#body horro if you look at it closely

[idkwhy13]

My metamorphosis begins

[cecilysass]

The Boy on the Beach (9/16)

Read on AO3 | Tagging@today-in-fic

Chapter 9: The Wrong Time

The soundtrack for this chapter is Right Place Wrong Time, by Dr. John, from his 1973 album In the Right Place. This song peaked at #10 on the Billboard Hot 100 in June 1973.

November 25, 1973 Chilmark, Massachusetts

Bill Mulder had been home for thirty minutes now, but he hadn’t spoken to anyone in his family. Scully found it unsettling.

From the stairs on the landing, she could see the back of his head, his dark hair, emerging from behind a leather chair in the den. Scotch sat at his hand. A halo of cigarette smoke curled slowly around him. The evening news played idly on the TV, more details about the unfolding Watergate scandal in the White House.

Scully offered to help set the table with Samantha and the boy, so they were placing thick earthenware plates at each spot, bracketing them with silverware. Teena Mulder, busily moving around casserole dishes in oven mitts, seemed perfectly steady on her feet now. Her lips were set in a neutral, unreadable expression.

When the table was ready, Teena surveyed it with a little nod. “Go tell your father dinner’s ready, Fox.”

In an obedient burst he bounded around the corner into the den. “Dad,” Scully heard him say. “We’re ready to eat.”

There was a sudden catch in his breath.

Scully didn’t have to think. She was so alert to his signals, even at this age. She rounded the corner behind him in three steps.

What she saw first was Bill Mulder, bemused, standing up to look at his son.

What she saw next was her own face on the TV screen. It was her 3rd grade school picture. Not her favorite photo from childhood: bangs and pigtails and wide, wide overbite smile. Underneath, in scary capital letters: DANA SCULLY, SAN DIEGO GIRL MISSING FROM HOME SINCE THANKSGIVING DAY.

“What’s the matter with you?” Bill Mulder was saying to the boy.

“She- she just looks like someone I know,” the boy said, eyes on the screen. To his credit, he didn’t turn around, didn’t give a whisper away. Scully took an unsteady step closer so that she could hear the TV.

“...authorities continue to treat the case as a possible abduction,” the reporter’s voice was saying. “Meanwhile, the Scully family asks for help from the public.”

The image cut to Scully’s parents standing together in front of a microphone on the front steps of the San Diego police station, Bill, Melissa and Charlie huddled close next to them. Bill stared straight into the camera, stoic, no flicker of expression. Melissa was burying her face in her mother’s arm. Charlie, who was very small, never lifted his eyes from the ground.

“We ask that if anyone has any information about Dana,” her father said into the microphone, “anything at all, that they don’t hesitate to come forward.” His voice broke. “This has been so hard on our family. Please help us bring our little girl home.”

The screen jumped back to the anchor in the studio. Scully stood completely still, all breath gone from her body.

She had done that. That damage, wrought all over her mother’s face, all over her whole family’s faces, was her handiwork.

“That’s sad,” the boy’s voice was raspy, almost a whisper. He glanced over at Scully. “That’s really sad.”

No one said anything. Scully sensed the tension rolling off the boy, who was shifting restlessly from foot to foot beside her. The news cut to a commercial for cigars. It’s the quality taste of tobacco, for a man who knows what he wants out of life.

“Yes, it is sad.” The ice in Bill Mulder’s scotch glass tinkled as he brought it to his lips and back. “But sometimes sad things happen, son,” he said, dully. “You have to try not to feel everything so deeply.”

The boy’s eyes cut immediately to his father’s. “Dad, a missing kid. Something like that … some things really should be felt deeply. Don’t you agree?”

Bill Mulder let out a ragged sigh. “Well of course, ideally. But if you go through life like that, well, you’re going to get knocked around. It’s an unpredictable world.”

All the horror Scully felt at seeing her face on the TV changed direction, channeling suddenly towards Bill Mulder. She felt herself swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet, filled with a sudden surge of fury at his words, at their implications.

It’s a lot more of an unpredictable world than you fucking know, Bill Mulder. You and all your suited associates, who think you understand all the variables at play. None of you even know my name.

