ summary: after you got hurt in the battle on the xianzhou, the doctors need to do an endoscopy on you. still under the influence of the sedative when you wake up, you think it's a wonderful idea to call dan heng and make your feelings clear to him.

✧ now playing: accidentally in love — counting crows

✧ warnings: reader is high on meds, talk of medical procedures, we're a little cringefail

Dan Heng had dedicated his afternoon to reading his newest book when the call came. Perhaps it was to distract himself from worrying about your health despite the fact that the doctor had said during the preliminary examination that you were most likely fine and that this was just a safety check-up to make sure that your organs were okay after you got wounded in your most recent fight. He knew that you had been worried about both the procedure as well as the results and he, as well as the rest of your friends from the Astral Express, had made sure to calm you down and reassure you that this was a routine examination and something that the doctors had done hundreds of times. Still, Dan Heng could only truly rest once he knew that you were awake and well.

Himeko and March had taken you to the doctor's office today for the endoscopy and he hadn't heard from them yet. He knew a little about how these procedures went; after all, he had read about them in the archives so he could rationalize any fears you might have and support you. He knew that you were likely going to suffer from short-time memory loss right after waking up as well as being a little bit out of it. So when his phone rang, he expected it to be March and Himeko; as they had promised to keep him updated on your condition and he didn't expect you to have your phone with you in the recovery room.

He picked up without looking at the screen, surprised to hear your voice instead. "Dan Heng?", you asked in a tired voice, making sure that you hadn't called the wrong number. "Yes, it's me", he confirmed in a soft tone, glad to hear from you, "how did the procedure go? Are you discharged from the hospital yet?" His heart sank because of worry when he heard your response to the question. "I need you to come here", you made it sound urgent, "I need to tell you something."

"Are you okay?", Dan Heng asked, his heart beating faster. "Can you be here soon?", you asked, "I'll explain everything then, I promise." Dan Heng asked if you were still under the influence of the sedative. You said no. You felt fine. A bit of Midazolam had nothing on you! Your thoughts were clear as day and they were telling you that it was wonderful that you were alive and well and you should appreciate every moment; especially those spent with Dan Heng! Life was too short to not confess your love to him right here and now! But that was a conversation to best be had in person.

"I'll be there in a bit", Dan Heng confirmed and rushed over to the hospital as fast as he could, calling Himeko and March on the way. They didn't pick up. When he arrived, he asked for you at the front desk. The nurse looked up to him. "Are you Dan Heng?", she asked with a sigh. "Yes?", Dan Heng responded in confusion, his voice still laced with uncertainty and worry. "They've been asking about you for the past 10 minutes", the nurse seemed so done with you but that didn't deter Dan Heng, "here I'll show you where the recovery room is; maybe you can get them to stay on the bed because they've repeatedly tried walking out of here when they're supposed to rest for at least 30 minutes after the procedure."

Dan Heng looked at the nurse in surprise. "They said they're fully awake and no longer affected by the sedative", he explained. "Oh I'm sure they think that", the nurse chuckled, opening the door to the recovery room, "sorry if they made you worry. The procedure went well, nothing to worry about." Dan Heng let out a sigh of relief and the nurse left him alone with you.

As soon as you saw him, he swore he could see your eyes light up like you had just seen fireworks explode across the night sky on your birthday. "Dan Heng!", you called out excitedly and tried to get up from the bed on your unsteady legs. Dan Heng hurried over to you. "No, no, you need to sit down and rest here for a bit", he reasoned and gently sat you back down on the bed. "What are you doing here?", you asked with so much wonder in your voice, "it's such a nice surprise to see you!" Dan Heng couldn't help but let out a soft laugh at seeing you in this state. "You called me, don't you remember?", he chuckled and sat down at your bedside. You looked surprised. "I did?", you asked and pulled out your phone, checking your call history, "wow, you're right! I don't remember that!" "I can see that", Dan Heng mumbled, shaking his head. He noticed that your voice still sounded a little slurred.

"Where are Himeko and March?", Dan Heng asked. "Went to get food for later", you yawned, "they told me to call them when I'm done!" "Well did you call them?" "I forgot", you giggled. "That's okay, I'll just send them a text...", Dan Heng sighed, wondering what he had gotten himself into, "how are you feeling?"

"Better, now that you're here", you smiled at him like a lovesick puppy, "but 'm a little cold." Dan Heng took off his coat and draped it over your shoulders. "Better?", he asked. The response was you wrapping your arms around him and slouching against his body, closing your eyes with a tired yawn. Dan Heng froze. The only other time you had been this close to him was a group hug March had pulled all of you into. Still, you weren't in your right mind and Dan Heng didn't have the heart to just push you away. After all, he didn't even mind the affection. It just caught him off-guard. He supposed he'd just let you rest against his shoulder for a while until your head was clear again. Unfortunately for him, you were very talkative.

"You're so pretty", you cooed, nuzzling his neck, which made Dan Heng's cheeks flush. That was how it started. You were far from done. "I think your dragon form is so cute; you have little horns and everything", you giggled, "you're so beautiful, both on the outside and in your heart. Can I braid your hair?"

"B-braid my hair?!", Dan Heng stammered and had to blink a couple of times and gather himself to even process what was happening as you went on with your little rant. "Yeah. Your hair looks so soft. The Xianzhou doesn't know what they're missing", you exclaimed confidently, "you're the bravest person I know and you've come so far and I'm so proud of you!"

Your words sounded so confident and Dan Heng's heart was beating out of his chest. Was this really how you thought about him? Or were you just talking nonsense? Just when he thought that you were done, you decided to continue because you, according to your own words, had "a lot of thoughts about him".

"Your smile is so precious", you explained, scrolling through the gallery on your phone for evidence, showing him a picture that March took where he was actually smiling, "like, I mean, look. You're like the sun. You brighten up the day of anyone you smile at and you make me so happy." Dan Heng's face felt hot and he cringed at the awkwardness of the situation, despite the fact that you were very far from noticing it. You just looked at him with pure and unconditional love and Dan Heng didn't know what to do about it. It made his heart flutter and gave him hope there was truth to your words.

He eventually snapped out of it and held your shoulders, looking into your eyes. "I think you should rest a little... we can uh... talk about this later", he took your hand and squeezed it gently, "please rest. Can you do that for me?" You nodded.

"Okay. Please go out with me."

Dan Heng buried his flushed face in his hands, shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation. I should just stop questioning this kind of stuff, he reasoned with a sigh. "I will. I promise", Dan Heng said softly as he pushed you back onto the mattress carefully and rubbed your upper arm in a reassuring motion. "Can I have a forehead kiss?", you asked with a quiet voice, looking up at him with pleading eyes. Did you have an ounce of an idea what you were doing to his poor heart? Probably not.

But Dan Heng couldn't deny that it was endearing to hear you speak about him so affectionately. He leaned over to press a light kiss on your forehead, closing his eyes and noticing how warm your skin felt under his lips. "There. Happy?", he chuckled, still holding your hand in his. You gave him a tired nod, drifting off into a short nap not soon after.

"Dan Heng?!", he heard March's surprised voice behind him not soon after. He turned around to gesture to keep her voice down. "What are you doing here?", she asked with a confused expression, looking at his flustered face, "your face looks weird." "Thanks, March", Dan Heng replied dryly.

He decided to stay by your side for a little longer and accompany you and the others to grab lunch. After all, he probably should be there to reassure you when you inevitably realized what you had said to him. Dan Heng smiled at how peaceful you looked, knowing he was close by to take care of you. There really was nothing for you to worry about. He was looking forward to your date as much as you were.

[dimonds456-art]

I cannot believe I forgot to post this.

Chapter 3 is up! Also below the cut for anyone who doesn't have an AO3 (though the fic has been unprivated, so even guests should be able to see it now!)

Stanford awoke slowly to the sounds of gulls screeching, cars zooming, wind blowing, and kids laughing. Light was hitting his eyes, uncomfortably bright behind his closed eyelids, and he was quickly becoming aware of the sand that was coating his face. 

He groaned, eyes opening without his consent. Sunlight blinded him, and he rolled over to avoid it. It wasn't his soft bed from home, though- this was far more rough, lumpy, and shifted beneath him as he moved. Sand, his mind supplied. He lowered his arms to push himself up, feeling it shift beneath his fingers. It was the rough kind of sand, too, not the soft stuff people said in the movies. At least this area wasn't littered in glass. 

He sat up, taking stock. He was in the Stan O' War, laying in the middle of the floor of the broken boat. His backpack, bindle, and toolbelt leaned against the wall, right next to the box of nails. 

Stanley wasn't there. 

Stanford frowned. Shouldn't his brother have found his way here by now? They both knew where it was by heart, he should have been here!

And just like that, he was fully awake. 

Ford sat up, scrubbing sand out of his hair and cringing as he felt it hitting the lenses of his glasses- he should have taken them off first, whoops. He'd fallen asleep wearing them, as he'd tried to stay awake for as long as he could to wait for his brother. His efforts were in vain, it seemed. 

