#I suppose I could write more fic

[kittycatcorner]

shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose. 

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now. 

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples. 

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two. 

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends. 

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed. 

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable. 

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized. 

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture. 

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase. 

Hoffman had spoken, then. 

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.” 

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter. 

Why did that make something strange stir within him? 

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired. 

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence. 

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men. 

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest. 

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?” 

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive. 

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already. 

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt. 

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips. 

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?” 

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued. 

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.” 

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet. 

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?” 

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say. 

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways. 

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf. 

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.” 

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected. 

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible. 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.” 

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!” 

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic. 

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair. 

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury. 

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused. 

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head. 

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened. 

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him. 

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged. 

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply. 

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.” 

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place. 

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him. 

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.” 

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.” 

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused. 

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?” 

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment. 

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer. 

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds. 

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful. 

“He does not ‘have me’.” 

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.” 

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…” 

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts. 

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.” 

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone. 

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce. 

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…” 

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.” 

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say. 

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.” 

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse. 

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.” 

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said. 

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage. 

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited. 

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity. 

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder. 

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal. 

Tamed. Domesticated. 

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree. 

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly. 

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

[hcdragonwrites]

Too Close ( A @jttw-monkeybusiness Fanfic)

So this started as one thing and then It grew its own will and became another. I hope you enjoy!

TW: Blood and Gore- Violence as well. If these make you squeamish or can trigger you please read my other works instead!

It was supposed to just be a meal- a simple outing to the market square to buy up some noodles at a shop stand Pigsy had seen on the way through. It was supposed to be simple, easy day.

The market stall exploded in a shower of wood and porcelain as the monstrous thing rose from the stand. Sophie rolled, dodging the flying debris as best she could. A sliver of wood cut across her cheek but she felt nothing. Her mind only had one thing in it.

Oh shit that’s a massive snake.

But it wasn’t a snake. The head that toward from the market as the rest of the villagers fled, resembled a snake. It’s slitted eyes blinked and forked tongue tasted the air. Heat rippled outward from its body. The grasses dried in the damn soil. The earth that had moments ago been anointed with summer rain, cracked and snapped brittle in the sudden heat. Sophie felt her lips dry and her face chap in the change of temperature.

A grunt from nearby. Sophie turned to see Sandy rise from a cast off wall, a huddle Tripitaka in his arms. The snake head swayed, tongue tasting. It snapped its focus to Sandy and coiled its head back. A maw of pink and long silver teeth flew forward. The disciple threw up the discarded wall just in time for the things great teeth to be buried into wood instead of Flesh. Trip was no fool and at Sandy’s nod, escaped beneath his arm.

Sophie could hear Pigsy howling curses nearby from somewhere. The dust was still settling, the dried earth kicked upward as more of the things body was revealed. Fuck it had wings. Four black leathery wings grew from its back at disjointed angles. They beat unevenly. Their wind threw dirt and rocks into the air. The feel of it stung Sophie’s cheek. The Monk reached her then- hand outstretched. She caught it and he hauled her up off the dirt.

Run. Her heart seemed to thrash in her chest. Sophie saw more of the beast being revealed from the ruins of the market. An impossibly long coiled body- legs- more clawed legs. Six of them?- juxtaposed throughout its flesh at odd angles. She felt like she was moving too slow. Moving as if her blood was full of ice.

Those eyes blinked and the pupil widened. Sandy held the things face in his hands, the wooden wall king destroyed. The River demon strained as the thing bore down on him, all saliva and flashing fangs.

It could swallow him whole. Sophie felt a cold shiver run down her back as Trip and her fled. There was nothing either of them could do. They were mortals. This thing was beyond their ken. Beyond their ability. And it could swallow us whole.

Of course fleeing targets attract more attention then prey standing still. The great demonic beast of droughts shook off the irritable ant holding its fangs and dipped its head. The scent had been with the little thing before it but … it had moved. It smelled delectable. The tongue whipped out again, seeking. There- among the fleeing mortals this monster had disdainfully had been serving for the past years in hopes of devouring in return- was the taste. It was a man- a man hand in hand with a women. Two for the price of one. There was an irritable pain at its side but the Drought Bringer simply flicked one of its long claws and flapped its wings higher.

Into the air it rose- away from the sting of the weapons. The town with its simple huts and mud wall fell away. The demon rose up and angled itself. Heat radiated off, burring away the cloud cover and killing trees and greens all around it.

The monk would not get too far.

It coiled.

And struck out.

Sophie and Tripitaka were almost beyond the wall and into the rice fields. The heat had dried those up, killing crops and scattering the water into vapour. Villagers- merchants and Mothers, field workers and Fathers- all streamed to the exits.

They were almost out.

Sophie felt a prickle of fear, a new wave of apprehension swell in her mind. For what- for why- she didn’t know. What made Sophie turn her head then, to look back, she would never know. But she was glad for whatever spirit, god, or instinct made her look back.

A maw full of silvered fangs, of needle tips curved back and outward. An avalanche of heat and horror. She reacted and threw herself sideways. Tripataka, still holding her hand, was dragged with her.

The serpent struck the earth, sending an earthquake outward. Buildings shivered and collapsed. Children screamed and mothers called out. Sophie pulled the monk up beside her, trying to get him to rise. They didn’t have much time. She had bought them but a moment, but a second. They had to move had to get the fuck out of there.

“Trip get up-“ Sophie begged. The monk was trying- it looked like he had twisted something in his leg at the sudden fall. Up up up up up up get up please.

A angry hiss as the earth cracked more. The demon raised its head. It’s mouth was full of stone and dirt. And a few dangling limbs. The creature dropped these and angled it’s head again. It’s body coiled, it’s clawed and displaced legs curling.

Their second was up.

Sophie couldn’t look away- she wanted to- but it was the same feeling a rabbit, over exhausted and run down, experiences when cornered by a fox. The sense of frozen dread. She could no more look away then the rabbit could overcome its fear.

Of course the human mind is a strange thing for the only thing that Sophie could think on was, We didn’t even get to eat the damn noodles we paid for.

Something flashed, a glitter a bit above the serpents head. Like the flash of a moth wing in moonlight.

Wha—

A pillar of black and gold materialized where the flash had been. Such a small insignificant staff.

Sophie knew that staff.

The staff elongated over the monsters head. It slammed straight into the back of the snakes skull. The sound of iron against bone rang in the sky like a thunderclap. The demon cried in confusion and pain- an unholy scream that sent the air to shaking. The staff drove the things face down into the soil, just feet away from Sophie and Tripataka. Bones snapped, the sound of scale cracking beneath the iron rod as it drove down, down, down, down. The earth cracked with the impact.

The pressure was too great. The hide split as the earth could not give anymore and blood came in a spray of red.

The demon, the great Drought Bringer, rolled a bloodshot eye upward. A iron rod ? Was that what fell it ? Something so insignificant. A shadow loomed from the sunlight. Feet pressed on the demons head.

The demon knew this creature - this mild looking and bored Monkey- and felt the contents of its stomach turn to water. Those eyes slashed downward, making the serpent flinch.

The burning heat in this demons gaze—

Sun Wukong knelt on the dying beasts skull the iron staff of Ruyi Jingu Bang resting across one shoulder. Those yellow eyes went from flaming to disinterested as the demonic monkey looked at the mortals.

“I told you the market was a bad idea.”

The blond haired women who had avoided the great Drought Bringers strike, shot up on her legs from the rubble.

“ARE you SERIOUS?!”

“I am. I told you all it was a bad idea.”

“You couldn’t have said that there was a demonic flying snake?!?”

“Do you think the bastard pig would have listened to me if I had ?” Wukong huffed. He swung a foot languidly off the side of the serpents skull. Wukong tapped the golden circlet on his brow. “I would have gotten another headache by this dumb band.”

“WUKONG A WHOLE TOWN WAS DESTROYED!”

“Bah.” He waved his hand at that. “It was gonna be destroyed. This beast wouldn’t have waited any longer to eat again.”

The foot pressed into the gore in the back of the demons spine and a half gasp, half cough, of pain exhaled from between broken jaws. The serpent didn’t remove its eye from the Demon king above it.

It had heard stories. Legends of five hundred years ago when it had been but a hatchling, of a monkey of stone waging war against Heaven. Of almost succeeding in bending that great power into a kowtow.

“WUKONG WE ALMOST GOT SWALLOWED WHOLE BY A FUCKING BIG ASS SNAKE.” Sophie retorted.

“Naw. I had it all under control.” Wukong tapped the edge of his staff now onto the creatures head.

“Though it is taking awhile to die…”

The serpent felt the monkey lean forward. The burning gaze was back now that the simian wasn’t staring at the women.

“Tougher than I thought you were.” His voice had become softer. “Survive a blow - even to just bleed out like a bloody hog- is no easy feat with my staff.”

The pressure from his clawed feet pricked the broken scales long the serpents skin. Those claws were drawing blood. The monkey leaned down to whisper almost sweetly.

“You never were going to get your fangs into them you disgusting worm. Wanna know why? Because I’m Sun Wukong. I am the Great Sage. And your Tale-” the weight of the monkey felt oppressive, his claws digging harder into the tender broken scales. “-your insignificant little blip in history is at an end.”