Stubbing out his cigarette and sighing heavily, Bill Mulder didn't pay any attention to Scully at all. He didn’t ask who she was or why she was there for dinner. Not the way Bill Scully would have treated a guest in his home, greeting a stranger in a warm and booming voice, extending his hand and telling a joke. Bill Mulder just walked over and turned off the TV, and strode right past her to the dining room table without giving her a second look. As if she were a ghost.

And wasn’t she a ghost, she thought, standing there staring at the empty TV screen? Wasn’t she all that remained of the real Dana Scully, a little girl with bangs and a big smile – a vibrant little girl with a family who loved her, whose biggest problem was bickering with her sister?

All that was left was this … hollowed-out adult. So colorless, so grim. Who floated around in a time she didn’t belong in.

The boy was just standing there gaping at her. When his eyes found hers, he pointed emphatically at the TV and silently mouthed the word: “You?”

She nodded. Lightning fast, she wiped her eyes, but she suspected not fast enough; he’d likely seen the tears there.

His eyes slowly grew rounder, as if he were understanding something. They were such soft and wide versions of her Mulder’s green eyes. They were far, far too easy to imagine on an infant’s face.

“Maybe you can go try to explain to your family,” he whispered, “so they don’t worry?”

“Maybe,” she nodded. “After the mission.”

What happened to her family had also happened to him, she realized with a chill, following him back to the dinner table.

Or, more accurately, it had happened to her Mulder.

She had known this all along, of course, but the real horror and trauma of it now stared her in the face. What her family had been like on TV: that had been what Mulder lived through, what he had already survived for as long as she had known him.

But he had done it alone. Unlike the members of her family, her Mulder had no one else to cling to, no arm to bury his face in. He had wept and wept for his sister, and he had been told by his father not to feel things so deeply.

Berkeley, California 100 Hours After Scully Vanishes 1999

A little hope had done Mulder a world of good. At last he had been convinced to visit his much-neglected hotel room and take a shower, which was pretty much a necessity at this point. It had been cruel to the graduate students to keep smelling as he did. Newly clean, shaved, in fresh clothes, he even managed to collapse on the motel bed and sneak in a short nap.

He woke up with the sound of Scully’s voice in his ears, the crisp ends of her consonants just fading away. The memory of the hush of the ocean.

He lay on his back for a moment, trying to restart the motor of the memory, but he couldn’t piece the dream back together. He told himself not to worry. It seemed like a good omen to dream about Scully in any case.

As he pulled his own motel room door shut, he paused to let his eyes rest on the nondescript door directly next to his, the door to the room that belonged to her. He wondered if he should try to go inside and gather up her belongings, move them into his, and officially check her out of the hotel room. No doubt the Bureau would prefer that. It would save them money.

He decided against it. Screw the Bureau. He didn’t want to risk ruining his relatively upbeat mood. If Georgette had her way, Scully would be back to pack her own damn bags before long anyway.

When he arrived back at the lab, resolute with new purpose, he had his arms full, precariously balancing a stack of pizzas and keeping steady a cup of coffee. As he backed his way through the glass doors at the entrance, he nearly collided with Skinner.

“Mulder.” Skinner looked him over quizzically, taking a few of the pizza boxes for him. “You’re looking … better. Much better.”

“The team and I have been making good progress,” Mulder said lightly, moving to the conference table with his boxes. “I’m encouraged. So encouraged I brought pizza. Young people still like pizza, right?”

“That’s great news,” Skinner nodded, giving Mulder his kindly sympathetic look, that look that always made Mulder feel a little embarrassed. “Mulder, I was wondering where you got – that.”

“What, the coffee?” Mulder looked down at the fragrant cup still steaming in his hand. “Some very Berkeley café a few blocks away. Brewed Awakening? Human Bean? I know it had a coffee pun in the name.”

“I meant that,” Skinner had set his pizza boxes down, too, and was now pointing at the notes scattered all over the conference table. “That looks like Hays’ notes.”

“Oh,” Mulder shrugged. Keep this vague, he thought. “Yeah, the grad students have been recreating what parts of Hays’ work they can.”

“To what end?” Skinner said, arching an eyebrow. “Do they actually think they can…?”