Anxiety started doing weird things to his chest. He'd felt anxious before- the churning that circled his guts when he was scared, the shakiness, all of it. The tightening of his chest was a much rarer one. Not his first time experiencing it, but enough that the feeling was still mostly foreign to him. Anxiety that made his breathing come out weird, like something was squeezing him from the inside. 

He stood up, dusting off as much sand as he could. If Stanley hadn't come in the night, then something was wrong. Very, very wrong. 

Stanford quickly ran outside, giving the whole boat a once-over. "Stanley?!" he called out. Maybe he fell asleep on deck? Or against the wall? Or nearby? "Stanley, where are you?" 

No response. 

Outside, he could see a couple of kids running down to the beach, mostly teenagers. It wasn't warm enough to warrant actually swimming just yet, but they weren't doing that anyway. Ford squinted, trying to spot his brother in the small crowd, but didn't see very many kids his age. The rest were accompanied either by a teen or a disgruntled adult. 

Taking a deep breath, Stanford placed his hands on either side of his mouth. "STAAAAANLEYYYYYY!" 

A few people looked toward him, but then went back to whatever it was teenagers did at the beach. 

Nothing. 

The anxiety twisted in his chest, starting to settle in his guts now, too. Not good. Not good at all. 

He ran back inside, tearing open his backpack. Old Reliable tumbled out again, but he ignored it. Ballpoint pen and notebook paper. He needed to think. He flipped open to the first blank page he could find and started frantically taking notes. 

Stanley ran away

Missing since yesterday morning

Not in any spot he usually would be

No signs as to where he could have gone

Ford moved to rub the back end of his pen through his hair, thinking. Stanley would either be at the Stan O' War or waiting for Stanford nearby, but since he wasn't doing that, then something else must have happened to him. And whatever it was, Ford had to find him. But, with no leads, how was he supposed to do that? 

Went back to the Jersey Devil? 

Found by Wood Dwarves? 

Taken by The Big Red Eyes? 

Eaten by Mantis Men? 

Between each entry, Ford's anxiety rose. He knew about cryptids, of course, but actually finding them was difficult. He'd only found the Jersey Devil before, and that had been with Stanley's help (and technically the Sibling Brothers, if that even counted. They'd borrowed their clothes in the name of scientific pursuit, that barely counted for anything!). 

Okay. Logic. Methodical. Where could Stanley be? 

It probably wasn't the Devil because they'd both already met that one, and it wasn't exactly happy to see them. Unless he'd gone back for treasure or something? But they'd get plenty of that once they got out on the water. 

Wood Dwarves were pranksters, and according to some, could turn invisible! It did seem like he'd just kinda vanished, so maybe they had something to do with it. But they usually lived in the forest- Stanley would have been heading for the beach, right? 

Same problem with the Big Red Eyes theory. He lived far away from the ocean. Unless he'd been on vacation? 

And the Mantis Man was usually seen around the river, which would be freshwater, not saltwater.

Ford slammed the notebook closed, feeling frustrated. It just didn't make any sense!

He hung his head, looking around the inside of the boat again. Well, clearly, Stanley wasn't by the ocean. He hadn't come here last night. Stanford would need to take his search elsewhere. 

…But what if Stanley was heading here, and got caught up with something? What if he was still on the way? 

Ford frowned, getting an idea. He grabbed Old Reliable and popped the cap. The Sharpie's thick tip was perfect for writing big, bold messages. 

Ford circled around outside again, and went to the side of the boat that was facing the road. Then, he began to draw. A hashtag, then a boat, then an X, an exclamation mark- each letter of their alphabet came into being on the boards, clear black against medium-brown wood.

Stanford stepped back, making sure each symbol was legible. He didn't like that he had to do that- they'd already written on the side of the boat, and this felt something like vandalism- but he had to make sure Stanley got the message. But there was no way he was going to just give the Sibling Brothers any hints. 

"Stay here, I will find you." 

With that settled, he plugged the cap on Old Reliable, snuck it back in his bag, and started gathering his stuff. 

He had to come up with a new plan- fast. 

Maybe he could retrace his steps? But that would mean going back to Pines Pawns, and if he got caught now…

Nope. Too risky. But maybe there were other clues around town? 

He needed to clear his head. There was one place he could always do that. 

He pulled an apple out of his bindle and started walking.

Stanford made his way up the steps and into Glass Shard Beach's local library. It was run-down and not well taken care of, but it was quiet and safe. None of Ford's usual bullies frequented the library, and everyone was usually either too absorbed in their work or their reading to notice his hands. It was a good place to think. It was a good place to reorient and refocus. 

He waved to the librarian, who barely gave him a nod in return. He appeared to be nose-deep in a political book. Stanford found himself grimacing internally. So many things to write about, and you pick politics? And then other people READ that? Dull. He didn't think he'd ever get why. 

There was a specific table in the back that Stanford loved; right by the window, letting in some good natural light, while tucked out of the way from view. It was a good place to go if you wanted to be left alone. 

He went there now, grinning as he saw no one else there before him. There were a couple of children's books sitting on the end, as well as a stack of blank, white paper, but he paid them no mind as he sat down in his favorite seat; back to the library entrance, window to his right. Perfect. 

He pulled out his notebook again, scanning the details he'd written. Stanley hadn't been anywhere yesterday, and he hadn't been at the Stan O' War today. Ford doubted he'd be by the swingset, as the boat provided the best shelter, and he didn't see why he'd have a reason to go there. 

So, that left the entire rest of Glass Shard Beach, or… outside of it. 

Stanford frowned. Surely Stanley hadn't run away, run away, right? Wherever they went, they went together. It wouldn't make sense for him to leave town without his brother. 

Then again, his mind hissed, it also doesn't make sense he'd run away without telling you, first. The Stanley you knew would make plans WITH you, not without you.

Stanford waived those thoughts away with a shake of his head. Clearly, that didn't matter, because that IS what happened, strange as it was. 

He wasn't sure if any cryptid would seek his brother out and kidnap him, either. The only ones he knew of that would do that were Wood Elves, and they lived in. well. the woods. Not in the middle of a small town. 

He picked up his ballpoint pen. 

Things that could have happened to Stanley: - Ran away from town   - Why would he do that? - Taken out of town (?)   - By what? - Eaten by a monster   - Would have been evidence of that somewhere, though, right? - Ran into the woods   - Wildman Stanley? He's never told me he wanted that before - Aliens??

Stanford glared at that last option before scribbling it out. No, no, that would be dumb. Extraterrestrial beings descending from the heavens just to kidnap a lonely boy who had just run away and therefore would leave very few people to look for him, meaning they could get away with the crime essentially scott-free? 

…Ford re-wrote the aliens point back in again. 

He sighed, leaning his head in his hands. This was stupid and not helping. He needed to be out there looking for evidence! But he had no idea where to look…

He turned to look at the papers sitting next to him. Blank. 

It's not defeat, Stanford thought to himself. If people know he's missing, they'll be helping the search. This will be a good thing. 

He grabbed a paper and started sketching his brother, trying to capture him just right. 

He'd made about twenty missing posters, as well as his original sketch page of his brother. He wasn't sure where or even how to put them up, but he wouldn't know until he tried. The day was still young, kinda (it was noon), and he had plenty of places to search. 

He could try to put some up in different diners and restaurants, some down at the boardwalk, maybe one or two at school…

No, school was a bad idea. Crampelter was there. If Crampelter ever discovered that Stanley was missing…

Stanford shuddered, then stiffened, his walking speed slowing. Crampelter wasn't just at school, especially now that school was basically out for summer, with the addition of a couple extra curriculars (ug. sports). Crampelter could be anywhere, as well as his goons. 

Uh oh. 

Well, it's not like he could just not put the posters up. He'd made them, and he needed to find Stanley. Whatever Crampelter had in store for him was worth it if it meant he'd be able to find his brother. 

As he walked past the front desk, the librarian noticed him. He raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. "Working on a project, Pines?" 

Stanford looked up at the man. "Kinda." He walked forward, handing him one of Stanley's missing posters. It featured his brother grinning at the "camera", little dots for eyes, messy hair, his striped shirt, and a backpack on his shoulders. (He'd also drawn a few posters with sticks in his hair or bugs on his arms, just in case that helped.) Down at the very bottom was another message written in their secret code, too- "Go to the ship".

Mr. Walker looked down at the parchment with scrutiny, pulling his glasses down a bit more to read the words. 

"My brother went missing yesterday, and I don't know where he went," Stanford informed him, looking at the poster he'd handed him. "Do you want to keep that one? Maybe you could hang it up here in the library." 

The bushy man turned his brown eyes back to the boy. "I suppose I could keep an eye out," he said, weirdly strained. "Stanley ain't exactly one to swing by the library, though." 

"I… I know." Ford looked away. "I'm just worried about him." 

Mr. Walker's gaze softened. "Sure. I can hold onto this one for ya, and if I see him, I'll tell him yer lookin' for him." He stood up, grabbing some tape from behind the counter.

Stanford lit up. "Oh, Mr. Walker, thank you!" He put his hands on the table and couldn't help the bounce in his feet. "Tell him to go to the boat. He'll know what I mean." 

