#and why reading uncooperatively is so productive

[zorilleerrant]

so I think a lot of the problem with people not relating to women (and poc, disabled people, queer people, etc.) in fiction is a function of reading texts cooperatively. which is a natural impulse when we tell and hear stories, and often necessary to enjoying the story, depending on the story, person, and way they're enjoying it. and generally not something people do on purpose.

so the thing is, as we all know, there are certain groups and types of people who are considered default in society, which changes over time, but not as much as (or in the ways that) we want it to. and in general people have a hard time getting over that in their personal lives, especially - and I do mean especially, because statistics keep giving this answer - people who are impacted by that bigotry. not like other girls, not that type of gay, a more respectable poc, etc. but at least marginalized people are thinking about it.

what we have in mainstream fiction - almost every popular movie or TV show in the English language, and more than half of books - is white men in creative control. and they don't think about it. if they can be made to, they often with great attention to detail change how they tell stories, but who's going to make them think about it? usually no one. maybe if you're lucky one person on the team had a friend who talked to them about this, but no one else did. so they put white men, and typically neurotypical able-bodied middle class non-immigrant straight white men, front and center.

now the story is asking the audience to sympathize with a white man. that's the main character. usually, everyone does, because otherwise why would you bother engaging with that story? but it's most of the supporting characters, side characters, even background characters who are white men, too. and moreover - even when the people who don't fall into that category are interesting! even when they're engaging and fully developed and cute and fun! - the story focuses on them more. it says, let's take this character and use them as flavor for someone else's dish. those characters are a cog in another character's story, or a comment on it, or a counterpoint. the story doesn't center them, because that's not whose story it is (which isn't by itself bad, just in the aggregate).

then people take what they're used to doing to real people in real life (without knowing it, because implicit bias certainly isn't intentional or malicious) and match it to what the show is doing, and it fits, it doesn't upset the schema, so it doesn't cause any cognitive dissonance. (incidentally, this is why stories about marginalized people tend to only have marginalized characters in the main cast, or the exception is comic relief. because it will cause cognitive dissonance for there to be men around but the story is about women, or white people around but the show is about black people, or straight people around but the show is about the gay people's relationships with each other.)

now if people are used to reading works in a hostile (or at least non-cooperative) way, it becomes easier and easier to do over time. people don't tend to do hostile readings, tho. they often toss out parts they don't like and just ignore them, or try to come up with an explanation that's coherent to the story they were told in order to patch up plot holes and inconsistencies, or find alternate pathways that would fix the things they think are wrong. which is all well and good, because those are wellsprings of creativity as well, but they're still fundamentally agreeing with the text.

people have to practice saying things like: this character is not the way they present or see themselves. they are a fundamentally different person than the author thinks they are, and here is all the evidence in the text that they simply would not do the things they did, or that other people would not react that way to those things, or that they would do it and people would react that way but it's bad that's true and the hero is a fundamentally bad person. or it's good, actually, and the villain is a fundamentally good person, who did all the right things, and was punished for it. or it's morally gray in a way the text wholesale ignored. or it's actually pretty cut and dry and the text treating it like a matter of opinion is just an indication that all these characters are terrifying people.

things like: this plot was not inevitable, it was actually caused by events established in the narrative that the author thinks have nothing to do with the outcomes, even tho they can be easily read as causal. these twists are not surprising, the heroes are just incompetent, or unprepared, or think too highly of themselves and didn't do their due diligence. these obvious cause-and-effect scenarios aren't that obvious at all, and with different circumstances they might easily have panned out differently, or the fact that the heroes expected them says something terrible about their mental health, or the fact that they won/lost should have active implications in the story that are just ignored. or this plot has happened in real life, and here's when, and here's why you're wrong. or this didn't happen in real life, because here was the response to the opening circumstances instead, and how that would've gone.

things like: this world is larger and more complex than the story thinks it is. all the pieces inside it are so much more faceted; characters are so much more complex than that, physics is so much less understood than that, social structures are so much less logical than that. the narrator is wrong in ways they don't even know they're wrong. they're not unreliable reporters, they're telling you everything they know, but what they know is bullshit. all the world of the story being built on the truth of it, everyone acting on the knowledge of it - they're all wrong. they got some piece of it right, and missed everything else, and here is some - not all, never all, but some - of what they missed. maybe something so, so obvious to someone on the outside of it. maybe something that seemed impossible to learn with all the pressure to adhere to the canon.

and all this with marginalized people, too. this woman is this man's friend? no. he is her friend. this black person had to judge these white people's debate? no. this black person is watching some idiots they know argue, and trying to intervene. these abled people did something to accommodate their disabled friend? no. the disabled person was dealing with something horrible, and someone finally understood. sometimes a character can be a participant in someone else's story, and sometimes they can be the main character, even when that doesn't change the narrative, because, you know, it still changes the story even when it doesn't.

it's about disagreeing with the creators. it's about saying: I saw what you were trying to create, and I'm going to create it better. I saw what you were trying to create, and you created something wholly different, and I'm going to pull those differences out piecemeal and create a brand new text from them. I saw what you were trying to create, and I'm horrified by what you are trying to create, and I'm going to preserve those horrors in amber for all the world to see. I saw what you were trying to create, and you are wrong, and here are all the reasons why.

you have to know. then you can no.

[cloudcountry]

since you guys liked my idea so much here it is: WAYS THE NRC BOYS WOULD MAKE YOU WORSE

reader's personality is based more off of in-game yuu than anything? this set of hcs is a bunch of hypotheticals basically. this can be read as platonic or romantic idk each guy is written as if they are the closest person to you, friends or otherwise.

IF YOU SEE A TYPO NO YOU DONT

mentally preparing myself for the "i wouldnt do that!!!!!" comments...and post.

Riddle increases your attentiveness to the rules tenfold. No matter how meek you are, he makes your voice strong—and oh boy does it carry. You’re yelling at people for running in the halls, chastising them for not doing their homework, and opening your mouth wider when you speak. For a school full of troublemakers like Night Raven, the entire student body is so disappointed there’s another Riddle.

Trey makes you more passive, less likely to speak up when you see something. He’s always stood back in the shadows, watching over everything without saying a word, and it’s seeped into your personality, too. You’re spineless now. This world is unfamiliar, why should you try to do anything? You’d only stand out. You don’t want to be outstanding. You want to be as normal as possible. So you stand back.

Cater gets you wrapped up in the hype of social media. It started out as a way to indulge his interests but now you’re on Magicam all day, scrolling and scrolling and scrolling. You send things to your friends and say “hey, we should do this” but never make any actual effort to connect with them outside of that. You fall easier into jealousy because you’re surrounded by glamor.

Deuce makes you reckless. He’s so willing to throw himself into things and it spurs you to do the same, no matter how many times your teachers or potential upperclassmen tell you not to. You can’t hear anything but Deuce and his yelling, his enthusiasm and terror for whichever situation you two find yourselves in, knowing that you’d follow him anywhere.

Ace makes you all the more prickly, your sharp jabs and irritating smugness a product of spending too much time with him. You two are two peas in a pod, but to an outsider you two just seem...irritating. You have a talent for getting under people’s skin and have definitely gotten better at lying.

Leona thinks its so cute how you try to defend him at every twist and turn. Like no, he is as dastardly as everyone is saying. Why are you trying to deny it? You’re suddenly seeing reason in the most massive ego-ed people this side of Sage Island and Leona honestly doesn’t know if he should be concerned for you or be amused because of you. (This one in particular was inspired by @loser-jpg LMAO)

Ruggie could have made you prioritize yourself more, but you think he took it a bit too far. See, now you’re snatching cafeteria items and worksheets right under people’s noses, giggling as they demand you give it back. Sometimes they don’t even notice you, but even if they did you’ve learned how to be lighter on your feet.

Jack and you are incredibly uncooperative people (unless you owe someone, of course.) He’s guided you away from asking for help, insisting that the people here will take advantage of you then turning around to say that he doesn’t care, he just doesn't want to get wrapped up in your mess. It’s like you can’t trust anyone but him and your Heartslabyul friends anymore.

Azul has given you one nasty sense of perception, allowing you to key into every little detail and find loopholes in the things people say in a second. He’s turned you into a deadly asset, one he treasures just as much as the student body fears. You read over his contracts and point out what you would do to get out of them, and he adjusts accordingly. What a fine team you two make!

Jade makes it clear that his morals are less than savory, and will often encourage you to partake in things you really shouldn't. You rationalize it as Jade helping you go after the things you want, to finally take and take and take from people when you’ve been so selfless all your life, because it's what you deserve isn’t it?

Floyd will often rope you into his schemes, and it's not wrong before you start doing the same. Once a model student, attending every class, you now skip class and watch with amusement as Floyd threatens another student, hiding your smile behind your hand. They may plead for your assistance, but who are you to stop Floyd? This poor soul clearly owed something.

Kalim instills you with a sense of jealousy and helplessness. He has money to solve all of his problems, his life must be so easy. You’ve lived through so many overblots and received no help from anyone, but Kalim has always been so kind and generous to you. It makes you resent him a little, and anyone else who tries to help, because they all have things that you don’t and that's just not fair.

Jamil twists and bends your mind so much that you can do the very same thing to others. You’ve caught onto his little game and he knows it, eyeing you with anticipation whenever you speak in the same honeyed tone he uses when he wants something. You’ve gotten scarily good at hiding it too, shooting him a smug grin because you know he knows, but nobody else does.

Vil brings out so much confidence in your abilities it’s borderline arrogance. You know you’re capable, so why doesn’t everyone just let you handle this? You can do it, they can’t. So they should just step aside. You’re not doing it to be mean, so why are they getting so annoyed at you? You’re just better.

Rook has some eccentricities, and you’re well aware of them. They put you off at first, but now you’re used to him. It just seems normal now. You’re not sure why everyone makes such a big deal out of his tendencies, that’s just how he is. He’ll stalk you, hunt you down, but he’s having fun! Don’t spoil it for him!

Epel is actually the perfect fit for NRC, you think. He’s a troublemaker, he’s stubborn, and he’s so, so angry. But he’s right! Why should you respect people who claim to be above you? It’s so irritating that they walk around with those annoying smirks on their faces. You two should do something about that, don’t you think?

Idia has a very specific way of talking that can not only be confusing, but can also irritate the hell out of people. Of all things you could pick up from him, you picked up his smug jabs and insults, accompanied by a tooth grin and a laugh. It’s unnerving how much he’s rubbed off on you, a true testament to how close you too are much to the chagrin of the rest of NRC.

Malleus finds so much delight in being your bodyguard, your most trusted companion, that he doesn’t even bat an eye when you use his magic for your own gain. You’ve gotten soft, molding to whatever shape Malleus wants you to be just so he won’t leave. You’re helpless without him, only he has the will and the magic to protect you. So won’t he please stay?

Lilia has a way of dodging the truth, putting a smile on his face even when he’s hurting. It makes you think that, if he can do that, why can’t you? Lilia is smart, he knows how to go about life, so you should follow his lead and bury your problems until they’ll never see the light again.

Sebek has done nothing but berate you for being human since you met him, and even if you’ve gotten closer to him over the course of your stay in Twisted Wonderland, you’re starting to think he’s right. If you had magic, if you weren’t human, you’d be more powerful. It’s a fact. You could do so much more if you weren’t so weak.

Silver has made you complacent. He takes each step carefully, protecting both you and Malleus, so why would you need to protect yourself in any capacity? It’s so nice, having this safety net. If you could, you'd rely on Silver forever, never facing the cruel realities of the world that are blocked by his strong arms.

[polijakefim]

Travis Fimmel isn’t your typical movie star

IGET THE SENSE that Travis Fimmel would prefer not to do this interview. Not because he’s rude or uncooperative – as I’ll learn from those close to him, when it comes to causes he cares about, he’s nothing but generous with his time. He would prefer not to do this interview because he doesn’t like talking about himself, or, he doesn’t like talking about himself as ‘Travis Fimmel, the famous Australian actor’. No doubt, he’d much prefer to be known by a small community of country folk as a cattle farmer from the tiny town of Lockington in northern Victoria who runs a beer brand with 25 of his mates.

Unfortunately for Fimmel, we have to talk about acting. It’s because he’s a renowned Australian actor that he’s on the cover of this magazine. He’s in Europe when I reach him, for a friend’s wedding and a “small work thing”. Our phone connection is patchy, and I strain to hear what he says, the potency of his ocker accent not helping. In the background, I can hear the hustle and bustle of a day in the city unfolding – car horns, people talking, the ticking of a pedestrian crossing at traffic lights. He tells me that while filming the upcoming Dune: Prophecy, in which he plays a charismatic soldier with a mysterious past, he stayed in the heart of Budapest for seven months.

“It was a very nice place, but I was stuck in a little apartment in the city, so it wasn’t my cup of tea.” He feels the same way about the busy streetscape I find him in today. “Yeah, I’d rather just be home the whole time,” he says of the property he currently leases, just outside of Echuca, a 25-minute drive from the farm he grew up on. “People have the same mentality there; we all grew up the same. But . . . unfortunately, there’s a lot of work overseas. You know, there’s only 26 million people in Australia. You have to work overseas so you have a name. If you have a name, foreigners are more likely to buy Australian productions because of your name. But yeah, I’d rather be at home.”

Fimmel was the face of the show, and, ultimately, the reason for its runaway success – Vikings ran for six long seasons, with spinoff series, Vikings: Valhalla, now in its third season on Netflix (it was recently announced it won’t be renewed for a fourth). 

“When we started casting for Vikings, I was very sure I didn’t want the clichéd version: the big, loud, brutish, hairy fighter that had existed for a long time in folk memory,” explains the series creator, British screenwriter Michael Hirst. “We got pretty close to the date of production when we received a self-tape from Travis, [recorded] from his farm in Australia. He didn’t bother to put on any viking gear, and he didn’t shout. He was pretty quiet. He hesitated often in delivering the lines, as if he was really thinking about them.” It was his air of thoughtfulness – and his piercing blue eyes – that landed Fimmel the starring role. “He absolutely inhabited that role. He did not ‘play’ a viking; he was a viking,” adds Hirst. “Travis was one big reason why the show grew as big as it did. He was our lead. He was our poster boy. He was our signature. He redefined for a modern audience what a viking was. He smashed the old clichés forever.”

‘Smashed’ is an understatement. If, before Vikings, your impression of Norsemen aligned with the folk memory Hirst describes, Fimmel’s Ragnar Lothbrok probably blew your mind. In addition to being a devoted parent and husband with a soft and curious side, Ragnar Lothbrook was hot. But his hotness didn’t just stem from his physical assets – which, glimpsed in steamy sex scenes soundtracked by primal grunts, didn’t leave much to the imagination. It came through in the intellect and depth Fimmel brought to the character.

“My goal was always to make the character a family man who would do anything for his kids. You know, a lot of tough love, but it comes from doing what he thinks is right for his family,” Fimmel explains. “I think the character had a lot of flaws, so sometimes he didn’t necessarily see straight. But everyone’s got flaws; it’s just about not letting your flaws beat you.”

When I ask Hirst about how Fimmel approached his role, the writer gives a frank response. “Travis wasn’t always easy to work with. He had – or he developed – his own ideas about his character, and we started a dialogue which continued until Ragnar’s death,” he says. “I believe that we respected each other, and our meetings – which we both often dreaded – nearly always turned out to be positive and productive.” Hirst recalls one crucial moment towards the end of the series’ fourth season, when Fimmel believed Ragnar shouldn’t say a word for an entire episode. “He told me that he was sure Ragnar could communicate his desires and responses just by looking, just by ‘being’. So I reread the script. I noted that other characters in the scenes could indeed convey the information that was needed. And it was also true that I had come to realise how much meaning and emotion Travis could convey simply by ‘looking’. It’s a gift that very good actors have.

“I agreed to Travis’ request but swore him to secrecy,” Hirst admits. “Our American paymasters could never know, because they would never have agreed.”

THE CATEGORY OF FAME that comes with being the handsome star of a niche historical drama, especially one with fantastical elements, can be intense (Game of Thrones star Kit Harington once referred to feeling so objectified by fans and critics, it was “demeaning”). And certainly, there are fans out there who follow Fimmel for his good looks first, and his acting second. To those who line up for his autograph at Comic-Con conventions – teenagers in cosplay, men who larp on a Tuesday night and middle-aged mums that turn to speculative fiction as an escape from reality – Fimmel is the perfect man. Or, rather, Ragnar Lothbrok is. But in their minds, there is no difference.

On the Travis Fimmel Facebook fan page, which has over 65,000 followers and admin that upload photos and updates daily, posts attract comments like “handsome man”, “him so cute” and “be still my beating heart”. “If I get to go fishing with him, I don’t think we would be doing much fishing,” writes one fan beneath a photo of Travis holding a fishing rod, accompanied by a few tongue-out emojis. Fimmel’s personal Instagram – he has three million followers on the platform, while only really posting about Travla – is also flooded with declarations of love and admiration.

Fimmel isn’t in it for these reasons. To him, fame is something he’d rather go without, while recognising it’s a necessary evil – you can’t make money in Hollywood when no one knows your name. “Too many awards and attention in that industry. I’m not that interested in that,” he deflects. “We’re not saving the world or anything. I don’t get too deep into it. As long as it makes money, I’m happy.” I seek to clarify that although he enjoys acting, unlike method actors and tortured-artist types, for him, it’s just not that deep. “I’ve never once enjoyed it, not once,” he says, without the slightest hesitation. “I mean, it’s deep work-wise – you have to be deep to continue working. But I don’t get bogged down in it. Like I said, it’s just a job.” Delicately, I ask why he continues to do something he doesn’t enjoy and never has. “Well, I haven’t made enough money to retire yet. As soon as I do, I’ll move home for good . . . I don’t know what else I’m going to do. What keeps a guy working in the mines? What keeps a carpenter working all the time? What keeps anyone getting up in the morning and going to work? What keeps us doing it? I’m very happy for people who love their job – jealous and happy. But it doesn’t do it for me. I’m not driven by it.

“What am I driven by?” he says, repeating my next question. “That’s a good question. I’m not very driven anymore.” I can hear him chuckle. “Nah, I guess it’s just trying to do good at what you’re doing. Trying to always be better than you were the last time.”

He’s got the X FACTOR, and people want that . . . Sorry, Travis, but you’re a MOVIE star – whether you like it or NOT.”

Those who’ve worked with Fimmel aren’t so convinced he dislikes acting. As Bjorn Lothbrok, Ragnar’s firstborn son, Canadian actor Alexander Ludwig saw firsthand the care and thoughtfulness Fimmel brought to his Vikings character.

“He’s one of the most talented and hardworking people I’ve ever worked with. I’ve seen how much time and dedication he puts into what he does. It’s the same kind of time and dedication he puts into his farm. He does everything like a farmer would. It’s very meticulous. He plants these seeds and he focuses, and he’s always prepared,” says Ludwig over the phone from LA. “But he will be the first person to tell you he’s not passionate about his craft. If you were to talk to him about the business, you would never believe that he’s someone who loves what he does. And I will literally die on this hill,” quips Ludwig with a laugh. “He’s too good. And he stuck around too long not to have loved it. I mean, he should have won awards for that show.”

“Travis is arguably one of the most beautiful men in the world, and he does everything he can not to be. I think that says a lot. Because . . . I mean, he’s got the talent. He could so easily have gone down that route to be one of, you know, one of ‘the guys’. I think that’s what makes him so real, is that he just genuinely doesn’t care about that. He’s just not about any of the bullshit that comes with what we do.”

Kriv Stenders, who directed Fimmel in 2019’s Danger Close: The Battle of Long Tan, is more receptive to the idea of Fimmel not enjoying what he does. He recalls one day on set, when the cast and crew had an hour to nail a particularly complex scene. “It was a hard day, and Travis was having trouble with the scene. He was in this wet kit, it was pissing down with fake rain and when I went over to talk to him, I looked back and saw what he was looking at, which was literally six cameras, cranes, all this machinery,” recalls the Aussie director. “And I went, ‘Oh, fuck’. That’s what he sees. That’s what he has to deal with every day – the pressure to be like, Everyone’s here, we’ve got an hour to make this brilliant and it’s all up to me. Now. Go. And that’s hard.

“But at the same time, Travis is cursed with a gift. He’s one of those people, when you look at them in reality, you go, ‘Okay, wow, good-looking guy’. But the minute you put the lens on him – and it’s very rare in this business – you look through the viewfinder and get blinded. The charisma that he has is just astronomical. He’s got the X factor, and people want that.” Stenders lets out a laugh. “Sorry, Travis, but you’re a movie star – whether you like it or not.”

Throughout our time chatting, Fimmel is most animated when talking about the beer. When I ask what project he’s proudest of (referring to his acting work), he says it’s “the beer brand”. He muses about his desire to make a beer that supports Australian farmers by using Australian ingredients and keeping the profits in the country. “I want to support the way I grew up and the people I know. We have a beautiful country and hardworking people, and I think sometimes city people can forget that. But those [country] people – they’re not trying to be anyone else. That’s where the heart of Australia is.”

“He said, ‘All I’ve got is me and my time. So, please, what can I do for you?’” says Jason Law, the CEO of Farm Angels, the charity that puts on Flanno for a Farmer, which supports farmers impacted by natural disasters, mental-wellbeing issues and the rising costs of primary production. “He gets that one of the key things that causes things like depression in farmers is that they feel a bit forgotten. They feel taken for granted and like no one cares. He wants to show farmers that we can get people to care.