The monkey foot was the last thing the serpent, the Feiwei, saw before the staff was driven down again into its eye. The blindness as the pupil exploded under the contact and the sharp pain as the staff drove through the eye socket and into the recesses of the skull were the serpents last feelings.

Demonic minds were not like mortals. They did not flit between two threads of disconjointed emotions. The Feiwei knew it’s end and bitterly died.

The demon gave a final strangled gasp as it twitched once, twice and then was no more. The remaining demons eye rolled in its head. Crimson blood wept from the exposed eye socket and the broken skull. It mixed with the dirt to make a black patch in the soil. At the serpents death the air stopped its dry repression and eased in its intense heat.

Wukong stepped off lightly from the dead serpents head. His feet crossed through the bloody wake and up to Sophie who still stood, a bit dumbfounded, over Tripataka.

That was brutal. Sophie thought.

Then her body remembered itself and her stomach seized at the scent of demon blood. Bile burned up the back of her throat.

Please please please don’t throw up. That was the last thing she needed. Sophie pulled Tripataka up.

The monk hissed and winced as his weight tried to take his foot. And crumpled.

“Is it broken?” Sophie worried. She didn’t see any tears in the skin- any blood. Blood.

Again she fought a wave of nausea. The back of the demons neck had been cut wide open- almost as if obliterated- by a single strike. The trauma of the loss of so much bodily mass to a central location, the skull, had been enough to kill it but it had lived on. Just long enough for Wukong to stab it in the eye.

“Not … not broken. Just sprained.” Trip smiled, sweat building on his brow. “Sophie .. thank —“

Tripatakas words died on his throat as he disciple came into full view. And he blanched.

“Stupid beast.” Wukong picked his claws, flicking some of the blood free from their tips. The stone monkey was absolutely painted in crimson, having delivered the blow and standing behind the beast as it fell. Dark ichor dripped from the side of his face, matting the fur in places that the blood was thickest in.

“See Master ?” Wukong grinned- not helping the two mortals as they both struggled with their aversions: Tripataka for violence and Sophie for blood.

“I almost died ….” Trip muttered, the shock coming over him then.

“There there Trip.” Sophie soothed - but she sounded wooden as she also felt her stomach heave. Gods and spirits the blood stank.

“Why does everything bad happen to me?”

“It’s ok Trip.”

“Why is it always devouring they try and accomplish?! Buddha it’s breath stank of rot.”

“Most human eating demons don’t have pretty breath.”

Wukong, oblivious or willfully blind to the mortal dilemmas unfolding before him, swaggered closer.

“Well! That’s another monstrosity down. Solved with violence.” Wukong barred his teeth. His mood was improved from when they had first arrived and none had taken his warning seriously. Not even Sophie. That was an insult. She was lulled in by Pigsy who kept regaling all with the tales of this unique little village.

Utter drivel. Wukong had seen real food wonders- Hell he came from the most fruitful mountain in the world! What could some boiled water and limp noodles compare to the tastes of flower fruit mountain?

Wukong turned, leaning against his staff as he rested it against the ground. “Sophie did ya see that ?”

“Yes.” Her voice was tight as she watched the blood drip off Wukong.

“You didn’t throw up?” He inquired with a flash of teeth.

“… no I didn’t.” Her stomach kept trying to make her mouth open up but Sophie was stronger then that.

“HA! Soft women don’t lie! You look just as pale as when that thing was diving at you!” Wukong laughed, his tail twitching in humor. “How would either of you get by without me?”

“Wukong maybe nows not the time—“ Sophie tried but was brushed over as Wukong puffed his chest up and grinned all the wider.

“I, the great Sun Wukong have saved my master again. Did I not do a great job dispatching the beast for you master ?” It was half mock, half fishing for compliments. He did just slay a demonic multi limbed serpent out of the sky.

“Wukong…”

“Not even praise ?!” Well that was dreadfully disappointing. He expected some sort of good job from the monk.

Sophie wanted to roll her eyes. Can’t he read the room?

“Wukong you did a fantastic job!” Sophie would try and smooth things over. While also not suffering from her flipping stomach. “Amazing. It’s just the — the blood— it stinks. Worse then normal. —“

“I know you are thankful because you have decent sense but I want to hear it from him!”

At this moment Tripataka stood straight suddenly. He calmly limped to one of the bushes. And promptly vomited.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wukong huffed, irritable even in the hot springs warmth. He had a bucket in one hand and a washboard in the other, and had scrubbed the blood free of his clothes. Pants, shirt, tiger skin- it all had to be washed. Of course Wukong had pilfered some soap awhile back from the Market square the Pilgrims had passed through. He had set to work, scrubbing and pulling and worrying over the clothing until it was clean. He knew he had to clean it. He took pride in his looks and decorum. Wukong would have gone to the spring naturally on his own in time.

Wukong twitched the edge of his tail annoyed.

He was aware he was a bit unkempt after saving Sophie and Tripataka from the Feiwei. He had just batted the thing out of the air into the earth. There was bound to be blood and gore after a swing like that. Sophie had given him a brief berating of getting himself cleaned up- and when he had asked and demanded for what was rightly his - praise, thanks, AT LEAST A YOUR WELCOME- Sophie had promised him that she would lavish him in praise if he would just get clean.

Fine. If his Master wouldn’t spoil him in praise and was currently giving his attention to Sandy then the Monkey would wheedle it out of Reader.

Wukong sunk lower into the water, thinking. He hadn’t let the group go into the town without him. Though he had threatened and grumbled and said “fuck that” Wukong had set a double to follow from above, watching. Of course the Pig would follow his nose to the demons lair. Of course he would assure the others that there was no way this could be a demon.

Wukong swore the Pig was out to get them killed half the time.

Well the rest was predictable. As soon as that wiggling worm had taken one sniff of the monk, he had grown all greedy and hungry and hadn’t been able to keep its human disguise.

Wukong had the whole situation under control though- it had just - taken him a moment to wake up from his dozing. The snake had gotten a bit close. Maybe the invisible double had shoved the two mortals just a bit too hard. That twisted ankle of the Monks would take some time to heal. Luckily the village headman had given the group his home- a little but set back into a bit of shaded pine and with its own hot spring - to rest und for as long as needed. And while Wukong had endured the grating reprimand of Pigsy at being late, the monkey had felt a bit smug. His deeds had scored them nice lodgings.

Wukong wouldn’t care about where they slept. The Monkey King could simply find a nice patch anywhere and curl up. The boon I’m his cap though was the absolute excited light sweep into Sophie’s eyes at the mention of beds and pillows and a roof over their head.

Wukong pulled himself out of the water, the steam rising off of his body in the twilight air. It had been enough time since him washing his clothes to his longs soak that, in the summer sun, had dried enough. Maybe not the shirt but his trousers had. The rest would have to wait till morning. Wukong had a Reader to annoy now.

Sophie was in heaven. After the hellish day of demonic snakes and almost getting devoured, Sophie was comfortable and cozy and all too happy to rush to the futon that had been dragged into the center of her little room.

A bed. Clean clothes. A full belly. The horror of the day was an echo but it was still there. If she closed her eyes she could still hear it- still smell the hot breath blasting across their faces.

A knock on her door had her start from the memory.

Who’s that ?

It wouldn’t be Pigsy. The man had passed out hours ago after the steamed buns and broth the village headman had left for them. Maybe it was Sandy? That didn’t seem likely since he was currently nursing Tripitakas twisted ankle. It would be better after the swelling went down.

Did Wukong really take me up on my offer of praise?

“READER OPEN THE DOOR.”

Yep. There was only one stone monkey that sounded that annoyed yet still knocked with the politeness. Sophie stepped to the door and opened it.

And stared just a little.

She had been expecting to see a fully clothed Sun Wukong leaning against her door. What she hadn’t been expecting was a half dressed Wukong with his arms crossed over his chest. And emphasizing that he most certainly did not have a shirt on.

“Where’s your shirt?” Brilliant Sophie. Blurt the first thing that comes to mind. Wukong pushed off the doorframe and past her into the room, giving her a clear view of his pecs, his shoulders, his back.

Pull it together girl and get your mind out of the gutter.

“I had to clean it since you and the monk threw a sick fest at a little bit of blood.” The monkey sat down, crossing his legs beneath him. At least he knows how to make himself comfortable.

“Right…” Sophie watched as Wukong began to slide his fingers through the wet fur along his back, beside his face and over his arms. Grumbling as his nails seemed to catch and pull in the longer bits of his fur. Wukong flexed his arms to reach a spot. The ripple of muscle along his back was unexpected.

Sophie felt her face flame up. I’m glad he’s so wrapped into himself because if he saw what I looked like right now—

“Well I’m clean now but my fur is all snarled.” He snapped. The monkey was currently struggling with a knot of fire at the base of his neck.

“I have a brush you can borrow.” Anything to get my head out of that space and back in line with normal thinking. She crossed the mats and grabbed her bag. Sophie plucked her brush free from its place, walking back to Wukong. She was a bit startled he was watching her, his eyes half closed in thought.

