#TMOT

[charlesdesvoeux]

I finished reading The Ministry of Time yesterday. Might do a full review later (or I might not) but in short: I liked it. It's not trashy at all; it engages with themes of immigration, assimilation, the nature of history, people's complicity with unjust systems, etc. I found the more "spy thriller-y" portions quite enjoyable, but the romance is fun as well. I'd give this something between 3 and 3.5 stars out of 5; it's solid fun. Certainly worth checking out for fans of The Terror and people interested in the Franklin Expedition more generally.

[ol34nder73]

succumbing to peer pressure and listening to the Graham Gore Romance Novel™️ audiobook wish me luck fellas

[petoskeystones]

do you guys think they're going to make graham gore canonically bisexual in the ministry of time yes or no

[caligarish]

her ass is NOT bridging!!

[btsugarush]

“I mean, a lot of men have been inside of you. Your cunt is literally a cum dump,” “What I'm getting at is… I wouldn't fuck you or touch you even if I got paid to, sweetheart"

oh wow 😭 my expression when i read this words was to have my mouth open in shock. I didn't expect such answers 💀 we are only in the first chapter and already min yoongi is totally tactless, that then a woman can have sex with several men but her vagina will return tight again. Now I'm really curious as to how they will have a relationship and how they will end up having sex (I think the smut in the warnings refers to the two of them) since he thinks this about her.... 🤔

Can't wait to read more. Congrats for the first chapter 💕💕💕💕

Thank you! 🩷 Yeah, he’s such a dog for saying that LMAO. No filter. The smut does refer to them. Living with someone does tend to start growing on you as time goes on, y’know?

[moldygreenblue]

*The Man Over There, watching the Jellicle cats dancing and singing 'Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats from where ever he's hiding*

The Man Over There: As someone who has a long history of not understanding anything, I feel confident in my ability to continue not knowing what is going on.

[margowritesthings]

THE MEANING OF THE SCAR

a RDR2 x Black Badge crossover

pairing: N/A for this chapter, will eventually be Arthur Morgan x reader word count: 2650 words warnings: spoilers for RDR2 ending, violence, Micah Bell, explicit language, major character death and subsequent resurrection, brief mentions of domestic violence YOU DONT NEED TO HAVE READ THE BLACK BADGE TO UNDERSTAND THIS SERIES, EVERYTHING IS EXPLAINED DURING THE STORY authors note: What's that, you say? You want a RDR x Black Badge crossover?? No??? WELL IM DOIN IT ANYWAY

The series that no one asked for tbh. If you haven't heard of the Black Badge, it's a wonderful series of books by Rhett C Bruno and Jamie Castle, where the audiobooks are narrated by Roger Clarke. This series puts Arthur in the shoes of the protagonist, who is doomed to hunt the supernatural to pay off his karmic debts. The prologue explains it a little better, so sit back and enjoy! There will be romance, there will be monsters, what more could you ask for?

BLACK BADGE ORIGNAL SERIES

PROLOGUE

I have seen so many incredible things. 

Living on the land for as long as I have, you tend to. I’ve camped under the most breathtaking sunrises, that big orange orb scattering unimaginable colours over our poor souls as it creeps over the horizon. I've seen nature at its finest: baby deer learning to walk, wolves running together in tight packs not unlike us outlaws, even saw a little chick hatching once. Beautiful women from all around batting their long lashes at me, not even all of them because I was a prospective customer. I’ve been a lucky man, to have experienced so many sights.

Never did I think that the last thing I saw living on this Earth would be Micah Bell’s goddamn ugly mug.

The barrel of his gun was shaking in his tight grip, and I used the absolute last of my strength to keep my head up and look right down it. 

“You’re not better than me, Morgan.”

Never claimed to be, but if I had more time, I might have argued it, the rat. But that was the thing… I didn’t have more time. I could tell, the simple act of breathing was becoming just too much. I might have gotten a few more days, if Micah hadn’t just knocked the seven bells of shit out of me and the last few days had been a little calmer, but such is life. Such is death, I should say. 

After a wheezed cough was pushed out of me, I still managed to get one last jab in, as laboured and choked out as it was, 

“Whatever you say, you fool.”

Everything hurt, and I could hear the clock ticking my final seconds out as Micah’s finger trembled on the trigger. He was mad, I could see the fury spreading across his face as he registered what I was choosing to do with my final words. 

Maybe it was supposed to be the time for prayers, the time to have my life flash before my eyes while I count my regrets and mourn the things that will never happen, but there’d been enough of that ever since that doc told me my days were numbered. I hadn’t lived a good life, I wasn’t a good man, but I got some peace knowing my final hours were spent getting Marston and his family out safe, making sure Milton didn’t, and insulting the gang’s little pet rodent. If I had any regrets in that moment, they would only be that I didn’t manage any more permanent damage to Micah’s ugly ass mug before he got me. Actually, I might’ve wanted to die at dawn, to see one last sunrise, but mostly the Micah thing. 

“Damn you…” he spat, the glow of the moon casting the most horrendous shadows from his twisted expression. 

“Damn us both!” 

And that was it. 

A shot,

and it was all over. 

No sunrise, no grand redemption in the last few minutes of my damned life…

Just me, the moon, and goddamned Micah Bell. 