“He hates interviews,” adds Law with a laugh. “He thinks he’s bad at them, and I don’t think he likes opening up. We never want to push him to do anything, but he always says, ‘If you need me to do something like that, I’ll do it’.”

Dune: Prophecy premieres on Binge in November. 

Black Snow season two is coming soon, only on Stan.

Editor-in-Chief: Christopher Riley

Words: Amy Campbell

Photography: John Russo

Styling: Chloe Takayanagi

Grooming: Kristin Heitkotter 

Producer: Kenneth Waller.

Find out where to buy the issue here.

[philosopherking1887]

Thank fuck someone other than me has finally said this. I'm usually the only one screaming at people to stop falling into the dichotomy of "humans are inherently good" or "humans are inherently bad/evil" -- and usually in response to the current Leftist fashion of insisting that they're inherently good, as a reaction to Calvinist-capitalist-Hobbesian pessimism about human nature or simpleminded readings of Lord of the Flies. I don't usually see people on Tumblr actually taking the La Rochefoucauld line! (That bit of diversity is refreshing in itself, even if it's equally misguided.)

I would, however, like to insist on consistency about that "there is no morality in nature" thing. What we now think of as being "good" is helping everyone and hurting no one (except, perhaps, those who deserve it because they have harmed others), but that has not always been the case. The idea of a universal obligation of altruism is a historically recent, unusual development. What has constituted being "good" in most historical contexts is helping members of Our Community (clan, tribe, city, nation, ethnos) and hurting The Enemy (rival clans, tribes, etc.). The human capacity for violence and cruelty has historically been regarded as essential to the survival of communities, just as much as our capacity for compassion and benevolence -- the two impulses just had to be directed at the right targets. And of course that must be the case: if our capacity for altruism was the only thing that was conducive to our survival as a species, or that communities have valued throughout evolutionary and cultural history, why would we still have the tendencies to violence and cruelty? Wouldn't they have fallen away, or been bred out, so to speak?

That doesn't mean that we should still value both tendencies; maybe it is best for us as a species now -- or conforms to some deeper moral truth (if you're into that kind of thing) -- if we value only the tendency to help others and never the tendency to harm them (except, as rarely as possible, in self-defense, or possibly punishment for prior harm; different versions of the 'morality of compassion' differ in their stance on retributive punishment). But we do need to accept that both tendencies exist. We should not regard those who have uncooperative, selfish, or even violent impulses as dangerous anomalies that can be eliminated once and for all (by guillotining the billionaires, say, or castrating rapists); and we should not assume that these tendencies are only the products of a specific cultural environment and will magically disappear when that corrupt environment is abolished -- usually, in Leftist discourse, white Western modern capitalist culture (and this post does not entirely escape that particular cliché). Yes, of course, socialization and education can encourage one or the other to a greater degree, but humans are not completely blank slates, either, and both original tendencies will be present in the population, and in most individuals, for the foreseeable future (unless we find a way to "breed out" the selfish and/or cruel tendencies -- which I'm assuming no one around here thinks is a morally acceptable goal to have). So if we're going to be serious about imagining what a better, more humane post-capitalist society might look like, it would be in our interests to assume that the "impulse to evil" (to use the traditional Jewish term) will continue to arise in people naturally and decide how to handle that rationally and humanely, instead of assuming that there will be no more bad behavior in our post-capitalist utopia because there will be nothing to corrupt the pure goodness of human nature, and then having no idea what to do when some people inevitably don't cooperate.

Humans pretend to be good in small ways for social clout but underneath where it counts, very definitely all selfish and bad.

[robbieshomestuckliveblog]

Day Twenty Six

03/06/25

Elsewhere... to ==>

( page 3218 to page 3361 )

Favorite Panel: Page 3290

Favorite Pesterlog: Page 3317

Favorite Flash (if applicable): Page 3318

Takeaways:

Rose in a Felt member’s suit and Lord English’s robe!!! How dashing :D! ( Can Hussie come back. )

Rose’s logo being broken like Daves? Was this foreshadowing for a new low?? Dave’s broken record, one, record’s can be broken so that helps make it make sense aswell as being beat so hard even his shirt logo broke. Rose’s logo being broken probably is just a one off gag and i'm looking too hard into probably.

Rose my fem queen!! Rose saying the suit’s uncomfortable and that she misses her skirt, how cute.

MS PAINT IS HERE!!!! And in the Three In The Morning Dress! God she’s so pretty. Swoon!

Rose hating Lil Cal so much that despite her poetic talents, she can only express a simple fuck you at Cal, is so perfect.

I would love to dissect the anatomy of a typewriter, I completely do not understand them. What does ribbon do? The things I would do to write with a type writer.

I’m still not reading the Recap, sorry not sorry!

Jade trying to help JadeSprite, she’s very apologetic and sympathetic at first, but little lines JadeSprite says like forgetting John starts to tick Jade off a bit, JadeSprite is completely uncooperative when they need help, and Jade is getting tired of her whole ditzy selfish princess deal.

Sidenote: Just realized Jade’s jacket has squiddles buttons, how cute is that!

Is Jade expressing her anger productively in a way that will get through to JadeSprite? Not in the slightest! But hey, Jade has spent her WHOLE life being nice and caring, and to have a version of you who’s selfish and childish thrust upon you? I don’t blame her for getting so frustrated, good for her finally letting off some steam!

However, her displays of anger and brute force piques a certain troll's interest.

I wonder why the text previews in the panel with the trolls logo, why some of them are inverted? Such as the background being black instead of white, any reason despite aesthetic purposes?

Jade being so pissed at dealing with JadeSprite she’s even happy to talk to Karkat.

OH MY GOD I DIDN’T THINK KARKAT WOULD GET ANY HUSSIE MODE SHOTS, ESPECIALLY THE HEADSHOTS. Oh what a handsome boy :3. The blue of the fourth wall reflecting on him is also a nice touch, Vriska white talking to John is shunned with Green while Karkat talking to Jade gets blue, fun detail that matches with their shirt logos! :D

Karkat is genuinely so unserious sometimes, and it always catches people off guard, this moment is just adorable, Jade’s little giggle, are you KIDDING me.

OHHHH I get it, Karkat’s comparing himself and his future self OUTRIGHT to Jade waiting for her to get it, he’s being a smug asshole, feigning interest in an effort to exaggerate his eventual comparison.

Karkat was so freaky for this /J. Despite this panel template being ugly as all hell, it’s just very funny in concept.

The following panel of Karkat fanning away the thought of Jade selfcest is also adorable?? Whoever drew the Karkat scribble panels deserve a raise; they're just so perfect everytime.

The WK is actually adorable, I enjoy all of the Carapacian designs, the Knights and Rooks have to be my favorites though, just really could concepts!

Oh my GOOODDDD dream mayor’s little nightrobe?? All of the little details in his room are precious. Imagine a domestic Exile roommate au...

Jack looks so cool in this dream, more animalistic, more sneaky, like the big bad wolf or something silly like that.

The mayor being turned into Jack, having his people look upon him as if he was the monster against his will causing devastation in the skaian war.

Vriska manipulating his dreams to speak with him, to claim ownership of the ring he has possession of in the waking world, or maybe this is just her fighting a perceived Jack? Anywho, the silhouette of Vriska in her GodTeir, wings fluttering is very striking and cool!

My favorite Panel!

It seems like Vriska was able to manifest her GodTeir outfit in her sleep? What a dork! <33333333

[S] Wake.

Megalovania comes in full force as Jack enacts the devastation of Derse and all who belong to its kingdom with the power of the green sun. Nepeta getting three stab wounds, fits her themes of 3! Derse Aradia, who was asleep on her Quest... slab? Finally dies, allowing her to ascend to GodHood. She understands her powers, immediately in sync, coming back to live with a smile. Vriska is ready for Tavros, GodRTeir, they both charge, Vriska quickly steals his weapon and plugged it through him, swiftly ending his life as she throws his body off a cliff.

Is Rose’s communication with Doc scratch what leads to Rose’s viewport being blacked out? Was Rose told how to black it out? Or was it the act of her going GrimDark that did it?

The kids rubbing off on eachother will never not be adorable, they're all so distinct anyone can immediately clock who they’ve been talking too it’s so silly.

Anyways Jade goes about conversing with the Trolls in a more professional matter, one that won’t drive her “SHITHIVE MAGGOTS” I think it’s very smart of her, she was the most frustrated with them so of course she’d make a silly way of making her communication less easily accessible, good for her :D!

Anywho, I think Kanaya and Jade’s relationship is really cute. they have a similar feel to Rose and Jade of course, I just enjoy Kanaya’s poetic but sincere and genuine along with Jade’s silliness and kindness, they’re a great pair, along with the kinship that comes with sharing an aspect!

The complex longshot of Jade’s built up home is really pretty, with its snowy gradient. Dave’s building up of Jade’s house compared to John’s house, is much more simple, but at the same time Rose had more shit to configure with John’s house.

Jade’s iron man, Iron Lass? suit is VERY cute, I wonder if it’s actually iron? The skirt forms to her shows however soo.

My little assessments of Jade and Kanaya’s musing of their aspects and such is for one, Space and Time being essential to every suffefuel session and creation of a universe, my question is how does Time play into a session’s creation? A Time players abilities should be as integral to a successful session as a Space players. Space players breed a new universe, then how does a Time player fit into this?

Besides Aspect wise, I find sprites being unhelpful an interesting concept, a sprite is programmed with lore and knowledge, yet it’s up to them to give it to you, so in a way you can easily screw yourself with a bad protyping, the example here being JadeSprite, being too inconsolable to even want to help.

Jade’s assessment that Trolls are like bugs!! I’m all for bug Trolls. I believe they are all the same biologically, their Lusuii to my knowledge can’t imprint their personal animal attributes onto their kids, so they're all the same, with the exception of Sea Dwellers being aquatic and the biological differences that comes with that of course.

Jade’s reaffirming and supportive of Kanaya’s mission to raise the Mother Grub to maturity and hatch a new generation, civilization of Trolls is very sweet. I find a motherhood theme within Kanaya, which is very blatant if you ask me. Kanaya and Roxy’s relationship with ( eachother and aswell as ) Motherhood is a very interesting concept to me. Roxy resembles a surrogate mother to Kanaya’s children in a way. I also can see the surrogate concept being spun into a Transfeminine lease, which is a very sweet reading. I suggest doing your own research on them, here's a brief but interesting post on this subject!

Jade’s first successful EctoBiology subject!! What a handsome little guy.

HELP NOT HER PUTTING HIM IN THE 8 BALL?? I MEAN IT WORKS BUT...

The Genesis Frog had more characters then I remembered!!

BABY KANAYYYYAAAA. *loses all body strength and falls to the floor all jellied leg style at my bittersweet love for the baby trolls*

OH MY GOD DOC SCRATCH GOT TO BABY KANAYA??

I wonder what the point was of Doc helping Kanaya dream? How does this piece fit into the grand scheme of his puzzle?

Dear sweet Kanaya. She is driven mad by her pale attractions for those who don’t want her help while she knows they need it most. I was wondering this week, would Kanaya still be pale with Rose? In their Matespritship, would Kanaya be comfortable with the Vacillation? And how would she go about it?

My favorite Pesterlog!

Kanaya and Jade’s relationship is so cute, all their similarities, waking up on Prospit at a young age aswell as being space players. ( And also being green coded, hehe! )

[S] Kanaya: Return to the core.

If I haven’t mentioned before, the EarthBound-Esquse art style really lends itself nice to the AlterniaBound sprites!

OH MY GOD. MEOWRAILS ARE ALREADY DEAD. Nepeta’s untouched tea and Equius's untouched glass of milk :(.

Oh my god the trolls have Kanaya making custom plushies for them?? I need a friend like her Kanaya please meddle me into doing my homework.

Duke Pinesnort’s death reminiscing Equius’s, a blue creature, from a noble man to a beggar at the hands of a noose, in some way or other.

Feferi and Sollux are very interesting to me, this is my last opportunity to really talk about them while they are present but i'm tired, to put it briefly, Feferi has kind a savior/pet outlook on Sollux, her privilege puts them at a weird angle, Feferi loves Sollux no doubt about that, but she belittles him in ways she intents as endearing, she, whether unconscious or not thinks of him as lesser than, being a princess while he’s a commoner. Regardless, Sollux doesn't take it to heart and isn’t being taken advantage of in any way, he needs comfort while his girlfriend, friend, sort of, kind of not Aradia is going through it, and Feferi volunteers. However Feferi seeing Sollux as sort of a plaything is still prominent when I think about them.

OH JUST PROCESSED THE NEW TALKSPRITES ARE HERE!!!! They are all so cool and precious, an obligatory new tier list!

Karkat saying Dave’s insecurity over his eyes being red is stupid when we know damn well Dave would say Dave’s insecurity over his blood being red is stupid aswell. Just parallels and characters; unconsciously pointing out similarities is cool.

Eridan always begged for doomsday devices, so blowing up the Matriorb did doom his race, one way or another. I wonder why he wanted to help Kanaya in the first place? She did make him a wand afterall, so maybe to pay her back? Or just because the task of a Matriorb barrier is hard, and he’d like to lend a helping hand??

Eridan and Sollux’s duel will never not be iconic. The Scott Pilgrim-Esque art style, the visuals as a whole being breathtaking along with the banger that is a version of The La2t Frontiier I believe?

Sollux’s victory dance of him just thrusting into the air before the battle has begun,, the second hand embarrassment hurts man. Man, is hindsight a bitch.

Feferi’s little interjection sprites are adorable..

Do you think Eridan’s belief and hope in his wand is what made it actually work? Eridan HOPED to beat Sollux, so that’s exactly what he did.

Eridan’s fight panels are all so pretty, Hussie opting out for blacked out silhouettes, then all blood color, you get the point,, just pretty eye candy.

Eridan setting back the Troll race, transfems and motherhood back by so many sweeps here.

Kanaya’s corpse next to the crumbled remains of her last hope.

AS FULLY INTENDED I’M SURE, I TOTALLY FORGOT KARKAT WAS THERE. Genuinely what the fuck was he supposed to do. All he did was ask for people just to chill out and be harmless and they did everything BUT that.

Karkat’s denial is heartbreaking, he hasn’t really dealt with death first hand, especially of such a close loved one. He has always had chances to revive people with no consequences, dream selves and prototyping galore, but no, this is cold blooded murder of a loved one right in front of him, and he’s fucking terrifed.

Sollux’s half death and how he got blinded at all has always been really confusing to me. After his KO’D I tend to check out on his character, he just becomes generally interesting, which is a shame.

OH MY GOD I forgot about Doc guiding Karkat during Murderstuck.. If this section ends with don’t turn your bodies on the bodies i WILL lose it.

Karkat begging and screaming for Gamzee to come back to any semblance of sanity. Murderstuck is so genuinely terrifying and we don’t talk about it as much as we should Gamkar Moirails shooshpapping scene that Gamkar Moirails shooshpapping scene this what about Gamzee and Karkat being eachother's last hope? What about Gamzee hunting and lurking in the barren cold metal laboratory halls covered in indigo and olive blood?

Eridan’s land is so cool man, it’s so uniquely pretty.

[stonewallsposts]

September 2024 Reading

L'inferno- Dante  (1321)  Finished the inferno, this month Cantos 33-34. 

Canto 33  Ninth circle- Antenora: Traitors to country 

So the guy we left gnawing on someone's brain at the end of the last canto, is introduced here as Count Ugolina della Gherardesca. His victim is the Archbishop Ruggieri degli Ubaldini. Both betrayed each other in a political play, but Ugolino ultimately lost, was imprisoned with his four sons, and then starved together, for which Ugolino now eternally eats Ruggieri's head. 

Virgil and Dante move on and pass into Ptolomea, the region that holds those who betrayed guests and friends.  In Caina, the imprisoned looked down, in Antenora, straight ahead, here, they look up, and their tears freeze in the eye sockets so a glassy visor settles over the eyes. Dante speaks to Frate Alberigo, who invited his in-laws to dinner and had them murdered. The interesting thing about this region is that souls are taken at the point they commit the betrayal, even before they die. A demon then inhabits their body until their death. 

Canto 34  Ninth circle- Judecca: betrayers of benefactors.  As they approached the center, Dante noticed a wind, and Virgil told him in the last canto that he'd soon see the reason for it. Virgil tells him now to arm himself with strength. In this region, the condemned are completely buried in the ice: some lying, some erect, others bent over. In the center is Satan, buried halfway in the ice, with his chest and arms free. He has three faces: one red, another light yellowish, and a third black, and six sets of wings, which continually flap and make the wind that freezes hell over. Satan is huge, much larger in comparison to the giants than the giants are to Dante. If the giants were estimated at 70 feet tall, Satan must be nearly a thousand feet tall. 

In the center mouth, Satan chews on Judas. In the right and left mouths, he chews on Brutus and Cassius. 

At this point, Virgil tells Dante they've seen everything, hold on, and then they climb down Satan's hide until they flip over and continue climbing up. This confuses Dante until Virgil explains that Satan was at the center of the earth, and now they are ascending up on the opposite side. They make their way through the cave and out on the earth's surface again to see the stars. 

This is the end of the canto, and the poem about hell.    

Ten Days That Shook the World- John Reed  (1919) 

The book chronicles the 1917 Russian Revolution, and how the Bolsheviks took power in Russia. 

The author, John Reed, was an American Socialist, and sympathetic to the Bolsheviks, so he doesn't pretend to write a completely unbiased account, but his sympathies gained him access to the Bolsheviks, which wouldn't have been granted otherwise.  

The Tsarist regime had been overthrown already in March 1917, and in the meantime, there were political battles fought over who exactly would take control. The most ideologically communist of the parties was the Bolshevik party. The Menshiviks were socialists, but they believed that communism could only truly come about at the end of capitalism (per Marx himself), and that therefore, attempts to bring it about by revolution would end in failure and setback. There were smaller groups of Monarchists, Liberals, and other versions of Social Democrats- those that believed in reforms to capitalism, rather than complete overthrow. The Bolsheviks had gained the following of the working class and peasants, particularly with promises of free land and better wages, but had alienated those in society that actually controlled the means of production. 

The Bolsheviks did manage, by the end of October, to organize an armed revolution to take over the oust the old leadership of the government. But they found that those in actual control of the various institutions were uncooperative, which plunged the entire country into a grinding halt. 

The book did give insight into a question I've had for a while: why do revolutions tend to "eat their own"? When revolutions happen it is often those that helped bring it about who end up being killed by those who have taken over power. Why is that? 

It starts with the basic recognition that any functional society is comprised of many interdependent parts, that can only function when there is a high degree of order in that system. Order comes first, and when order is largely established, freedoms come after.  

Overthrowing a political system requires people who agitate that system and create instability, so that the greater mass of people will be open to a new system. Systems that work, don't require change, so if revolutionaries want change, they must cause disfunction in the system, so that people will want the change being suggested by the revolutionaries. 

Once that shift in power has been obtained, order must be restored. But the very tools used to break down the system (Agitators) so that power could be transferred to the revolutionaries, are now the opposite of what is needed. Agitation and destabilization are not only useless once power has been transferred, they are counterproductive. The new power needs stability and order. But those actors that are capable in destabilizing and agitating don't become the opposite once the power is transferred. The very capabilities that made them useful in destabilizing a system, make them liabilities and criminals in the new order. Hence, they are, before long, eliminated after their usefulness has served its purpose.  

Here’s an example from the book, where Lenin:   "explained the revolution, urged the people to take power into their own hands, by force to break down the resistance of the propertied classes, by force to take over the institutions of government. Revolutionary order. Revolutionary discipline! Strict accounting and control! No strikes! No loafing." 

"No strikes". This was one of the tactics used by the revolution to force their will on the old order. But once power had been shifted- it was no longer allowed. Likewise the freedom of the press. The revolutionaries used the press to foment agitation and instability. But once they had the power, they shut down opposition press, so any questioning of their orders was not allowed. 

It also explains why the new order tends to be even more repressive than the old order it replaced. 1) Revolutions, almost by definition, occur when there is a minority taking power. If they had an actual majority, they could take power naturally through democratic mechanisms. But, as happened in Russia, they, didn't have the support of much of the class of people that runs things, and so they had to implement very repressive measures to force compliance with their objectives. 2) breaking down institutions unleashes a nasty set of social dynamics that are hard to get back in control once they've been unleased. Repression will almost certainly be needed to contain those unleashed social dynamics once again.

Stalin: Paradoxes of Power- Stephen Kotkin (2015) 

This biography attempts to capture a whole range of internal and external events that led to Ioseb Jugashvili, Stalin, becoming the dictator par excellence he turned into. It's a fascinating look at the internal politics of Russia leading up to the 1917 revolution. It covers Stalin's early life, as well as the politics of the day. It covers the political mood of Europe at the time, and how these events all played some part, along with Stalin's personal strengths and weaknesses, to produce the man that led the Soviet Union. In listening to author Stephen Kotkin, he said he wanted to avoid reliance on voices who only provided "insight" after the fact. Those voices tend, so he says, to read too much back into isolated instances, which at the time were ignored, but later revitalized with significance. Relying on the more recently declassified Soviet archives, Kotkin aimed to see what people were thinking and saying at the time, to get a more accurate picture of how the man got where he did.  