“Maybe,” Mulder said, carefully. “It’s a possibility.”

The lab appeared empty, he noted. Just untidy computer stations and the constant hum of power running under everything. But he could hear little sounds in the back hall. Faintly, possibly the echo of the music the students were perpetually listening to. Maybe the students were gathered in the lounge, taking a break. He hoped they stayed put. The less anyone told Skinner at this point, the better.

Skinner gave him a knowing look. “Okay, Mulder,” he said. “Just make sure you remember that it was only a matter of a few weeks ago the inside of your head was on the outside.” He opened up a pizza box, helped himself to a piece. “That is to say, don’t do anything stupid to compound our problems.”

“Never, sir,” Mulder said blandly. “Is there any update about Hays?”

“That’s what I came here to tell you,” Skinner sighed, chewing on his pizza. “He’s stopped talking altogether. And eating, too. He says he’ll only give us information if we allow him full access to his lab, no guards.”

“No way,” Mulder felt his jaw set and shook his head. “No telling what he has in mind if he does that. Maybe he thinks he can travel into another multiverse himself.”

“That was my read,” Skinner agreed, “although there are some at the Bureau who … think another approach is warranted. Who aren’t as convinced the lab is a danger.”

“You have to convince them,” Mulder said. Or at least hold them off a little while longer, he did not add. “Hays – he’s a wild card. If we can convince him to help us, he could be useful. But if he’s given access to what he has here, I’d say he’s a flight risk.”

Skinner took another thoughtful bite of pizza. “It’s good,” he said, chewing slowly, looking down at the slice. “The pizza. A step up from that crap you and Scully order all the time at work.”

“I won’t stand here and listen to you insult Mama Nina’s like that, sir.”

“I’ll do my best with Hays,” Skinner gave a short nod, turning to go. “You’ll keep me updated on whatever the hell you’re doing here?”

Mulder blinked. “Of course. I’m just working with the graduate students.”

“Yeah,” Skinner said. “That’s going remarkably well, huh? When this is over, maybe you should really spend more time teaching at Quantico. Or I should get you some interns. You’ve got a certain … rapport with them that surprises me.”

“Eh, I’m just doing what it takes,” Mulder said uncomfortably.

“I’m taking this with me,” Skinner gestured with the slice of pizza. “Stay out of trouble, Mulder.”

“Have an excellent day, sir.”

That was apparently a shade too polite. Skinner turned back to give him one more concerned, suspicious look before heading out the door.

Mulder exhaled, cradled his fancy coffee in his hands, and rolled his head around in a deep circle, his neck making some promising pops and cracks. All he had to do was hold off the pressure from the Bureau until he could get her back. Nobody could argue if she simply showed up again, could they? It just meant that they didn’t have the luxury of unlimited time.

“Is your boss gone?” called Anish, his head appearing through the back hallway door.

“Were you hiding back there?” Mulder said in amusement. “I’m the only one who needs to hide, you know.” He folded himself into one of the swivel chairs, took a deep swig from his coffee, and watched as the whole team made an unwieldy reentrance. Georgette was carrying her laptop and an enormous stack of papers, which no one helped her with. Marshall had a pillow and a map of imprinted red lines over his face. Paolo looked like was holding a yoga mat and a CD player.

“You shaved!” Anish said. “I’m overjoyed. And you brought pizza?” He turned around. “Guys, Agent Mulder brought us pizza.”

“I feel loved,” Eujung said, coming in. “Did you shower, Agent Mulder? Because that’s what would really show your love.” Anish elbowed her as they both reached into the box to grab some pizza.

“Can Agent Mulder solve the music dispute?” Marshall said testily, also grabbing a slice. “Because I think three hours of The Roots is unreasonable. Agent Mulder, do you think three hours of the same album is conducive to a good working environment?”

“Marshall, no one wants to listen to your music,” Paolo snapped back. “Including Agent Mulder.”

“Nobody even knows what kind of music Agent Mulder likes, Paolo, because no one has been consulted about music except for–”

“Hey.” Georgette cleared her throat. “Okay. Can we do this? I’m ready to get started. Everyone get your pizza and sit down.”