═══════☆═══════

I never expected I’d get into Heaven, but I never thought it’d be so goddamn dark down here in Hell.

I stirred as if waking up from a fitful sleep filled with nightmares involving Micah shooting me in the face, and even though my eyelids flew open, there was no light to speak of. There was a crushing weight on my chest, and a burning behind my right eye. What felt like dirt fell into my face with each little movement, and suddenly it all fit together, forming a terrifying reality of my predicament. 

It wasn’t a dream. Micah fuckin’ Bell had shot me. Tuberculosis ran ragged through my veins and filled my lungs, I’d been captured, hung in an O’Driscoll camp and tortured for information, hell, I’d been shipped off to goddamn Guarma with nothing but the shirt of my back… and in the end the sorry sight to end my story was a rat with a revolver. 

The dirt fell in my eyes relentlessly, so much so I had to close them again. It wasn’t like they were being much use anyway, what with me being buried alive and all. Moving my limbs was hard, but not impossible, I found, giving me hope that I wasn’t too far down in the ground. I never thought I’d hope for a shallow grave, but then again I couldn’t have predicted waking up in one either. None of it made much sense, but I reckoned it’d probably be best if I got back out into open air before figuring out why I couldn’t feel my toes, why breathing felt so strange and unnecessary, or how I’d survived a gunshot to the head. 

I started with small movements, flexing my numbed fingers in and out until there was enough room to ball them into fists. I would have shouted for help, if I could, but I knew all I’ll get from it is a mouthful of dirt. I’d have to do this alone, it would seem. 

The movement spread from fists to arms, the dirt starting to mould around me until it didn’t feel so crushing anymore, and I was soon clawing upwards. I dared to squint one eye open, finding small holes of light poked through the blanket of nothingness like stars. I felt triumphant when I reached upwards into open air, but it was short lived when I failed to feel the wind or the breeze or the sun or anything to let me know this wasn’t all some death dream. 

I pressed on, scraping at the skies until big patches of the Earth fell apart around my body and I could pull myself out of my grave. The sun beat so brightly that I couldn’t help but continue to squint, trying to make out my surroundings. It was dawn, ironically. I always assumed Hell’s skies would hold a lot more fire in them, but the blue hues and yellow rays were anything but hellish. They were beautiful, a sight I was sure I’d never see again. 

After my eyes adjusted, I made out the tombstone standing above my grave, a handcrafted wooden cross with my name scratched into the centre. Folk aren’t usually lucky enough (or unlucky enough, I hadn’t yet decided) to see their own graves, and yet here I was. Why? Was this truly Hell, looking over the sunrise while I was damned to sit by my own grave and wait for no-one to mourn me? 

‘Blessed Are Those Who Mourn, For They Will Be Comforted’

It was my epitaph, carved into the circle surrounding my name. I hoped it was true. I didn’t know how long I’d been buried, but I didn’t want anyone sitting around crying over me. I hoped I’d done enough, in those last few hours, and that the ones I loved, whoever was left of them, anyway, made it out okay. 

I pushed myself up out of the grave, dusting off the mud that clung to me and standing straight despite the complaints of my aching back. I looked over the hill, over what looked an awful lot like Ambarino. 

“Beautiful, ain’t it? I tell you, that friend of yours picked a good spot. Shame you’ll get no rest here.” 

I froze, my spine straightening on instinct as the voice behind me confirmed that I was in fact in Hell. Even after looking Death in the face and calling him a fool, it still took me a moment to turn and face my father. 

I expected anger to course through my veins, for my fists to ball and fury to burn over my skin the first time I saw him after all these years, but it didn’t. I looked my Daddy straight in his cold, dead eyes, and nodded to him. He did the same.

“Pa?” 

“Fraid so.” 

I was almost too dumbfounded to realise what he was sitting on. Who he was sitting on, I should say. Boadicea stood as tall and as beautiful as that last day we spent together in Blackwater. The sight could have taken my breath away, if I had any. 

I wanted to step closer, to pat my girl on the neck and feel to make sure she was really there, but I wasn’t ready to move just yet. 

“What… What the hells goin’ on?” 

Daddy dearest chuckled, probably at my ironic choice of wording, and Boadicea stomped a foot on the ground. Despite everything, all I wanted to do was to get Lyle Morgan off my horse, but there’d be time for it. 

“You’re dead, son. Nasty shot to the head, though you put up a good fight.” He said it like he was recounting the most mundane story ever told, not breaking the news that his only son had died. I considered his words, finding a strange peace with them all.

“...This Hell?” It had to be, right? There’s no other way he could be here, not with the way he treated me and Ma. I dreaded to think what Boadicea could have done to deserve an afterlife with him, but it made more sense than both of us fools being let into the pearly gates upstairs everyone always goes on about. 

Pa chuckled again, clearly finding my demise much more casual news than I, “To some, but not in the way you’re thinkin’ of it. I’ve got some bad news, boy.” 

“Worse than my death?” It was annoying me, how elusive and blasé he was being about everything, dragging this out for longer than he needed while holding the cards right up close to his chest. He knew what was going on, and yet there he was, sitting on Boadicea like he owned whatever goddamn realm we were in. Surely this was Hell, having this conversation with the man who beat me into who I am today. Who I was, before karma caught up with me and shot me in the face. 