Perhaps surprisingly to some, a dictatorship didn't arise in the Soviet Union because Stalin hijacked communism and turned it into something it wasn't supposed to be. In fact, Lenin, the leader of the revolution, demanded that nearly all decisions went through him. His vision of Marxism necessitated some changes in the orthodoxy, but he, and Stalin after him, faithfully tried to implement Marxism in the Russian state, and they hoped, the world. The problems Stalin, and Russia, experienced in the 10 years after the revolution were driven by the straightjacket of their Marxist ideological solutions. In fact, they were somewhat mitigated by the allowance of small scale markets allowing the peasants to produce food. But they were communists, and markets were anathema to communists, so they were always in conflict with actual production in the country. As has been leveled: Stalin was enforcing his particular view of communism on everyone else. But communism doesn't really allow for democracy, otherwise people might vote out the system. Communism's innate totalitarianism structurally necessitated a concentration of power and decision making in very few hands, and even those had to agree. If they didn't, well, then the power had to be concentrated in one person. Lenin wanted it to be him, Trotsky thought he knew better, so did Stalin. From Lenin on, anyone who contradicted their views, were claimed as 'counter revolutionary', enemies of the revolution, and therefore enemies of the people.  

This is the first of three volumes Kotkin is writing on Stalin. 

The Way of All Flesh- Samuel Butler  (1903) 

The novel was written between 1873 and 1884, but Butler didn't wanted it published until after his death. In it, he satirizes Victorian English hypocrisy, particularly around Christianity, which wouldn't have earned him any friends. The story is multi-generational, but centers around Ernest Pontifex. Ernest is rather gullible, as a result of his upbringing, and meets with continual misfortunes, but manages to learn his lessons along the way.  

I, Claudius- Robert Graves  (1934) 

This is a historical fiction, written from the first person view of the Roman Emperor Claudius, who ruled between Caligula and Nero. It's written very much in the style of the Roman historians of the time: Suetonius, Livy, Tacitus; so much that you'd be fooled into believing the work was actually from that time. The characters and events are actual characters and events, but there is additional material added in to fill out what we know. 

Life of Charlotte Bronte- Elizabeth Gaskell  (1857) 

Since my last read through what has become one of my favorite books, Jane Eyre, I have wanted to find out more about the author Charlotte Bronte, since I had read that many of the novels particulars were directly from lived personal experiences Charlotte had.  

In Book 1, Ch. 4, Elizabeth Gaskell writes about the Bronte sisters' experience at the Cowan Bridge Clergy Daughters' School, which was the model for the Lowood Institution in Jane Eyre. While the headmaster had his faults, he was actually conscientious about providing good food. But.... apparently, the cook wasn't, and the food provided for the students was abysmal. This was eventually dealt with after a typhoid outbreak where the food was found responsible for many of the health issues. The cook was fired, and another took her place. The Sunday routine of forcing the girls to walk a few miles up and back in winter weather with inadequate clothing to protect against the cold was also based on their real experiences.  

Book 1, Ch. 8, mentions an infamous story of a young governess finding a situation with a wealthy family in Leeds, where she ended up marrying a gentlemen there. But the story went south when it was discovered that the gentlemen was already married, but his wife was insane. The story of the unfortunate girl, pregnant by that time with the man's child, caused widespread pity for the young woman. This was, of course, one of the main plot devices in Jane Eyre. 

There is an amusing anecdote that Charlotte had related in the first chapters where Gaskell gives a flavor of the Yorkshire people that the Brontës grew up among. "A man that she knew, who was a small manufacturer, had engaged in many local speculations, which had always turned out well, and thereby rendered him a person of some wealth. He was rather past middle age when he bethought him of insuring his life; and he had only just taken out his policy when he fell ill of an acute disease which was certain to end fatally in a very few days. The doctor, half hesitatingly, revealed to him his hopeless state. 'By jingo', cried he, rousing up at once into the old energy, 'I shall do the insurance company! I always was a lucky fellow!' " 

[meowzfordayz]

apple of my eye

Author’s Note: hello, hi, heyo! This is written w/ connotations of being in the USA. Update: on pg 4 atm (2am), and haven’t even gotten to the actual details of the request yet LMAO. 😭 Pacing’s being uncooperative, but at least it’s fluffy as heck. 😇 Update: on pg 5 (3am), and finally getting to the actual details of the request. 😆 Update: on pg 7 (2pm), and it’s finished !! 🥳 

apple of my eye

Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader

Word Count: ~2,700

CW: explicit language, mild sexual content

Request Fulfilled: Hey,

I hope you’re fine 😊

I loved your last writing with Kyojuro.

It makes me cry so much.

It was a great work !

CanI request a Teacher Reader x Kyojuro History Teacher in the same school ?

Reader is in a relationship with Kyojuro, she works in the same highschool than him. She loves to tease Kyojuro by saying to the students they have in common some History fake news

(like Mermaids were real and The Vikings exhanged products with them).

And when the class end, the students run to Kyojuro to ask him if this is all true.

Kyojuro can’t takes it anymore 😂

I hope this is okay with you 😊

~faqs~

Recess: also known as The Golden Hour (well, technically, The Golden Half an Hour). Although, to be fair, most of elementary school is essentially Golden. Art projects? Baking soda volcanos? Learning songs? Reading buddies? Certainly, you schedule in structured academic lessons as well, but your general approach to teaching is immersive, interactive, and fun, fun, fun — Golden! Does it help that teaching elementary school grants you greater flexibility and control over your curriculum and in class activities? Sure. But do other teachers take… a different, approach?

Absolutely.

Exhibit A: your dearest Kyojuro.

“Rengoku,” you stand in his classroom’s doorway, fingers interlocked anxiously in front of you, trying to maintain a professional expression.

“[last]!” he smiles brightly, sitting at his desk—noting how the lovely color of your shirt accents the lovely color of your eyes—Whoa. Breathe. Focus, Kyojuro! “What brings you here?” What a pleasant surprise!

You restrain a sharp diss [y/n], this isn’t about you, “I have a couple of questions, actually. Do you have a moment?”

He nods. You stride to his desk, consciously willing your fingers to fall to your hips. He’s pretty you involuntarily muse, your logic and reason short circuiting as cedar and sandalwood envelops you. He smells delicious you frown faintly, subconsciously memorizing the curl of his fiery, tied hair, delighted by how perfectly stray tendrils frame his welcoming face. Stop! What the hell? Focus, [y/n].

“What grade do we teach, Rengoku?” the corner of his mouth twitches at your aggression.

“We teach fourth grade, [last],” he’s slightly confused.

“Exaaactly.” To hell with polite pretenses. “We teach fourth grade, so why are we making children cry? In fourth grade?”

He’s very confused, “We… make children, cry?”

Rolling your eyes, you lean toward him, palms flat on his desk, “No, Rengoku. You, make children cry. And I swear: if I have one more of your students visit me, eyes glistening, because you’re treating them like goddamn middle schoolers, then you’ll face a lot more than an angry coworker. They have another year of elementary, middle school, high school, and likely college, to stress the fuck out — no need to start them so early.”

He’s dumbfounded. Needs a second. A long second. To process you leaning toward him. To process and shatter at your words. I’m making my students cry? He’s aghast. They’re always chatting, laughing, and participating in class he ponders frantically Could it be their homework? His eyes narrow But if I’m making my students cry, then surely an upset parent would have contacted me? You study his actions closely, ready to pounce at any sign of apathy, but the narrowing of his eyes, the tensing of his jaw… you almost regret your harshness as dismay furrows his brows.

“I… was unaware, of this situation,” his usually radiant volume is… quiet. Ashamed. “Nobody has brought this to my attention,” he swallows thickly, “And I-” he exhales shakily, “I thought nothing was amiss.”

Of course, he believes you: if you claim his students are crying, then they’re crying. You’re acquainted, classrooms side by side. He can still fondly recall his first day a couple years ago: you’d greeted him enthusiastically, swearing to be “neighborly” and that “if you need anything, then don’t hesitate to visit — I’m right next door”. He’d visited so frequently, that you’d eventually remarked, “I’m getting the feeling that you need me.” He’d turned an alarming shade of pink, stammering, “Oh, no, not at all! I do not mean to discomfort you, [last]! Thank you for the extra staples!” Did that encounter deter his frequent visits? Nope! You’d waved him off good naturedly, hoping he hadn’t recognized your embarrassment (he hadn’t, too distracted by his own explicit, guilty fantasies). You’re a wonderful teacher — he knows you’re the favorite, and is happy for you to retain that title. An honest coworker. Humorous. Intelligent. Mesmerizing. Beautiful. Disappointed in him.

“Rengoku…” you’re soft, a possibility forming, “You had no idea?”

“Truly,” he’s firm. Assured.  Genuine. Vulnerable.

“Well,” and then you’re reaching, thumb brushing along his tense jaw.

He shudders. You squeak, immediately retracting your thumb. Fuckfuckfuck. He clears his throat. Loudly.

“What, what was, what did, you had, what else, an additional…” Look what you’ve done to me Kyojuro groans inwardly, albeit not discontentedly. He’s flustered.

You collect yourself, proud at the minimal quivering in your voice, “Perhaps… I jumped to conclusions. You’re simply the type that no one wants to let down.”

He doesn’t understand.

“Rengoku, your students visit me with their unfinished homework… it’s too difficult for them. We teach fourth grade. Homework should be an extension of in class — not a tear worthy challenge,” you shrug, “But, since I’m the only one who’s scolded you thus far, I’m going to assume you’re an amazing teacher otherwise,” you chuckle lightly, “Your students don’t want to tattle on you.”

That… makes sense. Phew. … Wait. They assist my students? They care about… my students? They care about… me?

“I owe you my thanks [last],” Kyojuro flashes his signature smile, “For assisting my students when I failed them, and for informing me.”

His statement lacks resentment entirely. He’s impressed. Relieved. Grateful. Enamored.

“You, you didn’t-” now you’re flustered, “You didn’t fail them Rengoku! You received my graceless criticism quite humbly, and I presume will follow up accordingly?”

“I will! I plan to review previous homework, and make future adjustments…” he bulldozes ahead, foggy on the lingering warmth from your thumb, “Could we get tea sometime?” he continues, “You seem to have a better schema for what is appropriate for homework, and it would be my pleasure to learn from you.”

You gape at him, your response escaping from its cozy nook in your heart before you can wrangle it back, “Alright, Rengoku. I’m available this weekend. Where and when?”

Fast forward six months, and he’s Kyojuro, Kyo — your Kyo. He’s your stolen kisses in the teachers’ lounge; your breath of fresh air walking into your classroom after your final student heads home for the day; your go-to “coworker” to swap student nightmares and successes with—not that your students are ever awful, but they can definitely be headache inducing.

“Rengoku!” a student runs to Kyojuro as he watches the school yard.

Recess, also known as The Golden (Half an) Hour, consists of a handful of teachers and a plethora of students. Oftentimes, your students’ recesses overlap, and when they don’t, he finds himself smiling wistfully I wish they were here. You’re discrete about your romantic involvement, but there’s no harm in casual conversation. Besides, you’re quick to shush him whenever he gets… enthusiastic.

“Rengoku, Rengoku, Rengoku!”

He crouches to the student’s height, grinning cheerfully, “I am here! What is it?”

“Is it true you and [last] are in love?”

He blinks rapidly. Pardon?

“Someone saw you and [last] at the grocery store yesterday! [last] giggled and kissed your cheek! How does it feel when they giggle because of you? How does it feel when they kiss your cheek? Were they your first kiss?”

The student says this hurriedly, beaming eagerly. Meanwhile, Kyojuro’s experiencing deer-in-headlights Shitshitshit, unsure how to recover from the barrage of personal inquiries. Not to mention Why does this student talk like my therapist? and It feels… like coming home.

“It must feel awesome when someone giggles because of you! Kissing is kind of yucky, but I guess it’s okay between you and [last], because you kissed them too! On the LIPS.”

Unfazed by Kyojuro’s atypical silence, the student laughs obliviously, skipping away abruptly as their friends motion for them.

“IT’S TRUUUE! RENGOKU AND [LAST] ARE IN LOOOVE!”

Sigh.

“You are positive? I do not want to interfere with your career,” Kyojuro stares at you, blushing deeply. He doesn’t want to halt your relationship, but he respects and desires your wellbeing first and foremost. Knows how cherished and magnificent of an educator you are. Knows your students, his students, anyone and everyone fortunate to learn from you, couldn’t afford to—shouldn’t have to—lose you. If I cannot nourish you, then I do not want to hinder you.

You’re both cross legged on his couch, knees touching familiarly. Remnants of dinner, pasta and red sauce (you made the red sauce, from scratch; he made the pasta, also from scratch), rest on his nearby coffee table. His floor lamp casting a mellow ambience, highlighting the tender angles of his face.

“Kyo, I’m positive,” you smile, endeared by his boyish panic, “We’ve been coworkers for years. And now we’re dating. It was bound to surface,” you poke his cheek, winking, “I wonder who discovered us… I suppose you’re hard to miss,” you tug on one of his stray, fiery tendrils of hair, “And I’m an adult. I can handle a career and a lover.”

“A lover?” his eyes widen.

“Are you playing coy, Kyo?” you wink.

“We haven’t made love,” he rasps. Sex, but not… not, love.

“Would you like to change that?” you whisper, fingers rubbing tantalizing circles on his lower thighs.

He grips your wrists gently, tone lowered promisingly, “I would like to make you my lover,” he presses your fingers to his chest, “I would like to be your lover.”

As he moves to cup your face in his steady, adoring hands, affection infinite in his gaze, you already know — you’ve been his lover for a while now, and he’s been yours.

“Rengoku, Rengoku!”

He glances up from his desk, recognizing your student as they barge into his classroom.

“Mermaids aren’t real. They’re not. But [last] read us a story today, and they said the story was based on real events. So are they real? Are they pretend? If they’re real, then how can I become one?”

Again?

Kyojuro smiles patiently, setting his pen beside his remaining, ungraded science reports, “From a distance, some sea animals can appear to be mermaids, but they are unfortunately not real. The stories written about them are fantastic though! Do you have a favorite?”

The student pauses, nose scrunched, “The one in the story [last] read.”

He’s kept track, and this is day 10—in a row—that a student, your student(s), has asked him about something utterly random and unexpected. As the two fourth grade teachers, he knows his and your students exchange “notes”, discuss among themselves, and are essentially a conglomerate. Which, he encourages — he’s glad there’s friendliness and friendships from classroom to classroom. He just never imagined you’d… weaponize, it.

It began innocently.

A shy student of yours had entered his classroom, worrying about, “What if Bigfoot steps on my house?” because they lived near a park, and you’d read a story about searching for Bigfoot — in the woods.

“I doubt the park is large enough to shelter Bigfoot, so I guarantee your house is safe from stomping.”

And then the next day, “Rengoku, sir, [last] read a story where Atlantis exists and has tons of gold. Could I go there and become rich?”

“Ah, sadly, Atlantis does not exist. As for tons of gold and becoming rich, you have a terrific attitude and determination — that will provide for you in more meaningful ways.”

And the next day, “Rengoku? I’m sorry to bother you, but, [last] read a tale about Vikings and how they conquered Europe. Are they going to conquer us? Am I gonna be a Viking?”

“The Vikings did not conquer Europe, but they were gifted seafarers and traded with many countries. Have you ever gone sailing? That could be a fine introduction to becoming a modern Viking!”

Despite his normally vast tolerance, Kyojuro’s at his wits’ end: if he gets to day 15, then he might implode. He’s creative and imaginative, and couldn’t fathom rejecting a child’s curiosity, but Why don’t their students ask them?! He braces himself now when the dismissal bell rings, knowing someone’ll rush into his classroom rambling about [last] this and story that. Does he sound annoyed? He isn’t. Well, maybe a smidgen. But only because he’s protective of his time with you (you’re both busy), and he’s accustomed to getting to visit your classroom immediately after school ends. He’s… baffled. He’s considered, obviously, confronting you about whatever’s going on, but he isn’t overwhelmed to the point of calling Mercy.

“Kyo?” you tap his ear, smiling tiredly, “Earth to Kyo.”

You’re in your bed, Kyojuro sitting with his laptop in his lap, you sitting with your book. A common occurrence, as of late. Is it risky sleeping together on a school night? Counterintuitively: not really. In fact, you can’t remember the last time you slept through your alarm. Kyojuro’s a freak of an early bird, whereas you’re as owlish of night as they come. You’ve developed a routine of staying at his or him at yours, nurturing a supportive environment of planning lessons, brainstorming solutions to short and long term issues, and grading assignments. If you drink one too many mugs of coffee, then Kyojuro reminds you of your brilliance and dedication, and that, “[y/n], lover, I think you are good on coffee for the remainder of the evening.” And if he stirs before the sun’s even risen, groggy and weary, then you’re there to place a drowsy arm on his hip, coaxing him back to sleep for a couple more hours, “M’sleepy, go to sleepy, not time for wakey yet, shhh.”

“Your students are inquisitive.”

Your head tilts, “Thanks?”

“I was recently asked about dragons, and which pet shop they could be purchased from.”

“Oh? Mhm. That’s… odd…” you’re holding in a giggle, hoping he doesn’t look at you.

He does.

Mhm! Odd indeed, lover!

“What exactly is going on in the classroom next to mine, [y/n]? What mysterious operation is [last] conducting?” his eyes glint mischievously, laptop closed and pushed aside.

You don’t notice the gleam in his eyes, too engrossed in your book as you stubbornly ignore him.

“You are a marvelous teacher, [last]. So why don’t your students ask you their scintillating questions? I am confident in your ability to answer them,” he bows his head, lips delicately skimming your collarbone.

“K-kyo,” your book trembles.

He sucks at the sensitive skin below your throat, plucking your book from your grasp, smirking at your half hearted, “I was reading t-that!”

“Rengoku,” he murmurs roughly, teeth scratching at your earlobe, “That is, Rengoku, to you. Unless, [last], you would like to become… more, intimate?”

Your fingers clutch the collar of his shirt, “I would, Rengoku,” you mouth at his chest, “I would like to become more, intimate,” fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, ghosting across his taut abs. “Kyojuro.” So. Hot. “Kyo.”

And then the heat disappears. His body, so so close, now so so far. He’s glowing, provoking, teasing — standing beside your bed instead of falling apart beside you.

“Excuse me?” you’re sassy, in disbelief, intoxicated.

“My apologies, [last],” he grins slyly, carelessly pulling off his shirt, yawning exaggeratedly, “I just realized the time. It is late, and alas, it is a school night!” 

As if his muscles aren’t contracting and flexing, their strength illuminated by the sensuality of nightfall.

As if his eyes aren’t predatory, smug, infatuated.

As if his nonchalant charade could sway your wanton, demanding exhilaration.

“You’re the expert!” you gasp.

He raises an eyebrow, “The expert?”

You pout, whining needily, “My students. When I read them stories, I tell them you’re the expert on whatever the story’s about. I tell them if they have questions, then you’re the man to ask.”

He laughs amusedly, slowly, slowly, slowly, returning to you, “And why do you tell them that, [last]?”

“Because it’s f-funny,” you whimper, “Because you’re original and thoughtful and my heart tingles when they tell me what you’ve taught them. To be brave. To be determined. Adventurous. Kind.”

Gosh I am... I am in love with you.

Growling, he pins your elbows to your bed, hovering desperately, longingly, above you. You’re sneaky. He nips at your neck. Clever. He licks your bottom lip. Devastating. He licks your upper lip. How am I going to get revenge? He kisses you languidly, wetly. It is on [y/n]. It is so. Very. On.

[maxwell-grant]

Excuse Me what is pulp and why is it importan?

Good question! And probably one I should have answered sooner. Time to put on the historian hat for this one.

"Pulp" is a term used mainly to describe forms of storytelling that sprang out or were dominant in 20th century cheap all-fiction American magazines from the 1900s to the 1950s. The pulp magazine began in 1896, when Frank Munsey's Argosy magazine, in order to cut costs, dropped the non-fiction articles and photographs and switched from glossy paper to the much less expensive wood pulp paper, hence the name. The pulp magazines would mainly take off as a distinct market and format in 1904, when Street & Smith learned that Popular Magazine, despite being marketed towards boys, was being consumed by men of all ages, so they increased page count and started putting popular authors on the issues.

It was specifically the 1905 reprint of H.Rider Haggard's Ayesha that not only put Street & Smith on the map as rivals to Argosy, but also inspired other companies to start publishing in the pulp format. Pulps encompassed literally everything that the authors felt like publishing. Westerns, romance, horror, sci-fi, railroad stories, war stories, war aviation stories. Zeppelins had a short-lived subgenre. Celebrities got their own magazines, it was really any genre or format they could pull off, anything they could get away with.

Nowadays, although they came quite late in it's history, the American pulps are most famous for it's "hero pulps", characters like The Shadow and Doc Savage that are viewed as a formative influence on comic book superheroes. The pulp magazines in America lasted until the 1950s, when cumulative factors such as paper shortages, diminishing audience returns and the closing of it's biggest publishers led to it dying off, although in the decades since there's always been publishers calling their magazines pulp. That's the American pulp history.

But pulps are a phenomenon that spans the entire world and has a much bigger history to it, because pulps have become synonymous with cheap fiction magazines and those have a much bigger history. In America, before the pulps, you had the dime novels, the direct predecessors of the pulps, as well as the novelettes. England had it's penny dreadfuls and story papers, and continued publishing pulp-format magazines past the American 1950s, and that's how we got Elric of Melniboné. France and Russia arguably got to it first with it's 1800s coulporters, chapbooks and particularly the feuilletons which lasted all the way to the 20th century and created characters such as Arsene Lupin, Fantomas and The Phantom of the Opera. The Germans published pulp under the name hefteromane. Japan also published pulp magazines both original as well as imported, and the current "light-novel" phenomenon started off as an equivalent of pulp magazines (it's even on the Wikipedia page). China has wuxia, Brazil has cordel, Italy has gialli. There were Indian, Persian, Ethiopian, Canadian, Australian pulps and much more. Look anywhere in the world and you'll find examples of "pulp" happening again and again, under different circumstances and time periods.