“You know what… this wouldn’t have happened if you had just followed my warning women.”

“What?”

“A mess is what you and Pigsy and Trip caused.” Wukong leaned his head back and let the water still clinging to his fur, drip downward. “All because you didn’t listen to the warning I gave.”

What was she supposed to do? Sophie had been hungry, had been just as trusting of Pigsys judgment of what was mortal and what was maligned hungry demonic pretending to be mortal. She tried to pass the brush to Wukong, hoping that if she gave him what he wanted he would leave off his snippy comments.

The monkey raised an eyebrow at the brush.

“You can take it ya know- it’s as good as any comb you have.” Sophie lifted the brush and ran it through her hair in demonstration. Hers was a simple hairbrush with short bristles and a worn handle from use.

“Back on the mountain many female members of my kingdom would kowtow and beg for a chance I’m about to give you.” Wukong said.

Chance ?

The monkey king closed her hands over the handle. He turned, setting his hands on his knees as his back faced her now. “Not everyone gets the chance I am giving you- so be grateful.”

“You want me to… brush you?”

“Brush my fur.” It was more command then question.

“Alright.”

Sophie began at the tops of his shoulders. The short bristled brush caught in the hair and slide free, leaving it untangled. Wukongs fur was thick enough to be like her own hair and the brush carefully and methodically by Sophie’s hand, worked through the thickest patches of fur. At places she would have to switch to a comb, one Wukong slid soundlessly from his pocket and passed back to her. This was strangely nice… if not a bit intimate. The constant motion of the brush, of the task, was helping her still jittery mind calm and work through the events that had led up to them being here in a house. With her grooming Wukong.

“When did you know about the demon?” It came tumbling from her mouth before she could stop it.

“As soon as we came upon the village.” Wukong answered. He had his eyes closed, tail swaying against the wooden floor. “The townspeople stank of demon. Seems that beast has been feeding them up to try and cultivate some souls.”

“Sounds like how some insects raise other bugs” Like how ants raise aphids.

“Or like how mortals raise cattle.” Wukong commented.

“Mmm” Sophie felt her mind run through the memories again. The serpent lashing out- and her ability to drag Trip out of the way of that strike. Of the great snake lifting it’s head from the broken earth. Of it lunging a second time. We both could have been dead so fast. No one would have known. Wukong had been left behind, Pigsy had been thrown off somewhere. Only Sandy knew what may have happened to them. Sophie’s brushing slowed.

A snap of fingers made her blink out of the memories.

“Speak.”

“Speak?”

“Don’t parrot me.” Wukong opened his eye just a fraction to shoot her a glare. “ Something on your mind, you stupid women. Spit it out.”

“I thought… I thought we were dead..”

“You would have been if I hadn’t come!” Wukong reached back and took her hand in his. The Monkey king moved the brush up to his head where the fur was in a most disheveled state. Sophie started to gently untangle it, careful of how hard or how fast she worked. He may be able to burst from fires and come away without any lacerations but he may not take kindly to a mortal carelessly tugging at his fur. The wet strands moved slowly through the bristles as he talked. “Makes you want to take heed of a Kings words hmm?”

For all his boasting and puffing up, for all his prideful japes and comments… he almost had been too late. If she hadn’t yanked Trip. If they hadn’t run … “You almost weren’t there though…”

“Sophie.”

“Yea?”

He was turned about, facing her dead on before she could blink. Wukongs yellow eyes looked over her then. Little scrapes here and their. No major cuts. Except for the still red and puffy slice along her cheek. Wukong reached forward and ran a thumb over the slice. I should have sent more then one invisible douple.

“You wouldn’t have been eaten.” He would lessen her worry, and reaffirm his abilities. Had she forgotten? He was Sun Wukong- no demon could stop him. “I wouldn’t have let it happen. I would have torn the bastard apart before it got even a flick of spit on you. You or the monk.”

And next time I’ll make sure I leave them with two invisible doubles instead of one.

Sophie had frozen when he brushed his hand across her face. He was being kind, sensing her turmoil over it all. She was about to say something in kind, something to match that kindness.

“It’s my duty to protect the weak mortals on this quest. It would reflect badly on me as King of Flower Fruit Mountain if I let those under my care get devoured by some slimy worm.” Of course he couldn’t resist the opportunity to flaunt his importance.

“That almost sounds like reassurance.” Sophie sighed. She raised the brush up again in silent question.

“It is reassurance.” He affirmed. Wukong nodded once at the brush, spinning back around. “No harm comes to those that are in my care.”

“Well. Then if it only takes brushing your fur for that… I would be happy to do it every night.”

Wukongs tail gave a little flick. They spent the rest of the night talking, trading quips and jokes. As the of cicadas from beyond the doors blended with the soft swish of the brush, a feeling of contentment and camaraderie fell between the two. And something … more grew.

[superfallingstars]

Hello, do you have any marauders fic recs? I’m a big marauders fan but I’m so tired of reading fics where they feel completely out of character, and I feel like you might know something I don’t

Aw man I’m the wrong person to ask for this, I don’t really read fics very often lol. I’ll try to enlist the help of some people whose Marauders opinions I trust and who might have better recs than me (tbh I’m also curious to hear), but I’ll share the few that I’ve come across, too. Apologies if you've already read them.

I think my most relevant rec is The Night Will Always Win by betweenfactandbreakfast, which is a canon-compliant Marauders era fic from 1975-1981. Admittedly I haven’t finished it – tbh I liked it so much that I had to stop reading it, which sounds so incredibly dumb now that I wrote it out, but I was legitimately getting pissed off that I had to do things in real life instead of reading it lmao. Time to take a step back...! Either way, I’ve really enjoyed it so far. And I’ve seen @seriousbrat's inbox turn into a battleground of endless Snape vs. Marauders discourse, so I know their feelings on the characters are pretty similar to mine lol (and hiii I know you have been in this fandom for much longer than I have, so maybe you have some good recommendations?). Basically this is a good fic if you want everyone to be a terrible person <3

The other fic I can rec is Have Your Cake and Eat It by cunegonde, aka my favorite fic of all time (that I could scream about literally foreverrrr but I’ll try to reel myself in!). This is a good fic if you want everyone to be a good person. Also this fic has time travel in it, so it’s like, kind of Marauders era, but not quite? Even though it’s kind of cliche, it’s also incredibly earnest and thoughtfully done, and it has interesting (and imo, realistic!) characterizations of each of the Marauders. Tbf I’m definitely biased toward this author’s work because they basically only write Snupin (my personal fave pairing), but reading their stuff is like, genuinely why are you writing Harry Potter fanfiction and not a full-length original novel, because holy fuck I think you could actually pull that off. Like, I loved this fic so much that I (person who doesn't read fanfic) immediately read everything else they wrote and finished it all in two days... Also this fic made me cry for literally an hour straight (probably the strongest emotional reaction I’ve had to any piece of media ever lol) – even though I knew what was coming. It was just that good.

Unfortunately that’s literally all I got lol. I’m going to tag some people who I think have similar takes on the Marauders as I do – @seriousbrat @remus-poopin @big-scary-bird @saintsenara – hiii, add on if you’d like. And anyone else who has recommendations of Marauders fics with good characterization, feel free to chime in!

[sysig]

Delusions (Patreon)

"Could I have your hand, sir?" Max didn't move, which Dexter was, sadly, getting used to.

"Sir?" Max jerked, then turned and stared at him, lost and blank. "Your hand, please."

Max's hand lifted shakily, and he laid it gently in Dexter's upturned palm. Dexter gave a quick and quiet "thank you," then turned it over in his own hand, observing him closely.

Too closely - his knuckles were rough and his fingernails were dull and cracked in places. His once-soft, not-a-day-in-his-life-subjected-to-hard-labour hands were now, already, toughened and split and scarred in places, especially the heel of his palm. He turned it over again, this time to stop looking so intensely. He had only wanted to give it a cursory glance to begin with.

"Do you know what I see, sir?" he asked as conversationally as he could manage, running his fingers along Max's abused flesh. He seemed to be at least half paying attention, his eye gazing down between them, and he'd occasionally twitch, encouragingly Dexter thought. He seemed to want to curl around him, then stopped and shook, his hand squeezing into a fist. Dexter coaxed him back out, encouraged him to hold himself lightly.

"What do you see?" He was almost startled by Max actually continuing their conversation, that happened so rarely now, shaking and quiet as it was. He took a deep breath, was he really going to do this?

"I see a hand, with five fingers." Max remained quiet, though his brow curled, and a guarded look came into his eye, though he still wasn't looking at Dexter. He felt a pang of guilt, but he had to try. "What do you see?"

Max's eye unfocused and began to water. He looked up, but not enough to reach Dexter's gaze in return, instead staring through his chest, and he felt just as hollow and empty as he must look to him.

"Do you take me for a fool, DAX?" Quiet and as close to angry as he'd heard since they'd been here.

No, not angry.

Betrayed.

He swallowed down the stinging lump at the back of his throat. He had to put on a brave face, had to keep his composure if he wanted Max to get better. That was the only thing he wanted, more than anything.

"Of course not, sir. Genuinely, what do you see?"