"Boat. Got it." Mr Walker finished taping it up, right next to a bunch of other fliers. "I'll tell him." 

"Thank you!" Ford grinned. "I'll see you around!" 

Mr. Walker waved at him. "Remember to be home before it gets too late," he called after the boy. Ford just smiled. Mr. Walker didn't need to know about that part. 

Feeling rejuvenated, Stanford practically skipped out of the library. 19 posters and a sketch page. Finding where to hang up the rest would give him more excuses to turn his search outward, to more places Stanley was less likely to be. Which, paradoxically, meant he might be there. 

As he pushed open the large, oak door, sunlight made him squint. But beyond that, he could hear laughing. Mocking laughter, specifically. 

Ford gasped, shutting the door quickly. He had to hide the posters, fast.

He threw off his backpack, unzipped it, and began to rapidly stuff in papers. They were gonna be all folded and crumply later, but at least he'd have them. He just had to-

The door swung open with a BANG! against the opposing wall, and a large shadow fell over the entrance. Stanford hastily zipped up the bag and put it behind him right as none other than Crampelter himself waltzed into the library. 

"Weeeell, look what the cat dragged in!" the bully himself grinned. Crampelter crossed his arms as his two yesmen circled around behind him. "Howzit feel not having your little guard dog around, hmm?" 

"I-I…" Stanford looked up at him warily. Now the Sibling brothers were about the same age and build as the Pines twins, so confronting them was a bit easier than… this. Crampelter was a mountain, towering over Stanford and casting a long shadow. He grinned. The light from outside rimmed around him, casting the rest of him in shades of grey. The two behind him didn't look much friendlier (though the shorter one was all bark, no bite, Ford knew that). 

Crampelter put his hands on his cheeks, creating a look of mocking fear. "I-I-" he stuttered out, before laughing loudly. "You what, dork? Scared?" 

"Hey!" 

All four heads turned to Mr Walker, who was quickly pacing towards them. He stopped in front of Crampelter, leveling him a knowing look. "This is a place of learning and leisure," he hissed. "Keep it down or get out, Crampelter. You know the rules, same as anyone else." 

Crampelter let out a loud tch, rolling his eyes. "Whatever." He side-eyed Stanford, a mischievous grin crossing his lips. "Catch us outside, huh, nerd? We'll be waitin' for ya." 

And with that, he and his posse turned on their heels and stormed out. As Crampelter's form left the building, he turned back around and cupped his mouth with his hands. "READING'S FOR NERDS!" he shouted. His voice bounced annoyingly off the peeling walls. 

Before Mr Walker could react, the three of them had bolted, cackling, out the door.

The man sighed. "I worry about those three," he grumbled. "Shapin' up ta be no good, I tell ya." 

"Umm, Mr. Walker, sir?" Stanford hated how much he was… unnerved by the three bullies. Not afraid- Pa said being afraid was stupid. "Don't be a sissy," he'd say. But Stanford certainly didn't feel comfortable around them. 

The librarian turned to look at the boy questioningly. "Yes, Pines?"

"I…" He fidgeted with his hands, wringing them around each other. "I don't wanna go outside." 

Understanding made its way across his features. Mr. Walker knelt down, putting a hand on Ford's shoulder. "Those three pick on you a lot, eh?" 

Hesitantly, Ford nodded. "Stanley usually helps me with them," he mumbled. 

Mr. Walker thought for a moment, then stood back up. "Here, I got an idea." He started to walk towards the back of the building, motioning with his hand for Ford to keep up. "Follow me." 

Stanford grabbed his backpack and trotted after the librarian. 

He wasn't too familiar with the man, but he had been nothing aside from friendly towards him. The first time they'd met, he'd made a comment about his hands, but that was forever ago now, and Mr. Walker didn't seem to mind them so much now. Just another reason Stanford saw the library as a sanctuary; a place to hide from bullies and to be able to get a clear head when things got tough. Peaceful. 

He'd always hoped that, if Mr. Walker could learn to ignore his extra finger, maybe others could, too. Some of his teachers got used to it, but even then, he still saw the lingering looks sometimes. His classmates, too, just seemed to become adjusted to it rather than disregarding his hands like he'd hoped. It didn't feel like acceptance, it was more akin to tolerance. And Ford's tried his best to keep that tolerance for as long as he could, he did. He thought he was doing an okay job, but then Crampelter would show up just to remind him that tolerance and acceptance weren't really the same thing. 

It was humiliating, to say the least. 

Mr. Walker made his way through the halls of the library, walking in a relatively straight line. He finally came to a stop near the back wall, by one of the windows. He unlatched it, heaving it up. The early summer breeze entered the building, tickling Ford's cheeks and ruffling his hair. 

"Here," the man said, "out this way. They won't expect you there." 

Stanford looked up at Mr. Walker with a small, genuine smile. "Thank you, sir," he said. 

Mr. Walker just nodded. "You're very welcome, Pines." 

Sneaking out around the library was harder than Ford initially thought. Just a quick glance around the corner showed the bullies hanging around the entrance, pointing and laughing at anyone going in or out of the library. 

Stanford frowned. What are they even DOING here? he wondered. Crampelter would rather get sick with the plague than willingly enter the library, and now that Stanford thought about it, it WAS odd that he'd decided to even come here at all. 

Did this have to do with Stanley somehow? 

That made Stanford pause. If Crampelter knew something about Stanley going missing, then it made sense that he'd come taunt Ford with that information. But there was no way to know until Stanford asked him, and he was not exactly in a hurry to do that. 

He had to sneak past. 

The library was surrounded by two other buildings on either side, but they were pretty far away. There was a yard in front of the building with lots of room to sit and read, including a tree with some okay-ish shade from the sun. If Stanford could just make it to one of the other buildings without getting caught, he could escape and start putting up posters. Clearly Crampelter knew already; no point in hiding it. 

The bullies were gathered more on the right side of the building than the left, so Ford took in a deep breath, headed to the left, watched them for a moment, and…

No. No running was a bad idea. That'd draw their eyes. He had to go slow. Yeah. Yeah, niiiice and easy. 

He let out the breath he'd taken awkwardly, and instead, hugged the wall. One foot in front of the other. He stayed close to the library, and no one saw him. Yet. 

He was right at the corner now. He could hear Crampelter push someone off their bike. Though he felt bad, it also created a pretty good distraction. He peered over. Sure enough, some kid was currently adjusting their glasses, sitting on the pavement, while the three bullies yukked it up. 

Now or never. Ford tentatively stepped out into the light, and when no one saw him immediately, he turned and began to speed walk away. He didn't know where he was going, just that he needed to get away from the library as fast as his feet could carry him. 

He'd only made it a couple of sidewalk slabs down the road before a yell shattered his small sense of victory. "THERE HE IS!" one of the yesmen announced, and Stanford could feel the finger pointed in his direction. It only took a quick glance over his shoulder to see all three of them sprinting after him now. 

Oh Moses.

Ford panicked, breaking into a sprint and zipping off down the road. He turned left at the corner, trying to hide from view, but those boys were still behind him- and gaining. 

He had to hide. What's that thing they always do in movies? Duck into an alleyway? 

There was one coming up. They hadn't rounded the corner yet. Ford had a chance. 

He ducked left again, slipping into the slot between buildings, only to find nothing to hide behind. It was empty. 

Their shouts and jeers were getting louder. There was nowhere to go. 

Ford ducked down, facing away from the opening, and tried to make himself as small as possible. Maybe they'd just keep going, and leave him alone, and he could get out of this one by himself so he could keep looking for his brother-

"Found him!" 

Something grabbed his backpack and lifted him up. Stanford cried out in surprise, then started swinging his arms frantically. He kicked, he punched, he tried to wriggle out of their grasp. His efforts were met with more jeers. 

"Aw, look at him go!" 

"He's worked up quite the kick, eh?" 

"Like an angry kitten!" 

Ford flushed. "I am not a-" 

A fist to the back of the head silenced him. "Shut it," Crampelter snapped. 

Ford lifted a hand to rub the spot. "Ow!" 

"Eugh. Get your freaky hands away from me," Crampelter grumbled out. He let go of the backpack, sending Ford to the ground in a heap. His hands scraped against the pavement, and to his horror, he noticed more glass shards here than he'd originally thought. "We just wanna talk to you, nerd." 

Stanford re-adjusted his glasses, finally turning to look at his tormentor more head-on. "About what? About how I'm a freak?" he snapped. "Go ahead, I've heard it all before!" 

Crampelter tutted at him condescendingly. "No, dumbo, it's about your guard dog." He crossed his arms triumphantly. "Heard some talk down by the docks. Apparently some of the guys overheard you asking for him at the boardwalk." 

Stupid! Stanford berated himself. Of course that's how he found out. 

Crampelter's face was oddly neutral. "We just wanna know what happened." 

Stanford blinked. "You… what?" That seemed… weirdly considerate of them. Something was wrong. 

Shortie (he didn't know their names and didn't care) piped up. "Heard he ran off," he grinned. 