Marshall and Paolo, eyeing one another sulkily, slunk into chairs and started wolfing down pizza as others filled in around them. Mulder normally wasn’t put off by immature behavior from brilliant minds; he had, after all, once seen the Gunmen practically reduced to tears in a knock-down fight over who ate someone else’s mozzarella sticks from their communal refrigerator. But he still felt a flicker of anxiety. He needed to be able to trust these kids completely to help bring Scully home.

“I have an update,” Georgette said, once everyone was settled. Her laptop was set up in front of her, her papers in a meticulous spiral at her fingertips. He had to admit; she, for one, did inspire confidence.

“We’ve been combing through Hays’ most recent notes,” she said, “and we think we understand now what he was working on. We feel ready to do a test run.”

Mulder sat up straight so quickly he jostled his coffee, and he moved quickly to wipe it up. “A test run?” he said, his voice sounding slightly unsteady to his ears. “What does that mean?”

“It means we send someone back to the same approximate point in time, 1973, but only for a matter of seconds. We want one limited electrical stimulus to that region of the brain, one that can sustain a trip there and a trip back, no more. So this will be very limited in scope.”

“How does it work?”

“The person needs to visualize the right day,” Georgette said. She frowned, picked up a pencil absent-mindedly. “The destination time originates from your own will, your own mind, or at least that’s what Hays believed.”

Mulder said nothing. That raised the question of how Scully ended up in November 1973 in the first place. Why November 1973 would be so much on her mind. It had to be because of their argument, didn’t it? She was thinking of the mission, of his desire to find out what happened to Samantha? That meant this was his fault in an entirely new way. He tucked that thought away, to think about later.

“Then, once the test subject travels back to 1973, we believe they will take the place of their 1973 self. Because, as you were able to confirm with the San Diego PD, there doesn’t seem to be any 9-year old Dana Scully floating around 1999. She seems most likely to have been replaced – temporarily, we hope – by her time-traveling adult self from another multiverse. So our test subject is going to travel via their own 1973 body.”

“Tell him about the personnel problem,” Anish urged.

“Right,” Georgette nodded. “So that raises a personnel problem. Because it means that our test subject needs a 1973 body to travel into. And most of us don’t have one.”

“I don’t follow,” Mulder said. “Why don’t most of you have one?”

“We weren’t born yet,” Georgette shrugged, as if that should be obvious. “Most of us–” she made an inclusive gesture around the table “–were born in the mid-1970s. So we would have no body existing yet to jump into.”

Mulder ran his fingers over his newly smooth shaved chin. “Right,” he said, contemplating this. “You’re young. I get it.” He leaned forward on the table on his elbows. “But … it doesn’t matter anyway, Georgette. It’s clear that it should be me. I have a 1973 body, and my 1973 body is actually with her, so potentially, I’ll even be able to somehow communicate in those few seconds, give her an idea of what is going on.”

The graduate students looked at one another, clearly a little nervous, and then at Georgette.

“I agree it makes some sense. But…” Georgette began delicately, “wasn’t there something about you just recovering from brain surgery? I didn’t hear all the details.”

“Eventually, when we do this for real,” Mulder said, “it has to be me who goes, Georgette.”

“This is the Messiah complex thing? He thinks he’s Jesus?” Georgette said to Anish.

“I really don’t,” Mulder said. “Well, not in this particular circumstance. And you know I’m right, Georgette. My brain … it’s a risk, but this is a risk that’s worth it. I’m the only person who’s in the right place at the right time.”

The other graduate students turned solemnly to Georgette. Mulder could hear the persistent tapping of her foot like a tiny countdown clock. Her lips unmoving, she raised an eyebrow in question towards Anish, and his head did a little dip in return that Mulder couldn’t decipher.

“All right,” Georgette said slowly to Mulder. “Let’s say it’s a go. We need to begin immediately working on the test run. We have a lot to do, because I want to do it this afternoon.”

Mulder felt like leaping out of his seat. “This afternoon?”

The possibility of seeing Scully, even for a moment, so unexpectedly soon.

“Why not? No time like the present,” Georgette said dryly, stacking her papers.