Max pulled his hand away and turned his body, his bandaged side facing Dexter. Shutting him out, pointedly. Dexter's empty hand curled into a fist, he was no better.

"Please, don't..." Max took a shallow, shuddering breath, and several beats before he spoke again, even quieter. "Don't ridicule me." Dexter could hear his breath catch, and he wanted nothing more than for this all to just stop.

"Sir, I didn't-"

"I've had enough of that." He shook his head stiffly, the action strange and wrong, like he had forgotten how. He stilled, his head turned even further away. "More than enough."

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

Hi hello I watched all of carmilla in a weekend when I was 17 because a student teacher who in retrospect I had a bit of a crush on mentioned that she knew one of the actresses. also I am pretty invested in all your recent vampire stuff because I watched iwtv in 2 days last week because your edit intrigued me

oh hiiii 🫶 thank you for indulging me. thats so cool that you watched iwtv! did it live up to the expectation?

i also watched carmilla at 17! or like, 17-19. i found it when s2 had just started and followed it to the end. did something permanent to my brain but i think it was a good thing. on rewatch now im like, i was right to like this. like it's a solid show, it's good. it has its flaws obviously but it's well written, the emotional moments still get me, i can see why i liked it and i still like it now even when it's not anymore, you know, meeting every need that baby gay me didnt even know they had

what it doesnt reaallyy do though - i dont remember if i posted abt this or if i left it in my drafts but - is explore vampirism as a concept. their subject matter is more lesbianism than vampirism. which is great! thats what they wanted to do and they did it and it's very good. but reading interview with the vampire the book rn im realising how much potential vampires have to be metaphors for like so many things and i started wondering like 'wait, did carmilla just not really engage with it or did it all go over my head'. but it just didnt really engage with it all that much. which again is fine bc that wasnt what they were doing. im glad they were more about the lesbianism than the vampirism

but there's this interesting difference in framing, because in iwtv they keep calling armand 'ancient' right? and emphasising how old he is. and he's like 500? and i was like 'wait isnt carmilla like 400?'. she isnt, shes 340, but still, thats getting there, you know? and we know quite a lot about her history, but kind of just the Big Events. when she was turned, the events of the novella, coffin of blood, silas. thats sort of what we know. but none of the long lonely slog of history day to day you know? with armand i feel like we can really feel how much time everything takes. how every one of those years is made up of single days. with carmilla i dont feel that as much. i keep kind of thinking about daniel, when louis calls him a boy in the first episode, saying "im an old man, with all the triggers that come with it"

because carmilla might look 18 (or mid twenties at this point) but she has lived all that time. shes also seen her native land be claimed by like a succession of ruling powers, right? like armand. shes been buried alive, like louis. when lestat is born, shes already 80 years old, shes lived a whole human lifetime, and the entire adult part of it shes been a vampire. shes lived through 1680-1870 being a lure. i compared her to abigail hobbs in some tags on a post, i dont know if youre familiar with hannibal the tv show, but i do also kinda keep thinking about that comparison

if youre not familiar, in the first episode of hannibal the murderer of the week is this guy garrett jacob hobbs who kills and cannibalises girls who resemble his daughter. and later on it turns out she was made to be his lure. like they'd go places and he'd sent her to the victims to make friends and maybe get them back to their home or smth. not sure if they specified all the details. but that's what carmilla did for mother. and in s2 we hear from mattie that while every couple of decades carmilla had to lure victims for the fish god, she also seemed to just enjoy humans between those times, right? like the doctor, gets lonely, gets a new companion. but we've only sort of got mattie's mocking word for it ("dont eat him, hes a poet! or her, shes got such a wonderful voice. or that one, shes just too pretty to ruin"), we don't know exactly from carmilla's point of view what she was doing or why. if mattie's talking about stuff that happened after the blood coffin, 1950-now, then i think it's a fair assumption based on what carmilla says in the s1 sock puppet show that after she'd figured out what the real situation was and what her role in it was, when she'd started trying to save girls from being sacrificed, that she mightve been doing the same trying to save people from becoming mattie's victims. it's probably more likely that she was just trying to find excuses to stop mattie from sucking someone dry rather than actually having like an aesthetic based morality. but it might be a bit of both. im still trying to figure out what her philosophy actually is, like i dont know what existentialism actually means ghkfjghkj but i will

i also found it pretty striking in the movie when shes turning back into a vampire she says like "this was supposed to be done, you know? the blood lust, the self-loathing, the sleeping tied to a chair in my own bedroom". thats what defines her vampirism, wanting blood and hating yourself for it (the third part is a joke/reference to s1 but also i think meaningful for how she sees her relationship with laura when she IS a vampire. little bit of that 'she will reject me for my monstrousness' shining through). and thats what defines vampirism for lots of vampires across the genre obviously, but i dont know, it struck me. we dont get a lot from carmilla's pov, we know a fair amount about her, but the story is always told through laura. we get laura's diaries, but just snippets here and there from carmilla, what shes thinking, how shes feeling

and i love that shes a philosopher. i love that thats how she seems to try and find something to hold onto, in a world that kind of moves around her, having been murdered, kidnapped, turned and groomed to be a lure on the cusp of adulthood, never having been properly loved (the relationship with her father wasnt good she says in s3, and her mortal mother i dont think has ever been mentioned (like laura's)). the only good relationship she seems to have had for the better part of 3 centuries seems to have been mattie, and mattie seems to love being a vampire. i can imagine carmilla just sort of going along with anything mattie wants to do just because shes so desperate for that friendship. not like, against her will necessarily really. but more like, she hasnt even had the space to develop her own will, you know? and philosophy lets you do that. philosophy gives you frameworks to understand the world and to develop your own opinions on it. and by the 21st century she seems to have developed those opinions, she has a sense of her own values, but shes also still stuck in that same situation. shes jaded and cynical in the face of laura's optimism and strong moral code a lot of the time in s1 because she feels probably pretty powerless. like she does what she can to save some girls but at the end of the day shes scared of her mother and she has nowhere else to go really, right?

i like how she grapples with that over the course of the series, in tandem with laura grappling with her black and white morality. she sort of jumps ship from her mother to laura bc theyve fallen in love, but then laura still stuck in her hero thinking refuses to see her monstrous side. not literally bc i think the biological vampirism never seemed to be a problem for laura, but morally. the having murdered. carmilla needs laura to see that and love her while seeing it bc the last girl she loved rejected her for being a vampire.

but you see her kind of swing back and forth in s2. she softens first with laura but then they break up and she leans back hard into the sarcastic cynic defense mechanisms, leans hard into "im a monster, dont expect heroism from me". but thats like, it's sort of learned helplessness i think. it's powerlessness, resignation. bc morally shes not a monster. maybe she doesnt have as strong a drive to help other people as laura does and is a little more selfishly hedonistic in that she just wants to enjoy her/their life, but she doesnt hurt people for fun, she never has. she just sort of didnt have another option for a Really long time. so she pretends she doesnt care. "im a vampire, this is what i do, this is who i am". but clearly from the way she talks about it when she turns back into one, she doesnt enjoy it

and i like how she goes even further in s3, where she starts swinging even more to the heroic side, bc she sees hope. shes like "wow if we kill my mother, i'd be free". theres hope and she becomes like a lot more active. and shes like that at the start of the movie too, a lot happier, a lot more relaxed, and then vampirism is back and bam depression gfhgkjh like shes immediately more gloomy, ashamed of her past and her self, retreats into herself

sorry i just took this as an opportunity to dump all the carmilla thoughts floating in my head on you. you didnt ask fhkghgjh consider this an open invitation to you or anyone else to come talk to me about carmilla

[anderstrevelyan]

Hmm, I officially have a fully polished first chapter of my next fic, time to fight the temptations

What if I...just—

[pinazee]

I have two dueling ideas and i cant decide which one i want to do more! I want to write a one shot where ted drags paul out for drinks, but does it go:

1. Ted gets drunk, hits on everyone in the bar, makes a real mess, and paul has to clean everything up. But as hes taking ted home, paul learns that ted was actually sad that charlotte cancelled plans on him and just didnt want to be alone, thus helping paul understand ted better and leading him to actually consider ted a friend. This is also the first time emma sees paul outside of beanies, and how he handles ted convinces her to give him her number.

Or

2. Ted convinces paul to drink, telling him he needs to loosen up if he, a man who’s never left the state let alone the island, wants to keep someone like emma, who’s explored the world and gone on adventures, interested. Paul gets drunk pretty quickly and gets a bit sloppy, emma shows up (as theyre at the birdhouse, her favorite bar) and both ted and emma end up taking care of him and he learns that she likes him just the way he is, boring, stable, and reliable. Ted doesn’t get much development here though.

Now mind you, before you vote, know that i might not even publish it. I hoard my fics in google docs like a collection of broken toys. So you might not read it. But please help me anyway. This is the most divided ive ever been because i want both :( i want someone to see ted for who he really is, and i want to explore paulkins.