Lanky nodded. "Did he finally learn he don't got a future?" he sneered. 

Stanford glared at them each in turn. "What are you talking about?!" he exclaimed. "We have a future! We're gonna get out of here!" 

"Hah!" Crampelter's eyes glinted. "Did he tell ya that?" 

Something about the way Crampelter was looking at him was making Stanford uneasy, but he didn't have a good word to describe it. It was like he was dangling a carrot over his head- a carrot he knew Ford couldn't see. But Ford knew it was there. Something in him was getting riled up at that. His glare deepened.

"Yeah, he did. And Stanley wouldn't…" he trailed off for a second, looking away. "He wouldn't lie to me!" 

That got all three of them laughing again. 

"Good ol' sticky fingers?" 

"All he ever does is lie!" 

Ford's gaze burned holes in the bullies, but they didn't seem to notice or care. "Not to me!" Stanford shot back. 

That just made them laugh harder. 

Confusion and hurt was welling up within him. He moved to shove past Crampelter, but he was quick to swat Ford back into the alley again. 

"Gonna go home?" Crampelter cooed, tilting his head knowingly. "Gonna go cry to Mommy and Daddy about how your brother somehow got smarter than you??" 

Ford blinked. "What are you talking about?"

Lanky shrugged. "Sticky fingers ain't good for nuthin," he said casually. He leaned back against the opposing wall, lifting a leg to look cooler. "He knows he's just the stupid version of you. He must have finally figured out what he was and took off." 

Shortie snickered. "About time." 

Stanford wanted to glare at them, but something about their wording was throwing him off. "What do you mean? What is he?"

Crampelter's fists clenched. He tilted his chin up, looking down on Ford with a judging, condescending smile. "And here I thought you were the smart one, freak."

Ford stood up, moving to push past them. He had a brother to find, and clearly they didn't know anything, so this was just wasting his time. He had posters to put up and people to talk to and Siblings to avoid. 

"Oh no ya don't!" A hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Ford yelped, stumbling, but managed to stay upright. Crampelter sneered at him. "Where d'ya think you're going, dork?"

"Away from you!" Stanford leveled a glare up at him. He didn't have to just stand there and take this. 

Crampelter nodded to his two followers, who seemed to get it. Ford felt arms wrap around his, and no amount of wiggling around and throwing wild punches got them to let go. He felt them tugging at his backpack, pulling it off. 

Stanford tried to get it back on, but the arms holding him twisted his wrists, making him try to curl in on himself on instinct. The straps were freed, and Crampelter held the red book bag in his hands. 

Ford's eyes widened. "Hey! That's mine!" 

Crampelter ignored him. He unzipped it and proceeded to dump the contents out, scattering papers, pencils, pens, his notebook, and- Ford watched in horror- the missing posters. He watched the cartoony face of his brother drift out, flapping gently down to the ground in a smiling heap of hope. 

"Hah!" Crampelter barked out a laugh. "Were you gonna hang these up?" 

Ford continued to try to writhe out of the other two boy's grip. "What's it to you?" he snapped. 

Crampelter didn't say anything. Instead, he picked up a poster, holding it up. It was one of the ones Stanford had made that featured Stanley with sticks in his hair. It was one of the better ones, in his opinion. 

Crampelter snorted. "Didja start doodling on this thing? What is that?" 

He pointed to a line down at the bottom, the line reserved only for Stanley's eyes. To anyone else, it was just drawings. The Twins knew better.

Ford glared. "It's code. And I'm not telling you what it says!"

Shortie snorted. "Sticky understands codes?"

"You have too much faith in him," Lanky piped up. "He doesn't even know how to read." 

That one got Stanford genuinely offended on his brother's behalf. "He does, too! He just, he told me that the letters get all scrambled sometimes, so it's-" 

"So he can't read." Crampelter tutted, looking back at the pile. "Would be a shame if your guard dog realized just how much you relied on him," he mused to himself. "Not that he's good for much else." 

Stanford glared. "Like you're any better, jerk!" 

The bully's eyes snapped to him. He twitched, then his brows turned down into a glare. He looked back down at the pile of papers, then around the rest of the alleyway. 

Water glistened off a nearby puddle. 

Stanford froze. "No," he said softly, realizing where this was going. "No, Crampelter, you can't! I need those!" 

That just seemed to make up the bully's mind. He stormed over to the puddle and stomped both feet in it. When he lifted one back out, it was covered in mud. He turned his gaze back to the pile of posters, Stanley's silly grin looking back at Ford. 

The bully stomped closer. 

Ford picked up the struggle again. "NO, STOP!" 

All he could do was watch as Crampelter stomped down, smearing mud and dirty water all over the parchment. He made sure to cover every single one, crumpling and tearing the paper beneath his feet as he kicked and scraped and stomped. 

Once every paper had been covered, he kicked them all towards the puddle. They dropped in, water soaking through and smearing the ink. 

"STOP!" Stanford cried out. "STOP IT!" 

"There!" The bully grinned down at the pile, satisfied. "How're you gonna call him home now?"

Rage boiled within him. He clenched his fists, trying to remember the things Stanley told him about fighting. Wide stance, fast fists, lots of yelling, there were teeth involved whenever you punched a jaw…

He went slack, waiting for the moment to strike. He felt himself breathing fast, breathing angry, and he just wanted to stomp Crampelter's stupid smile into the stupid ground and find his stupid brother and go back HOME. 

He stopped listening. They were saying something. He didn't care what. 

As soon as Lanky's grip faltered, Stanford broke free with a swing. He tore his arm free of his grip, hitting Shortie in the head. Shortie let go, and Stanford darted forward. He grabbed his notebook, clothes, pens and pencils, and stuffed them in the bag as fast as he could. He reached for the posters, but most were ruined by now. His hands grasped a single one; the sketch page he'd made for practice. It was wet, and crumpled, but it lived. He tucked it in there with the notebook and zipped it shut. 

Crampelter watched him with a neutral face until the two made eye contact. Then, he grinned smugly. 

"Good luck finding him now, freak," he jeered. "Not that it'll do ya much good." 

That was it. Ford reached his hands out, shoving past Crampelter and darting back out into the streets. He could hear the bullies laughing behind him, but they didn't seem to be chasing him this time. 

Whatever. He didn't care. 

It didn't make any sense…

It doesn't make any sense!

Ford wasn't stupid. He'd heard the way people talk about his brother for a long time, like he was inferior to Stanford in some way (which was a weird paradox, considering everyone also thought that Stanford was a weirdo who could curse their family if they shook his hand or something). But he'd always made sure that Stan knew not to listen. He tried to humor his brother as much as he could, and listened to his wild ideas about superheroes and girls. He laughed at his brother's dumb jokes because they were funny and because Ford loved him. 

Crampelter was just being mean again. Yeah. That's it. 

Stanford ran and ran and ran until he found himself back at the street that led home. He slowed to a stop, looking down the familiar road. He could see the Pawn Shop. He knew his mom had found the note by now. He could picture her talking to Pa, asking him to call the police. He'd shake his head, insisting that Stanford would be home soon. And then he'd sit down and open his newspaper, waiting for him. Trusting him. 

But Stanford couldn't go home yet. He had to find Stanley. Wherever they went, they went together. Stanley was the one who came up with their little mantra, and he really, truly believed it. 

…Stanley wouldn't run away because of me, would he? 

Did Ford do something wrong? 

His heart lurched. He just wanted to talk to his ma about this. Surely she would know, right? She had those psychic powers! Stanley didn't think they were real, and even Ford was beginning to have his doubts, but it was better than nothing, right? 

If nothing else, she'd tell him that Stanley didn't just get tired of him. Or she'd be able to help him figure out what he did to make Stan think that way. 

Nope, Stanford scolded himself. That's the bullies talking. Stanley wouldn't do that. It's us, together forever. He's always said that.

It just didn't make any sense.

He needed something to get his brain going again. He had his apples- one he had for breakfast this morning, but he still had two more! They were right here, in his-

Oh no. He'd lost the bindle. 

Stanford panicked for just a moment, before remembering he'd left it at the library. He hadn't been able to get it back because it was outside, right where Crampelter had been guarding the door. Shoot!

His stomach rumbled. Home was right there. He could just go there to eat. It was tempting, pulling him to go down the road and go back. 

He glared. Pointedly, he turned around and began his march back to the library. 

The sun was going down by the time he got back. And there it was, tossed onto the ground by the door by someone who didn't care, but otherwise untouched. 

He ate both remaining apples, and something in him was still hungry. 

He glared down at his notebook. He had two full days to look now, and nothing. Nothing, nothing, NOTHING! 

His stomach grumbled. 

If he was hungry, Stanley was also hungry. He HAD to find him. 

But sleep was tugging at his eyelids, and the Stan O' War was cozy. 

Maybe Stanley just got lost. Maybe a nice family was letting him stay the night. Maybe he was stargazing somewhere down the road. Maybe he was in the sky, looking down at Ford. C'mon, poindexter, he was saying, waving his hand in a "come here" motion, it's not that far!

Stanford curled in on himself, holding his notebook close, glaring down at the mess of leads and locations, and let himself drift off to a troubled sleep.