Even if we stick to American fiction, it's impossible to state that all pulp heroes must come from the 1900s-1950s pulp magazines, because that forces us to exclude some of the most popular pulp heroes like Indiana Jones, Green Hornet, Rocketeer and The Phantom. Pulp may have once been a term meant to refer to pulp magazines exclusively, but it's morphed and lost structure and it's become the closest thing we have to a general umbrella term that allows us to try and consolidate these under a shared history. It's a lot, as you can see, and it's why several pulp historians that broaden their scope outside of 1930s American fiction have adopted Roland Barthes's definition of pulp as "A Metaphor With No Brakes In It", which is still the closest thing to a true working definition we have.

Why is it important? You tell me. I don't like to stake claims about stuff being "important", everyone's got their own priorities in life. Surely a lot of people would scoff at the idea of old populist fiction published in what was functionally equivalent to toilet paper having any sort of "importance". On the other hand, some people definitely want to talk big about the pulps as a cultural bedrock of fiction, something that's baked into the lifeblood of all fiction as we currently know it. Which it is, mind you, but I don't like to talk about pulp fiction's value being derived mainly from merely the things it inspired.

There is definitely a historical importance to be had in cataloguing them. According to the US's foremost pulp researcher Jess Nevins, 38% of all American pulps no longer exist, and 14% of all American pulps survive in less than five copies. Many libraries have very scant, if any, records on them, many collectors are hard to locate and are uncooperative when it comes to sharing information and letting outsiders view their collections. A lot of them are bound up in legal complications that prevents them from taking off in the public domain, and a lot of them ARE public domain but are completely inacessible as research material. And that's the American pulps, foreign pulps have fared far worse in posterity, with records inaccessible to people unfamiliar with the language or locations, many existing merely in mentions on decades-old records, and hundreds if not thousands of them being completely gone beyond recovery or recall.

Gone, dead, wasted, destroyed. They can't be found in barbershops or warehouse or bookstores, not even in antique stores. Hundreds, thousands of characters, stories and creators, gone. Time and posterity have crushed them to dust, forgotten and ignored by their successors. Unfettered by pretenses of respectability that repressed their glossier counterparts, in packages meant to be destroyed after reading, proudly announcing itself as trash. Things that should have never even lasted as long as they did have died many times now. It's heroes peripherical shapeshifters, nearly all of whom seem dead, quite dead, as dead as fictional characters can possibly be.

But they do not die forever. Many of them have, maybe most of them have, but many of them linger on.

"The strange red flickering of 1930’s fiction seems distant now.  You hold in your hand the product of a time too remote to recall, and feel a slow stir of wonder.  The smell of pulp pages, an illustration, an advertisement, these fragile things mark the slow hammering of time and display what it has done.  About you are today’s machines, today’s shadows.

Outside the window, leaves hang against the sky, as did leaves during the 1930’s.  The sound of voices are no different then than now.  You hold the magazine and feel something quite delicate slipping past. These solid forms surrounding you are all insubstantial. Time’s hammer will also pass across them, leaving little enough behind." - Spider, by Robert Sampson

Many of the things people call dead are just things that have been sleeping for a while or haven't had the chance to be born. Pulp fiction is dead on the page, inert, unless your imagination breathes live to it, and every now and then, one way or another, these characters dig themselves out of dustbins. Maybe it's a brief revival, maybe it's a successful reboot. Maybe they find publishers, or maybe the public domain allows them to find new life. Maybe new creators do interesting things with them, and maybe, just maybe, they live again because some won't shut up about them online. Some curious impulse led you to me, did it not? 

We all have our Frankensteins to obsess over, and these are some of mine. As someone who's lived a life perpetually restless over pursuit of knowledge, pulp has lured me like a moth to flame, because I literally never run out of things to discover within it, I never run out of possibilities. As the years pass and the public domain starts being more and more open to the public, more and more narrative real state is brought forth for writers and artists and creators to play around.

Pulp is the dark matter of fiction, the uncatalogued depths of the ocean, the darkest recesses of space. It's the box of your grandfather's belongings, the treasure you find in an attic, a body part sticking out from an old playground. It's the things that don't work, don't succeed, the things that don't fit, that are out of place. That shouldn't live and succeed, and did so anyway. The things that slither in the cracks, the shadows behind the curtain.

Aren't you interested in peering on what's behind the curtain?

The exquisite workmanship of the head, of a pre-pyramidal age, and the hieroglyphics, symbols of a language that was forgotten when Rome was young–these, Kane sensed, were additions as modern to the antiquity of the staff itself as would be English words carved on the stone monoliths of Stonehenge.

As for the cat-head–looking at it sometimes Kane had a peculiar feeling of alteration; a faint sensing that once the pommel of the staff was carved with a different design. The dust-ancient Egyptian who had carved the head of Bast had merely altered the original figure, and what that figure had been, Kane had never tried to guess.

A close scrutiny of the staff always aroused a disquieting and almost dizzy suggestion of abysses of eons, unprovocative to further speculation. - The Footfalls Within, by Robert E Howard, quoted by Stuart Hopen’s The Mythic American Culture

[coldshrugs]

thank you for this blessed template, @possumsunshine. this was so fun and cute, i couldn't resist after seeing it on my dash 💗

pulled a couple of answers from oc asks i've done recently because oof this got long.

QUICK READ OF YOUR DETECTIVE

Name: alma greene

Pronouns: she/her

Sexuality: bisexual

Love interest: mason

Best friend: felix but also nate

Main skill: science/tech

Secondary skill: people/psychology

Main personality trait: tied for impulsive and sarcastic

Secondary personality trait: stubborn

Why did they join the Wayhaven PD?: she’s not a detective, but science skills

Relationship with Rebecca: very close, even with absences, but waning

Relationship with Bobby: college friend, currently hates him

Verda or Tina?: both

Murphy bite?: wrist

Murphy’s fate?: at large, babyyy

Rescue LI or Rescue Sanja?: sanja

GENERAL

Name: alma eloise greene

Nickname: sweetheart/space girl by mason; sweetie by rebecca

Birthday: june 12th

Age: 29

Pronouns: she/her

Sexuality: bisexual (demiromantic??)

Hair color: dark brown

Eye color: dark brown, nearly black

Height: 5’1”

Piercings: ears, former nostril piercings

Tattoos: a small snail on her right arm, super cartoony spaceship and tractor beam over the words “i want to believe” on the back of her left calf

Clothing Style: “modern” i guess, according to the game. tbh i usually describe it as “too old to be an e-girl but too cute to care.” bleached denim, dark plaid, graphic crop tops, black vans or converse, thigh-high tights, etc etc

Apartment Style: cozy. did she find it on the side of the road or goodwill or an estate sale? if not, it’s probably not in her apartment.

STATS

Personality:

Charming | Intimidating

Impulsive | Cautious

Sarcastic | Genuine

Friendly | Stoic

Easygoing | Stubborn

Traits:

Heart | Mind

Optimist | Pessimist

Team Player | Independent

Skills:

Main Skill: science/tech

Second Skill: people/psychology

By the Book | Bend the Rules

KEY DECISIONS

Reason for joining the Wayhaven PD: alma is wayhaven’s only forensic analyst because i refuse to let my black oc be a cop

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ in-game, she’s 100% there for her scientific prowess.

Murphy bite: Wrist | Neck | None

Murphy’s Fate: Captured | Escaped

Rescued: Love Interest | Sanja

ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP

Love Interest: mason

Why them?: on a meta level: oh no he’s hot

but alma’s reasoning is that he’s very upfront about what he wants in the beginning and she’s never been pursued in such a way. It’s a bit of a rush and an ego boost for her at first. but mason’s loyalty very quickly becomes the steadiness alma’s been missing for most of her life and she latches on to that. she’s not had someone so dependable around in… well, ever. and her physical attraction becomes emotional VERY quickly.

Bold, shy, or mixed?: shy until they sleep together, then a mix of bold and genuine afterward.

What were their first impressions of each other?:

alma on mason: thought he was super attractive but that was quickly pushed aside by “holy shit, this guy’s an ass.” she thinks he’s an uncooperative jerk that only cares about himself for quite a while, honestly. she asks him along for things she wants to do alone precisely because she thinks he’ll be the most likely to just stay out of her way. she’s surprised by his attitudes and opinions, and her incorrect assumptions about them, during those times.

mason on alma: would never, ever, ever admit that his first thought upon meeting Alma was simply “cute.” he quickly found parts of her to assess individually. those first few days were mostly spent appraising her physical attributes and watching her back when she needed it. mason did find her funny right away, but he wasn’t willing to trust someone new, regardless of that person being their handler’s daughter or not.

What do they find attractive about each other, mentally or physically?:

alma on mason: his eyes, freckles, and every single version of his smile. his decisiveness, differentially, and willingness to stab as a warning.

mason on alma: her hair tbh, there’s just… a lot of it. her hips, her eyelashes. He also likes her adaptability, sense of humor, and the warmth she gives with no expectation of reciprocation.

What do they do to spend time together?: lots of stargazing, lots of watching tv very quietly and making fun of the storylines they don’t understand until they get bored and make out instead, walking around the quieter parts of wayhaven or taking late-night drives.

What is their favorite memory together?: i like to think mason finds the carnival photo of them after the place has been sacked and gives it to alma sometime later. both the taking of the photo and the giving of it are very fond memories for both of them.

What are their love languages?: touch, quality time.

How do they handle being apart from one another?: badly. mason absolutely hates it after a time. if alma’s out of town, he’s in her apartment with the excuse of feeding her cat, but it’s 100% just to sleep in her bed and be around all the things that make her, her. alma does a little better. she’s used to having folks sort of come and go and come again, but she gets almost hyper-insecure?? it’s nothing she’d admit openly, but she’s second-guessing herself in totally unrelated aspects of her life until they’re reunited.

Do they argue? How do they handle arguments and disagreements? How do they make up?: they don’t necessarily argue, but they disagree with the intent to problem solve. alma is pretty flexible and as long as she can understand why someone might feel the way they feel, she’s willing to hear them out or go along with their plan. if an argument does get out of hand, they need space from it for a while. they each have places to retreat for those times, and they wait for the “hey” text to come through to know it’s time to talk about it.

What does their future look like?: alma becomes a vampire two years into their relationship. they move into a quiet, old house on the edge of town until the whole team moves elsewhere. mason has to get used to having a cat because october has several years left in him. they don’t get married, but they’re inseparable.

Anything else you’d like to share: in the time before alma turns, mason learns to perfect making grilled cheese because it’s what alma craves when she’s not feeling well. He makes the grilled cheese then he immediately showers to get the smell off him but he makes it regardless.

BEST FRIEND RELATIONSHIP

Best friend: depending on the playthrough it swaps between felix and nate, but felix feels more in character

Why them?: alma loves felix’s sense of adventure and nosiness. Most of all she loves that he won’t judge her for pulling the same shit every now and then.

What were their first impressions of each other?: alma was super thrown off by that hand kiss. “who the fuck is this mischief-maker?” while nate was very kind and warm, felix (surprisingly) was the UB teammate that really humanized the rest of the team for alma. he’s fun and genuine and wants everyone else to be happy together. felix was incredibly interested to learn more about alma, as a human, as his boss’s daughter, and then as a friend when she readily accepted the supernatural and, by extension, him as a vampire. The fact that she’s easily flustered or surprised really works in his favor because he lives for being the most shocking person in the room.

What do they do to spend time together?: they share music, they dance, and they text A LOT. lots of memes, lots of “what does [x] mean?” “oh nice” “[proceeds to use the thing they just learned incorrectly]”. they also compare and share hair products.

Anything else you’d like to share: they each have a tamagotchi named after the other (baby felix and baby alma) and they compete to see who can keep theirs alive the longest. everyone loses.

OTHER RELATIONSHIPS (Feel free to go in-depth!)

Relationship with Rebecca: oof okay. alma seeks rebecca’s approval and depends on her for a sense of safety and “stability.” in some ways, she wants to be exactly like her mom: strong, independent, unbothered, worldly. but a lot of that shatters the longer alma works professionally with rebecca and with the revelations surrounding rook. alma sees how much rebecca uses her as a crutch, projects her perceived failures onto alma’s life, and over-shelters her.

Relationship with Rook: alma doesn’t remember him and tries not to think of him often or fondly or at all BUT she has so many of his things. his flannels, his detective badge, his ancient comic book collection (which is the only reason she has her own). she has his eyes and his impulsive streak, his care for people of all varieties. she IS rook’s daughter and she ignores that fact so it doesn’t hurt her.

Relationship with Bobby: they used to be very close, slightly flirty friends but there’s no way in hell alma can trust him now. (i originally had bobby as alma’s ex but it was all getting a little too Bella Swan for me. like bobby, douglas, the werewolves, falk, and mason like????? it was a bit much so bobby’s just an old ex-friend)

Relationship with Verda: alma fucking loves verda. that’s her mentor, that’s her dad friend. she feels a sense of Pride and Accomplishment when she can make verda laugh or impress him in the lab, or both. alma’s fond of spending evenings over his place with eric and the kids, making dinner, or just hanging out.

Relationship with Tina: tina was alma’s first friend as a kid. they lost touch in high school because tina was bubbly and cute and popular, while alma was… not. but the summer before they left for college they ran into each other at a house party and since that reconnection, they’ve been thick as thieves. it was like nothing had changed. tina is a light in alma’s life, and alma lets tina lean into the stranger parts of herself without judgment.

Relationship with the Mayor: thinks he’s a creep and a bad parent.

Relationship with Capt. Sung: appreciates how he prioritizes the town and its people, but thinks he could loosen up a bit.

Relationship with Haley: haley is a couple of years older than alma but they’ve known each other forever. alma admires haley’s work ethic and cheery attitude.

Relationship with Elidor: oh man, alma is absolutely stunned by elidor. he’s beautiful, kind, and knowledgeable. in those early days, elidor is responsible for quite a bit of her supernatural education. alma grills him while he nurses her back to health. her curiosity is refreshing to him.

Relationship with Tapeesa/Vieno: alma thinks vieno is cute and funny, says hi when she sees them around, but they’re not best friends or anything. she can’t shake the thought that they’re basically a fae version of danny devito.

Relationship with Unit Alpha: absolutely smitten with lesedi. she’s never seen a more beautiful woman. tamiko ends up being a pretty good friend. the twins are on her social periphery but alma’s not close with them.

Relationship with the Maa-alused: alma sincerely wants to help them adjust to life in this world and takes that goal very seriously. at the same time she really really wishes falk hadn’t developed this weird attachment to her.

Do they have any other important relationships, past or present? (Relatives, friends, etc.?): YES. i’ve thrown another oc in wayhaven for the express purpose of being The Detective. His name is javi. alma met him in college and they were fast friends. alma convinced him to try out wayhaven after graduation. They lived together for a while and now they, along with tina, can often be seen in the corner booth of chen’s pub.

she was also very close with her maternal grandmother before she died. she was raised by her while rebecca was absent, but i need to develop this more.

her cat, october, whom she’s had for five years. he’s a sweet, mostly black tortie that can hardly meow. alma adopted him as an adult when she got her own place.

PERSONAL BIO

Describe their personality: alma is so open and ready to accept new possibilities. she’s the sort of person that embraces what scares her, finds beauty in it, and loves it intensely. she’s sharp and resourceful. i wouldn’t exactly describe her as hard-working, but she’s knowledgeable about her field and tries to be helpful when she has a goal in mind.

she’s quite tactile. touchy with other people. likes to use her hands for work or hobbies. she doesn’t really mind being alone for long stretches of time but would prefer not to be. she wants others to want to be around her.

she’s also terrible at being honest about her trauma. everything is fine, she’s fine, she doesn’t need to talk about this :) :) :) she will handle the breakdown when it happens and not one second before. also, with quick wit comes uncontrollable sarcasm and it does not always hit well.

Strengths: the only person in unit bravo that knows how to use google

Weaknesses: squishy

Where in the world is their Wayhaven?: super torn here because wayhaven feels inland to me, but i think i’ve finally settled on the north carolina coast but not like the outer banks area. If not there, then maybe virginia, closer to the chesapeake bay.

What is their personal history?: alma is born to rook and rebecca in wayhaven. spends her childhood being raised mostly by her grandmother, idolizes rebecca. academic success comes easily for her; a heavy interest in science leads to a scholarship at a university just far away enough to feel like she’s Leaving The Nest. alma dates a bit in college but she’s the type to end up becoming friends with everyone she sleeps with and romance is difficult for her to cultivate. when she does date, the relationships are short-lived. she returns to wayhaven after school and puts her degree to work in wayhaven’s police department. she wishes she’d applied for a position in the city but craves the comfort (and tbh, the low stakes) of home.

If they weren’t a detective, what would their dream job be?: she’s a forensic analyst and honestly?? it’s a pretty dreamy job for her. she loves being a scientist, loves helping people, and isn’t easily grossed out.

Anything else you’d like to share: has tried to stay overnight in an ikea. did not succeed.

RANDOM FACTS

Zodiac sign: gemini

Hobbies: reading peer-reviewed journals, watching terrible sci-fi, collecting comic books and mugs, thrift shopping

Likes: good hair days, denim jackets, vanilla candles, halloween, unflavored lipbalm, driving at night, that warm “surrounded by love” feeling, snails, fuzzy socks

Dislikes: the lights while driving at night, winter, dry skin, minimalist decor, smudged glasses, being overwhelmed with choices

Drink of choice: white wine usually, white russians if she’s out at chen’s, or shots of jaeger if she’s feeling trashy

Starbucks order: grande flat white with 3 pumps of toffee nut syrup and a sprinkle of cinnamon

Favorite food: a simple, fresh spaghetti pomodoro OR lemon meringue pie

Favorite color: golden mustard yellow

Favorite music: she loves just about everything and it’s heavily dependant on her mood. (this is actually really difficult to think about without feeling like i'm giving her my exact taste in music but here's a little playlist that fits her vibe)

Favorite genre (and favorite movie/book/etc): science fiction or psychological thrillers, but her favorite movie is oliver and company.

Favorite season: fall

Anything else you’d like to share: has a stupid amount of blankets stashed around her apartment. she really does not like being cold.

[agreatperhaps12]

revisiting some old writing this break and incredibly fond of the 2017!me that started writing OccHaz. hopefully 2021!me can finish what you started, pal.

Remus Lupin usually prides himself on being the exact opposite of a werewolf stereotype: a clean, well-read, mild-mannered boy. But if Remus Lupin is bedridden one more day in a row, there’s a solid chance he will murder one of his roommates in cold blood.

Even before opening his eyes, Remus can tell that it’s been raining, because the bunk is thick with the punishing smell of wet dog. Remus rolls over and smashes his nose into his pillow. It does not help. Superhuman sense of smell is useful for a great many things, but comfortably sharing a room with six werewolves is not one of them. 

Remus drags his quilt over his head, blocking out some of the overhead lighting and none of the chatter from Malcolm’s radio. He doesn’t really have any intention of falling back asleep. For once, Remus has somewhere to be today. But it’s the principle of the thing. 

Principles, however, go out the window when the radio host on Malcolm’s wireless fills the airwaves with some awful, angry music, and Malcolm obeys Lucas’s command to turn it up, mate. 

Resigned, Remus plants his hands on either side of his chest and arches his back. The motion punches a pathetic, wheezing noise out of his mouth, and Remus collapses face-first back onto his bed. “I hate you,” Remus grumbles at Moony. It’s been five days. 

Moony—a latent, lazy presence in the back of Remus’s mind—doesn’t respond. Typical. The wolf is always quieter in the immediate aftermath of a Full Moon, conveniently leaving Remus all alone to deal with whatever their body gets up to in Greenland. 

Remus rubs the sore spot on his abdomen and heaves himself into a sitting position at the edge of his bed, careful to avoid the arm of a somehow-still-sleeping Ronan dangling from the top bunk. For today’s purposes, Remus’s injured abdomen doesn’t matter nearly as much as whether his left ankle can comfortably hold his weight. So when Remus stands up to stretch without his knee buckling, he feels a little flutter of triumph, despite the sharp twinge in his side. 

It’s usually not this bad. As far as he can tell, Moony and the other wolves know to give each other a wide berth under the Full Moon to avoid injury, most of the time. But that’s the thing about werewolves, isn’t it. Remus’s hand automatically comes up to rub the ridge of scar tissue that cuts across his nose. Horribly unpredictable creatures. 

And yet, in other ways, entirely too predictable. Across the room, Dante is hunched against the wall with one foot propped on a bent knee to clip his toenails without taking any pains to collect them. The soggy boots discarded at the foot of his bed mark the end of a muddy trail of footprints out the door. The source of the smell, Remus presumes.

What would Remus’s mum say.

Probably that Remus ought to pick up his own dirty clothing—since that now includes literally every piece of clothing Remus owns. Remus gingerly bends over to gather up his heap of laundry from the general mess on the floor just in time to avoid being nicked in the eye by a rogue nail clipping. He cranes his neck around his armful of laundry to tiptoe around Dante’s muddy tracks on his way out of the room.  

“Oi, Loopy, you doing laundry?” Lucas says over the music.    

“Yeah, mine,” Remus calls back, and hooks his foot around the door to pull it shut behind him before Lucas can hurl an expletive—or possibly something more bruising—at Remus’s back. 