[klaissance]

indulgent established klance long-distance boyfriends coalition paladins/BOM keith reunion event GO:

keith gets to the dinner early

he had to ask kolivan to put him on the list as one of the BOM agents going and if that dude ever laughed at anything keith would swear he was laughing at him when he uninvited somebody else to put keith on the list

it's this gorgeous bigass hall with lovely vaulted ceilings and the biggest longest table keith has ever seen

aproned aliens are in set-up mode, scurrying around setting utensils and plates and namecards and chairs all around this table

keith has his mask up and everything and he nods respectfully at some of the staff as he starts to walk the length of the table

it's been too long since he saw the team he knows that and they know it too

he knows they miss him, knows it in his bones that they miss him at least some fragment as much as he aches for them (which is so much all the time)

pidge hacked a touchpad to let it transmit through the signal jammer outfitted at the BOM base so he does get to message and call home sometimes but tbh he's not on-base very often before he's jetting off to the next crazy mission halfway across the galaxy

anyway he's in this hall scanning the namecards and letting his mind wander while he waits for the guests--but mostly his former team--to show up

he finds his own card next to kolivan's, only it just says "blade of marmora guest" anonymous and replaceable, just like usual

allura is set to be seated at the head of the table with the other important people and key speakers

keith smiles despite himself at the thought of allura pacing the halls of the castleship this past week, running through versions of speeches for anyone who will listen

the smile turns into an ache when he thinks of lance, perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, or draped across the lounge couch, head tipped off the edge, listening and humming appraisingly at all the right moments

turning those warm brown eyes to the ceiling and pretending to think hard on it when allura asks him if he thinks she's ready

"of course princess" he'd say, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently

"I think you were born ready"

because lance has always been good at that, at making you feel like the most capable person in the Universe

halfway down the opposite side of this grandiose table, keith finds what he hadn't known he'd been looking for: four name placards right in a row, each labeled with a name and "Paladin of Voltron"

takashi shirogane, pidge holt, hunk garrett, and lance mcclain

keith frowns sourly at the next name, some alien duke or duchess or whatever the fuck, somebody important who has just won the diplomacy dinner lottery by being offered the seat next to the blue paladin

he looks across the table from here to his own seat, looming positively miles away across and down this long ass mcfreaking table

who made this chart anyway???

keith is still grumping about it as people begin to show up and he shrinks a little into himself, scanning the room for those familiar faces, the anticipation buzzing under his skin

he's so lost in the looking that he forgets himself and gets totally ambushed by a voice right up against his ear

"Getting on just as socially as usual, I see"

he whirls ready to FIGHT but it's allura !!! and the relief and joy at seeing her in person for the first time in multiple space-months is such whiplash that he pitches straight into her open arms and holds tight

when he recovers he takes down the mask and squirms awkwardly

allura is gentle and kind, knows he hates the diplomacy part, knows he's only here because he misses all of them, one of them in particular...

they do small talk for a bit, allura growing worse and worse at hiding her amusement as keith continues to turn and stare at the door with increasing frequency

her eyes are sparkling the way they do when she gossips and she asks him point blank "so, you must be excited to see your boyfriend again"

keith's mind goes blank "n-no" yknow like a liar

she's downright snickering at him and he still can't resist scanning the room

she throws him a bone, tells him the other paladins are running late coming back from the parade but will arrive soon

keith is like coolcoolcool no doubt no doubt but really cannot stop staring at the door and feeling like he might throw up and is his hair okay he didn't really think about this before he showed up, hasn't even seen it in actually days because he's had the suit on, and the suit is DUMB what the fUcK--

they get approached by other diplomats from various coalition planets and allura turns on the schmooze

keith checks his touchpad--there are three messages from lance

"SORRY BABE RUNNIGN LATE"

"c u so SOON :3 <33333333"

"*RUNNING"

" :D "

[griseldabanks]

For the Let Me Count the Ways ask game, would you do 31. "I wish..." for Legolas and Gimli, please?

Let Me Count the Ways ask game

The westering sun glimmered through the golden leaves of Caras Galadhon, casting its dappled light upon the grass. The breeze that filtered through the branches blew in from the south, carrying with it the first fresh hints of spring. The song of water splashing from beautiful fountains and trickling through a thousand tiny streams between the great roots of the mallorn trees echoed through the quiet evening air.

Blind to these beauties, Legolas passed like a shadow between the trees, head bowed, eyes upon his feet. At any other time, he would have been overjoyed to see this glorious city with his own eyes, to walk its paths and breathe in the scents of niphredil and elanor.

Yet there was a heaviness in the air, a weight in his chest that would not abate, and every sight and sound of beauty only pierced him deeper. The others spoke of their loss—Sam had even composed a poem—but Legolas found that he could not. Something stopped his lips, a sorrow and a fear that defied all speech. He could not even translate the Elven songs he heard for the others.

He had not wandered far when he became aware of a new scent, one that brought him up short. Smoke.

For a moment, he saw a fearsome being of smoke and flame, rising from the shadows to tower above the trees...but no. No, this was a small fire of underbrush and twigs—innocuous, if unexpected.

Stepping around the trunk of a large tree, Legolas found the source of the smoke in a small fire, built on the ground in the tree's shadow. All vegetation had been carefully scraped away in a circle around the fire.

Gimli sat tending the fire, bareheaded and with only a small axe hanging from his belt. Reddish hair spilled over his shoulders in braids, freed from the bands that normally held the braids together at the nape of his neck. He sat silently as Legolas watched, staring unblinking into the flames.

Legolas finally spoke when Gimli merely continued to sit there, unmoving. “If you are cold, would it not be wiser to ask for more blankets?”

With a start, Gimli turned and looked up at him.

“Such a small fire cannot bring much warmth,” Legolas continued. But then, he was continually surprised by what his mortal companions considered to be comfortable. Some of them chose to inhale smoke, yet complained when the smoke from their cookfire blew into their eyes. The halflings walked about barefoot in all weather, yet shivered and complained about the cold when it snowed. Perhaps this small of a fire was adequate for a Dwarf.

“I do not tend this fire for warmth, Master Elf,” Gimli grunted. “But fear not. I will see that the flames do not burn any of your precious trees.”

“I did not insinuate that—“ Legolas bit his tongue and took a deep breath. Now was not the time. Striving to keep his tone more neutral, he began again. “Then why do you tend this fire, Master Dwarf?”

Gimli shifted a little so his back was turned to Legolas, an obvious dismissal. “It is a Dwarven custom,” he said stiffly. “I would not expect you to understand.”

For a moment, Legolas thought of turning on his heel and leaving Gimli to whatever it was that had drawn him away from the others. After all, he clearly did not want Legolas there.

And yet...Legolas had just come from the others. They all rested, finding solace for their griefs and comfort for their weariness. Legolas had tried to rest. He had tried to seek out his own people and the comfort of their familiar customs. He had tried wandering alone.

The ache remained.

“No,” he admitted in a soft voice. “I do not understand. But I should like to learn.” He strode closer, sitting with his legs folded underneath him, on the other side of the little fire. “May I watch?”

Gimli's brows bristled, his eyes glinting with the reflection of the flames. But after a long moment of glaring through the heat shimmers, he merely grunted, “Do as you please.”

When he returned his attention to the fire, the anger seeped out of his face, leaving behind nothing but a weary sadness. He sat still for a moment, then with a sigh, he reached into his boot and pulled out a small, sharp knife that he held in one hand. With the other hand, he pulled one of his reddish braids over his shoulder.

A flash of steel, and the braid lay in the palm of his rough hand. Closing his eyes, Gimli murmured, “Balin.” Then he dropped the length of hair into his little fire. The flames crackled hungrily about it, devouring the hair in seconds and adding to the smoke curling into the air above their heads.

Gimli selected another braid, a narrower one just over his temple. One stroke of the blade, and it joined the first, cast into the fire. “Ori.”

As Gimli continued, Legolas realized he was reciting the names of the fallen Dwarves they had found in Moria. His kin...his friends. Legolas remembered how Gimli had boasted of the comforts they would enjoy when they reached the underground city. Easily he recalled the cry of anguish from Gimli when they found Balin's tomb at last.

Again and again, Gimli cut the long braids from his head and cast them into the flames. So many had fallen. So many lives lost to darkness and fear and cruel death. And then, with one final slice, Gimli tossed the thickest braid yet into the fire and sighed, “Gandalf.”

The ache rose up in Legolas' chest, growing tighter and tighter, more painful than Legolas thought he could stand. His hand fell to his belt and pulled out his own knife, a long, slender blade with an ivory hilt. Then, reaching up to the narrow braid that hung behind his ear, he sliced through the strand of hair.

There it lay, pale in the palm of his hand, so different from the thick reddish tresses Gimli had cut. “Mithrandir,” he murmured, then tossed it into the flames.

The fire roared up around it just as it had with Gimli's braids, turning it to ash within seconds. The fire knew no difference between Elf and Dwarf.

And as the scent of his own burning hair reached his nostrils, Legolas felt the ache begin to recede as if the flames consumed his pain as well. Perhaps not even his grief could withstand the fire.

Together, they sat staring at the heart of the fire, where together the remains of their hair crumbled away into ash. An Elf and a Dwarf, sitting in complete silence under the boughs of a tree, watching as their tiny fire burnt away to nothing.