[quicksilver-castiel]

And finally they see Eye to eye

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims

Archive warnings: None

Rating: Teen and up

Summary:

When Martin goes on an extended weekend trip, that leaves Jon alone with the newest addition to their lives: Their cat Butterscotch. So far, the relationship between Jon and Butterscotch has been a little rocky. He isn't convinced that this weekend will change that, though for once he would be glad to be proven wrong.

Author's note:

This was written for @jonsimsandcats Day! Because there can never be enough stories with Jon and cats in them.

This is an AU and can technically be read as a continuation of In a cat's Eye, but all you need to know is that the boys are alive and well, still working for the Institute, and adopted a cat that's so, so normal, I prommy. :)

Read on AO3 or below the cut

“There’s stew in the fridge, and I bought those mini pretzels you like if you need a snack,” Martin said quickly as he put on his backpack. Jon watched him silently and patiently, knowing that he wasn’t done yet. “Oh, and there’s an open can of food for Butterscotch in the fridge as well, so don’t open a new one today. Um, there’s still some pizza in the freezer, but there’s also rice and veggies if you feel like cooking. I threw out the tuna because it was past the best before date and I know you always say it’s fine as long as it smells fine, but you really shouldn’t risk it.”

“Martin,” Jon interjected gently, trying to hold down a smile, “you’ll only be gone for three days. I promise I’ll manage not to starve.”

Martin didn’t look convinced. If anything, he just seemed more worried. “You’re very capable in a lot of ways, but historically, taking care of yourself has not been one of them.”

Jon rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that Martin was necessarily wrong. But he was being rude.

“I promise I’ll eat. And feed Butterscotch.” Jon grinned. “I know you would be more heartbroken if something happened to her than if it did to me.”

Martin scowled at him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t know, you’ve been spending a lot of time with her. When was the last time I got to sit in your lap?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.

He was teasing, of course. Mostly.

Martin’s lap was rather comfortable, and he enjoyed being fully enveloped by his fiance’s body, held tightly to his chest by big arms.

Which was rather difficult to achieve when there was a cat contentedly purring in said spot.

Martin huffed, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “At least try to get along while I’m gone, yeah?”

Jon shrugged. “I’m not the problem. Butterscotch simply isn’t a fan of me.”

“Well, it’s the perfect opportunity for you to get some bonding time in.” Martin checked his watch, and cursed under his breath. “Shit, I need to go. See you on Sunday.”

“Have a good trip.” Jon gladly accepted the goodbye kiss Martin gave him before turning towards the door. “Text me when you get there.”

“The internet might be spotty, but I’ll try to send something. Bye!” With that, Martin was out of the door, off to the great adventure of a hiking trip on the Western coast.

Jon sighed as he thought of the days ahead of him. He was meeting Georgie on Saturday for a few hours, but apart from that, he would be alone.

Well, there was Butterscotch.

Jon sighed again. This would be a long weekend.

Jon approached the cat tree slowly, broadcasting his intentions. Butterscotch had already noticed him, her ears twitching in his direction every time his cane hit the linoleum floor, but it took a moment for her to turn her working eye on him.

The other eye was gone, scars running over that side of her face where another cat had attacked her. There was some sort of poetic irony in two followers of the Eye adopting a cat who had lost one of her eyes, Jon thought, though he supposed that might have been part of what had drawn Martin to the little furball.

Butterscotch regarded Jon haughtily from the top of what Martin called her throne, which considering what they had paid for the bloody thing, wasn’t all too far from the truth.

“Well,” Jon said as he stopped far enough away from the tree for Butterscotch not to be able to claw him while sitting on it. “I suppose now it’s just us.” He raised the bag of treats he had brought, and shook it.

Butterscotch’s ears perked up, and she looked down at Jon’s hand.

Jon smiled. “Didn’t expect to get treats from me, huh? Well, Martin isn’t here to spoil you, so someone has to.”

Butterscotch kept watching, her one eye darting from the packaging to the little nuggets Jon shook out into his palm.

He spread a few of them out over the cat tree so Butterscotch would have to climb a bit to get them. Then he put a handful into the toy specifically designed to make it challenging to get them out.

Finally, he straightened again, looking up at the queen herself.

“Well?” he said.

Butterscotch’s tail moved slightly, visible beyond the platform she was lying on. Apart from that, she made no move to leave her throne.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, huh.” Jon took out a few more treats, then returned the package to its usual (cat-proof) spot.

Afterwards, he sat down on the sofa, and waited.

And waited.

Butterscotch had put her head back onto her paws, but she was watching him with slow blinks, as though she wasn’t quite sure yet what his angle was.

“You know, it’s good that you like him so much. If you didn’t, Martin would only be blaming himself for it,” Jon rambled. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to trust me a little more, you know.”

Really, if Butterscotch hadn’t liked Martin, then she would likely still be at the shelter, and her name would still be Tart.

Jon wasn’t even sure why he was talking to Butterscotch in the first place. Maybe he was subconsciously trying to make her get used to his voice.

Or maybe he had simply been lonely since Martin had walked out the door. Oh, good Lord, that would be pathetic.

“Martin says that we're similar, but I don’t really think so.” Jon leaned his chin in his hand, his elbow digging into his good leg. “At least I didn’t immediately see how lovely Martin is, while you realised it seemingly at first glance.” Jon hummed. “Then again, when he first met you, he didn’t immediately start talking about a dog.”

Butterscotch's tail swished a little more erratically, and her little face seemed to scrunch up in distaste. Jon was probably imagining it. There was no way that a cat could have understood his words, right?

“Well, Martin isn’t always right. He keeps comparing me to cats, anyway, when I'm clearly human.” 

Butterscotch just kept blinking at him, looking unimpressed.

Jon pursed his lips. “Or something like it. No need to look so judgemental.”

Jon was arguing with a cat. Great.

Maybe Martin had been right to be worried about him, after all.

Sighing, Jon leaned back on the sofa, his eyes falling closed. After such a long time of being, and living, together, he supposed he had not just gotten used to Martin’s presence. Rather, he seemed to have become reliant on always having someone to talk to, and on the steady, warm presence of another body at his back, big arms circled around him…

Jon shivered, a sudden cold draft making him rub his arms. When he opened his eyes, hugging himself, he checked the window, but it was firmly closed.

Butterscotch didn’t move, but her ears flicked in the direction Jon looked, possibly alert in case Jon had seen anything she hadn’t.

Jon sighed. “Sorry, wrong alarm,” he said, getting up from the sofa.

It wasn’t a cold draft from outside, though it certainly didn’t help that spring was only coming around tentatively, where each warmer day was chased by at least three days of icy rain. It was already April, but Jon wouldn’t have been surprised if they would get sleet again.

Luckily, Jon was prepared to fight the cold, even all alone as he was. It was only a few steps to the bedroom, after all, where they had an entire wardrobe of warm clothes. Martin’s sweaters were always especially nice, big and soft, not unlike his hugs.

Before Jon could open the wardrobe, though, he spotted something on the neatly made bed. There was Jon’s pyjama on his side, of course, but also a purple patch of cloth on Martin’s side.

As he picked it up, Jon realised that it was one of Martin’s sweaters. The one he had bought a few years ago, a suspiciously short amount of time after Jon had told him that boysenberry was his favourite colour.

The sweater wasn’t quite boysenberry, but close enough. Jon ran a hand over the fabric, which was well-worn and soft. Martin had worn the sweater the previous day, and must have forgotten to put it in the hamper.

Jon was alone, he knew that, but he still sneaked a glance around the room before burying his nose in the sweater. It smelled like Martin, and tea, not that the latter wasn’t already inextricably connected to Martin in Jon’s mind.

Come to think of it, Jon could do with a cuppa. His tea was never quite as good as Martin’s, of course, though he could never figure out what he did wrong. Maybe it was just the fact that he had made it himself that caused his brain to interpret it differently.

After pulling the sweater over his head, Jon padded to the kitchen, where he put on the kettle. Butterscotch showed her face for a moment when the water started boiling, but withdrew quickly when she realised that it was not her beloved Martin making that familiar noise.

By the time Jon was carrying his mug into the living room, Butterscotch was munching away on the last treat from her cat tree. Jon still had a few treats in his pocket, but instead of coming to him, Butterscotch moved on to her toy.

Jon settled back on the sofa with his tea, one of their warmest blankets, and the book he was currently reading. Well, trying to read. The premise had sounded interesting enough, but Jon struggled to keep his focus, feeling like he had read something similar before, and appalled by the casual cruelty of some of the characters.

It was probably realistic, Jon thought, though that only made it more depressing.

Jon was scowling at yet another scene of two characters he cared little about making out when he felt a slight dip in the sofa next to him. Turning his head, he spotted Butterscotch, who had jumped up next to him to sniff at his sweater.

She meowed.

“It smells like him, doesn’t it?” Jon reached out to pet her, but Butterscotch ducked away. Sighing, he withdrew his hand, settling it on his leg.