“Depends on how much you were lookin’ forward to it.”

My teeth ground together as the frustration at his evasiveness built. He must’ve sensed it, as he dismounted Boadicea and patted her on the neck.  It threw me more than it should, watching the man I’d left long behind me interacting with my beloved Boa. 

He stood just as tall as the day I watched him hang, the only difference being a nasty scar that wound around his neck and made me dread to think what I might look like. It was like looking at a ghost. Well, I guess I was looking at a ghost. 

“You’re still here, Arthur. On Earth. Seems you did just enough good there in the end that they didn’t know what to do with you. Too bad to make it to the upstairs, too good to burn in Hell… for now.”

“Earth? But… I’m… we’re-“

“Dead? Yeah. But you’re stuck here, doin’ their bidding.” 

He was running his fingers over Boadicea’s mane, and she shook her head in response. She seemed like she wanted his hands off her as much as I did, but I had to find out what was going on first. 

“Bidding? Who’s bidding? Can you just be straight with me for one damn minute-“

“Patience, boy.” He snapped, bringing out one of Boadicea’s signature annoyed huffs, “The White Throne’s bidding. You’re theirs now. You do as they say, or you end up in a far worse position than you’re in now.”

I felt like I needed to sit down, but unless I was going to climb back in that grave, there was nowhere to rest. 

“I… I don’t understand.”

Lyle sighed, turning fully towards me and hooking his thumbs in his belt loops.

“The White Throne have chosen you to be a Black Badge, Arthur. You’re not alive, nor are you fully dead. You work for them until they decide they’re done with you, and then…” 

“And then?”

“Well… I ain’t sure, truth be told, boy. I never got as far as you, I’m just here to pass the message on.”

None of it made any sense, and I had no idea who this White Throne was. Dad didn’t seem to have the answers, nor did he seem inclined to give them to me even if he did. It was then I noticed that my heart should be pounding out of my chest. Instead, it felt hollow, the anxiety of my situation bouncing around an empty can of nothing. 

So this was really happening…

“They’ll call on you when they need you with this,” he turned, rummaging through Boadicea’s saddle bag and handing me a journal. It looked exactly like the one I gave to Marston just before I died, the one I collected my thoughts and sketches in, only when I flicked through the pages, they were all blank. 

“Keep an eye on it, it’ll tell you what you need to do, who to look for, or where to go.”

“What am I, a goddamn undead bounty hunter?” 

He laughed, a proper hearty laugh that would’ve made my skin crawl had I not been so occupied with the confusion of it all. 

“You could say that. But you’re not just after anyone, they’ll send you off to the supernatural stuff. Vampires, werewolves, demons, that sort. You’ll get the hang of it.”

I was so stuck on the whole supernatural thing that I hardly noticed him step towards me, slapping a hand onto my shoulder. I froze, but not because my father had touched me for the first time in decades, but because I couldn’t feel a damn thing.

He must’ve seen the shock on my face, cause his brows pulled together in a pitiful look, “Ah, yeah… there’s some side effects to death, son. But I’m sure you’ll figure that one out.” 

‘Side effects’ was a light way of putting it. I’d later find out that we unlucky few in the Black Badge have a fair few impediments. I can’t feel. Not the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, the touch of another, not even the burn of a good whiskey. I don’t feel pain, which can be helpful at times I guess. I can’t taste anything, either. It’s a unique punishment, to be stuck walking the earth but not really living, having no access to those simple pleasures in life like a stiff drink or the touch of a pretty lady. If I’d have known what was waiting for me at the end of all this, well… maybe I’d have made some different choices. 

“It’s a lot to take in, I know.” 

I glanced to my shoulder, finding Dad’s hand still there. He must’ve sensed my discomfort, removing his touch- or lack thereof- from me. 

“You’ll get the hang of it, son.” 

If I weren’t so preoccupied with my new lot in life (or death, I should say), now would have been the perfect time to confront the man who stood beside me. Ask him why he did what he did, get some answers for every question my teenage self tortured himself with while he wandered the streets for somewhere to stay for the night. But when I turned, he was gone, without a single trace to suggest he was ever there in the first place. Seems I’d gotten all the information out of him I was entitled to. 

That left me and Boadicea, standing beside an empty grave I wasn’t sure anyone would have visited anyway. 

I sighed, finally stepping towards her and patting her neck in that spot she always loved. 

“Well girl, guess this is it for a while…” 

I looked down to the journal in my hand, just in time to see inky black writing appear on the page as if bleeding through the realms.

‘Welcome to the Black Badge, Arthur Morgan.’

[kiwinatorwaffles]

I JUST FOUND THE SKETCH I HAD FOR A COVER OF TWO KNIGHTS DEFENSE!!! (the canvas is flipped here though wels is supposed to be on the front cover) i remember hating this so much because i was painting it. i lost it but im happy i found the sketch again bc im still super proud of it.. ill dolphinitely use it if i ever bind this one but iwanted 2 show u. sorry 4 wall of text

BRO THEY LOOK SO GOOD IN YOUR STYLE WHAT THE HELL?!!?? I LOVE EM SO MUCH ESPECIALLY HELS’S MISCHIEVOUS FACE THANK YOU FOR SHOWING ME 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

[charlesdesvoeux]

I was really like. embarrassingly giddy about the singular john irving mention in the ministry of time. like I truly stopped and went !!!!!!!!!!!! inside my head

[realityhelixcreates]

The Morel of the Story chapter 7: Flammulina Filiformis

The Riddlers missions often contain many branches.