“Ha,” Eujung said, rolling her eyes and biting her pizza. “No time like the present. I get it.”

November 26, 1973 Chilmark, Massachusetts

Monday was a school day. Why wouldn’t it be? No one but Scully knew it was the day before Samantha was scheduled to disappear.

No, Scully corrected herself. Someone knew. Somewhere, someone was planning for it. But the tragedy hadn’t touched the Mulder family yet. They woke up and took showers and got dressed and ate a quiet breakfast at the kitchen table on that dark November morning.

The boy’s improvised cover story —that she was a visiting teacher from California— required that Scully be dropped off at school with him, although she didn’t need to stay there. After a fitful night’s sleep, she had showered and dressed this morning in her stolen woolen pants, another turtleneck sweater, her 1999 boots, her 1999 bra. Her weapon and the body cam were both holstered discreetly to her.

She had looked herself over in the small mirror over the vanity in the Mulders’ guest room. Did she look plausibly like a 1973 teacher? No one better be paying so much attention to her chest in the turtleneck to notice the period-inappropriate bra. The weapon and camera were not too lumpy, as the waist of her pants were a little loose. The ends of her hair were now curling haphazardly around her face because she had showered last night and not blow dried or styled, and she had no make-up or jewelry at all, besides her cross necklace. It felt unpolished by her personal standards, but hopefully, it came across as a natural look.

There was a knock on the guest room door.

“Samantha caught the bus to her school,” the boy said, standing in the door frame, awkwardly, appearing to be all legs and arms. “Mom’s going to drop you and me off in a few minutes. After that you can go … wherever you’re planning on going.”

“All right,” she nodded. “I’ll get my coat.”

“Agent Scully?” he said.

“Scully,” she corrected.

“I was thinking. This event that happens? It’s got to do with Samantha, doesn’t it?”

Scully paused midway through putting her arm through her pea coat. She looked at him, leaning against the door frame.

“You wanted me to do her recital so badly. You didn’t say anything about what she did in 1999. You looked … kind of sad when I talked about her and me being a team.”

“Yes. You’re right,” Scully said matter-of-factly. She finished putting the coat on, began buttoning it up. “But it doesn’t matter, Fox. Because it’s not going to happen here. Not to you and her.”

“It’s tomorrow, right?” He stood up straight. “Shouldn’t you be telling us what to do soon? Shouldn’t we be … going over the mission?”

Scully nodded. “After school today. I’ll work it out.”

He didn’t meet her eyes, his eyes shifting downward. She could see a crease in his forehead, above his eyes, that she recognized, although she had not yet seen it on his younger face.

“Mul– Fox. Look at me,” she said. She put her hand on his small shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m used to watching out for you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you or Samantha.”

He smiled a little halfheartedly.

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who would lie to make me feel better,” he said.

Scully found herself huffing a laugh, unexpectedly. “No,” she said. “I’m really not.”

***

While the Mulder siblings were in school, Scully checked out Chilmark – as best she could, in a limited way, on foot.

It was too much to hope for, she supposed, that she would see Spender sitting ominously in a black car, or that she might spot a fleet of unmarked vehicles parked a distance away from the Mulder home. She deduced that whoever took Samantha must have had access to their own transport off of Martha’s Vineyard, either boat or otherwise, and if she had 1999 Bureau resources at her disposal, she might have tried to track down all the possible ways to leave the island besides a ferry. But as it was, she could hardly do that on her own with no vehicle and no F.B.I. badge to flash.

By the time the school day was over, a plan had begun to emerge in her mind, the plan that would most effectively keep the Mulder siblings out of harm’s way without requiring much material support.

It wasn’t … ideal. And she was going to need their buy-in.

Teena Mulder drove Scully and the boy home from school that afternoon, and Scully was relieved not to be asked any questions about how she spent her day as a visiting teacher.

Once again, Teena Mulder seemed distracted. Not impolite, and not as disoriented as she had been the first day, but as though her mind were somewhere else. Her eyes seemed perpetually fixed on a distant point. The question was, Scully wondered, how distant, exactly?