Again, Butterscotch leaned in close, and sniffed at his wrist this time. Or at about where the wrist was buried under the long sleeves of the sweater. Jon had already pulled them up a little so his hands weren’t covered, but the fabric kept slipping back over his palms, leaving only his fingers pointing out of the bulging fabric like-

Jon swallowed, trying to chase away the comparison between his own hand and a spider. It didn’t work, not when the skin on that hand was still streaked with white lines like the fine threads of a spider web-

A loud meow pulled Jon out of his panicked thoughts. He looked at the cat, and something about her calm gaze and the relaxed movements of her tail made him realise that there was no danger here.

He looked down at his hand. It was just a human hand. Burned, sure, but it had — Jon moved his arm so the sweater pulled back from his thumb — five fingers. Not eight spindly legs which could have made it scuttle off into dark corners.

Jon shook his head at himself. The image of his hand moving on its own should have been ridiculous, not scary, he decided. He tried to imagine it like that hand from The Addams Family — Martin had shown him the films and the show from the late ‘90s. Jon vaguely remembered the show having been on air when he had been a teenager, but he hadn’t watched much television at the time, having been far too prone to wandering off.

There was another meow, and then a little nose brushed against Jon’s hand. Butterscotch sniffed him, and apparently decided this time that he was worth her attention, since she proceeded to rub her little head against his fingers.

“Martin has been gone half an hour, and already you’re lonely, huh,” Jon teased, and considered petting her. But he didn’t want to chase her off. “Well, I’m not really one to talk, of course.”

Butterscotch rubbed the side of her body against his hand — and went to sniff at his trouser pocket.

“Ah, so that’s what you want.” With a sigh, Jon pulled a couple of treats out of his pocket. “I should have known.”

He thought about trying to train Butterscotch to do tricks for the treats, but ultimately decided against it. Not only was it not worth the effort when Butterscotch would simply be ignoring him again once Martin was back. Jon was also reluctant to make a creature who was smaller than him and who he had power over jump through metaphorical hoops just for his entertainment.

“You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” he whispered when Butterscotch munched on the treats he held out in his palm. A smile flitted over his face. “Of course you know that. Martin keeps telling you, doesn’t he?”

Butterscotch looked up at him while cracking a treat between her teeth. Tentatively, Jon reached out to pet her. To his surprise and delight, she accepted the attention, only moving to get another treat.

Jon continued to pet her, his fingers carding through the ginger fluff. The colour always reminded Jon of Martin’s hair, only that Butterscotch’s coat was not as curly. It was soft, though, and Jon especially enjoyed scratching her little head.

Butterscotch also seemed to enjoy it, which was a nice change of pace from her usual behaviour towards him.

It wasn’t as though she was ever aggressive towards him, but mostly, her attitude was that towards the annoying boyfriend of a friend: Jon was a necessarily evil she had to endure to be around Martin, and she would be civil to him, but no more.

Well, perhaps now she was learning that he wasn’t as annoying as she had imagined.

Or perhaps she was simply desperate.

“Such a pretty lady,” Jon cooed. “When you’re being affectionate like this, I would almost say that you’re cuter than the Admiral. Don’t tell him or Georgie that I said so, though.”

Butterscotch’s eye was fixed on him now, and Jon had the odd thought that her gaze had focused at the mention of the Admiral. There seemed to be some calculation, or perhaps disdain, in her expression at hearing about another cat.

Which was silly, of course. She couldn’t possibly understand what he was talking about.

Butterscotch meowed, and turned, almost as though making a point. The more likely explanation was that she had finished her treats and was tired of Jon’s attention, though he still couldn’t shake the odd thought that she was miffed about him mentioning another cat.

“Sorry,” he said, illogically. “I’m not like Martin. You’re not the first cat I let into my heart.”

Butterscotch looked back at him where she had been walking towards her cat tree, seeming almost reproachful. Then she continued her trek, and made the few jumps up to her throne.

Jon made a thoughtful noise. “I feel like I was better at being the step dad than I am at being a real cat dad.”

Butterscotch meowed again, sounding to be in agreement.

“Thank you, daughter,” Jon said dryly. “You know, the easiest solution to this would be for you to meet your step brother and learn to love him.”

Butterscotch made a disgruntled sound.

“Alright, yes, that may have been wishful thinking. But I had to try.”

Jon wondered what Martin would say if he heard him talking to the cat. Martin did it often enough himself, but Jon always teased him for it, so he expected Martin to do so in return.

Jon let his head fall onto the back of the sofa, then angled it so he was looking at Butterscotch. “We’re one odd little family, aren’t we?”

Butterscotch meowed, and started licking her front paws.

Jon hummed. “Martin already taught you to wash your hands after eating. He’s a good father.”

Another meow. Jon picked up his phone from the coffee table.

Our little girl is being very vocal with me today. His thumb hovered over the send icon for a moment before he finally pressed it.

It took almost no time at all for Martin to react with a heart emoji. He sent back: 

I’m on the train

Already missing you two tbh

Jon smiled. “Daddy says he misses us,” he said absent-mindedly.

Butterscotch made a sound almost like a coo.

We miss you too, he wrote back. Don’t fall into the sea.

Martin reacted with a salute emoji.

Will do my best, he sent. Then he added: Tim is being annoying

Jon grinned. Martin had probably sent that less for complaining and more for annoying Tim back, who must be trying to see his text conversation.

Tell him that historically, annoying your boss’ fiance has not been seen as a smart move.

Martin typed, then stopped. Started typing again. Finally, he sent: He says you text like a boomer

Jon sniffed indignantly. Tell him he texts like a fourth grader.

A soft sound made him look up from his phone, and he spotted Butterscotch coming back towards him, having jumped down from her cat tree again. With a meow like she was announcing her intentions, she jumped up on the sofa, and pushed her little face close to the phone screen.

“Do you know that daddy is on the other side?” Jon teased, running a hand through her fur

Butterscotch meowed again, and touched the phone — fortunately gently, without claws.

Taking advantage of the situation, Jon opened the camera app, and switched to selfie mode.

The result wasn’t particularly good, but then Jon’s selfies never were. At least part of Jon’s face was visible behind Butterscotch, and the cat looked almost regal.

Did I mention that we miss you? Jon captioned the photo when sending it to Martin.

There was an almost immediate heart-eyes emoji reaction, and then Martin started typing.

Aw, two cuties <3, he finally sent.

Jon sighed. Martin had a rather warped sense of aesthetic. Surely, no one else could have considered Jon ‘cute’.

“Your daddy is such a weirdo”, he told Butterscotch, scratching behind her ears. “We’re lucky to have him.”

Butterscotch meowed in apparent agreement.

Jon smiled. Perhaps the cat and him could manage to bond, after all.

If only over both of them loving Martin.

[the-bar-sinister]

Blue Prince, Red Prince (2218 words) by Dave Strider Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Simon P. Jones (Blue Prince) Additional Tags: Mystery, Retelling, Multiplicity/Plurality, Family Secrets, Nostalgia

Summary: Simon P. Jones inherits the Mount Holly Estate and tries to unravel the secrets of its halls, and the mystery of his family legacy with a little help from his old friend the Red Prince.

-

"A fine looking place for us to inherit, don't you think so, Simon?" the Red Prince purred. He was leaning on one of the pillars of the entrance hall with his arms crossed, glancing around the large, imposing room much the same way that Simon himself was.

If anyone had been with Simon they would not have seen the Red Prince there at all, but Simon was not surprised to see him at all. At 14 years old, most of Simon's peers had long lost their childhood imaginary friends, but Nomis, the Red Prince, seemed to have never felt the need to depart. Rather, he had grown with Simon, ever his exact twin, and while they often found themselves on opposite ends of an argument, Simon was glad to have someone to confer with in the privacy of his own mind.

"Of course you like it," Simon sniffed, pleased enough to answer Red aloud since the two of them were alone. "You've always loved grand, imposing things like this."

"Well, I am a prince after all." Red smiled teasingly and tossed his hair. "But don't you like it? You always liked it when we used to visit."

"I don't think I have seen enough of it yet to know whether I shall like it or not."

Simon's footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he stepped into the belly of the room, approaching the small table in the center of it, and the envelope that was sitting there.

He ran his thumb over the grain of the paper as he took the envelope into his hands. 

'Open only in the event of my death' it said, in familiar all-together too cheerful handwriting. That handwriting belonged to his great uncle, Herbert Sinclair, the Baron and master of Mt. Holly, whom Simon had not seen since he was around seven years old. Half of his lifetime.

"Former Baron and Master of Mt. Holly," Red took pains to remind him. "You're the Baron now."

"Not yet," Simon murmured. "You heard it in the will the same as I. I have to solve some kind of riddle first."

Uncle Herbie loved riddles, Simon remembered that much from when he was a child, and from birthday cards and postcards the man had sent. Always riddles and puzzles. Simon hadn't been surprised to be confronted by a last one after he had died.

"Close enough," Red scoffed. "We both know you'll solve it, Blue. With my help at least. We're very clever."

"Maybe."