?~?~?~?~?

“So, you're doing fairly well with that one.” Shimmer teased later on.

“So you say. But you already know I always do what I set out to.” he said arrogantly.

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?”

He stared down out of the side of his eye.

“I'm older than you. And it's not like that. I'm curious about her.”

“That's one way of putting it!”

“Selinda.”

“Oh, lighten up!” Shimmer nudged him hard in the ribs. “I've seen you have fun before; you don't need to pretend to be serious all the time.”

Edward rubbed his ribs, wondering if he should confide in her the work he was doing right now, the research into the mysterious Task Force X. The real reason he was here, what he'd been sent to retrieve.

His orders had not been to secrecy, and Shimmer had been his partner in the past. He hadn't worked with her in some time though. She might not be the best fit for this particular job.

“I hear you picked up some meta powers since I last saw you.” he remarked.

She glanced down at her hands.

“Yeah. It was a pretty bad time actually, and I can't do anything with them right now, but I can change things into other things.”

“Oh, transmutation?”

“Sure. If there's a big word for something, trust you to know it.”

“Trust me indeed.”

“Well, you know, if I ever get this collar off, maybe I can turn you into a stud, and you'll have better luck with the girls. Or the guys. Not judging.”

Edward frowned.

“Okay first of all,” he complained. “Any desire another person has for me comes from qualities I already possess, so write that down. Second of all...I don't think that's what she really wants from a partner anyway.”

Shimmer grinned.

“So you do like her!”

“I never said that!” he protested. “What does it matter to you, anyway?”

She shrugged.

“It's fun to tease you. You always react like a snarky teenager. I thought it was part of some bit you were committed to.”

Edward always found it a bit of a shock when someone saw through him like that. Selinda had never seemed stupid, but she hadn't seemed all that smart either. When they had worked together, she had been efficient, but quiet, guarded. Willing to do whatever it was she was told to do, and no more.

But Selinda and her brother had been part of a high control, criminal cult for almost a decade. And when she got out, she began working for a literal dictator. While both the cult leader and the dictator were important figures in the Light, she had only been doing their bidding. She hadn't come to it of her own choice, like he had.

Maybe, in these brief moments where she was under the control of neither, she felt she could be more playful with her peers. Still, if she were ever freed, she would likely just go straight back to Bialya and her queen. No, he couldn't talk to her about his mission. Her loyalty was to a person, not to the Light. Best to just let her think whatever she wanted.

“Well, I won't confirm or deny that. Perhaps I am fond of her. And why not? She's new, and I wonder about her story.”

“Also, she hasn't made fun of you for being a colossal nerd yet.”

“Also that.”

“Welp, it's time to fold towels. See you around, nerd.”

Shimmer stepped into the ladies laundry, and he stepped into the mens, ready to rack up a few more hours of 'good behavior'.

Digger Harkness passed him a small component, which he hid by twisting it up into a hair tie under his mullet. People really didn't understand the utility of hair, or how curating a carefully maintained hairstyle that others found silly could be a distraction. After all, if it was just vanity, it couldn't possibly be used for anything else, could it?

People who thought they knew the reasons for something rarely looked into alternative reasons.

Just a few more pieces, and he'd have what he needed.

Digger and Hartley stayed with him at dinner, quietly discussing what little of Task Force X they had managed to learn. The slivers of information did nothing to whet Edward's curiosity, but Digger did manage to confirm that it had something to do with the prison doctors.

“Got heaps of 'em fightin' for a squiz at me!” Digger exclaimed. “Now, I know I'm top shelf boys, but I never had this many people proddin' the bod.”

“Do you know what they want?” Edward asked. “You're not injured. You don't seem sick.”

“Nah nah, dag, it ain't that.” Digger said, much more quietly than before. “It's physicals. Sussin' out me strength, me reflexes, me overall heartiness. They tested me for the meta gene, even.”

Hartley pursed his lips. “That seems suspect. Why would they do that? What does it matter to them if you have the gene or not? The recent obsession with that gene smacks of eugenics to me.”

“Eh, a little eugenics could be beneficial, if you think on a more galactic scale.” Edward said offhandedly. Both of his tablemates stared in disbelieving consternation.

“What?” he demanded, defensive. “I'm not proposing that we mass murder or sterilize anybody! I just think that anyone who has the gene in a state that it can be awakened, should. On that galactic scale, our species is woefully underdeveloped and helpless. You saw what happened with the Reach! What happens when the next aliens attempt invasion? Do we rely on extraterrestrial refugees and flying space cops forever? Humanity has to step up, and defend ourselves.”

“Yes, but...” Hartly said carefully. “Even if you personally aren't proposing genetic cleansing, can you be so sure the leaders won't? I say this only because the first time one of them does, all three of us are on the chopping block. I'm physically disabled. You have obsessive tendencies that make you a liability the very instant you stop being controllable. And he's Australian.”