In the utility room, Remus dumps his soiled clothing on the floor beside the washtub, and the pair of rubber gloves draped over the lip jerks into midair. One glove twists the tap over the basin and sticks a finger under the water. The other pinches one of Remus’s shirts between forefinger and thumb, then promptly drops it and lurches back in disgust. 

“What till you see Dante’s,” Remus says grimly. 

In the kitchen, Remus opens each cabinet to take stock of what remains from his grocery run before the July Full. The inventory amounts to a sleeve of crackers, the heels of a bread loaf, canned green beans, unopened jam, and a jar of peanut butter that Remus saw Monty double-dip his finger into yesterday. 

Remus glances at the queue of Portkey bottles on the windowsill, where all but the 08:00, 09:00 and 10:00 bottles are accounted for. Remus checks his watch. Almost 11:00. The 08:00 bottle should be back soon. Remus hopes that Lucas has taken it to get groceries in… wherever that Portkey is assigned this month. 

In the meantime, Remus settles for a jam sandwich. He’s never very hungry on waning gibbous days, anyway. He’s just twisting the cap off the jam jar when a sharp crack shatters the quiet from inside Greyback’s room. Remus flinches so violently that the jar nearly slips from his grip. Moony is on high alert, now. The thumping music from the bunk room immediately dials down. Remus holds his breath. 

But there’s only silence from the other side of Greyback’s door. Disapparation, then. Remus exhales. Malcolm’s music blooms back to full volume. Moony settles.

One of the few, far-between blessings of Remus Lupin’s life is that Fenrir Greyback spends almost no time around the tent. But today especially, a casual run-in with Greyback would be… not ideal. Not that Remus is going to break any rules. Technically. Yet.

But if Greyback knew what Remus was up to, he’d definitely be suspicious enough to keep a closer eye on him. Which would be incredibly inconvenient for all the other times that Remus is actually breaking rules. 

Remus packs his sandwich into his satchel and slips on his shoes. Outside, the morning air is heavy with humidity and the ground soft with rain. With a cursory glance around the clearing, Remus pulls his compass out of his pocket and points himself south—along the crooked line of a creek just downhill from the tent. 

It’s immediately apparent that Remus’s tender ankle is going to slow him down. At the new moon, Remus could take two miles ten minutes flat. He could postpone this day trip until then. But ever since the pack set up camp here, just before the July Full, Remus has been keen to visit the magical boundary that Greyback has apparently cast around their new home. 

They’ve never had a territorial boundary before. And Remus has always had an insatiable, if slightly masochistic, fascination with spellwork. He’s itching to see what an enchanted border wall looks like. 

Of course, it’s not just the border. It’s the beyond. Remus doesn’t expect being able to see anything significant—even if he scaled a pine to peer out over whatever barrier Greyback has cast. Greyback would have established their territory at a safe distance. 

But Remus will know, and that’s what counts. He’ll know that somewhere beyond those trees lies Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Sirius has just melted the front tire off his bike for the third time in as many minutes when James strolls down the drive. 

“Not a word,” Sirius warns, punctuating the point with a cough. He waves his wand to clear the latest cloud of dark smoke billowing up around the bike. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” James says, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He surveys Sirius’s work with politely suppressed amusement. 

“Uh-huh.” Sirius mutters a Reparo at the puddle of rubber on the Potters’ pavement to reform it into his front tire. 

“What are you trying to do, anyway?” 

“Reinforce the tires to withstand the impact of landing,” Sirius says. He sticks his wand behind his ear and steps back, crossing his arms. 

“Ah,” James says, nodding sagely—and undoubtedly recalling the incident in June that left Sirius with two busted tires, two broken arms, and two weeks during which Mia flat-out refused to let Sirius back on his bike. She only relented when Sirius promised to add some safety features to his list of planned magical amenities. “Have you tried—”

“Yes,” Sirius says flatly. “Whatever you’re about to say, yes.” 

“Hmm.” James dips into a crouch to get a better look at Sirius’s front wheel, as though he knows anything about Muggle motorbikes or the magical enhancement thereof. “Fortification spells must get more volatile when you use them on something that’s been Engorgio-ed. And whatever else you’ve done to this thing.”

“What I’ve done for it,” Sirius says, nonetheless mentally scanning the list of souping-up spells he’s cast over the last few weeks. Maybe the reinforcement magic is mixing poorly with the sound-stifling charm—another request of Mia’s—or the speed-boosting spell.

“Sure,” James says, grinning up at Sirius indulgently.

“Did you need something?” Sirius takes his wand from behind his ear and twirls it absently between his fingers as he circles the bike. 

James rises from his crouch. “Not really. Mum sent me out to see what was going on. Smells like burnt rubber all the way up in the kitchen.” 

“Oh, shit.” Fleamont and Euphemia Potter are two of Sirius’s favorite people in the world, and not just because they’re currently letting him use their front drive as a mechanic-shop-slash-landing-strip. Sirius tries not to bother them, if he can help it. “Sorry.” 

James’s shrug is utterly devoid of concern. “I don’t think she minds. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t on fire. You’ve been out here all afternoon.” 

“Yeah, well,” Sirius says, glaring at his uncooperative bike. 

“You’re in a mood,” James observes, which does nothing to improve Sirius’s mood. “Is this still a Regulus-related mood?”

Sirius gives a vague grunt.

“Thought so.”

Sirius aims a kick at James’s shin.

“Let’s go fly,” James suggests, dancing easily away from Sirius’s foot.

“I’m working,” Sirius says, because now that he’s been caught in a bad temper, he’s feeling committed to it.

“Work is productive,” James says. “This—” He waves his hand disdainfully at Sirius’s whole situation. “—is not. Why not channel all that destructive energy into beating around Bludgers?”

Tempting. It must show on Sirius’s face, because James says, “Take a break. The bike will thank you.”

“Sputnik,” Sirius corrects.

“Come again?”

“The bike. Her name is Sputnik,” Sirius says, smiling despite himself. Picking the name is about the only productive thing he’s done all day.

“What kind of name is Sputnik?” James says. “Sounds like some kind of black mold you’d find on a Flobberworm.”

Sirius scowls. “No, you idiot. Sputnik, like the world’s first satellite. Get it? Because, flying?”

James blinks. “Right,” he says slowly, with the trademark bemused expression he reserves for when Sirius starts talking Muggle stuff. “So, flying?”

“Sure,” Sirius says, because today is probably not the day he convinces James to take the slightest interest in Muggle science. “Let’s go.”

Remus makes slow progress on his sore ankle for nearly half an hour, stopping every few minutes to rest and jot notes in his journal. He makes a detailed map of the territory whenever the pack moves somewhere new. The others might be content to spend most of their time Portkeyed away in distant Muggle towns, but Remus can suffer a crowd about once a week at most. 

How Ronan or Monty or anyone else can frequent Muggle pubs without constant terror of giving themselves away, Remus will never know. Give him an open sky and several square yards of personal space over a social interaction, any day. 

Perks of being raised in the countryside and isolated from nearly everyone but his parents since the tender age of eleven: Remus is damn good at keeping himself company. 

The forest around Remus is almost silent, except for the burble of the creek and occasional bird overhead. Remus doesn’t cross paths with so much as a squirrel. No surprises there. He’s used to dogs flattening their ears as he passes on the street, and even crowd-comfortable pigeons scattering at his approach. Remus has the sneaking suspicion that animals can tell there’s something wrong with him. Perhaps they’re put off by his smell, or some other ‘Dangerous, Do Not Approach’ signal he subconsciously broadcasts, even in human form. 

In the unnatural quiet of the wood, Remus hears the border before he sees it. 

He doesn’t realize what it is, at first—the strange, faint buzz that fills his ears some thirty minutes after he’s left camp. Remus halts and cocks his head to the side. There’s something distinctly artificial about the tenor of the sound. It’s more metallic than insect buzz. Closer to the drone of low-grade fluorescent lighting than anything Remus has ever heard in the wild. It’s quietly menacing in a way that Remus can’t quite put his finger on, but makes Moony emit a low, warning rumble. 

“I know,” Remus mutters, and takes several steps forward to listen again. The muted hum gets slightly louder. 

This is something to do with Greyback’s magic. It has to be. 

Remus turns back toward camp and peers up through the leaves in search of the beacon projected into the sky over the tent. When he finally spots it: the faint beam of ultraviolet light invisible to all but the lycanthrope eye, Remus holds up his thumb and closes one eye to measure the width of the column against the sky. By rough estimation, nearly two miles away. Remus drops his arm and looks around. He should be coming up on the perimeter of Greyback’s territory, but Remus doesn’t see a barrier of any kind. 

Remus cracks his knuckles uncertainly. Maybe the border is invisible. That would be disappointing. Not to mention dangerous. What if Remus accidentally steps through it, and Greyback—

Remus throws a paranoid glance over his shoulder, but of course finds himself alone. He wraps his arms around his torso and tells Moony to shh, please, so he can think. 

Remus should turn around and go home. That’s the logical thing to do. The safe thing to do. But he can’t. Not when he’s so close. Not when he’s come all this way on a barely mended ankle, and it’s—and it’s Hogwarts. Remus has to see as far as he can see. 

Giving himself a bracing squeeze, Remus drops his arms to his sides. He steps forward again. 

With a few more steps, the buzz gets exponentially louder. Unmistakable as a hornet’s nest at close range, but tinnier. Electric. Remus not only hears the magic now, but feels it in his chest, as though he’s humming, even though Remus is holding his breath. He forges ahead, step by cautious step, heart rate escalating with the noise until—Oh. 

A few arm’s lengths ahead, the air has a strangely lustrous quality, as though Remus is staring through an enormous soap bubble. The whirling sheen of open space is so faint that Remus can’t imagine he would have seen it if he hadn’t been looking. He wonders whether someone without freakishly good hearing would have picked up on the wall’s warning buzz. 

Upon closer inspection, Remus sees the magical surface has a purplish, blue hue, just like the bubbles that Remus remembers blowing in the garden with his mum when he was little. Remus tilts his head back. The glossy dome extends as far up as Remus can see. 

It’s hypnotic. Remus never would have thought he’d call any part of Greyback’s magic beautiful, but it is.

Greyback warned the rest of the pack about the border wall on their first day in this forest. Remus knew something was up as soon as Greyback called them all into the kitchen. He typically left the pack to their own devices as soon as they’d set up camp. 

Like most of his interactions with the pack, Greyback kept it brief. “I’ve cast a territorial border with a two-mile radius around the tent,” he said, leaning back against the sink with crossed arms and glaring around at them all. “You will not cross it.” 

The silence following this announcement was just long enough to be awkward, while the rest of the pack played a silent game of chicken over who was going to ask. 

Fortunately, Greyback preempted the question. “The border is to protect us from our new neighbors to the south.” He grinned sourly. “The residents of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts.” 

Greyback ignored their sharp intakes of breath.

“If you are discovered on Hogwarts grounds or in Hogsmeade, the Ministry of Magic will kill you for your lack of registration,” Greyback continued, as if they didn’t know. “If I catch you out of bounds, I will kill you myself.” As if they didn’t know. “Understood?” 

Remus looked around at the others. Lucas had gone white, and even Ronan was chewing his cuticles. None of them, with the exception of Remus, had any firsthand experience with witches or wizards since the age of four or five. But if there was one thing Greyback’s pack had been taught to fear more than Greyback himself, it was wizardkind. 

“Understood?” Greyback said. 

Silent nodding. 

“Good.” Greyback pushed off the counter and walked toward his bedroom. 

The “Why?” that Malcolm blurted after Greyback’s retreating figure made Remus’s heart jump into his throat. 

Greyback turned on his heel. He fixed narrowed eyes on Malcolm while the rest of the pack held their collective breath. “What?” 

Malcolm swallowed. “Why did we come here?” he said, voice just shy of steady. “Isn’t it.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Isn’t it dangerous?” 

A reasonable question—if something as idiotic as asking Greyback to explain himself could ever be called reasonable. The pack had never set up camp anywhere near a magical community before, let alone mere miles from the only all-wizarding village in Britain and Hogwarts, for Merlin’s sake. 

Greyback considered Malcolm for a long moment before, to Remus’s even greater shock, he answered. 

“Do you know what lives in the Forbidden Forest north of Hogwarts?” he asked Malcolm. 

Malcolm hesitated, then shook his head. 

“No one really does,” Greyback said, “but there are rumors. Chimeras. Strangling vines. Trolls.” He paused for effect. “Werewolves.” Greyback grinned. “Students aren’t allowed in. Staff and villagers won’t go near the forest. But the concentration of magic in the air is high enough to completely mask dozens of unregistered Portkeys and other household magic. Convenient, eh?” 

Remus instinctually recoiled as Greyback drew his wand. Dante took a full step back. But Greyback merely rolled the wand between his fingers. “The woods north of the Forbidden Forest may be the safest hideout for a pack of unregistered werewolves in all of Britain. Assuming,” Greyback looked significantly at each of them in turn, “the border remains unbroken.” 

The night after Greyback’s border announcement found Remus lying awake, staring at the underside of Ronan’s bunk. His heartbeat thudded heavily in his ears, keeping time with Moony’s pacing around his brain. Remus rubbed his cheek against the rough fabric of his quilt and willed his heart to keep something like normal rhythm. It had been hours, but still Remus was—he just couldn’t believe they were here. Just miles away from the castle. 

Greyback was probably right that the pack would be safe in the Forbidden Forest. After reading so many his father’s magizoology books, Remus had a lot more than rumors to go on, when it came to imagining the forest’s dangerous inhabitants. 

But Remus would bet a thousand Galleons that Greyback hadn’t disclosed the whole truth about why they’d come here. The pack had bounced from one remote outpost to another with all the magical trappings inside their tent for years. Greyback must be working on some heavy-duty, high-grade magic to require such extra concealment—though Remus couldn’t begin to imagine what that might be. 

Six years in the pack, and Remus had never quite worked out what Greyback did for his mysterious employer. The wards on Greyback’s door are very good at keeping his business private from the rest of the pack.

Whatever Greyback’s reasons, Remus was selfishly, secretly giddy about the move. He’d stopped hoping nearly a decade ago that he would ever get to see more of Hogwarts than illustrations in Hogwarts, A History. Now, Remus was less than a day’s walk away. Even if he couldn’t actually see the castle, the prospect of glimpsing the perimeter of those hallowed grounds made Remus hide a stupidly wide smile behind his blanket in the dark.

Now, though—actually staring through Greyback’s translucent wall, Remus isn’t smiling. A burning sensation builds behind Remus’s eyes and in his throat. He grits his teeth, surprised at himself, because this was supposed to be exciting. A rare opportunity to look forward to something. A wonderful treat on a grey day. 

Remus wants to let himself have this. Find simple, uncomplicated joy in a good thing, for once.

It’s just—it’s Hogwarts. Right there. Paces away. And absolutely, painfully untouchable as ever.

Flying against James in a game of one-on-one is hardly fair anymore. Back in first year, he and Sirius were fairly evenly matched. But ever since James made captain third year—and especially since a Tutshill Tornados scout approached him last fall—James has gone a bit mad about practice. 

It’s a good thing Sirius is on the team, if only because he’s the only one who will tell James to eat hippogriff dung when he refuses to cancel practice in below-zero windchill. 

Also, compared to people who are not aspiring professional Quidditch players, Sirius is a damn good flyer. Even better with a bat. Sirius feels pretty confident in saying he’s the best Beater at Hogwarts—which is something he used to say because he was a cocky little shit, and now says because it’s true. The possible exception being Macnair; Sirius has deadly aim, but Macnair shoots to kill. 

Sirius tries not to think about Macnair has he dives toward the Potters’ lawn with the Quaffle tucked against his chest. Thinking about Macnair makes Sirius think about Slytherin, which makes Sirius think about Regulus, and the whole point of this was not thinking about Reg. Sirius has been trying not to think about Reg for three days, now—since the Potter’s owl Athena returned with Sirius’s birthday gift to Regulus unopened. 

“Bet your hag of a mum turned Athena around before Reg even knew something arrived for him,” was James’s consolation. 

It’s possible. Sirius wouldn’t put it past Walburga. The problem is, he doesn’t know if he’d put it past Regulus to turn Athena around, either. 

Sirius has no idea where he and his brother stand these days. They haven’t spoken since Sirius left home last summer. Granted, Regulus never spoke much to Sirius at Hogwarts. He’s much too close to Cissy and Bella for that. But during holidays… 

Well, Sirius can’t remember Reg ever defending him in an argument against their mum. But Regulus would at least order Kreacher to sneak him food when Sirius was locked in his room. That was something, and now—

Sirius doesn’t notice James rocketing up from below until he’s already knocked the Quaffle from Sirius’s hands. James catches the ball with irritating ease—Seekers, honestly—and makes a hairpin turn toward the opposite end of the lawn. Sirius steers into a U-turn and follows, but not quickly enough to stop James hurling the Quaffle through Sirius’s post and pulling a celebratory corkscrew. 

“That’s fifty-nil!” James calls. “Go fetch!”

“Yeah, yeah, I can count,” Sirius says, Accio-ing the Quaffle from a shrub by the guest house. “Ready?”

“Are you?” James smirks.

Sirius tears away without response, aiming for some low-hanging clouds. The wind seems to streak right through him, momently stripping away Sirius’s Regulus-related anxieties, whittling him down to a weightless point. It’s wonderful.

Quidditch is always the best distraction. Even better than working on Sputnik or reading the teetering pile of Muggle novels that Tufty lent him for the summer, since they won’t get to any American authors during their literature module this year. 

(Sirius has had his nose in The Bell Jar all week—to James’s deep concern, given Sirius’s dour mood. Sirius says it’s a fair sight better than The Crucible, which was so disturbing Sirius had to put it down halfway through. Sirius may finally get why American wizards were long forbidden from marrying Muggles.)

When Sirius dips back down into the clear air, he glances over his shoulder and curses at the sight of James’s wicked grin less than ten feet away. But James’s goalpost is straight ahead now. Sirius flattens himself against his broom. Almost there, almost—

“Ha!” Sirius pumps both fists in the air as the Quaffle soars cleanly through the hoop. He whips around, triumphant grin in place, but the smile quickly slips. James isn’t behind him anymore. He’s suspended about twenty feet away, watching a small black dot in the distance. Sirius’s stomach flutters, half in hope, half in dread, that the owl might be from Regulus. 

But the unfamiliar owl comes flapping down onto James’s shoulder. James unties a postcard from the bird’s leg and winces as its talons dig through the fabric of his shirt to take off again. Sirius would ask who’s sent the card, but he can already read the answer on James’s face. He wonders where Evans is on holiday. 

Sirius dully summons their discarded Quaffle, knowing full well the match is over. James responds to every one of Evans’s messages as soon as they come. Sirius can’t hold it against him, really. James and Evans only got on good terms last spring, and Sirius is all for preserving whatever fragile friendship they seem to be cultivating. 

Sirius can’t say he’s ever quite understood James’s fixation with Evans, for many more reasons than the fact that Evans is a girl. But his best friend’s obsession does seem slightly healthier, now that his interest is not so intensely one-sided. 

“Lily’s visiting a pen pal in America,” James says as they drift down toward the house, eyes still fixed on Evans’s handwriting. “A witch who goes to Ilvermorny.” 

“Cool,” Sirius says, touching down and dismounting. “I wonder whether they’ve [TK].” Sirius doesn’t know much about magic in America, but he does know a little about the No-Majes from Muggle Studies. 

“Dunno,” James says distractedly, pocketing his postcard. 

Inside, James promptly buggers off to write Evans a response. Sirius wanders into the kitchen, where he finds Mia at the table with a cup of tea and a book. She’s wrapped in a green pashmina, wearing her boxy reading glasses, and holding one of the Potters’ many cats on her lap.

Sirius has not bothered to learn all of the Potter cats’ names. Most are strays that Mia convinced Flea to let inside “for just one night” and never left. Sirius isn’t sure Mia even has names for all of them. The family’s tireless team of house-elves, Dot and Minnie, are the only thing preventing a fine layer of cat hair perpetually coating every surface in the manor. 

Mia greets Sirius with a smile as he sits down opposite her at the table. She pushes her glasses up onto her forehead. “I had Minnie bring in your bike, since we’re expecting rain.” 

“Thanks,” Sirius says. “Sorry ‘bout the smell.”

Mia bats away his apology. “What’s experimentation without a few accidents?” 

From the moment Sirius met James’s parents on Platform 9¾ at the end of first year, Sirius knew he was jealous. But he didn’t know just how jealous he should have been until he moved in last summer. The Potters are so incomprehensibly warm, Sirius found it off-putting at first. All the easy laughs and casual hugs and insistent reminders that Sirius call them Flea and Mia. Sirius has called his own parents since their Christian names since he was about thirteen, but only out of spite. 

Sirius wouldn’t say he’s exactly gotten used to Flea and Mia’s hospitality, but their affection does something warm and wonderful to his stomach, rather than putting him on his guard. 

“What are you reading?” Sirius says.

“One of yours,” Mia says, holding up The Great Gatsby. 

“Good one,” Sirius says. “Have you gotten to—”

“Hush,” Mia says, eyes wide. “Don’t give anything away.” 

Sirius makes a zipping motion across his lips. “But you have to tell me when you’ve finished.” 

“I’m hoping to finish before dinner, which—” Mia glances at the clock “—I ought to have Dot get a start on. How does beef stew sound?” 

“Excellent.” Even though he’s lived with the Potters every holiday for over a year, Mia still has a habit of treating Sirius like a guest. Sirius doesn’t know how to convince her that they could eat dry toast for every meal and he’d still rather be here than Grimmauld Place. 