Simon finally stopped hesitating, and slipped the pages out of the envelope to read whatever it was his uncle had to say to him. As he looked it over, something about the warm, genial tone of his great uncle's words made his throat tighten, and heat threatened to spill over from the corners of his eyes.

He hadn't cried when he'd heard the news, or at the funeral. It had seemed too distant then. Or perhaps a prank or a joke by his silly uncle who was fond of such things. But now, reading the words written directly to him, he couldn't help himself.

"You may not remember, but I have fond memories of your many visits here as a young boy, and I hope these rooms provide you with as much amusement as it did in those lost summer days."

Of course he remembered. Uncle Herbie's house had been an endless source of fascination when he was little. A great mystery. A castle for a king. An endless wonderment.That was because the Mount Holly estate wasn't just an ordinary house, it was a Drafting House.

Drafting Houses were a mechanical wonder, the operations of which Simon still didn't fully understand. What he did know was that they were a sort of building, generally grand old estates but there were some smaller examples, too, where instead of the locations of the rooms being fixed, they instead moved on a grid plan in a way that meant that one had no idea what room a door might lead to on any particular day.

He remembered getting up early in the morning when he was a child and toddling along behind the old house manager lady, watching her with amazement as she drew and drafted the first rooms for the morning.

"So you do like the house then," Red teased. He had snuck up behind Simon and was leaning over his shoulder to read the letter along with him.

Simon wiped his eyes. "I told you I don't know. It might be altogether a chore to have a house where the rooms don't stay put."

Red grinned. "You don't really believe that, Blue."

Red was right, of course, no matter how much Simon protested. Despite the hot tears in his eyes, his stomach was practically in knots with excitement at the prospect of getting to explore the estate himself, and finding out how to solve the strange riddle that his uncle had posed to him.

He took a breath and made his way through the rest of the letter. Its contents weren't anything surprising, as Uncle Herbie wrote, he already did have a good idea what his challenge would be from the reading of the will. Find the mysterious "46th room" of Mount Holly's estate. He was glad to see from the letter at least that his Uncle believed in his ability, rather than posing the challenge due to a lack of confidence in him.

"Well of course, otherwise he'd have left it to someone else." Red stroked his finger over the second page of the letter. "Pity we can't bring anything in from outside, I would have started by trying to knock down a few walls!"

"Red!" Simon's cheeks puffed out as he snapped scathingly at the bratty prince. "That's exactly why that stipulation is in there, I'm sure. Besides, what fun would knocking down walls be? I want to solve it correctly."

"Knocking things down is fun," Red pouted. "But have it your way, I wouldn't want to disinherit you and miss out on being Prince and Baron."

"I don't need a title," Simon protested. Despite that, he didn't want to be disinherited either. If nothing else, it would probably disappoint his father, who had been very excited to see him off on his journey.

He finished the letter, the rest of which just went over the other stipulations (no staying over night, no taking items off the property) and took care to remind Simon how a Drafting House worked.

"He definitely still remembers you being seven," Red drawled. "Of course you know how it works. What's the line at the bottom mean, do you think? That he says Grandmother used to say?"

"Don't go where the path leads, abandon the path and go where you want it to lead."

Red grinned widely. "Sounds like grandmother would have approved of my knocking things down."

"Oh hush, you, that's not what it means!" Still, Simon laughed as he shook his head. He smoothed each page of the letter and held them carefully up to the light, looking for any watermarks or hidden writing.

"Find anything?"

"Nothing. If there are any clues in there, I can't find them yet." 

Carefully, Simon folded the pages back up, and slipped them into the envelope, conscientiously setting it back on the table. Then he flipped open the bag on his hip and pulled out a fresh notebook.

"Look at Mr. Comes Prepared," Red teased, as Simon jotted down a few notes about the letter.

"You really think I'm going to be able to solve Uncle Herbie's request without writing a few things down? Maybe your memory's that good, but I don't trust mine quite as much."

"I'll forgive you for your lack of perfection." Red leaned his chin on Simon's shoulder. "So if there's no clue there, then how do we start?"

Simon snapped his notebook shut and put it away. He scooped up the other piece of paper that sat on the table accompanying the letter, a blueprint, and tucked that away, too. "Simple enough. We draft a room."

His soft footsteps were the only sound as he made his way to the entry chamber's center door.

Find the 46th room. That was his task. The problem was that a Drafting House was drawn on a grid, and Mount Holly's grid was five by nine– five rooms across and nine rooms (or 'ranks') deep. That made an exact 45 rooms.

"Maybe we should start prying up floorboards," Red suggested. 

This time again Simon had to laugh. "You're incorrigible. Let's at least get the lay of the land, first."

He reached out, and put his hand on the doorknob, turning it until there was a first click. As the click resounded through the quiet hall, a series of plans drew themselves across the door for Simon's perusal. 

Kitchen. Hallway. Nursery. Those were the rooms that were apparently on offer for this door. Simon remembered that it was called the 'drafting pool' or something like that, but it wasn't of much concern to him. Rather, the ability to summon one of three rooms into being seemed as much magical as it did mechanical.

"Well," Red huffed behind him. "Hallways are boring, and I'm not hungry enough that you should make me lunch yet."

"There might be a clue in either of them," Simon pointed out. 

Despite that, he and his red twin seemed to be in agreement about which room to draw first. 

Simon turned the knob a little further, to click his selection into place, and then pressed the button to unlatch the door. There was a moment of hesitation as the mechanisms operated, and the door swung open.

Simon and the Red Prince stepped into a room they hadn't been in since they were very little.

The nursery. 

It was like stepping into a memory so hazy that it might have been a dream.The star-painted walls, the rocking horse, the blocks, the big, ridiculous goose. The two crib-beds. When Simon had stayed there he remembered believing that one crib must have been intended for him and one for his red twin, but now that he was older he guessed that it was just a room that had been reused.

"Nostalgic," Red murmured. He walked into the room, hands behind his back and glanced around as Simon followed him. "I don't remember these being here."

Simon glanced at the wall, seeing the pair of framed sketches that Red had noted, but he shrugged. "I guess they can't keep everything the same forever."

"Well, they ought to." Red only pouted a moment before he started shuffling around the room, squatting next to the stacked blocks. "I could knock them over."

"Please yourself." 

Simon rolled his eyes, but he heard the blocks topple as he brushed past them on his way to the nightstand. He sighed as the red prince giggled.

He was about to make another comment when he saw what was sitting on the nightstand between the two cribs. A copy of a bright, eye-catching book so beloved that Simon and Nomis had worn through two copies in their youth.

The red prince scrambled up from the pile of blocks to where Simon was standing. "It's our book!"

Simon nodded, feeling that tightness in his throat again, and gently scooped the book up with the reverence it deserved.

The Red Prince, by Marion Marigold.

Their book. The one Simon's mother had written for them.

Before she'd vanished.

Red put his arm around Simon's shoulders and leaned on him, as Simon turned the pages softly. They muttered the old, familiar words together as they turned the pages.

"We always loved this book," Simon murmured. "But it always made me feel like she was mad at me."

"I remember," Red sighed. "You asked your father if she left because you liked red too much."

Simon's gaze lingered on the last page for a long time. When he was little, he'd wondered if his mother had left because she hated him. Or because he wasn't a good enough son. Or because he didn't spend enough time outside, preferring reading and puzzles instead.It had seemed to make sense as a child.

Now he was old enough that nothing made sense.

He took a deep breath, tying to let the tightness in his throat and the tension behind his eyes ease. Dwelling on his mother wasn't going to solve the mystery of the 46th room.

But Red's focus wasn't so easily broken.

"Didn't it have a different ending? When she read it to us? Before it got finished?"

Before it got finished. Before it was published. Before it was a bound and printed book, the Red Prince had been a few pages that Simon's mother had painted herself.

"I don't remember." Simon shook his head. "Come on, this room's a dead end. We need to draft a room that goes somewhere."

Simon turned to go, but Nomis caught his wrist and stopped him. "You should bring the book along."

He shook his head. "Just leave it here."

For a moment, Nomis looked sad. It was strange on his face. Normally Simon was the one worrying about things, and the Red Prince was all smiles.

"Whatever you say, Blue."

[ultramarinaa]

I got inspired to write my own short Champion fanfic, so here you go :) don't mind any typo/spelling/grammar errors, no beta we kayak like Tim

Martin wasn't sure how he ended up here, but he was at Jon's flat. He has been for the last few days, as a matter of fact. Elias had begun to cause a stink about a cat staying in the archives, so Jon simply decided to take Martin–Champion–home.

Not that Martin was complaining. Jon had a nice home, though it seems underprepared for a cat. Jon seemed to be quite the minimalist apart from things he'd like to collect, random little trinkets that took up space on his desk.

Also, not to mention living with his crush that had never dwindled, despite Jon's harshness. Jon treated him like a prince, at least by cat standards, but it's still more attention than he ever gets. He curls up on Jon's lap, on blankets, and Jon's bed had also become his. It was pure bliss (also, Jon's bed head was adorable).

It was also because of this that he'd get quite sad when Jon left for work. He'd meow, rub on his leg, sit in front of the door, but to no avail Jon would leave with a regretful look on his face. This wasn't the biggest of his problems, though.