By the time the last embers winked out, night had fallen upon Caras Galadhon. Now starlight and moonlight streamed through the branches of the trees, and a chill hung in the air that made Legolas even more aware of the absence of the fire's warmth. But still he waited, watching Gimli in silence.

At last, Gimli rose, stooping to make sure the fire was fully extinguished and then brushing off his hands. Legolas slowly got to his feet as well, unsure whether he should speak or not.

“Why?” Gimli's voice was hoarse, and full of an emotion Legolas could not decipher. He did not look up. “Why not...sing your songs? As the rest of your people do?”

“Because the songs bring me no comfort.”

Gimli did look up at him then, his eyes keen even in the darkness. But of course, he was a Dwarf. “And so you sought out me, of all people, for comfort?” Skepticism dripped from every word.

“Not...I did not expect....” Legolas fumbled over his words, and he did not know why. He felt none of the anger or outrage he might have, once. It seemed to have burnt away in the fire as well. “I...I wish....”

He hesitated. He did not know how Gimli would react to the thoughts slowly solidifying in his mind, and suddenly Legolas realized he wanted to avoid angering the Dwarf. Not out of fear or a simple desire to keep the peace, but...out of respect. Gimli had shared with him a small piece of his grief, and quarreling in this moment felt the same as if Legolas had stamped out Gimli's fire with his foot.

“Yes?” Gimli asked, crossing his arms. “What do you wish?”

“I wish I could have seen Khazad-dûm in the days of its glory,” Legolas said in a rush, stumbling slightly over sounds so unfamiliar to his tongue. “I wish I could have seen those great halls filled not with darkness, but with light and life and...everything else you spoke of. Not overrun with Orcs and...other evils.”

Gimli shuddered. “Let us not speak of that.”

Fingers of fear clenched around Legolas' own heart as his thoughts strayed to the end of their journey through Moria. “Then let us speak of wonder and beauty,” he murmured. “Will you not tell me of the days when mithril was mined, or the beauties that were wrought from it? Or perhaps you could tell me of your kin, if you would.”

Gimli cocked his head to one side, looking Legolas up and down as if seeing him for the first time. “Why would you want to hear about that?”

“There is much I do not know about this world.” He drew a deep breath. “And much I was told that I begin to think was wrong. Or at the very least, not the entire truth.” He met Gimli's eyes unwaveringly. “Long has there been strife between our peoples, Master Dwarf. But it need not be so between us. Mithrandir would not wish it so.”

Bowing his head in sorrow, Gimli murmured, “No, he would not.” When he looked up at Legolas again, a small smile twitched underneath his beard. “And it's Gimli, lad. No need to be formal.”

Legolas blinked in surprise. Never before had he been called 'lad' by someone a mere fraction of his own age. Recalling his manners, he bowed deeply, hand upon his heart. “Very well, Gimli.”

“So, you wish to hear about mithril, do you?” Gimli asked, as they turned to leave the little clearing. “I never saw Moria while the mines were in use, but my father told me the tale of when it was first discovered....”

They walked side-by-side through the trees in the starlight, Legolas shortening his stride to match Gimli's as they spoke of days long past. The silvery rays of the moon illuminated shorn locks on each of their heads, the fraying ends of braids in red and gold blowing free in the wind.

A strange sight to others, but to those two, it brought peace.

[ladynicte]

Concept, that during the months where Percy went missing, and the whole Camp was searching for him 24/7, Nico just sorta developed this habit of waiting around Percy's door.

Nico is not really used to spending time in Camp, he doesn't really spend time at Camp at all, and sure, he could go with Dyonisus, or Hestia, but he doesn't wanna bother.

Nico knows, they can tell Percy's dissapearing has really started to affect him.

And sure, he's got his own Cabin now, and he used to be so excited about that, but he's found out, he doesn't really like spending time there, to spend time alone with ghosts and bones, he could just go back home.

But still, Nico doesn't want to leave.

Because, what if they manage to find Percy, or he contacts them somehow, or some other threath comes near Camp, and maybe, just maybe, Nico still has this little hope, that the next morning the doors to the Poseidon Cabin will just suddenly open up on their own, and Percy will come out of them, yawning, with his hair all messy, asking for breakfast.

He knows that doesn't happen, and will never happen, but sometimes, Nico allows himself to dream.

And, Nico knows he could actually just enter the Cabin, it wouldn't even be trespassing, not really, either way, it was Percy who first asked him to stay there with him, who first begged him to stay there, before dissapearing.

But, Nico had said no back then.

And, regardless of whether Percy is there or not, it doesn't really matter, his essence of sea salt is everywhere.

Everything on his Cabin is so quintessentially him, and Nico knows, he knows he could never get too close, he could never allow himself that much indulgence, because otherwise, his bones and blood might just boil, and there will be no more coming back from there.

Nico knows he could get lost on Percy Jackson, and if he does, there will be nothing left to salvage of him, afterwards.

So Nico must tread lightly, stand right in front of the ocean, without ever walking in.

Which, to him, translates into appearing from one of his long travels to Camp Jupiter, jumping out of a shadow, and just sitting down, right in front of Percy's Cabin door.

Nico only allows his back to hit against it, he sleeps with his head between his hands, on top of the blue marble, and that's it.

That's as close to Percy as Nico will ever allow himself to get.

And on the other hand, there's Annabeth.

Annabeth, who's dying of worry, who's hair is greying once more because of it, who feels like everything in the world is her responsibility, and Annabeth, who for the love of all The Gods, just cannot find her boyfriend.

She doesn't let other people see her like this, (Or, she tries to not let other people see her like that, at the very least.) But still, she misses Percy.

Is not just the prophecy, or the end of the world, is not just that the Camp needs both their leaders, and is not just that it's a necessity.

Is that she loves Percy and she can't see him.

So, when she's sure everybody else is supposed to be asleep, and she's breaking the rules once more, just for him, she sneaks out of her Cabin, like any self-respecting Athenea Cabin Leader, shouldn't do, and she runs to the Poseidon Cabin.

And at first, she's not sure if it's the Mist, or it's the darkness, or if she's way too tired, and way too overworked, and her eyes are starting to deceive her, but she's sure she sees it.

A little dark shadow, cuddling to the door, like a puppy begging to be let inside, in the middle of a storm.

Against her own instincts, she decides the best tactic is to approach it gently, later on, she's thankful once more to her mother.

Because, Annabeth doesn't know what Nico di Angelo would have done to her, if she suddenly ambushed him while he was dead asleep.

They decide not to talk about it, Annabeth notices the trees and grass around them starting to die, she wonders if Nico can kill even the plants buried deep under the sea.

She doesn't ask.

Instead, they both sit in silence together.

This is probably the most accompanied Annabeth has felt in ages, which is really odd, because sure she knows Nico isn't a bad person, but he still scares her, like the night, and the spiders, back when she was little.

Nico understands neither of them wants to leave, but he would, if only he wasn't so damn tired all the time, he knows he shouldn't shadowtravel so much, but if his body, and his health, are the toll for finding Percy, then so be it.

This pattern repeats every night ever since.

Nico sleeps on the entrance to Percy's door, but never goes in, Annabeth always finds him, but she never speaks.

Eventually, Annabeth starts noticing the way Nico's bones pop, barely visible underneath his dark shirt, or the way his eyebags seem heavier and darker, like a growing bruise on his face every night, the way his veins show through his pale skin, and the way he never eats, well, anything at all, really.

And just the same, Nico notices her grey hairs, the chunks of it that just randomly fall off due to stress, her dirty clothes, the way she can go almost a week straight without remembering to shower, or brush her teeth, the bruises on her body, thanks to all the excersice she's forcing her body to stand, the eyebags that only grow, and grow.

They both know they need to actually sleep at some point.

And sleep for real, not just pass out from exhaustion on Percy's floor from time to time.

Nico has never been the sort to blink first though, so Annabeth understands, negotiations here, are gonna have to fall onto her.

She tells Nico that they need to sleep, like actually quality sleep.

Nico only nods, he doesn't look like he's paying attention to her, but Annabeth's brain has already come up with the most pragmatic, and powerful strategy, to achieve what she wants right now.

Annabeth stands up, and goes back to her Cabin, not without first warning Nico that she will be back in five minutes.

Nico doesn't look like he believes her. Annabeth understands he has got no reason to believe her, it makes the strategy all the more important.

But first, not without terrorizing herself with what she's planning to do.

She sneaks back into her bed, and quietly opens the tiny backpack, that her dad helped her put together, back in their house, before she arrived back home.

She grabs her precious little bag, she opens it, and she sighs.

Annabeth shuts her eyes, and forces herself, to carry her own plan to fruition.

She comes back to Nico, with Percy's shirt, well-carried, on her hands, well, one of his shirts, his preferred Camp Half-Blood shirt.

Percy had given it to Annabeth, before she left to go live with her dad, as a sorta remember-me-by, and Annabeth had never taken it out of its package, for anything at all.

She took it everywhere with her, like a sacred symbol, of some sort of home.

And Annabeth couldn't lie, and say she wasn't scared, mostly, because Nico's stare scared her a little, she thought, if anybody would be able to call her bluff, it wouldn't be Percy, it would be Nico.

(Annabeth was also sure, Nico had a completely clear sight from birth, but that was neither here nor there.)