Samantha had to practice piano, and when they arrived home, she was already dutifully banging out “Fur Elise” somewhere in the house. So the boy and Scully waited for her in his room, where he sat on the floor cross-legged and methodically unpacked school materials from his backpack, in that selectively systematic manner Mulder always had.

“You’re in sixth grade?” Scully said, curiously, watching him.

“I’m in seventh,” he said, flipping through a binder. “I should be in sixth, technically, given my October birthday, but they moved me up due to my great intellect.”

“And you do well in school?”

He looked up and sighed. “Academically? Sure. But I think everyone thinks I could win more friends and influence more people.”

Scully smiled slightly. “Ah, well. That’s overrated.” And it will surely get easier, she thought. Being tall, good-looking and athletic never hurt any boy I ever knew in high school or college. She moved to the window over his desk and pulled back his curtain slightly with the tip of her finger. “You can see the ocean a little from this window, can’t you? I would have liked that, when I was your age. To always be able to have eyes on the sea.”

“It’s Squibnocket Beach,” the boy said. He had stopped unpacking the backpack, and was now still, tilting his head, studying her in a way she found unnerving.

“What’s wrong?” She smoothed back her hair self-consciously.

“In the light from the window there, you look just exactly like ... someone from a painting,” the boy said, appraisingly. “I didn’t notice it before, but now I really see it.”

Scully gave him an apprehensive look, stepping away from the window.

“You look like Beatrice, in that famous painting by Dante Rossetti. You know the one I mean?”

“No,” she said. That wasn’t quite true. In her teens she and Melissa had collected postcards of artwork featuring redheads, which she had made into an impressive collage on their bedroom wall. She did have some vague image, in the back of her mind, of the painting he meant: of the red-headed heroine, leaning back, in a divine trance. “You know about art, Fox?”

“My mother and my grandmother,” the boy said, “are big fans. And donors. The Met in New York, mostly. My grandparents, my mom’s parents, live in New York, so we go all the time, just about every month.”

“That often?”

“At least,” the boy said. “I mean, I like to go. We go see shows, to the zoo in the park. My grandfather takes us to games – the Yankees, the Knicks.”

“Oh,” Scully said, that information clicking in place. Mulder had never mentioned these New York trips specifically. She suspected they stopped after Samantha’s disappearance, and she wondered why.

“My grandmother loves the Pre-Raphaelites,” the boy said seriously. “We have a picture of the Beatrice in a book in the study. Do you want to see?”

“Sure,” Scully said, faintly curious.

He hopped up, giving her his eager-to-please quirked smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Scully smiled, too, and turned to look out the window again at his little fragmented view of the beach. The boy was exactly what she might have expected in many respects. Yet there were sides to him that deeply surprised her, bright threads running through his personality that were much more muted in 1999 adult Mulder.

And then … there was already more of a melancholy streak than she might have guessed, she thought, pulling the curtain back in place. A darkness that predated Samantha’s abduction. She had assumed all sadness in Fox Mulder sprang originally from that one formative event. Adult Mulder seemed to believe that to be true, too; it seemed integral to the story he told her on their first case together, the story that he thought made him who he was. But now that she saw this version of him, she wasn’t as sure.

She heard him step back into the room, and turned to see the boy standing there, his expression wooden, Samantha standing uncertainly beside him. He had no book in his hand.

“Did you find the book?” Scully said, concerned.

“No, I —” His face was ashen.

"Fox?"

“Something happened. I was in the study, and – then I wasn’t. I think I must have passed out.”

Scully moved to him right away, placing her hand on his back. “Do you feel dizzy? Sit down on your bed. Have you had water this afternoon?”

“Yes,” he said, sitting, wobbly, lowering himself on the edge of his bed. “I mean – I don’t know, I guess? No more or less than usual.”

Samantha looked at Scully, her eyes fearful. “He was standing in the hall, like he didn’t know where he was,” she whispered, although the boy could clearly hear her.

Scully willed her face to reveal nothing, but she felt her stomach clenching. Lost time. Disorientation. She didn’t like the sound of this. It also didn’t seem consistent with any account she had ever heard from Mulder of the time of Samantha’s abduction. “Has this ever happened to you before, Fox?” she said gently.