Alone and nothing to do, Martin decides to take nap on top of the couch. He stretches, extending his claws as he does, and curls up. He dozes off into sleep, but when he opened his eyes, he noticed something was off.

He blinks as his vision clears, and realizes he is laying on the main part of the couch. He shifts, only to look down to see that he is human again–which would be fantastic if Jon wasn't going to be home at any moment. Martin had been missing, though nobody really tried to find him, and he was sure it would be a shock to find someone suddenly in your flat.

Martin gathers himself before sitting up, promptly adjusting to being back in his old and human body. How was he going to explain this? 'Yes, Jon, I was a cat and definitely didn't break into your house'?

Before he had too much time to think he heared a click and then the door knob begin to turn. Ready or not, he thought, and listened to door break as it opened to show Jonathan Sims.

Jon lookes baffled to put it lightly. He stood there, unmoving and unchanging, making long eye contact with Martin. He can feel his face get red as it makes him nervous, and he thinks this is the last thing that should be happening. "Uhm, hi. Jon, I'm so sorry–"

"How did you get here? I–" Jon tosses his bag to the side as he makes his way over to Martin, his voice sharp. Not angry though, which surprises Martin. He sees worry in Jon's eyes as he talks. "Where on earth have you been?"

Martin has to process what is happening, giving a small nod before he starts talking. "Right, I...might have been stuck as a cat?"

"You were Champion?" The tone initally came off as surprised to Martin, but he can see Jon frown slightly. "That's...I'm glad you're okay."

"I touched a Leitner, it was my own fault," Martin says simply. He feels guilty about the situation, but he can't help feeling a sting of hurt knowing nobody actively looked for him.

"If I would have known...I'm sorry." Jon rests his hand on Martin's shoulder, though he has to look up at him. "Elias told us you were taking some sort of break from work. Should have never trusted his word."

"He told you I was taking a break?" He didn't know what else to do other than gesture his hands to emphasize his point. "That bastard knew what happened!"

"Let's give him a taste of his own medicine," Jon said, having a beautiful determined look his his eyes. "Wouldn't hurt to have another cat around the archives."

Martin was certain he was in love with this man.

I fully believe John just wants to have a cat and getting one but also getting rid of Elias at the same time… is a wonderful deal

Also hehehehehee happy ending for cat!Martin, no angst just sillies

Just what I needed, thank you so much!! 💞💞💞💞

[thatonecrazysidekick]

I saw this prompt by @weepingtalecowboy, opened a word document and ran with it. I didn't run very far, but I tried lol.

Here you go! I know it's supposed to be a crack AU, but it sort of devolved into angst once I considered the effects sleeping for hundreds of years would have on the world around him, I'm sorry T0T

When Legend woke up, it was sudden. There was no gentle rise to consciousness, no gradual transition from deep sleep to wakefulness.  The moment the golden power of the Triforce washed over him, his eyes snapped open. Sitting up, he blinked, the light from the brazier in front of him making his eyes water. Closing his eyes quickly, he pressed the palms of his hands against his face to better block the light as he tried to adjust, both to the brightness and to being awake.

How long have I slept?

“Uhm...Miss Zelda? Are-are you alright?”

Legend jerked his hands down, lights be damned, and turned his head towards the voice. The incredibly familiar voice. Squinting down at the blobby green figure at the bottom of the steps—and why is Legend on a dais like this is some sort of open-casket funeral, could that wizard have been any more dramatic?—he tried to force his eyes into focus. A couple hard blinks later, and the blob solidified into a teenager with messy brown hair and a green tunic, staring up at him with worried, doe-like eyes.

Legend started. “Hyrule?” His voice rasped in his throat, as though he hadn’t spoken in a hundred years.

“We’re in Hyrule, if that’s what you mean? My name’s Link,” Hyrule said, offering him a reassuring smile. “You were put under a sleeping curse, and I used the Triforce to wake you up. Are you feeling okay? This must all be very jarring.”

Jarring was a word for it, that was for sure. A better one might be shocking, or dumbfounding, or perhaps flabbergasting? Yeah, that was the one. Legend was flabbergasted. How was Hyrule here? The chain had parted ways just over two years before the beginning of Legend’s current predicament. Had they found a way to traverse the timelines again? But then why didn’t Hyrule seem to recognize his nickname? An uneasy feeling was starting to build in Legend’s gut. He didn’t like where this was going.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed-altar thing he had been laying on, he sat up fully, lingering on the edge for a moment as he tried to think. The soles of his shoes rested flat against the red carpet that covered the dais, trying to ground him. He was still wearing his Pegasus boots, and he could feel that the magically-expandable pouch that held his items and supplies was strapped to his leg beneath the pale pink fabric of Fable’s dress, right where he’d left it.

Right, Fable’s dress. The reason Legend was wearing that in the first place was slowly coming back to him in its entirety. Yet another evil wizard had decided to invade the kingdom, though in a slightly more diplomatic way than the other two—and by that, Legend meant the wizard had walked into the castle and demanded to be told the location of the Triforce instead of immediately resorting to murder or kidnapping. Given the princess’s previous experiences, Legend had convinced his sister to let him go in her stead to talk to the wizard. It hadn’t been hard to pull of the switch, with how similar their appearances were, though that was just about the only thing that went well about the situation.

 Legend noted absently that Hyrule was still at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him to respond. He sighed, reaching up to try and run a hand quickly through his hair. Keyword: try. It just kept going, until the strands finally tangled around his fingers and forced them to a stop. Pulling his hand, hair still attached, into his lap, Legend blinked down at the bright, cotton-candy pink bundle.

The uneasy feeling grew.

He had made a point to dye his hair blond after his first journey, and had kept it that way ever since. And sure, he’d put in some hair extensions when he disguised himself as Fable, but her hair was not this long. It was down to her hips at the longest, not this knee-length rat’s nest just waiting to happen. Smoothing out the locks of hair, Legend saw that it faded into blond a few inches from the tips, just about how long his actual hair had been before the incident. Legend felt positively sick at this point.

“Hy—Link,” Legend said, trying to keep his voice steady. Hyrule was already watching him, a curious expression on his face. “How long have I been here?”

“Oh! Well, I’m not actually sure. Impa told me you are a princess from long ago, who was cursed to sleep by your brother’s wizard after refusing to reveal the location of the Triforce.”

A princess from long ago, cursed by her brother’s wizard. Legend didn’t know if he wanted to laugh at how distorted the story had become, or cry from the dawning realization that if it had been long enough for his era to become a thing of story, then his sister was gone. His hands twisted in his hair, and he heard a few strands snap.

Everyone was gone—Fable and Ravio and Ralph and—and he was still here, because of course whenever he tried to protect the people he loved, it always backfired in some way. Go figure.

It wasn’t until Hyrule spoke again that he realized he’d been staring blankly at the traveler for the past few minutes.

“We’re in the North Castle tower right now. If…if you’d like, I can take you to meet Zelda? I mean, a different Zelda! She’s the princess. Or, I guess, the other princess…?” Hyrule frowned, a crease forming between his brows. “I have a feeling this is going to get confusing.”

Despite the cold numbness that had taken hold of him, Legend felt his heart warm, just a little. Most of his family was still gone—don’t think about it yet, wait to break down until you’ve gotten your bearings—but he had Hyrule back, even if the traveler didn’t know him yet, and there was Hyrule’s Zelda as well. That meant that Fable had survived the wizard, and continued the royal line. She had lived, and if she had lived then there was no way she’d have let that wizard do the same.

Legend took a deep breath. He would be able to mourn soon. He would dig through every library he could find until he discovered what had happened after he was cursed. He would scour the land for even a trace of where his family had been laid to rest. Bottling up his emotions was nothing new to Legend, so he forced down his grief and guilt and anger, stuffed it in a little box labeled “For Later,” and chucked it into the back of his mind.

Pushing himself to his feet, Legend took a moment to find his balance before carefully descending the steps of the dais. He wrapped his arms around Hyrule, the younger boy letting out a surprised yelp as he was enveloped in a tight hug. Legend could feel Hyrule’s uncertainty in the stiff line of his shoulders and way his hands hovered awkwardly over his back, and wondered how many times the traveler had been hugged before this. Probably not nearly enough.

Legend was going to fix that.

“Thank you, Hero of Hyrule,” he murmured into the boy’s shoulder, and found tears pricking at the corners his eyes, despite his best efforts to keep them back. “I would like that very much.”

[muffinlance]

Related Work: Branded by jordanpotato

Summary:

Agni saves Zuko's life at 13 when his father attempts to murder him in a sacrilegious Agni Kai. She thanks him for his defense of his people with a gift that doubles as a curse, branded into his shoulder, a sort of protection whose powers, at 13, he does not fully realise. That same year, rumours begin to stir in Earth Kingdom ports, of the now-banished Fire Prince and his crew who seem to never burn. Zuko thinks he just keeps getting lucky. Hakoda, at least briefly, thinks so, too. It would have been less of a headache for everyone involved if that's what he'd continued to believe. [PODFIC AVAILABLE]