“Too right.” Digger grumbled. “ 'Sides, I tested neggie anyway. Looks like I'm a freak on purpose. Anyway, one of the docs mentioned Task Force X, but the others shushed him up right quick. Them docs has somethin' to do with it, and it ain't about health care. Mebbie I'll push 'em on it next time they comes around.”

The three of them continued speculating through dinner, Digger raising his voice in obnoxious 'Australian charm' every time a guard strolled by. Too many of the guards took Digger at face value as well, and the man knew how to leverage the stereotype. Edward was reasonably certain he might be able to worm some further information out of the doctors, if he were casual enough about it.

Less than a week later, Digger Harkness was gone, as if he'd never been there.

[petoskeystones]

well i have just finished reading tmot. what in the WORLD

[caligarish]

No spoilers, but one meta thing to love about The Ministry Of Time is how the author renders the feeling of, well, time. Both fleeting moments, with their cacophony and confusion packed into something just as short, and longer stretches of time, like trips, like grief, like distilled waiting. The pacing within sentences and between paragraphs, the onomatopoeia, the scene breaks, it all works together so well ^^

[btsugarush]

I love your works sm esp “the monsters out there” it’s written so beautifully, do you have a specific time you drop a new chapter or no, just wondering because i genuinely can’t wait for the next chapter, you’re amazing

Thank you so much! 🩷 Chapter 2 for TMOT is already done. I’ll post it after I post the next chapter of Gangsta because that series is my biggest priority rn.

[moldygreenblue]

An Account From The Man Over There

(In which I decided to write a Cats musical fanfic where the beginning of the Jellicle Ball is shown from The Man Over There's perspective.)

Thomas did not have a good day today. What makes it worse is that he knows it could have been a good day. And a good final work day would be the perfect start to his days off.

His penultimate appointment of the day was for a new patient; a dear little cat name Euthymia, or Mia for short. Mia has the biggest eyes Thomas has ever seen on a cat before. She was also the sweetest, compliant cat he cared for at the clinic. Mia is very much like her owner in that regards. Mrs. Covey is also kind and sweet. Both of them are a matching pair, and Thomas wishes they were the last appointment of the day.

But they weren’t.

The less Thomas thinks about the final appointment of the day, the better. He doesn’t want to think again about how the pet owner believed a cat could survive a no-meat diet. He doesn’t want to recall how the owner told him shamelessly about switching their cat’s diet without asking a vet about it. He doesn’t want to think about how lost his cool, and how he barely kept his job.

As Thomas slumps down to the floor, his back right up against the door, he sighs. He’s tired and hungry. But he doesn’t want to finish his leftover takeout from yesterday.

Thomas instead decides to go to sleep early.

Thomas stands back up, and goes to his bedroom. He strips out of his clothes, remaining only in his boxer trunks. Picking up his trousers, Thomas reaches into the right pocket and pulls out his keys, setting them on his nightstand. And after setting his alarm for eight-thirty, Thomas flops stomach-side down onto his bed. He can throw his clothes in the hamper tomorrow morning.

Thomas rolls onto his backside, and stares at his ceiling. He stares, and soon eventually finds himself drifting off into sleep.

When Thomas wakes up again, the first thing that he hears is soften sounds of unexpected meowing and screeching from outside his bedroom window, where the nearby junkyard is. While there is the occasional cat or two (or more; Thomas once when sick counted the number of cats there, and counted seven) at the junkyard, the noises never get on his nerves.

Until now. And Thomas is not happy.

I already had a bad day yesterday, thinks Thomas. This isn’t what I need now.

Thomas groans as he gets out of his bed, rubbing both of his eyes. He soon finds himself staring at the racks of shoes near his closet. With an idea flashing into his mind, Thomas walks towards the pile of shoes, and picks up his good boot from the top rack.

Thomas then goes to his bedroom window. He slides open it up, and chucks the boot out.

And there’s nothing. It’s just a beautiful silence.

“MEOWMEOWQUEENMEOWOFTHEOWMENIGHT!”

“Oh for—”

Really? thinks Thomas. They didn’t scatter and leave? Well, that’s just great! Just great! Now I’m missing one boot. Why the hell did I threw my good boot? It wasn’t cheap!

Thomas slams his window close, and quickly goes back to his closet. He grabs one of his pajama bottoms and a knitted pullover, putting them on as fast as he can. Thomas then grabs his keys from the nightstand, slips his feet into a pair of slippers, and rushes out of his bedroom.

Thomas leaves his flat (but not without locking it; he’s not risking anything), and makes a dash to the junkyard. The quicker he finds his boot, the quicker he can go back home and get whatever shut-eye he can get before his alarm rings.

As Thomas approaches the junkyard, he can still hear the screeching and meowing. It’s louder than before, and more in sync, like a choir.

Now, when Thomas bought his flat from Mr. Faber, he was told the junkyard nearby is forbidden. No one can enter, unless they have a key. And Mr. Faber has the only key in existence. However, Thomas over time in his observation discovered that there is a way inside: through a broken fence piece at the entrance gate, located by the street lamp.

Thomas never thought he would enter the junkyard, especially by sneaking in. There’s a first time for everything, perhaps. And upon entering the junkyard —breaking into the junkyard— Thomas couldn’t help but think something is feeling…off.

He only took a few steps, but Thomas thinks that everything gotten bigger. A lot bigger, as if he shrank in size. And he thinks this more and more as he continues walking, realizing that it’s taking longer to walk to the center of the junkyard, where he knows his boot landed.