Sirius stands, figuring a shower is probably in order before dinner. There’s a not-insignificant chance that he still stinks of burnt Rubber and Mia is simply too polite to mention it. 

As Sirius gathers freshly laundered towels from his room, he catches sight of the still-wrapped mirror that’s lain on his desk since Athena returned it. Sirius runs a hand through his hair. Despite being completely alone, he’s suddenly overcome with a wave of embarrassment that he can’t just get over it. 

Having the thing in plain sight certainly isn’t helping. Sirius sticks the mirror in the bottom of his trunk along with its twin, then waits to see whether the sweet relief of closure sweeps over him. 

It does not, but the silence of the house is abruptly broken by an emphatic “Oh, dear” from downstairs, which surprises a bark of laughter out of Sirius. He supposes this means there’s not much left of Gatsby to spoil over dinner.

[anthonybialy]

Inept Infection

Government helping you not die has gone as well as anything else they've done to help your life. Andrew Cuomo thinks it's a compliment. Begging them to stop assisting is pointless, as they must keep you from being deceased by law. Their efforts are like a monkey offering to drive without getting to enjoy the hilarity of flipping over after using the guardrail to get up on two wheels.

Ignoring pleas about your suffering as a result of quasi-dictators' cruelly indifferent orders is the only way to protect us. Oh, and they didn't actually do so. New York residents endure trips to the dentist where hours of pain result in crooked smiles.

Politicians don't have to be actively diabolical to screw up life, which is the most frightening part. There's nothing scarier than knowing they think they're assisting. Saving us from the facing judgment in the afterlife sure is horrifying.

You'll be okay facing your walls for another couple months. Not seeing other humans supposedly keeps all of us alive. Violating the command would unfold like eye contact with the Ark of the Covenant.

Seclusion from others is punishment in prison even if misanthropes can't understand why. You have just yourself for company, so you better be awesome. An indefinite sentence in solitary is for your own good. People are finally as productive as their government.

The very enlightened and entirely logical state is too busy regulating wings to worry about trifling matters like how they clipped the populace. Cuomo flexes by bullying the healthy while he puts off writing apology notes to thousands of families who lost their eldest members in his nursing home purge. Cornering the disease by killing off the vulnerable is clever in its utter inhumanity. Jim Jones thought he had the record for deaths by a Democrat.

Empty storefronts will be the longest-lasting virus symptom. Businesses that won't come back are so uncooperative. Don't they care about a heartwarming recovery? Our inspirational leaders never bothered to learn how owners pay employees.

It's remarkable how much self-righteousness is possible when you think you're saving humanity. Government's fans always think their exhausting infringements save humanity, so imagine how messianic halting a pandemic must feel. Disregard the map showing where the disease advanced. As a hint, Joe Biden will have an excuse not to campaign in places he's somehow guaranteed to win.

Shrugging off collateral damage is part of planning a healthy new world, aside from the healthy part. Businesses are forgetting how they were only supposed to close temporarily. An executive order to stay open might not help. Virus War generals concluded bombing raids on their own positions would defeat this determined enemy.

Endless regulation started as a day trip to nowhere. Then, we were supposed to sit still for a few weeks. Now, we can't figure out how the utilities are shut off with a government that cares for us so much.

You have to not check if it works. There should be a mandate. It's crucial to shield ourselves from results in order to believe unilateral orders are productive.

Government worshipers are so certain their faith pays off that they don't verify. Zealotry prompts them to condemn anyone seeking evidence. Cover your ears before showing charts so easy to read that even liberals could do it. They don't bother because CNN told them smugness provides immunity.

Telling you what you can't do because of a virus is a variation on the theme of every other bit of irksome meddling. Idling for months has led to being broke and sad, in part because we were assured this wasn't supposed to be indefinite. Those furloughed by states were promised it'd be like using up sick days. But vacation time is long past spent, too.

Actively forcing citizens to be passive turns out to be less than healthy. It's hard to sound ill on the phone when we're not the ones who wanted to skip off. Being made to sit around slightly more so than usual is what government does. They're here to help.

Elected saints are only forcing you to not have a job or be close enough to high-five is for your own benefit. They regret to inform you you're an awful idiot with your irrepressible urges to do things. Keeping you from living is so you can live. You're so unappreciative.

Many have used endless free hours to notice the pushiest states have the largest corpse stacks. Those unable to distinguish between cases and deaths are hopefully just rabid partisans, because it would be truly unfortunate if they misunderstood something so basic.

Blue States are losing at Human Jenga despite fraudulent efforts to claim it's stupid freewheeling Texas piling up the deceased. I'm certain the science of arrogant dolts who can't grasp that taxes demotivate humans is accurate.

Dreamy governors listen to the experts, who are people in different fields who agree with them. I can't wait for the next issue of Tiger Beat so I can cut out pictures of the government gang to tape inside my locker.

Hiding from risk has made it easier for it to find us. Staying in one place was supposed to halt the plague's advancement. It's our fault for moving around too much. We just weren't stationary enough, as we had to open the door to grab Amazon's drop. The financial cost and human hours lost will never be recovered and were exponentially greater than promised. But at least the virus is still here.

[its-flicked-switch]

THE TRUTH THEY BOTH KNOW

Rating: Mature || 7k+ || @xfilesfanficexchange

Having taken a bite out of the forbidden fruit, Mulder and Scully struggle to come to terms with the lines they've crossed. Set Post Redux I & II.

This story was written as a gift for @iusedtoknowwhatawishwasfor​  who requested a story where "mulder and scully sleep together before she goes into remission- and then need to deal with once she does go into remission"

Since I had already written the "before she goes into the remission" for the Easter fanfic exchange, I chose to weave this story in with that work for the sake of continuity (Sandcastles in the Sky - SitS). While this story will stand alone, the references made throughout will have more meaning if SitS is read first. Continuing with the AU stage SitS sets, the timetables referenced within this work aren't entirely canon. Don't let that ruin your reading pleasure. It's not ignorance on my part, it merely meant to be fun, so let it be fun.

|| THE TRUTH THEY BOTH KNOW ||

"You're a real piece of work; you know that Mr. Mulder?"

"Why is that? Because I don't think the way you think? Because I won't just sit passively by and watch the family tragedy unfold?"

"You're the reason for it. And I've already lost one sister to this quest you are on. Now I'm losing another. Has it been worth it? To you, I mean. Have you found what you've been looking for?"

"No."

"No? You know how that makes me feel?"

"In a way, I think I do. I lost someone very close to me. I lost a sister. I lost my father… all because of this thing I'm looking for."

"This what? Little green aliens?"

"Yeah. Little green aliens."

"You're one sorry son of a bitch… Not a whole lot more to say."

Redux II (5x02)

—

Weeks have passed, but Bill Jr.'s words have never strayed far from Mulder's mind. While he is acutely aware of the fact that Bill Jr. is a Class-A-Dick, there is no denying the weight of his words or the lining of truth that encases them.

A better man would have walked away from Dana Scully, but Fox Mulder is not a better man. Bill Jr. had been right about that much.

From the moment she entered his office and shook his hand all those years ago, Mulder had recognized that there was something quite extraordinary about Dana Scully. So instead of treating her like the spy she was sent to be, he confided in her and peaked her scientific curiosities, engrossing her in a world that reached far beyond the accepted bounds of science. In time, his monsters had become her monsters, and the cost to her and her family could not have been higher. The death of her sister, her cancer, and her inability to conceive a child all the direct result of their work on The X Files.

While Mulder had by no means escaped unscathed, Scully and her sister had been innocent.

There was only one factor that connected them to tragedy — him.

Maybe that did make him one sorry son of a bitch, but being one sorry son of a bitch didn't change the truth. And the truth exceeded far beyond the existence of little green men, but there had been no point in trying to explain that to Bill Jr. The one person who did understand was the one person he had hurt the most, and he was no more capable of walking away from her now than he was when he met her nearly four years ago.

Scully's cancer had been the tipping point for which there had been no return.

What started out as a late-night call for assistance in removing a fitted teeshirt over a stiff and uncooperative shoulder had progressed into a weekend-long exploration and obliteration of a line they had both firmly adhered to for nearly four years.

Had it have been restricted to that night alone, it would have been easier to classify as a lapse of judgment or a product of circumstance, but what happened that weekend was neither of those things. That weekend, they had each had their fill time and time again.

No commitments or words of affirmation were exchanged, but the truth had been a poorly kept secret. The emotion that pooled in the depths of her crystal blue eyes as he watched her come undone again and again had relayed the truth to him far more accurately than words could have ever articulated, and there was no doubt in his mind that his eyes and body had returned the sentiment.

He loved her, and she loved him.

What transpired between them wasn't an ill-advised fling. It was an admission, which is why, all these months later, he finds her avoidance of the subject so infuriating. Though she has yet to vocalize her desire for what happened to remain unspoken, she hasn't had to. Her fears and misgivings have been echoed in action.

Prior to her illness, Mulder had always been the one to make the travel arrangements, but now that she has recovered and returned to work full time, she has insisted that she be the one to make them, which has translated into random seats on aircrafts and rooms that are no longer conjoined. Though the concessions made in their new arraignments have undoubtedly saved the department money, Mulder doubts very seriously that keeping the finance committee off of their backs is her only motivation for taking the reigns.

Their effectiveness as a team continues to remain beyond reproach, but there is an uneasy, awkwardness between them that wasn't there before, and it's driving him absolutely insane. The fact that he wants to touch every square inch of her body every time he lays eyes on her is not helping matters either. Now that he has had her, he can think of little else.

All of his attempts to clear the air thus far have been futile, each ending with either a pointed glance or a swift exit. As time has passed, he has slowly regressed into a bitter stage of acceptance. One where he longer pushes the envelope but also has yet to let go.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah," he replies, shifting his attention to Scully.

"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?"

"No," he says simply. "Sorry, I was … somewhere else."

Studying him carefully, she sighs.

"Our flight leaves tomorrow at 8 A.M."

"Okay."

"Okay?" she asks, questioning him with her eyes.

Shrugging, he gives her a look of what as he lowers his feet from his desk, stands, and turns to collect his things.

"I'll see you in the morning, Scully."

Mulder doesn't watch her expression as he drapes his coat over his shoulder and turns to walk out the door. The confusion, hurt, and disappointment he knows he will find there is more than he can bear, but he also can't take another rejection. If carrying on as if nothing happened is what she wants, then it's what he will do, but he's done with pretending that it doesn't hurt like hell.

Without another word, he steps out of their office, closing the door behind him.

—

As she watches him leave without a word, everything inside of her screams. Not because she is angry at him, but because she is angry with herself. Mulder, for once, is not at fault. He hadn't been the one to initiate sex. She had.

That night, he had tried to be the voice of reason, questioning her state of mind and what it would mean for their future. At the time, it had stung, coming across as a friendly form of rejection. She was, after all, naked and giving him permission to touch her, but even as he eyed her naked form with lustful appreciation, he had asked her if she was sure. No other man, when presented with the same scenario, had ever asked her that. The others had just taken what she offered without question. But not Mulder.

"I think our bodies know exactly what they want, but do our minds? This can't… it can't just be a thing, Scully… you mean too much to me. I can't be your Ed Jerse. I won't survive it."

Leaning back in her chair, Scully closes her eyes and rubs her temples. She can still hear his voice and feel his hands. The mere thought of being with him again causes her core to dampen and clench. What transpired between them that weekend was something beyond anything she has ever experienced before. The passion bottled within him had exceeded even her most erotic fantasies.

He had ensured that she got hers over and over again.

He hadn't fucked her. He had made love to her.

And what she saw in his eyes as he did had both startled and entrapped her. Scully wasn't the prude ice queen others had made her out to be. She had seen her fair share of greedy hands and lust-filled eyes. Scully liked sex, but what she had with Fox Mulder back in May wasn't sex. It was something else. Something far more meaningful and transcending — and it scared the ever-living hell out of her.

In medical school, Scully had thought she had found love. It took being with Mulder for her to realize that what she settled for was a cheap imitation. What she felt in his touch and saw in his eyes had completely erased the ones that had come before him. She knew now that nobody else would ever compare. He was it. But instead of embracing and indulging, she was running.

Hanging her head in a combination of frustration and shame, she sighs, stands, gathers her things, and heads for the door.

—

Plopping down on the couch, Mulder listens to the gurgle of the aquarium beside him and tries to get comfortable. He knows he shouldn't have left the way he did. He's sulking like a love-sick teenager, but the restless fury within him won't allow him to settle. He told her that he wouldn't survive being her Ed Jerse, and yet that is precisely how she is treating him.

But as he sits in his apartment alone, he recognizes that he has nobody to blame other than himself.

After Diana, Mulder made a promise to himself that he would never again become involved with someone he worked with professionally. But what he shares with Scully isn't a simple matter of involvement. It's more complex than that. It always has been, and he suspects that it always will be.

Diana left him in pursuit of her own ambitions, and Mulder had made no attempt to stop her. There had been no cursing, tears, ripped pictures, or broken glass. Her choosing her career over him had stung, but Mulder had long become accustomed to being the one that was left behind. In her absence, he had done what he has always done. He buried himself in his work, and he hadn't looked back.

But Scully wasn't Diana.

Scully was unlike anyone he had ever known — a magnet of unknown origin.

When they had leaped into the unknown, she had told him she wanted something passionate, loving, and real… something that would make her feel alive again. Yet, here he was, sitting alone on his couch, rejected and alone. Had she truly meant those things? Or had it been the cancer talking?

Deep down, he knew the truth. He suspected they both did. Perhaps that was the problem.

Tilting his head back and looking up and the ceiling, he sighs in frustration and clenches his fists. He's such a fucking coward. While she has certainly avoided his passive attempts to discuss this thing between them, he hasn't made any genuine attempt to pin her down on the issue. Instead, he has sulked and taken her changes of subject and hasty exits at the end of the workday as rejection.

He knows Scully well, and he knows what he saw in her eyes that weekend. Yet, here he is, sitting alone on his couch because he hasn't found the courage to tell her what he wants.

Scully had been bold enough to drop her towel. She had taken the first leap. Perhaps it was time for him to lead.

Having made a decision, he stands, not bothering to grab his coat or lock the door as he leaves.

—

When she hears her front door open without a knock, her first instinct is to panic. But her sense of panic is immediately over-ridden with irritation when she hears her name and identifies its source.

"Scully?" he says again.

"I'm taking a bath, Mulder," she says loudly, her voice echoing through the apartment.

Before she can say anything more, the door is opening, and he is coming in.

"Jesus, Mulder. What the hell?"

"We need to talk."

"Now? Here? Are you fucking kidding me?" she asks, the water sloshing around her as she draws her knees up to her chest in an attempt to cover herself.

"I think here and now couldn't be any more appropriate, given the topic," he says, reaching for the towel hanging on the rail alongside the tub.

The fact that he's offering her something to cover herself doesn't escape her attention, but she's too angry at his invasion of her privacy to see anything other than red.

"So, because we've had sex, that just automatically gives you permission to come into my apartment without knocking and storm in on me when I'm in the ba—"

"I used a key you gave me, and I didn't knock because I feared you wouldn't answer the door if I did."

"Muld—"

"And as for interrupting your bath, I'm here to talk, not to …" he says, splaying his arms to complete a thought he has lost the courage to vocalize.

"Oh? And that makes this okay?"

For a moment, he doesn't respond, his gaze holding hers.

"My eyes have not left yours," he says finally, as if that somehow makes his invasion into her home and bathroom more acceptable.

Sighing, she closes her eyes and tilts her head down towards the water.

"What do you want, Mulder?" she asks quietly.

"I want to talk about it."

He doesn't specify what it is, but he doesn't have to. The white elephant to which he refers has traveled with them for nearly six months and doesn't require definition.

"Mulder …"

"It wasn't just sex to me, Scully. I told you… I told you from the very beginning that I couldn't be your Ed Jerse… that I wouldn't survive it."

"Mulder I—" she starts to say, but he's not done.

"Was it just a distraction for you? Did it only happen because you thought you were dying? And everything you said… did you just say it because you didn't think you'd live long enough for the truth to matter?"

By the time he's done, her breathing has deepened, and tears are collecting in her eyes. But she doesn't let them fall. She holds them in check, her resolve hardening with each and every word he utters.

How dare he.

How dare he come into her home and accuse her of using him to get off because she was lonely and thought she was dying.

If he couldn't see what was right in front of him, then perhaps it was him that needed to fuck off. Not her.

"Get out."

"Scul—"

"Get. Out," she says, her tone and glare filling the room with a level of tension that doesn't invite inquisition or rebuttal.

He opens his mouth to speak but then thinks better of it, his face transitioning from a state of hurt to fury as he turns to leave.

She doesn't allow the first tear to fall until she hears the front door slam.

—

If he hadn't have been one sorry son of a bitch before, he certainly is now.

He had gone to her apartment intending to take the lead and clear the air, but finding her soaking in the tub had been his undoing. The discomfort and fear he saw swimming in her eyes as he stood over her and offered her a towel had foreshadowed rejection, not resolution. And with that, his resolve had crumbled. Until that very moment, he had never questioned what that weekend meant to her. But now, he is questioning everything.

Flopping down on the couch and opening a beer, he stares at the blank screen of his TV and feels more alone than he has ever felt in his life. The Mulder before Scully would have wound down with a Shiner Blok and a video from his collection, but that was Mulder before Scully. Mulder after Scully no longer found pleasure in jerking off to naughty secretaries. The dollar menu was no longer capable of holding his interest, not after having experienced what the steakhouse had to offer.

One beer turned into two and then three. After the fourth, he stopped counting.

At some point, sleep overtakes him, but he doesn't recall falling asleep or how late he was up. All he knows now is the pounding pulses of pain in his temples.

As he stirs, it takes him a moment to orient himself.

Dim hues of light flicker in through the blinds allowing him to observe the empty bottles that line the coffee table. He briefly wonders why he feels so heavy, but that becomes more clear when he rolls to his side and sees the bottles that line the floor.

Fuck, he mumbles, clutching his head and rubbing his eyes.

The sound of a key turning in the lock suddenly resonates, startling him into action and sending him clamoring onto the floor as he reaches for his gun on the far edge of the coffee table.

Just as his hand settles on the grip, a familiar voice echoes through the room, causing the gun to slip from his grasp and onto the floor beside him.

"Mulder?!" Scully exclaims, not bothering to close the door behind her as she rushes across the room and crouches down by his side. "Jesus, are you—"

He's not looking at her, but he can feel her taking in the scene. She hadn't needed to complete her question. The bottles that surround them tell a story that leaves little up for interpretation. Placing the dorsum of her hand along his forehead, she runs her fingers through his hair and goes through the process of checking his temperature and vitals.

"We need to get you up off the floor," she says quietly.

Nodding, he does what he can to help her as she steadies him and walks him back to the couch.

Once she has him safely seated, she takes another look around the room, brings her hand to her temple and sighs. Unable to stomach the mixture of emotions crossing her face, he drops his head in his hands and awaits whatever comes next. The ring of her cell phone breaks the deafening silence between them, delaying any further comments or conversation.

"Scully," she answers.

"Yes, sir, he's here. He's… he's not well sir. I think it's a virus of some kind or perhaps the flu… he's severely dehydrated and a bit out of it."

She's silent for a moment as she listens to their boss on the other end of the line.

Fuck, he thinks. They had an 8 A.M. flight this morning.

Braving a look over at his desk, he notes that it is now 9:17 A.M.

"I'd like to take the day as well, sir," she says.

Though he can't hear exactly what Skinner is saying, it's clear that his absence this morning has triggered a string of alarms. He likely has numerous missed calls both on his landline and cell. Calls he was clearly too out of it to hear, let alone respond to.

"I'll call in a few scripts and keep an eye on him. If he's not well enough to travel in the morning, I'll fly to Charleston alone first thing in the morning to consult on the Burgle investigation… Yes, sir. Please give the locals my regards."

Braving a look up, he finds her pivoting anxiously on her feet as she thanks their boss and ends the call. For a moment, she says nothing, holding his gaze as her phone follows her hand into the depths of her pocket.

She opens her mouth to speak but then closes it, shaking her head from side to side and sighing as she reaches down and begins to pick up the bottles from the coffee table and floor. Aside from the sounds of glass hitting glass, the room is silent.

When the minutes continue to tick by without further comment from Scully, Mulder relents, unable to take the silence and crisp air of judgment any longer.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

The heat brewing in her eyes as she turns to face him takes him by surprise. He had known she was angry, but it becomes clear very quickly that he had grossly underestimated the depth of her anger. This was angry Scully. This was pissed Scully.

"For which part?" she asks, her voice rising. "Barging into my apartment last night while I was naked and soaking in the tub and calling me a whore? Or for scaring the shit out of me this morning when you didn't show up at the airport and weren't answering either of your phones?"

"Scully, I never—"

Knowing exactly what he's about to say, she dredges on, not missing a beat.

"And before you say that you did not say or insinuate anything along those lines, I want you to think about how exactly I was supposed to translate your inquisition concerning my motives for inviting you to my bed. A decision that, apparently, you believe occurred for my pleasure and my pleasure alone. Think that over and then tell me exactly how you would have translated that conversation had our roles been reversed."

He opens his mouth to speak but then closes it.

Even with his head pounding and the room spinning, he sees her point, and she's not wrong.

When she crosses the room and opens the blinds, he folds his head back into his hands and moans, but his complaint stops there. Whatever hell she's about to unleash on him, he undoubtedly deserves, so instead of demanding that she close the blinds, he keeps his head bowed and remains silent.