He shook his head. But Samantha swallowed.

“Agent Scully– when I came into the hall, I thought I saw a man there,” Samantha whispered hesitantly.

“A man?” Scully repeated, urgently, leaning in towards her. “What kind of man?”

“A man standing in the hall,” nodded Samantha anxiously. “A man I didn’t know. I ducked my head around the corner, and when I looked back, all I saw was Fox.”

Scully felt, almost without thinking, for the outline of her weapon underneath her clothing. Feeling its presence there allowed her to relax, just slightly.

“All right,” she said, calming herself down, too. “All right, I have an idea. After we give Fox a moment to get his feet under him again, why don’t the three of us go for a walk before dinner? Maybe to the beach? Squibnocket Beach, you said, right, Fox?”

The boy and Samantha looked at each other. “Yeah,” the boy said. “Squibnocket.”

“That will be a good place to talk,” Scully said.

“It’s going to be windy.”

“That’s okay. Once we’re there, I can keep an eye on … things,” Scully said. “And I’ll tell you what the three of us are doing tomorrow.”

Samantha frowned, her small face looking from Scully back to the boy. “Are we going some place tomorrow?”

Berkeley, California 105 Hours After Scully Vanishes 1999

Success, declared Georgette. The test run was an unqualified success. There and back without incident.

“So that’s it then?” Mulder said, following her around. “You’re satisfied?”

The graduate students were sprawled everywhere, drinking red Solo cups full of champagne they definitely weren’t supposed to be drinking in the lab. In the background Marshall and Paolo were arguing about what music to put on. Mulder, who had a slight headache from his lighting-fast time travel experience, put his hands over his ears subtly. He hadn’t had a sip of his champagne at all.

“I’m overjoyed,” Georgette drank deep from her own Solo cup. “This is gonna be huge.”

“And then what’s next?”

“You know what’s next,” Georgette said. She was beaming. “The real thing. We’ll go over our data again tonight to double check, but this is definitely some Apollo 11 moonwalk shit we’re doing here, Agent Mulder.”

“You’re giant leaping like nobody’s business, Georgette,” Mulder agreed, sitting down in a swivel chair, beginning to lightly apply pressure to his temple.

“Enjoy yourself — and rest up,” Georgette smiled, going to refill her cup. “You’re our Neil Armstrong.”

Truthfully, he thought to himself, massaging both temples, from his very limited Mulder point of view, the test run was disappointing, small steps indeed.

Like Scully, he had started here in the plastic chair in 1999. He had received the electrical stimulus to his brain. Unlike Scully, he had been very intentional about what he was visualizing: Scully herself, in his parents’ house, shortly before November 27, 1973.

And then suddenly he wasn’t in the chair any more. The sensation of the plastic seat was gone from beneath his ass and legs. He was … standing somewhere, in the darkness.

No, not darkness. Mulder just hadn’t been able to see. He had become aware he was holding something in his hands, and it occurred to him it was a book.

He aimed his face downward, in the direction of the book, and slowly, painfully, bright spots began to blossom in front of his eyes. He blinked once, twice, a dozen times. And suddenly he could make it out.

Mulder recognized below him, on the page, the image of Rossetti’s Beata Beatrix, and right away he had known what book he was holding. It was the coffee table book on the Pre-Raphaelites. It had originally been his maternal grandmother’s, but she had loaned it to him for most of his boyhood; it now sat on a shelf somewhere back home at Hegal Place.

At once he could guess why his child self had been getting the book off the shelf and opening it to this page.

Thinking back on it now, at that point he should have shouted, made more noise, but his reaction was to rotate around in open-mouthed wonder, to take in the dark, wood-paneled study of his childhood home, all the books, the model ship, all of which was painfully and eerily familiar. There was no one else in the room but him.

He was overwhelmed by the sensory experience of it. It smelled like home. It smelled like dinner. He could smell something cooking from the kitchen: the piquant oregano edge of his mother’s spaghetti sauce.

He shook his head, knowing there was no time. He needed to find Scully. He needed to tell her what was going on, that they were working to bring her home.