It’s at this point does Thomas realizes something isn’t right. Something about this night is wrong. The earlier meowing and screeching are gone. Instead, Thomas can now hear a group of people singing. And they’re singing. About cats.

“Romantical cats, Pedantical cats

Critical cats, Parasitical cats

Allegorical cats, Metaphorical cats

Statistical cats and Mystical cats!”

“I don’t think one can be metaphorical, cat or human,” mutters Thomas.

“Political cats, Hypocritical cats

Clerical cats, Hysterical cats

Cynical cats, Rabbinical cats!”

Thomas finally approaches the center of the junkyard. And he stops. He stops and carefully crouches behind something. A hat-box. He’s crouching behind a giant hat-box.

This can’t be real, thinks Thomas. This has to be a dream.

Thomas crouches behind the giant hat-box, and sees it. He sees it, and can’t believe it. It’s impossible, yet he’s witnessing it right before his very eyes.

Right before his eyes, Thomas sees a group of cats dancing and singing. The cats are singing like humans, and they look like humans. They resemble humans in stylize and detail costumes that are feline-like, fitting for a mega musical. The cats are dancing together in sync, their voices in unison. Voices he can understand; Thomas wonders anytime he was tipsy on a near or full moon and heard cats —or rather, one particular cat— speaking wasn’t his imagination.

“Jellicle songs for Jellicle cats

Jellicle songs for Jellicle cats

Jellicle songs for Jellicle cats

Jellicle songs for Jellicle cats

Jellicle songs for Jellicle cats!”

And out of everything to be thinking about in this moment, Thomas wants to know of one thing:

What is a Jellicle cat? Nothing of what I heard earlier actually define it…

Thomas makes the mistake of letting go of his hold of the hat-box. He slips and falls onto the ground of the junkyard. Thomas quickly scurries to hide again. If there’s a chance that one of those cats heard him falling—

A brown-greyish tom cat rushes to the front of the junkyard center. He slightly resembles the frail-looking cat who used to visit The Victoria—Gus. Gus is also incidentally, the cat who Thomas now wonders could speak all this time. But Gus is to use human terms, a senior. The cat up front of the junkyard center, is middle-age. Older than Thomas himself, perhaps.

“There's a man over there with a look of surprise,

As much as to say, ‘Well now how about that!’”

Thomas slowly sulks to the ground. He was not only spotted, he got ratted out, and he got ratted out through song. Thomas likes a good musical. In fact, he even participated in one in his younger years. But Thomas isn’t sure how to feel about being sung to in this particular context…

A younger silver-grey tom cat soon joins the other cat. He looks quite puzzle. And exasperated.

“Do I actually see, with my own very eyes…

A man who's not heard of a Jellicle cat? What’s a Jellicle cat?”

“What's a Jellicle cat? What’s a Jellicle Cat?”

Thomas doesn’t like the smirk on the brown-greyish cat’s face as the question was ask.

Despite being against all sense of logic, Thomas instead of running away from the preoccupied cats and their question, he decides to walk closer to the center of the junkyard. Closer to them. What in the world lead to his current predicament?

Oh right, thinks Thomas, smacking his hand directly onto his forehead. The BOOT. The BOOT that I THREW AT THEM.

Thomas is certain he hears a soft chuckle from one of the cats. It sounds very male. Thomas wouldn’t be surprise if the chuckle came from that cat from before.

The clowder of cats is now in a pyramid formation. They’re all staring him dead in the eye, ready to sing again.

There are so many different cats in the formation. Different colors, different markings, and different patterns, or having no patterns at all…they are so many. One of the cats is on the older side. She has white and golden fur, and a woven collar. The collar looks soft to touch.

The cat looks identical to Anne’s cat, Apricot. Anne could never make Apricot a permanent indoor cat. Anne always said that Apricot comes and goes whenever she felt like it…

“The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,

It isn’t just one of your holiday games;

You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter

When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.”

The cats are once again in unison. But they are not singing, not really. They are all speaking low and solemn. The solemness in their voices matches their equally solemn faces. What they’re saying together sounds like a chant. It’s…terrifying.

It’s terrifying to hear this unexpected hush chant. It’s terrifying to hear the chant, feeling the many pairs of eyes on him. It’s terrifying to know that they’re looking at him due to being an outsider, looking inside a world he doesn’t belong to, and should never have learn.

This night is certainly going to be a different night from all others.

“First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,

Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo, or James,

Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—

All of them sensible everyday names.”

But what if one has a sister and she name her cat after a fruit, thinks Thomas. Apricot is a sensible name, sure. But it’s not exactly a formal name like the ones they just mentioned.

“There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,

Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:

Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—

But all of them sensible everyday names.”

Well, that answers my previous question, thinks Thomas.

“But I tell you a cat needs a name that's particular,”

The collective of cats moves towards him suddenly. Thomas quickly walks backwards, and falls back on the ground. He quickly scrambles backward, hoping to feel something hit his back.

“A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,”

He feels nothing. Just the cold air of the night.

“Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,

Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?

Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,

Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,

Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum—

Names that never belong to more than one cat.