Keeping track of her whereabouts by sound, he estimates that she's cleaned up a good portion of the mess he made in the living room. Though he's not exactly sure how many beers he had, his current condition and the number of clinks he has heard hit the trash bin suggest it far exceeded six. When he hears the refrigerator open, he groans again.

The sound of popping tops and fluid being poured down the drain carries across the room and is followed by a few more sharp clinks. Whatever alcohol was left, is officially gone now.

A few moments later, he hears the pitter-patter of her feet as she walks towards him and places what he assumes to be a glass of water on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. The fact that she has removed her shoes would comfort him a lot more if he couldn't still feel the heat radiating off of her body.

"You should drink some water and take these," she says, taking a seat next to him on the couch.

Her voice is quieter now but still has a crisp edge to it that warns of danger.

Raising his head a bit, he squints against the light, opening his hand to accept the pills she offers him and gulping them down with a single swallow.

Silence engulfs them as they sit side-by-side.

"I really am sorry, Scully. For all of it. You deserve better. You've always deserved better."

To this, she says nothing.

He's not looking at her, but he can feel her hesitance. It's a hesitance that lets him know that everything inside of her wants to speak, but instead, she remains silent, keeping her emotions in check as she waits.

"When you were in the hospital, your brother came and spoke to me while you were sleeping… he… he said a couple of things that have stuck with me."

"God," she moans, leaning forward to rest her head in her hands. "Do I even want to know?"

"Well, you'll be happy to know that he shares your view on extraterrestrials," he says, smirking.

Snorting, she looks up at him and shakes her head from side to side before looking back down at her hands.

"He also said I was one sorry son of a bitch."

"Mulder…" she sighs, her eyes rising to meet his.

"He's not entirely wrong, you know. Everything I touch suffers. It always has."

"That's not true," she says quietly.

"Isn't it though? You're brilliant, Scully," he says, taking a deep breath.

His eyes drift down the table to study the rings that his chilled beers left behind, but despite his pounding head and light-sensitive eyes, he keeps speaking because what he has to say needs to be said.

"And now, instead of being on track to run the FBI, you are down in the basement with me. You've lost so much… your sister… your health… all for me. For my quest. My truth."

At first, she says nothing, but eventually, she reaches across her body and places her hand over his.

"I still wouldn't change a day."

Her voice is quiet and calm, but there is an underlying wave of sadness to it that makes his stomach drop. Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, she stands and makes her way over to the corner of the room where her shoes and coat lie waiting for her.

"You're leaving?" he asks, doing little to hide the panic rising inside of him.

"Yes."

"Scul—"

"We aren't going to have this conversation when you are hungover and can barely hold your head up. You need to shower and get some sleep. I'm going to go home and do the same."

"Scully, I'm—"

"You should clean out your fridge," she says, clearing her throat. "I was scared to dig too deeply into the mystery, but something in there has either died or transformed."

Surprised by the change in subject and demeanor, he studies her movement and expression carefully, questioning her with his eyes. But Scully doesn't respond to his unspoken question. Instead, she averts her eyes, finding something of interest in the fish tank as she puts on her coat and slips on her shoes.

"I'll order you some takeout on my way home. Drinking a few glasses of water and eating something not originating from your refrigerator will help."

Mulder starts to object, but the look she gives him silences him. The fire he saw reflected in her eyes earlier has dissipated significantly, but the underlying message is still the same — to remain safe is to remain silent.

Just when he thinks she is going to leave without another word, she pauses, her back to him and her hand on the door.

"You're not a sorry son of a bitch, Mulder," she says quietly. "This would be so much easier if you were."

She doesn't turn to meet his eyes or give him a chance to respond as she steps out into the hallway and closes the door. The click of her heels and ding of the elevator serve as her bid goodbye, leaving him with only one fleeting thought.

This, what the fuck does this mean?

—

The next morning, Scully finds Mulder waiting for her outside of her apartment with her favorite brand of coffee in hand. As infuriating as the man can be, he can also be quite thoughtful and charming when the occasion calls, especially when he is well aware of the fact that he is in the doghouse. She had covered for him the day before without a second thought. Even as angry as she was at him for pushing the boundaries of their relationship and demanding that she talk before she was ready, the idea of leaving him hanging out to dry in front of their boss had never even occurred to her.

To an outsider looking in, Mulder appears no worse for the wear as they make their way through security and stow their carry ons in the overhead compartment, but Scully knows him far too well to miss the heaviness in his step. He was keeping himself in check, but yesterday's events were clearly weighing just as heavily his mind as they were hers.

Mulder hadn't been entirely wrong in what he said to her two nights prior. Sure, he could have knocked first and polished his diplomacy a bit, but his underlying grievances weren't unfounded.

On the night in question, he had been the one to cool things down and question the wisdom of what she was asking of him.

"Are you sure, Scully? Absolutely sure?"

In response, she had reassured him in the one way she knew he wouldn't be able to resist. And because of that, he had every right to be frustrated with the silence and avoidance that followed. That point aside, he couldn't be more wrong about her motives. She hadn't invited him into her bed on a lonely night to scratch an itch. She had invited him to her bed because she wanted him and had wanted him for years.

The factor she failed to account for was the depth at which he wanted her. As he had entered her and searched her eyes, a switch had been flicked somewhere deep within her — a switch that could not be ignored or restored to default. To complicate matters even further, she had watched as the same switch had flicked within him.

The admission that passed between them at that moment had been a quiet one, but not having vocalized it hadn't made it any less significant.

Now, all these months later, Scully still finds herself at a loss for words.

In the past, continuing on as if nothing happened had served as a silent handshake of sorts — a truce between partners. But this was different. With this, there was no reverting to the way things were before. There was no longer a before. There was only after.

Selling it as anything else would be a lie. But the question currently weighing on Scully's mind isn't if her partnership with Mulder can survive a lie, it's if it can withstand the truth.

—

They arrive in Charleston shortly after 10:00 A.M. and are immediately ushered to police headquarters where they are brought in to observe the interrogation of Fred Burgle, a man who continues to assert that something unworldly was responsible for the disappearance of his wife and two children three nights prior. It was just the type of case Mulder needed to get his juices flowing. He knew work would not completely alleviate the tension between him and Scully, but it certainly had served to take the edge off. The hum of frustration that still lulled between them, however, had not gone entirely unnoticed.

"Lover's quarrel?" a local asked him.

Mulder gave him a sharp glance to discourage any further inquisition, but from that point forward, he made it a point to watch his body language around Scully. The last thing either of them needed was for a question along those lines to be relayed to Scully directly. She had, after all, shot a man for less.

The Burgle investigation ended up turning into a four-day excursion when the bodies of Burgle's wife and two children turned up in a landfill nearly 60 miles away with not a single scratch, contusion, or abrasion on them. This discovery was further complicated by the fact that Burgle had been in police custody during the timeframe in which the bodies were suspected to have been dumped.

The lack of forensic evidence and no apparent cause of death had not made Scully's job any easier, but that was the nature of their work. There was science, and then there was that which could not be explained.

In the end, there was little to no evidence to connect Fred Burgle to the mysterious deaths of his wife and children, resulting in him being released from police custody. But Burgle's insistence that something not of this world had taken his wife and children and his erratic behavior in the community following his release lead him straight to the psychiatric ward where he was heavily medicated and effectively silenced.

Mulder found the entire process infuriating, but with there being little to no evidence to support Burgle's claim, there was little to do other than file their report and catch a flight back to D.C.

By the time they land in D.C., it's well past 9:00 P.M. and they are both exhausted.

Given the tension between them, he's hesitant to offer Scully a ride home, fearing what the offer might infer. But to his surprise, she accepts his offer rather than insisting on calling a cab.

Mulder had anticipated something resembling an arctic blast as soon as they had landed in D.C., but rather than avoiding him, Scully appears to be biding her time.

His suspicions are confirmed when they arrive at her apartment.

Rather than grabbing her things and disappearing into the night, she remains seated, staring out the window and fidgeting with her keys as if she's contemplating quantum physics. Not knowing what to say or how to react to the change in her demeanor, he opts to remain silent and wait. Seemingly pleased with his patience, Scully turns her head and gives him her eyes.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mulder?" she asks.

Nodding, he shuts off the car and grabs her bag from the back seat, rounding the car to walk up the sidewalk with her and waving her off as she reaches to take her bag.

Neither one of them speaks as they enter her building. With his hands full, he follows closely behind her and waits for her to unlock the door and turn on a few lights. Not wanting to intrude beyond his welcome, he lays her carryon at the mouth of the hallway that leads back to her bedroom and then takes a seat on the couch.

The apartment is silent apart from Scully's movement in the kitchen, but instead of attempting to fill the silence. He waits.

"Hazelnut or Pumpkin Spice?" she asks from in the kitchen.

"Hazelnut."

A few more minutes pass before she appears from behind with two steaming cups of hot coffee. Setting them down on the coffee table, she moves a pillow aside and takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch, folding her feet beneath her and then placing the pillow in her lap. Once settled, she reaches for her coffee and gently blows over the surface, taking a cautious sip as she glances over the top of her cup at him.

Following her lead, Mulder picks up his cup and sips. It's too hot to drink quickly or hold comfortably, so he places it back on the coaster and leans back into the couch. When he turns to face her again, he finds her studying him.

"Do you really think it meant nothing to me?" she asks.

A bit taken aback by her directness, he searches her eyes for clues as to where her emotions lie, but she gives him nothing.

"No," he replies honestly.

"Then why ask me?" she asks, placing her coffee cup back on the table. "Why ask me a question you already know the answer to?"

Taking a moment to choose his words carefully, he continues to study her, hoping to determine where this is going, but again, she gives him nothing.

"I think… more than anything," he says carefully, "I just wanted some form of acknowledgment that it wasn't just one lonely night… that it meant as much to you as it did to me… that you felt it too."

His words, though spoken softly, pack a punch, charging the room with a buzz of electricity that wasn't there before. Mulder knows that Scully feels it too, for the tears brewing in corners of her eyes are doing little to hide the depth of emotion and longing flowing through her veins as she holds his gaze.

Leaning forward, he grabs several tissues from the kleenex box on the corner of the coffee table and hands them to her, but instead of using them to dot at her eyes, Scully picks at them, blinking back her tears as she averts her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Scul—"

"It wasn't," she replies softly, interrupting him. "It wasn't just a lonely night."

Nodding, he swallows thickly, unsure of what to say or how he should respond.

He wants to be elated.

He wants to crawl across the couch, run his fingers through her hair, and kiss her until neither of them can breathe, but he does neither of those things. Instead, he waits.

"I did think I was going to die, but that wasn't why I… why we…"

"Had sex?" he offers.

The smirk that crosses her lips as he says it gives him the permission he needed to smile and laugh lightly and a wave of relief washes over him when her soft laughter joins his. The lightness of the moment, however, is short-lived, quickly sobering as she shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

Her admission that it meant something to her too settled him tremendously, but there is still something there. Something that she is holding back.

"What are you scared of, Scully?" he asks quietly.

She doesn't answer immediately, but she does give him her eyes as she ponders his question. Holding her gaze, he waits as she searches his eyes.

"The truth."

"And what might that be?"

This time she doesn't answer with words. Instead, she leans forward and closes the gap between them. Before he has time to accost himself for not meeting her halfway, her lips are on his, and all rational thought flees.

For the first few moments, her lips merely rest on his, but the soft, sweet tenderness of it doesn't last as their mouths begin to move in sync and passion consumes them. Within a matter of minutes, she is straddling his lap, and his hands are running along her back and through her hair. It's been months since they've touched each other, but they have by no means forgotten how.

His shirt is the first to go with her sweater following quickly after. They aren't in a rush, but they don't take their time either. When it comes time to remove the final barriers that separate them, they move to the bedroom.

As magical as the first few times had been, there was still an element of awkwardness to them. Mulder suspected that some of it had to do with Scully being uncomfortable with the amount of weight she lost following the chemo treatments. He had done everything shy of worshiping the ground she walked on, but there had still been an uneasy shyness about her as his eyes had raked over her, but tonight as he loves her, he sees no trace of the shy, insecure woman who had pulled him into bed six months ago.

When he enters her, he sees the same look in her eyes that he saw before. While neither of them is quite ready to say the words, the truth is there for both of them to see. It's a truth they both know.

—

Sweat clings to her body in every crevice, but she has no regrets.

No. Dana Scully is completely and utterly satisfied in the best possible way.

"Wow," he says in a voice filled with both satisfaction and awe. "It wasn't just a dream."

Chuckling softly as she runs her fingertips lightly over his chest, she nuzzles her head deeper into his embrace and smiles.

"No, I'm afraid the dreams don't quite compare."

Following their weekend of smut-filled fuckery months earlier, Scully had questioned if it had truly been as good as she remembered it being, or if she was just horny and lonely enough in the weeks and months that followed to fill in the muscle memory with fantasy.

Now, as she lays splayed across his chest completely sated, she is again reminded that fantasy and all previous notions of fantasy hadn't held a candle to Fox Mulder. While this certainly wasn't at the forefront of her mind when she invited him up. She has no regrets.

"Oh, I don't know, Scully. I've had some really nice dreams over the years."

Lifting her head to meet his eyes briefly, she raises her brow at him and smirks.

"Is that so?" she asks, chuckling softly. "Do tell."

"Sometimes, I dream of being on the beach."

"Mmmm… and what's on the beach?"

"Big, beautiful, rounded, and perfectly crafted works of art."

"This is beginning to sound more like one of those videos in your apartment."

"Videos?" he asks, feigning ignorance.

"Yes, you know, the ones that don't belong you."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

To this, she snorts, giving his side a pinch that is just hard enough to make him jump.

"Owww…"

"So what does this art you speak of entail?"

"Well, the build-up takes time, creativity, and dedication to detail."

"Oh, is that so?"

The entire time he's speaking her hands wander.

"Mmmmm… but in the end, the big picture it creates is worth the effort."

"Big, huh?"

"Well, not just any size will do. It needs to stand at least three to four feet tall to draw attention to itself."

"Three to four feet tall?" she asks, raising her head again, her eyes wide.

"The small ones are child's play, Scully."

"Okay, now I know we are talking about the videos."

"I mean, I guess you could film the process if you wanted to, but it's not something that you can do quickly. Not if you want to do it right."

"Mulder…"

"What you really need are various sizes of buckets, sticks, and shovels."

Realization dawns on her in a rush.

Her first reaction is to smack him across the chest, but she can't stop the deep laughter that escapes her when she realizes what he's actually referencing.

"Sandcastles, Mulder. Really?"

Laughter reverberates through him as he draws her closer, intertwining his legs with hers and running his fingers through hair.

"Well, they aren't your standard sand sculptures, Scully. They are large, elaborate and bear a remarkable resemblance to an alien spacecraft."

"I'm going to ask you to stop talking now," she says, her voice laced with sleep and mocked annoyance.

"You would like them."

"Only you would have a dream about sand-built UFOs and lump that in with erotica."

They share a laugh as their hands continue to caress. Shifting his weight, he moves to reposition them, spooning her from behind as he lightly kisses her shoulder and neck.

"I don't need erotic dreams. Not when I have you," he says, his breath tickling her neck as he speaks.

Taking his hand in hers, she wraps herself tightly in his embrace and kisses his hand.

"Goodnight, Mulder," she says softly.

"Sweet dreams, Scully."

Another burst of laughter erupts, followed by a playful smack, and then softer laughter.

As they slowly slip into a peaceful slumber, Scully finds herself contemplating the future — a future where she will be brave enough to build sandcastles in the sky.

—

A puff of smoke temporarily blocks the view of the two figures on the screen as they settle into a peaceful slumber.

"Well, this certainly changes things."

"Yes... yes, it most certainly does."

||

AN: Yeah, I did that. I threw in a bit of CC, you know, for science. Bhahahaha. But, in all seriousness, I have ALWAYS thought there was more to the lonely night quote in The Truth (9x19) than just the shock of Scully realizing that they had been watched. The way Scully reacts when she hears that particular phrase has always suggested to me that it was a moment of significance, which would also explain her apparent certainty that he wasn't bluffing. So here you have it - my lonely night headcanon, packaged and wrapped up in the cancer arc.

A huge thanks to my beta @kikocrystalball and @gaycrouton for creating and orchestrating this episode gift exchange.

[aftergloom]

The first day in four that I’m not exhausted.

You try being woken up at three every morning, and then again at six, by a small furry baby and see how on-point you are. Seriously, I’ve just opened Scrivener and I’m sitting here blinking stupidly at the WIPs I was working on last week and I’m like, “I wrote these? I don’t remember doing that.”

Trying to catch the rhythm again while I can. 

Have some bits:

A Salted Field (Reylo Horror AU)

Sometime past two, an hour after Ben had opted to walk home despite the threat of rain, Rey and Chewie split sandwiches in a clean kitchen. Rather, Rey split her sandwich with herself, slurping at an iced tea that came out of a glass bottle and tasted a little like plastic, and eyed a freshly-scoured fridge scented with chemicals. The little light lit the room as it aired, the world outside gloomy and oppressive with the promise of rain.

She doubted she’d ever use the Frigidaire for food, but the gesture left a rueful smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. Ben’s expertise with cleaning products was such that he might’ve served as an excellent butcher in a past life — or maybe part of a clean-up outfit called in by the mob for particularly dreadful jobs. Not a drop of deer blood remained, and frankly, the whole room now smelled like a hospital.

The Modern Prometheus (that Reylo Frankenstein AU I was talking about because why not)

“Come, now, sister.” Finn pulled at her arm, tugging Rey along by the elbow for as long as she could bear it. The halls had been set alight with candle flame, sending the long shadows back to the corners and scuttling into the alcoves. Beyond the tall windows of the Diodati’s ballroom, the skies churned black and ominous; the promise of rain a certainty for the third night in a row. “We’ll be late.”

“You’re too eager,” she laughed. “I’ve not dressed for such occasion.”

Never mind that she hadn’t packed any such fineries for a ball — if you could call it that. With four guests alone, their host had nonetheless sent invitations to their rooms in a fine hand. Her own pressed linen card she’d folded into her bust, not knowing how to offer a polite declination when there were to be so few of them in attendance, and so hurried Finn had been when he’d come to collect her, she’d barely thought to dispose her reading material before he’d dragged her from the room. She carried the tome with her, still; pressed to her stomach as if she could hide the offending accessory. 

Rey much preferred the company of her gothic novels on evenings such as these, and given the tumultuous summer they’d endured thus far, the weather uncooperative, there was little else to provide distraction.

That was not to speak of her personal ills.

She’d not seen Poe since he’d retired with Byren to the study for a brandy to recover from their supper, though she’d heard them: their laughter carried through the whole of the east wing before she thought to escape them entirely.

They should “make their own amusement,” as Byren had said over dinner. Being the inventive sort that he was, only his dour doctor was the one to point out that on his second bottle of red, the rest of the little cabal occupying his summer villa would be pressed to keep the pace he’d set. 

“It was an impulsive suggestion,” Rey hissed. “And too forward.”

“And yet, you saw how Lord Byren took to it,” Finny countered, his eyes alight with some dreamy mischief. “I tell you, I will have him by the end of our stay here. Byren will fall so enamoured of me, he’ll beg for my hand.”

“He’ll beg you push him away with it,” she countered. “I fear your interest is misplaced. He’s a devil, Finny — a cad and a fiend, and far too clever for his own good. He’ll use every device to win you and then discard you at the earliest prompting, and then what?” 

Green Jenny (Reylo Horror AU Prompt for Monster!Rey)

“Between three chambered cairns and one dolmen. Right smack in the middle,” Dameron had promised, his enthusiasm cutting through the crackle of long distance. Admittedly, Ben’s heart had given a stammer at that — and that was before Poe had emailed the photos from the dig.

“Biggest fucking skeleton I’ve ever seen.” 

Its femur alone was the size of Ben’s torso, and even at a slouch, Ben Solo dwarfed most others in his field, and elsewhere. Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, he replayed those words to himself on the long stretch of road back to his AirBnB to catch a few hours of restless tossing around in the jetlag. He’d be back before sunrise, and that suited him fine: not even the dreary English weather was enough to stop his palms from sweating from the thousands of explanations — the ramifications of the discovery dizzying:

Stonehenge. Avebury. Easter Island. Jesus — the pyramids. 

Questions asked for generations: who had moved those enormous stones? Who raised them?

Sleep-deprived, gritty from the twelve hour flight from Arizona, he’d gone straight to the dig to find himself as effortlessly excited as a schoolboy at the find.

For Darkness Stars (That canon-compliant Reylo novel which is almost done)

Miles of jungle wreathed in pre-dawn mists blanketed the planet in a grey shroud. Breaking atmo, the heap of a freighter protesting the jump and near collision with the nearest planet when he overshot his target, Ben had only just forced the bird down when it occurred to him that he wasn’t certain of his destination. Tython, yes: that planet both long dead and alive still, but where was the temple? 

Cold gripped his limbs, his staunch control over himself pushing him into a meditative state so deep it kept the cold spread in his chest nullified to numbness. Blinking the sting of exhaustion from his eyes, it occurred to him that without anyone to ask, he was reliant entirely on his heart’s compass to direct him. He would end this, because this was where Rey’s vision had indicated he’d find her again: not her corporeal self, but her spirit — alive and well in the Force, and waiting for him like some beacon in the darkness that knew only the patience of waiting. 

[unpack-my-heart]

Unpack My Heart With Words – Updated

Chapter 5 of my Hamlet/Theatre Reddie AU. The chapter is called When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

You can read it on AO3 HERE or I’ve pasted it under the cut.