Her fear wasn't of Nico, though, her fear was on holding the shirt, and not being able to let go.

Of holding onto it, and ruining it, with her strong warrior hands, and her desperation, that ran organs-deep, because she knew the logical outcome here, once she grabbed it, it would eventually stop smelling like Percy, and she would hate it, and then, the illogical outcome she feared so much, that if she lost this one shirt, she would lose all connection to Percy.

And that, would kill her.

And then, it would be like she had never even met him, gone with the wind, lost at sea, like a dream, she would be left with no way to prove, she once knew a boy named Percy who saved the world.

Who loved her just as she loved him.

After that, what would Annabeth even do with herself, anymore.

That all is completely irrational, Illogical, and impossible, Annabeth understands that too, so she forces her legs to keep on moving.

She stops before Nico, and presents the shirt to him, and it isn't lost on Annabeth, the way Nico almost backs off in surprise, and the way his lips open, just ever so slightly, and the way his one visible eye gets wide, and the way Nico's cheeks get this sorta, cutesy rosey, tint to them.

And she's sure she understands, but she cannot make herself deal with that right now.

She tells him "Let's find neutral territory for the moment." She's not sure if she knows what the moment even is.

But still, Annabeth grabs his hand, and against all odds, she's surprised, as Nico allows her to, and she has to force herself not to shiver, because Nico is cold as a corpse, and Annabeth knows way too well, just how quickly corpses get cold.

Nico knows it far far better.

Nico notices. He already knows. He always does.

He doesn't judge her for it, he hates himself too much for it.

Annabeth stops them on a grass patch, some pond nymphs near by, and she can see the nymphs snarling at Nico, and for some reason, she feels so angry all of a sudden, because Annabeth knows, it's not like Nico has ever actually done anything to them.

Annabeth is suddenly reminded of her first big fight with Hera, of screaming at her face, that Nico did belong, back then, it felt so instinctively true.

Now, Annabeth could see the way the Camp died away at his presence, the way the rest of the kids never approached him, unless they needed Nico's help for something.

And yet, Nico did always help them.

Before Annabeth can catch herself, she's already running towards the nymphs, her fists raised, and she knows there was a time where not every single little thing, disturbed her like this, but Nico just grabs her arm, and this time, Annabeth can't hold back the shivers because he's so so cold, and so strong.

Nico quietly tells her, for all to hear "They are just scared, it's fine."

Annabeth knows she can't blame them, because she's scared too, and Nico knows it.

Annabeth slaps her head, forcing herself to back down, she makes herself keep glaring at the pond, but her angry stare just doesn't hold, as she slowly, but surely, forces the shirt done her frame.

Annabeth wants so badly to hold onto it and make it eternal.

The shirt is old, it's only a little oversized on her, it smells exactly like Percy, exactly like the sea.

She's a strong girl, Annabeth doesn't cry, but if she does cry, Nico isn't gonna tell on her with anybody, either way.

After a while, where nobody says anything, where Nico only stares at her:

Annabeth lays quietly on the grass, her eyes wide open, on the moon, and she spreads her arms wide, she can hold them open for an eternity, if that's what it takes until Nico accepts it.

It does feel like an eternity, a little bit like holding the weight of the world in her shoulders, before Nico, looking like a mysterious shadow, slips into her arms.

They don't talk about it, but they can hear their hearts beating way too fast, and way too loud.

Nico has his arms tightly wrapped around her waist, and Annabeth has got to remind herself, that he's holding onto Percy's shirt, not onto her, there's a part of her, that's curious to see, to try to test Nico's limits, to toss the shirt at a fire, and watch Nico chase after it.

But she loves this damn shirt far too much to ever do something like that.

Slowly, Annabeth lowers her own arms, and she's holding onto Nico's hair now, his head heavy between her hands, and Nico is holding onto Percy, which leaves Annabeth wondering, what exactly is her excuse then, in their situation.

At some point, her eyes close, and she doesn't even notice it.

It's the first night of true sleep Nico has gotten in a really long time, for once, not searching for Percy even in his dreams.

The next morning he has breakfast, that he doesn't really eat, but he stays, and it occurs to Annabeth, that Nico staying anywhere, was everything Percy had ever wanted.

She would have to brag about it to him, once Percy got back.

Percy and Nico never admit it out loud.

They understand they are doing something odd.

But Annabeth keeps wearing the shirt, and Nico keeps falling asleep by her side, and there's no excuse to it, anymore, they both can tell the shirt has long since, stopped smelling like Percy and sea salt, and started smelling like shampoo, and Nico's rotten corpse, and pomegranates essence.

Somehow, Annabeth finds, she doesn't hate it that bad.

Nico despises it, but he can't let go of one of the very few soft things he's ever known.

And that's fine, because Annabeth keeps laying with her arms open without asking any questions, and Nico keeps falling asleep, while holding onto her waist, without offering any explanations.

They both know it will never be the same, not ever what they are actually craving, and searching for, because this whole situation has only made them hunt for Percy even harder.

But they can still keep each other company, until they manage to find Percy, somehow, that is.

Annabeth is surprised to find that now, instead of dying, the grass underneath Nico grows mushrooms.

Nico is too.

[some-pers0n]

"It's so sad that there's so little content for this character/ship :(((" open a random word document and try and type something out. Open up MS Paint or whatever and try to scribble something. Instead of sitting there and complaining about it, wallowing in your sorrows, perhaps try your hand at finding a hobby and creative passion. Who knows? Maybe somebody else will find and love it too

[bunn-iiii]

just learning there may be a chance I have dyslexia and just never knew

[meximango]

Day 10 - Stable - Apogee - G

Summary: A prototype is made. Dawntrail Spoilers!!

I’m toying with the idea of making Apogee an Endless similar to Otis, except the experiment didn’t work. Apogee is still in a mechanical body housing their original soul, but the memory transference got corrupted.

=========================

“Miss–” “-s she–”

“-s it wo–k” “--u awake yet?” It takes a while for them to understand that the words are being directed toward them, and even longer to parse their meaning. Once the people in the room have determined they are conscious enough, the questions repeat rapid-fire: do you remember what you signed up for? How do you feel? What do you recall, before going under? Can you tell us what year it is, your nameday, and your full name? What is your profession?” One by one, the questions get answered, though they are still quite groggy and go about it pretty slowly. There must be a trick to it. By the serious and increasingly worried expressions on their faces, they get the feeling they’re failing a test. They’re bad at this, somehow. The answers aren’t what these people expected, and now they’re disappointed. Only just awoken and already letting people down. Somehow, it makes them want to play this off as a joke, to be casual and pretend it was all part of their plan. 

Surprise! Those were just fake answers to throw you for a loop! Everything is fine, see? Look at my smile. Oh, I don’t have a face like yours? Well, just trust me, then. I’m fine. Vitals are stable. Now can I go?One by one, the scientists run different tests and experiments to try to jog their memory, but it’s met with critically low success. Unfortunately, the name Ada Anurana means nothing to them. They don’t know anything about this Endless project, or their own time as a scientist. They don’t remember their family, their age, or their hobbies. Even Alexandria is a mystery to them. Their homeland! The war! Electrope? Never heard of it. A few scant pieces remain, for which they thank their lucky stars. They understand speech, can read and write, performing magic is second nature to them (though this body has limited aether channels, so even that is something they can’t do right ‘anymore’). They have a decent understanding of  machinery and building things–apparently they used to be an engineer–though they do not understand the math behind how parts fit together, and they can’t draw a blueprint. And that’s it. All that they are. Not all they will ever be, but all that remains, for now. A few other Endless end up getting created, and those work out, not a hitch in sight. Memories and personalities intact. There’s much cheering and celebration. There’s hope yet for their people to be remembered! They only feel bitterness at how things worked out for themself. 

With a shake of their heads, the scientists give up trying to figure out and explain what must have gone wrong with the memory transferral in this case. They even try a few more times to transfer the memories, but the results are always the same. It’s too late to relocate the soul without destroying or sending it straight to the lifestream, and the original body is dead, so there are no more second chances. Something got corrupted, the soul intact but the mind scrambled. 

After the continual disappointment, they don’t really feel like learning about Ada. It would just make everyone’s lives more difficult, trying to memorize facts and pretend. The scientists slowly stop offering details unless prodded. They do not ask. 

It’s strange and confusing and frightening, but mostly they feel frustrated. They hate being seen as a failure. They didn’t even do anything! They’re not given a chance to prove themself worthy of being celebrated, because they can’t fit into what’s wanted and expected. From their perspective, it was as though they were just born! They have to learn about this world and people bit by bit from scratch, like a child. And there is just so little time for that, with the war going on. Perhaps things would be different if the situation were not so dire. As it stands now, they are nothing but a failed project that can’t offer anything. These people knew Ada, and now all they get is– is–they need to start referring to themselves as something, but it doesn’t feel right to take the name of the soul residing in their body, when no memories remain. And as time goes by, it seems it will stay that way. The scientists mourn the person who will never return, it seems, and cast aside and give up on what remains. They are left to their own devices, to do as they please. They are given a file about Ada and told they can help with the Endless project or with taking care of the injured, or fighting the enemy, or anything else they desire. 