But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,

And that is the name that you never will guess;”

The pyramid formation breaks apart. The cats are separating into three sections. But they are still surrounding him. Do they think he’s going to attempt an escape? Thomas doesn’t think he even has a chance to escape at the moment.

“The name that no human research can discover—

But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.”

One of the cats, a pure white cat with the most expensive jeweled collar Thomas have seen before, suddenly leaves her section. She slips away near the back and sits, staring into space.

“When you notice a cat in profound meditation,

The reason, I tell you, is always the same:

His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation

Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:

His ineffable effable—”

The white cat is now on her tiptoes.

“Effanineffable

Deep and inscrutable singular name.”

As the cats continues to whisper ‘name’ they all start to disperse. They disperse, and disappear. It’s now just the white queen and him in the junkyard. She’s standing up, prepare to dance. The spotlight —Thomas isn’t sure where it came from, as well as the music that he hasn’t commented on until now— is all for the cat.

It’s a very interesting dance solo. Thomas isn’t sure why the cat is obsessing with her foot. But Thomas admits that there’s an air of elegance to her dancing. It’s very similar to how a ballerina dances. The grace that she has reminds Thomas of a ballerina friend he had back in his university days.

A cat residing the pipe —he’s a tuxedo cat— soon sprints out. The spotlight gotten bigger and brighter. The tranquil music of the white cat’s solo is now livelier, and jazzy.

“Jellicle Cats come out tonight

Jellicle Cats come one come all:

The Jellicle Moon is shining bright

Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball!”

As the tuxedo cat sings and dances along with the white cat —both of them are smiling, having a nice time together (very much how siblings who are having fun and enjoying the same shared activity), the rest of the clowder reappears.

“Jellicle Cats come out tonight

Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.”

The silver-grey tom cat from before makes his way up to the front. To where Thomas is at.

“Jellicle Cats meet once a year

At the Jellicle Ball where we all rejoice

And the Jellicle leader will soon appear

And make what is known as the Jellicle choice.”

Oh! There is a reason why there’s a clowder of cats at the junkyard tonight, thinks Thomas.

“When Old Deuteronomy just before dawn

Through a silence you feel you could cut with a knife

Announces the cat who can now be reborn

And come back to a different Jellicle life.

For waiting up there is the Heaviside Layer

Full of wonders one Jellicle only will see—”

As the silver-grey cat raises a paw...hand into the air, the rest of the cats —all have been dancing together again, all in the formation of a circle— are looking upward to the night sky. The white cat is in the center, and is also raising her hand into the air.

The silver-grey cat also sticks up his pointer finger, emphasizing that yes, only one Jellicle can go up to this Heaviside Layer. No exception.

“And Jellicles ask because Jellicles dare…

Who will it be?”

“Who will it be?” repeats the rest of the cats.

As Thomas feels the hard stare of the silver-grey cat, he decides on one thing:

He is going to have to embrace the unexpected weirdness of tonight.

He has a feeling that it’s the only way to keep his mind intact.

[margowritesthings]

Here’s a question… my new series The Meaning Of The Scar is a dual POV, where half is from Arthur’s POV and the other is his love interest. I’m struggling to keep a flow going… what would you think about it being Arthur x an Original Character instead?

[villainessprefect]

title: Got me feeling like it's all too much

summary: All he wants to do is give you a gift, as thanks. But old habits die hard and he's never done this before. (teacher!AU)

ship: Idia x gn!reader

word count: 1,651

note: something I wrote while I was at con 2 weeks ago lol I just got hit with some teacher au & made this woo

Read on AO3

Idia takes in a shaky breath. Fingers play with the plush in his hands. It's a small blue and black cat that's soft to the touch. It was meant to be based on the cat that stays by your side but with a touch of his dorm. He had second thoughts about basing it off of him. The last thing he wanted was for that cute little kitty to get jealous of his creation. Although, it might be worth seeing.

Lanky fingers press down on the plush's stomach. He knows not to squeeze too hard and avoid meeting the mechanics inside. Idia hopes you won't squeeze the poor thing and harm yourself, but he's made sure that the technology inside of it is small and harmless. You'd only hurt yourself if you ripped it open.

The man gulps and hesitates at the mirror leading to campus. School may be out for the day, but that doesn't mean the students have all gone back to their dorms. And he knows that his appearance, whether before or after class, always causes a scene. Spotting the elusive Mr. Shroud in person was never good. It either meant there was an exam or he was on his way to scold a student about their poor skills in his class. The latter rarely happened and was usually left to Ortho though, but when he notices how poorly a student is doing (like snooping around servers they shouldn't be) then he steps in.

Despite his anxieties, that's not what really gets him to linger in the mirror. Sure, he hates the attention. He'd rather just send his tablet or test out his latest hologram work that was actually tangible than actually step inside a classroom.

But it's you that makes him waver. The simple thought of you makes his heart flutter and his hair flare into a completely different color. His cheeks warm and his hands begin to feel sweaty. It makes him feel like he's some high school girl crushing on the hottest person in school even though he isn't one and he graduated years ago.

You weren't supposed to be special to him. You were supposed to be some accident, a magicless human forced into labor thanks to the headmage. You were stuck in a school, a world where even the weakest of students here could easily beat you in a fight. Most students didn't bother listening to you after learning how powerless you were compared to them. It didn't help that you were treated more like a janitor, as you cleaned up the messes of students and teachers alike, rather than a teacher's aide.