Preview:

“Heh. I suppose,” Eddie responds. “I remember reading King Lear when I was at RADA, when I was convinced that I’d be the one reciting the lines, rather than instructing people how to read the lines. My Lear is based on someone from my past.”

Richie feels sick.

“Oh?” the interviewer probes, “I imagine you don’t think favourably of them, then? They’ve got to be a pretty painful relic, surely?”

Richie watches the on-screen-Eddie pause. Eddie’s eyes close before he responds.

“Quite the opposite, actually. Thank you so much for having me”

Tag List:

@constantreaderfool @xandertheundead @violetreddie

The road Richie lives on is small and unassuming, a forgettable cul-de-sac. He’d moved there with Sandy, as soon as he got the email confirming that he’d ‘read Hamlet’. It hadn’t lasted. They’d broken up less than a year after they’d bought the house. She’d accused him of cheating on her, and he hadn’t denied it. He hadn’t cheated on her, of course, but it had given him a very convenient way of avoiding having a conversation he’d been putting off for several months prior. I’m still in love with the boy (man?) that broke my heart over a decade ago doesn’t roll off the tongue particularly well, nor is it all that believable. So they’d split. Richie had taken on sole tenancy of the small townhouse they rented, and Sandy had left him and moved back in with her parents in Bath, leaving him in Stratford-Upon-Avon on his own.

The road Richie lives on is small and unassuming, a perfectly pleasant and quiet area of a perfectly pleasant and quiet town. That’s why, when Richie was stumbling down the street pissed out of his mind at 3am after trying (and failing) to drink Ben under the table, and singing (or howling) along to Prowlin’ from Grease 2, a large number of people peered around their curtains and glared at him. He paid them no mind. He fumbled with his keys, dropping them six times, before his uncooperative fingers finally managed to shove the key into the lock and turn it. The stuffy, gaping black maw of his hallway stared back at him. Scoffing, and swearing at everything and anything, Richie managed to turn on all the lights in his living room and kitchen, and flop onto the sofa, without breaking anything – limbs and extremities included.

Richie smacked his lips. His mouth tasted like someone had been using his tongue as an ash tray for the last four hours, before telling him to gargle with white spirit. In short, it tasted like ass. Not that Richie remembered what ass tasted like. It had been far too long. His laptop sat, screen open and inviting, sat on the coffee table. Richie tugged it towards him, before lifting it over to his lap by the screen. He almost missed Sandy shrieking ‘if you lift it like that, the screen will come off in your hands and you’ll be fucked’. Almost.

The machine booted up, whirs and purrs breaking the silence. Richie’s fingers worked on autopilot, his alcohol-hazed brain taking several seconds to catch up.

Google: Edsss kaspbrK

Did you mean: Eds Kaspbrak?

Did you mean: Edward Kaspbrak?

Yes. Yes he did mean Edward Kaspbrak. Richie supposed he wasn’t allowed to call Eddie Eds anymore.

Edward Kaspbrak, 486,972 results in 0.0003 seconds

Richie’s eyes lazily scanned the first few lines of results. The first page was Eddie’s staff page on the RSC website. The second was Eddie’s twitter. The third was an article from the Edinburgh College of Dramatic Arts student newspaper. Richie clicked on it.

“The ECDA is super stoked to announce that the opening night of the student production of the Phantom of the Opera, directed by our very own Eddie K, …. Blah blah blah blah Eddie blah blah blah successful blah blah blah” Richie mumbled out loud to himself, heart tightening in his chest.

Backspacing out of the page, Richie clicked on the next article. This one was from four years ago, and was a review of a production of King Lear that Eddie had directed. Richie skimmed the article, before clicking on the embedded video interview at the bottom of the page. Eddie’s face fills the screen. He looks younger than the Eddie Richie had seen earlier that day. His face is smoother, and his mouth isn’t set in a harsh line. His eyes are soft. He looks happy. Richie feels sick.

“So,” the interviewer begins, “Tell me about this production. Your Lear is particularly arrogant and unlikable, and unlike other productions that I’ve seen, I actually don’t feel like your Lear had any redeeming features at all. He’s just … consistently unlikable. That’s a pretty bold move for someone’s debut RSC directorial job, right?”

“Heh. I suppose,” Eddie responds. “I remember reading King Lear when I was at RADA, when I was convinced that I’d be the one reciting the lines, rather than instructing people how to read the lines. My Lear is based on someone from my past.”

Richie feels sick.

“Oh?” the interviewer probes, “I imagine you don’t think favourably of them, then? They’ve got to be a pretty painful relic, surely?”

Richie watches the on-screen-Eddie pause. Eddie’s eyes close before he responds.

“Quite the opposite, actually. Thank you so much for having me”

Eddie leaves the frame, and Richie doesn’t listen to the interviewers cursory wrap up. His ears are ringing too loudly.

Richie backspaces, before blindly clicking on one last link. It takes him to the announcement of Eddie’s appointment as Artistic Director in the newsletter of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Richie can feel bile swelling in his throat.

The Royal Shakespeare Company is privileged and pleased to announce that  Edward Frank Kaspbrak has accepted the position of Artistic Director. Edward replaces Claire Van de Camp, who wishes her successor success. Edward joins us at a particularly exciting time, and his first production will the semi-centenary celebration of the Royal Shakespeare Company, a milestone marked with a production of Hamlet. We wish Edward a long and happy tenure with us, and we all look forward to working with him for years to come

A few words from Edward himself: “I’m delighted to join the RSC as Artistic Director to celebrate the momentous semi-centenary anniversary of the company. I am a man of few words, so I’ll leave you with the words of a wordsmith more skilled than I. And so, all yours. I am all yours, RSC, and I will serve you as long as you’ll have me.”

The last words force the bile that had been bubbling in Richie’s throat to surge up his oesophagus. He scrambles to his feet, laptop falling gracelessly to the floor, and scrambles to his bedroom. He pulls an inconspicuous wooden box from under the bed, upending it so white envelopes come tumbling out. He spreads them all out on the carpet, before he grabs the one marked 15th April 2019. He opens the envelope. Two pieces of paper fall out, and he stuffs one back in without looking at it. He unfolds the other piece of paper.

15th April 2019

And so, all yours

E

The paper is fragile – It had been recklessly torn in half, before it has been painstakingly sellotaped back together. Richie couldn’t count how many times he’d stared at those four words.

– X –

When Richie had first started receiving the letters from Eddie, he had become almost incensed with anger. He’d vented to Stan, ugly, venomous ranting.

“I fucking hate him, Stan”

“No you don’t”

“Yes I fucking do. He abandons me to chase some stupid fucking selfish dream in Scotland, and then has the audacity – the fucking NERVE – to write to me, to plead with me to forgive him?”

“That’s not what the letter says, Richie”

“Wow. Fucking Wow. I thought you were supposed to be on my side? You know, your best friends side?”

“You haven’t spoken to me for three months, Rich. I thought you forgot who I was”

“You’re being fucking ridiculous”

“Richard? Can I have a word, s’il vous plaît?"

“Uh, sure, Jacques”

Stan disappeared down the corridor, without so much as glancing over his shoulder. Jacques was stood behind Richie, holding the door to his office open with a gracious arm. Richie walked inside.

“What’s all this ruckus, Richard?”

“Nothing, Jacques. Just – just personal stuff, s’all.”

“Are you arguing with master Stanley about Edward?”

Richie felt himself stiffen.

“How did you know?”

Jacques sits back on his chair, and folds his arms across his chest. His scarf flutters slightly in the breeze coming from the oscillating fan on his desk.

“Did you know that I told Edward to apply for the Edinburgh school?”

“No.”

“Did you know that I convinced him to go when he was reticent to leave you?”

“No.”

“Well, I did. Send some of that rage my way, if you must, but please do leave master Stanley out of it, he really isn’t at fault here”

“He’s been writing to me. I want to burn them.” Richie blurts out, without really meaning to.

“Spoken like a true dramatist”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you’re being melodramatic”

“With all due respect, Jacques, you have no idea what you’re talking about” Richie snaps, in a tone that he’d probably regret later when he’s being disciplined for being mouthy to a member of staff.

“Perhaps. But perhaps you also have no idea what you’re talking about”

“Now you’re just not making sense”

“You’re nineteen, Richard. Things have a way of working out. Don’t burn the letters. Don’t send your memories of him up in flames. You’ll regret it.”

“Can I go now?”

“But of course”

As soon as he wakes up, Richie decides that he’s not going to rehearsal. This is partly because he’s hungover, but the hangover was nothing worse than he’d ever experienced after getting pissed after the opening night of every other production he’s ever done. It was mostly because he couldn’t bear to look at Eddie’s face. Or, perhaps more accurately, he couldn’t take nearly twelve hours of Eddie refusing to look at him with anything other than scorn. Not today.

He contemplates ringing to tell Eddie that he’s ill, but he doesn’t have Eddie’s number. He thumbs over the ‘Eds <3’ contact in his phone. Eddie’s old number, of course. Richie had a new number, too, in fact, he’d had several new numbers in the fifteen years since he’d last text Eddie. He had, however, copied the ‘Eds <3’ contact into every new phone he’d has since 2019. He assumed that Eddie had probably also had several new numbers since they’d last talked, but that didn’t deter him.

Now, though, the sight of ‘Eds <3’ in his phone turns his stomach more than the whiskey in the tumbler on his nightstand does.

He decides not to ring anyone.

Instead, he clicks on the YouTube app, and types in ‘Edward II’.

He watches other people say the lines that he’d whispered to Eddie until he falls asleep, tear tracks marking his cheeks.

Richie wakes up several hours later. His phone is buzzing furiously on his bedside table like an angry hornet. When he picks it up, the screen reads ‘Unknown Number’. He throws the phone on the floor.

The buzzing stops, but almost immediately starts up again.

He doesn’t answer.

The unknown number calls back again.

He doesn’t pick up.

His phone buzzes again, but this time its three short buzzes.

A Text.

He grabs his phone off the stained carpet.

From: Unknown Number:

Where the fuck are you?

From: Unknown Number:

Today was a fucking disaster. Where are you?

From: Unknown Number:

How dare you make me worry about you.

Richie stares at the last text, shrouded in the dark comfort of his room, for what feels like hours.

[garagedoorrepairwalnutcree-blog2]

5 Reasons Why You Should Buy an Electric Garage Door Opener in Walnut Creek CA

Since garage space became a popular need for homeowners, more people were able to realize how this home feature can secure and protect their precious cars. Gone were the days of leaving cars outside the house, where it can incur damage from extreme weather conditions. Allotting space for a garage has become a norm for most people, especially those who wish to protect their cars from criminals and other felons. However, it is not enough to allot a space where you can safely keep you car. You will also need to find an effective garage opener that is easy to control and operate. If you want to experience pleasure from a convenient garage opener, you should be willing to invest on an electric garage door opener.

If you are not aware of its mechanisms and features, you should know five reasons why you should buy this device. Update your obsolete garage door with these important benefits in mind.

Maximum convenience and satisfaction

Its state of the art mechanism is able to perform complex functions without needing too much effort from you. By pressing a few buttons in your remote control, you can immediately send signals that would be read by the garage opener's main unit. It would send signals to activate the distinct driver mechanism used in your machine, and pull your door open or close.

Since you will only need to press the remote, you do not need to step out your car and yank on the door's body. There is no need to worry about shivering outside while you are forcing your garage door to open. With its simple remote control technology, you can smoothly drive inside your garage with no additional hassles.

Fast and easy-to-operate unit

Sloppy and stubborn garage doors should not waste your precious time. It is very inconvenient to use manual mechanisms, especially if you are in a hurry to leave your home. Being late for meetings because of uncooperative garage doors can be very irritating. Every time you remember how a lifeless garage door made you late for work, you would constantly get frustrated about how helpless you feel.

By updating your roller door openers and buying the electric garage opener, there would be no more minutes wasted on struggling with your garage door. Your doors will automatically open after pressing on its remote control's buttons. Its user-friendly system will never make you feel confused about controlling its main functions.

Little maintenance required

Unlike other garage openers, this device does not need a lot of maintenance. Most of its providers also offer 5-6 years of warranty, so you would not need to worry about technical repairs. You would also save money from its low needs for maintenance, so you should not hesitate to invest on its high-quality features.

Safety and security programs

Another reason why you should buy it is related to its unique security programs. With the help of these programs, you can easily keep your car safe from intruders and criminals. In addition, it also makes sure that it does not crash on something when it is rolling down to close. Its sensor can immediately detect the presence of any obstruction underneath it. This can help you keep everyone in your home safe, especially if your kids love running around your garage space.

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Team Ice: Adventure 2, or, The One Where They Get A Dog

Team Ice played a follow up game after their first adventure (read about that here!) and we’re bringing you the summary!

The Cast - TEAM ICE

Skids by Soundwave (human rogue) Tailgate by Butter (dwarven barbarian) Cyclonus by Ren (tiefling paladin) Nautica by Robophelia (half-elf wizard) Velocity by Cee (high elf cleric) Brainstorm by Bex (air genasi wizard)

First session

The party wakes up the morning after their adventure at the inn First Aid recommended for them.

Skids has had a troubled night’s sleep as his memories kept coming back to him.

They have the various materials looted from Zeta’s castle throughout the room - there isn’t much space  to step freely. Much of it is books, and also the papers from his private study.

As you wake up the party notices the delicious smell of baked goods wafting up to your room. They didn’t notice before, but the inn is set just next to a bakery and pastry shop.

---

As Velocity, Nautica, and Skids walk into the shop, you see baskets of bread and bagels and rolls, rows of pastries in glass cases, and in a large, round case, a whole cake, smothered with frosting that rises in decadent swirls, brightly colored in turquoise and purple and blues.

Skids is still a bit out of it. He orders coffee for everyone. Velocity is fascinated by the cake. Not a slice of cake, a whole cake! Nautica orders food for herself and Velocity, who is still distracted by the cake.

Velocity: Nautica. Nautica, look at it. It’s real. Cakes exist!

Nautica: Do you want to order a slice?

Velocity: No! I can’t destroy the cake. Nautica, you don’t understand, it’s a whole cake. Not a slice!

Nautica: Are you going to order?

Velocity: Please order for both of us, I need a moment to look at the cake.

There are a few people in the shop having breakfast or picking up loaves of bread while they’re fresh. One person in particular is notable, a halfling man named Rung, who seems to be quite absorbed in his breakfast, a simple apple turnover.

Nautica and Lotty make their way to Skids’s table. Lotty would have noticed Rung if she hadn’t been so focused on the cake. In fact, she takes a seat that allows her to look at it.

Rung notices Velocity and waves. Lotty signals for him to join them all at the table.

“Velocity! Well it is lovely to see you.”

Velocity introduces Rung to the party. He buys her a slice of cake (“since you gave me cake once”) and she is extremely happy.

“You are my new favorite person,” she says to Rung, who seems amused and bemused.

Skids  “Lotty, are you crying?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to grow up without cake!” Lotty sobs, still looking at the slice in front of her.

“Uh, no, I don’t But, uh, it’s nice that you have cake now,” says Skids, sounding very, very, very confused by her reaction to cake.

---

When Velocity and the others come back to the inn, they find Roller, First Aid, Perceptor, and Whirl in the lobby (and Orion. Orion came to thank Skids for freeing him from the charm person spell)

First Aid calls out, “Velocity!”  

When Velocity and the others “I wanted to check up on Skids, and the rest of them - well, they were worried when you all disappeared so suddenly.”

Whirl, in the back: “I wasn’t worried, I just got sick of all the political mumbo-jumbo back at Swerve’s.”

“Don’t worry,” First Aid says, “Prowl doesn’t know we’ve left.”

The party and friends start sorting through the loot from Zeta’s in their inn room. Nautica recalls that a symbol in one of the documents is connected to certain old religions, but that’s all she knows other than that it gives off a bad vibe.

They also find orders for construction under the castle. There’s no updated map, but they see information on where construction would have begun. The various plans and correspondences suggest that Zeta was concerned about the security of the castle, and wanted to keep his most important research and laboratories hidden, in a place that Nine of Twelve wouldn’t know about because it did not exist when he controlled the castle. The research referenced includes vague references to the plane of his patron, and also information that Skids recognizes, as being about the enforcers Tyrest provided to the Functionists, and further experimentation on them to improve and reverse engineer them for further production.

Prowl arrives. Skids sees him through a peephole in the door and writes on a piece of paper that they can’t let him see the loot they’ve collected from Zeta. A lot of writing ensues, with the whole party trying to plan how to fool Prowl without being heard by him. Nautica casts featherfall on Skids and he leaves through a window and goes to talk to Prowl. Prowl followed Aid and co. there and claims he was worried about Skids. Skids pretends he still has amnesia and wasn’t trying to hide from Prow, he was just tired and asked Aid where he could go to get some undisturbed rest. He claims he doesn’t know why First Aid kept this information from Prowl. He also says they didn’t find any important items in the castle. Prowl is very tired and buys it.

First Aid leaves, along with all of the people he brought except Whirl. Whirl wants to stay with the party because things at the hideout are “boring”. Skids trusts Whirl because Whirl also dislikes Prowl. While they are sorting through the They stash the loot from Zeta’s, partially in Perceptor’s lab and partially in a secret place Whirl uses. The party also keeps a few dangerous or important things with them.

Then they leave for Zeta’s new construction with Whirl in tow.

----

The entrance to Zeta’s secret underground lab construction is in the courtyard of his castle. Once the party makes their way through the hidden entrance and down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, they find another stone troll. They answer the following three riddles to move past the troll.

You can see me in still water, but I am never wet. What am I? Your reflection

To keep me, I must be given. If I am not kept, I am broken. What am I? Your word or promise

Speak my name, and I am broken. Seldom heard, and never spoken. What am I? Silence

Water room: A room full of water magically kept in place. A mechanism on the far side can be used to drain it. Nautica easily swims to it but isn’t strong enough to work it and has to swim back. Nautica then uses shape water to move the mechanism instead. The room drains.

Canyon room: The room has a canyon, about 2 stories deep and ~13ft (~4m) wide. Brainstorm flies across, tying a rope on either side. Skids and Tailgate cross the rope easily (Skids cartwheels across cause he’s a big showoff) but the rest of the party fall into the canyon. Velocity and Cyclonus are slightly injured. Skids and Tailgate throw down a knotted rope and everyone but Nautica climbs out. Finally, Nautica holds onto the rope and the rest of the party works together to pull her out.

Wolf room: There is a horse-sized wolf chained to the wall. Skids doesn’t like wolves and immediately shoots it, but Tailgate and Velocity feel bad for it. Nautica casts sleep on it, which almost puts it to sleep because it was injured (“You’re welcome! I still hate wolves.” -Skids) Tailgate and Lotty give it rations and Tailgate is able to calm it down so the party can walk by it without a fight.

After giving rations to the wolf, Tailgate decides to approach it and calm it down. He succeeds, so Lotty dares to approach it too. She feels terrible for it and considers healing it, but she knows she can’t spend spell slots or potions that the party might need on it, so she promises to it that she’ll return for it and free it.

----

Zeta’s Study!

The first thing the party notices in the study is a large birdcage with a young aarakocra child inside. Before anyone can do anything, Whirl smashes the birdcage, and everyone in the room briefly senses Something Important, like something intense and overwhelming rushed into the room. Whirl picks up the child and Skids goes over to check on them. After a quick check from Lotty confirms they aren’t physically hurt, Skids and Whirl take the child - Scrappy - to go look for their parents.

Lotty examines the cage to try and figure out what kind of magic they sensed. This magic feels different from the other types of magic in the room. It has a chaotic vibe.

There’s a piece of correspondence with Caminus that suggests the Functionists might be trying for an alliance.

There is also more Planar research, letters from the Functionists reminding him that they allow Zeta his Patron but he is not their focus, and his to keep his focus on the end goal.

Letters suggesting that he needs to speed up his research and production of the legislators because Tyrest has become slow and uncooperative after the attack a year ago, the one that Skids knows he was responsible for.

The party gets to the other side of the study and through the door sees a laboratory full of what Skids recognizes as parts of the legislators, chopped apart and twisted in various ways. In the center, you see a tank where parts seem to have been cobbled together around something round… growing. It’s hard to tell through the thick greenish gel in the tank, but it almost seems that it could be… orange. It does not wake up, though.

----

Skids and Whirl take the child, Scrappy, to the hideout, where the charmed guards are being examined to make sure they really were charmed and not loyal to Zeta. Scrappy’s mom has recently been cleared and they’re happily reunited. Scrappy’s mom is still in the process of getting in touch with her wife, who was outside the city when the wall went up. Rung is there and offers to counsel the child if their parents agree. After an insight check, Skids decides he trusts Rung.

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After inspecting the cage where Scrappy was being held and taking a quick look around the room, Lotty returns to the wolf. Brainstorm helps her remove the wolf’s shock collar. Since apparently they won’t be fighting anyone, she heals it, finds out it’s a ‘she’, and proceeds to sit down with her back against the wolf’s side and pet her.

“Who’s a good girl? You are!” says Lotty as she pets the wolf.

Inside the study, Tailgate found a cold crate, containing ice-cream and everyone has ice-cream. Brainstorm tries to translate some documents from Primordial, and is excited to study the contents of the lab.. Other documents are taken to Lotty, who refuses to leave the wolf’s side, who tries to translate them from Infernal. Other members of the party

The wolf is adopted by the party and named Luna. The party returns to the inn with their new giant wolf in tow, as well as a new collection of papers and journals stolen from Zeta, and finds Luna a place to sleep in the barn. Skids rejoins the party, having successfully reunited Scrappy with their mom, and everyone settles back down in the Inn.

Adventure 3!