They have so little desire, other than to find a way to refer to themself–and above all, to prove their worth, that they belong and deserve to be their own person. They hope to cultivate more desires along the way. They may not be Ada, but they can use this soul to start a new life, even in these tumultuous times. Maybe they’ll learn how to build with electrope and invent something to help with the war efforts to keep their city of Alexandria safe. Ada’s file contains a lot of notes, research, personal diary, everything from her life condensed into a single thick tome. They’ll try to keep it safe, to at least remind themself that Ada existed. Everything referring to the plan to become an Endless had been filed away under a project name: Apogee. From their understanding, Ada had a hobby interest in the sky and celestial bodies, before the shroud of lightning covered everything. Looking up the meaning of the word, Apogee found it did not only refer to when the moon was as far away from them on the ground as possible, but could als be a way to describe someone’s greatest achievement: a climax or culmination. Of Ada’s life work, in this case. What a legacy…

In this one small way, they could honor Ada, while also choosing a name for themself. They like the potential in it: to become the greatest they can possibly be. It’s a worthy goal. Rather than be daunted by how they can’t possibly live up to it, they choose to put on an air of bravado and march forward steadfastly. They’ll prove themself, no matter how long it takes! Once Ada, then nothing, now Apogee. The new name feels right. Wanting to feel useful, Apogee gets to work studying and reaching out to help. They may not know exactly what they all want to do, and they have so much to learn–but whatever they decide, Apogee is going to be the best at it, and there’s no better time to start than today. 

[cheswirls]

looking @ old fic i started when i was 14/15 is so funny bc im realizing once again why i never mark fics as abandoned even if its been literal years since i've touched them. specifically i was checking docs for stuff i started and either did or didn't post to ffn.

and its like. nothing is bad??? like i can see where my outside-the-box ideal of fic writing comes from. not just fics but writing in general, i'm p sure. even if it's a total cliche plot setup, there are details on each that rly make it stand out like oh yeahhhhhh i did have this great idea once upon a time.

funny too bc was it executed well in prose??? no absolutely not i wrote like shit when i was 15. would i revive an idea one day and revise it to be less cliche or cringy while still keeping the stand-out elements??? yea maybe. i might. everything i'm currently working on that i started from 2021 up to now still holds my supreme interest, but like i'm not gonna say never.

esp since i write fic first and foremost for my own need and specifically what i like to read, it makes it impossible to consider an idea i've thought extensively about "not worth writing anymore". anyway not making this too long i jus found everything interesting to consider

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <3

[cellythefloshie]

ＩＭＡＧＩＮＥ: Trying Not to Get Caught with Ross Colton *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ honey magnolia edition ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Celly's 300 Follower Appreciation Requested by @comphy-and-cozy

-who would have thought sleeping with Ross was exactly what you needed to be able to tolerate his presence

-and not only were you just tolerating it when you sat down at dinner together

-or had to sit a little too close during a family car ride

-you wanted to be spending your time together

-which was easy to do when you were stuck in the same house for the summer

-the tough part was trying not to make the change in your behaviours too obvious

-for years you hated each other

-finally getting along would beg too many questions

-and so you tread carefully as you moved into the living room where Ross was seating on the couch flipping through Netflix

-“what are you gonna watch?”

-“don’t know yet.”

-“that one looks good”

-and he scoffed, his bright eyes raising to meet yours 

-they were soft and didn’t match the annoyance he was trying to have perceived

-“sit down then-”

-you lay out on the couch beside him with your feet closest to him as you reached for one of the throw blankets

-the two of you settled in, the movie playing out on the screen while you heard his mother working on dishes in the kitchen

-Ross was quick to complain before the movie could really start

-“your feet are practically in my lap, sit up”

-he complained, and you sat up with a pout

-but his touch kept you from straying too far

-your eyes left the screen and looked at him as he tugged at your arm

-he drew you in close a trouble-making smile on his face

-“what are you doing?” you whispered

-“com’ere” he encouraged and drew you closer so that your head was resting on his shoulder

-“your mom-”

-“if you hear her coming, just pretend you’re asleep” 

-Ross slipped his hand beneath the blanket you had wrapped yourself in and tossed you a pillow to strategically cuddle over your frame

-it was the perfect cover for his hand as it slipped down the front of your sleep shorts and into your panties

-you took in a sharp inhale as your eyes went wide

-“Ross-”

-he hushed you

-“relax, unless you want my mom to know where my hand is…”

-you gave him a stern glance as you bit down on your lower lip in restraint

-you did your best not to move too much as his fingers stroked over the plain of your pelvis and dipped down

-but you did angle your hips just enough to help his hand with the awkward angle 

-you couldn’t risk anyone seeing the subtle movement of his arm

-Ross did his best to provide any of his movements and to disgust just where his hand had ended up by assuring that he was for the most part concealed by the blanket as well

-it was with that security that his hand began to move against you with confidence

-he had quickly learned what you liked

-and he enjoyed just how quickly he could have your reeling for him

-the added challenge of going unnoticed by his mother in the next room would only make it more difficult for you

-you would have to force composure

-you couldn’t make a sound

-and you couldn’t make a mess of the couch either

-it was a cruel thing to do to you really

-but it wasn’t purely self-indulgent

-as soon as his fingers could feel you becoming wet from his touch he began to struggle

-he could already feel his cock growing hard

-it earned a low “fuck” from his own lips as she leaned in to mutter his words into your hair 

-“i’m going to fuck you so good after they go to bed-”

-his final word was broken as he heard the shuffling of feet in the kitchen

-“you need anything before I head up for the night?”

-it was the voice of his mother

-sometimes she was too damn sweet for her own good

-because she walked straight into the living room and stood alongside the couch and down at you and Ross

-and you didn’t move an inch

-you weren’t even sure if you were breathing you had stilled so quickly

-petrified was the only way you could describe what you were feeling

-as Ross had delved his fingers deep inside you one final time before he stilled

-his fingers stayed there, deep in your cunt

-soaked in your arousal

-as you lay up against him pretending to have fallen asleep

-and she must had believed it

-because she didn’t seem to pry for more

-nor was she concerned

-you could only hear the smile in her voice as he spoke, “it’s so nice that the two of you are finally trying to get along”

-you felt Ross shrug and his head tilted carefully to one side as he gave off a nonchalant nod

-“i mean, i guess she’s alright”

-you did your best not to scowl

-and instead moved the only thing you could that his mother would not notice

-you flexed your cunt around his fingers

-and he made sure you know he felt it by hooking his fingers and dragging his fingertips over that spot that could so quickly make you unravel 

-“you headed up to bed?”

-“yeah, dad too,” his mom told him and you could hear her leaning over the arm of the couch to place a kiss on the top of his head

-“grab the lights?” Ross requested simply

-and then she walked away, her footsteps fading in the distance as she turned off the lights and left the main floor in darkness

-the two of you sat silent and still in the room for a long time

-your eyes opening up just enough to watch the movie

-all the while his fingers were still teasing the walls of your cunt

-“you think they’re asleep yet?” you whispered after what felt like ages

-“no way to know for sure…”

-Ross glanced back towards the stairs

-there was no glow from the bathroom at the top of the stairs

-and the house was quiet save for the credits of the movie 

-Ross reached for the remote with his free hand and turned off the tv to leave you both in complete darkness

-it brought a level of secrecy to the room

-one that gave you both the reassurance it shouldn’t

-with everyone else in bed, you shouldn’t get caught

-“you’re still soaked…”

-he told you carefully, his fingers returning to their slow pump once more

-it left you pushing the blanket aside and reaching for the drawstring of your shorts

-they were well soaked through and you were quick to dispose of them on the floor

-your panties were quick to follow 

-you kicked them aside before Ross was easing you back to lay out on the couch

-he pushed open your legs with ease and relished in the sight of you

-he pumped his fingers inside you deliberately, assuring to hit just the right spot that left you throwing your head back into the couch cushion

-your lips parted in a silent moan

-and while the sight of your pleasure was obscured by the darkness it left him grinning wide

-leaning in, he came to hover over you

-watching as your features melted with pleasure at his hand

-Ross didn’t stop until he felt your arousal dripping down his hands and the walls of your cunt flexing around his fingers

-and while he didn’t get to fuck you

-it would have been too much of a risk

-he was satisfied

-Ross withdraw his fingers, licking them clean before he reached down for your panties and sleep shorts

-he helped ease them back onto your weak legs before tossing the blanket back on top of you

-you looked up at him confused

-you should be making your way up to bed, and instead, Ross was making himself comfortable

-you raised a brow at him slowly, your head cocking to the side

-he opened his arm to you and welcomed you in as you came to rest your head against his chest

-he held you in his arms, his cheek pressed into the crown of your head and he became lost in the scent that was uniquely you

-“if my dad catches us here in the morning…”

-“it was a really boring movie, and you were already alseep,” he claimed

-and his lips coming down to kiss your hair carefully

-together you fell asleep on the sofa

-and come morning the sunlight would creep through the curtains and you too would wake together before his mother and your father could catch you

-and it wouldn’t be the last time you and Ross would take the risk

-the two of you liked to put yourselves in compromising positions…