Despite your situation, you were unbelievably kind. Maybe too kind. He remembers how it started with you picking up his ID card. He had given you a quiet thanks before quickly scurrying off. It should have ended there, but then you had assisted Ortho when a spell had gone wrong and he needed help with some repairs. Your technomagic skills were lower than zero, but it's the fact you stood beside him until he could get to Idia that got him.

You also helped him outside of your scheduled hours. When you were his aide, you remained after class to grade papers even though Idia could have a program do it within seconds. Except that piece of technology had broken down thanks to a student, so you were the next best thing. You also simplified his words for students too, like you were his personal translator. Not that he needed it, but these kids really didn't know his older internet slang. Like seriously, did these kids not know what PWNED or TMOT meant?

It didn't help that you treated him like everyone else. He was a Shroud. Most people had some idea of what that meant. But you had no knowledge of his past nor his curse. And even after you learned, your attitude towards him never changed. Idia imagines this is what being normal might feel like. It makes him wish he had met you when he was in high school.

The man sighs as he realizes that he's been standing in front of the mirror for...how long now? Golden eyes dart to the side and find no other soul lingering about. He's grateful that Ignihyde never changed. The students here were just like him, kept to themselves, and remained hidden behind closed doors. Only coming out when necessary as they remained preoccupied with their computers.

"Man, this is so lame," he breathes out. "I haven't changed at all..."

Idia looks to the mirror as his heart begins to fall. The courage that led him here was withering away. While he knows his creation is perfect, he doesn't believe that you would ever want it.

As he's about to turn away, the mirror begins to swirl, signaling a person coming through. Panic runs through his veins as he takes a step back. His fingers tremble and he nearly drops the plush. Rather than running as he should or calling upon his brother, he remains frozen in place.

His blood runs cold when it's you that pops through the mirror.

Idia watches as your eyes widen from nearly colliding with him. Thankfully, you're the quicker out of the two and stop yourself from running into him. Still, you're a bit too close for comfort. As you save both of you from an unnecessary cliche trope, Idia is quick to put his hands behind his back.

"Idia- Mr. Shroud," you correct yourself.

"I-Idia is fine..." He mumbles. His heart begins to race and he can't meet your gaze. The only thing he can do is manage a step back without tripping over his own hair. "What are you doing here?"

"Ortho said that you wanted me to bring your students' assignments to you," you answer. He finally notices the folder brimming with papers that are held against your chest. "I wanted to get a head start on them before I did, but I'm not as proficient as you in technomagic. I have them on a USB, but I thought having them physically might help."

"You don't need to waste paper like that." His voice is still low but now his mind is on his brother. You weren't supposed to come here- had he planned this? The younger Shroud had seen him fretting over how to give you a gift the other day. Maybe he figured that his big brother needed a little push. Except this push felt more like a shove.

"Should I come back another time?" You ask, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"N-No! I just..." Idia falters and squeezes the plush behind him. He wiggles uncomfortably in front of you before taking in a breath and holding it out toward you. "This is for you!" He shouts and regrets how high-pitched his voice sounds.

You stare at the cat plush in his hands. With one hand, you reach out to carefully hold it, inspecting the little creature.

"It's nothing much," Idia is quick to add. "You help out a lot. So, uh, I wanted to repay you even if it is technically your job. I guess. Anyway, it's not just a cute plush, it also works as an alarm. If you're in an emergency and you squeeze it three times in rapid succession it will also call Ortho to help you. There are a few more things too..." He rambles about a few more perks that this plush has. You would never guess this little thing had so many functions.

"You didn't have to make this for me," you say with a sweet smile. If you weren't holding onto the folder, you would have held the plush close to your chest. But the way you fondly look at it makes him weak in the knees. Your gentle and loving gaze is a critical hit to his health. If he were younger, he would have fainted. But he's definitely leveled up in his years! Not by much, but at least he can stay standing against your indirect attacks!

"I wanted to." He clears his throat. "Plus it's weird when you help out and don't have some technomagic on you." He cringes inwardly for saying that. Honestly, he doesn't even know why he did. Ugh. Couldn't he just say he was glad you liked it and move on with his life? Apparently not. "GG, enjoy it. TTYL."

Idia turns on his feet and is ready to head back to his room. Your reason for appearing here is already forgotten. It only clicks back when he notices the sound of footsteps trailing behind him.

"Mr- Idia! What about the assignments?" You call out as you quickly catch up to his side.

"That can wait. It's not like they need their grades now. I can get Ortho to look them over."

"But I want to learn from you too." Your words make him halt. When he turns he sees you with a determined glint in your eyes. "If I'm going to help you, I want to be able to know enough about technomagic. Then..." You bite your lower lip, hesitant to speak. When you do, your voice is quiet. "Then you can rely on me a little more."

Did he make you think you weren't reliable? Was it his suggestions about using technology over you? He only did that because it was easier. It lifted the burden off both of your shoulders. He didn't know that you actually wanted to know the material he taught.

"F-Fine. We can look over it together," he mutters, turning his head. The thought of spending time with you makes the tips of his hair flash pink. Sevens, was he about to have the teacher's version of a study date with you right now? "But I won't go easy on you just because you're an assistant."