He strode into the hallway quickly, ready to find her wherever she was in this too-familiar house.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

It was too late. His precious seconds of the test run were gone. In a flash he found himself staring up again at the fissured office ceiling of the lab in 1999, and he was greeted by the raucous cheers of the graduate students all around him.

Now, as he sat at the conference table with his temples under his fingertips, he wondered what the young 1973 version of him experienced.

Did the young Fox Mulder remember feeling displaced? Did he just … lose time? Was it painful? He hoped it wasn’t. Would he talk to Scully about it?

He thought about the young Fox Mulder and the book about the Pre-Raphaelite artists. It gave him a strange and unsettled feeling trying to imagine what the young version of him might be telling her. What he might think was appropriate to say. Could his child self inadvertently reveal aspects of his adult psyche he would prefer to keep private? He feared it was possible. He knew he had been a tiresomely adult-oriented kid.

When Scully first was assigned as his partner, he had thought about that book. About Rossetti’s Beatrice. Of course he had. He had looked through his grandmother’s book five thousand times as a kid; it was his grandmother’s favorite, so it was his, too. Later, as a university student, he visited the painting in person at the Tate in London. It always made him think of his grandmother, whom he had once been very close to, who they stopped seeing very often, after Samantha’s disappearance. When Scully first showed up in the basement, how could he not see the resemblance? Scully looked like Beatrice in the painting. And like Beatrice, she was beautiful.

But that’s all a bit ... much to say to a new co-worker, and especially one so determined to be taken seriously, and Mulder had wanted to get their partnership right.

Later, when he and Scully were closer, when he might have reasonably said it in some casual way — perhaps leaving out the “and you’re beautiful” part — he just didn’t have the stomach for the comparison any more. The model for Rossetti’s painting, Elizabeth Siddall, had been Rossetti’s beloved wife, who had died young, wasted away. Elizabeth Siddall was most famous for being the model for tragic heroines. For drowning Ophelia and dying Beatrice.

And after abductions and serial killers and cancer, Mulder just didn’t want to compare Scully to a tragic heroine anymore. He didn’t want her steeped in pallor and draped in rosemary and shrouds and ethereal light and dying in some beautiful and romanticized way.

He wanted her living, flawed, cranky, sarcastic, warm, with flyaway hair and coffee breath and a gun in her hand, aimed at the threat in front of them. He wanted real, living Scully. God, how he wanted her.

Ignoring the sounds of the graduate students’ music now thumping around him, Mulder bore the weight of his head fully in his hands, and felt the weight of his worries start to fall upon him, too.

What would happen if Scully were there when Samantha’s abduction happened? What would happen if she were unable to stop Them, if she put herself in danger, too?

What would happen if she were successful?

Sources:

Beata Beatrix, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1864

[scarlvtbitch]

It’s all coming back to me now

summary: reader and bucky dated until bucky broke up with her, what happens when they see each other after five years?

read part 2 here

You and Bucky had met while he was on the run. He wasn’t planning on having anything, with anyone, he felt too damaged to do so. But you took him entirely by surprise. He didn’t want to feel anything for you, he knew that you would leave the second you found out he was the infamous Winter Soldier. Your reaction, however, shocked him. 

“Y/N, I-I’m not who you think I am.” 

“What? You’re not funny, kind and incredibly handsome?” You joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’m The Winter Soldier. Was, is, I don’t even know anymore.” 

“I know.” He didn’t expect you to be so...calm. You acted as if he just told you he was going to the grocery store. He at least expected fear, anger, but not acceptance.

“W-what?”

“I’ve known from the day I first met you. I recognized your face from the papers. But I also know that wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault. I don’t care about that, Buck. I just care about you.” Instead of answering he just crashed his lips against yours and carried you to the bed. That night was the first time you made love.

Then a few months later, Steve found you both. He expected to find his friend but not you, but regardless he was happy for him. After the events of the whole Steve versus Tony thing, you had accompanied Bucky to Wakanda.

“Doll, you shouldn’t come. I can’t let you keep running for me. What about your home, your family?” You reached up and cupped his cheek with your hand, looking into his magnetic blue eyes.

“Oh, Buck, don’t you know? You’re my home.” Your words brought him to tears, lunging forward and kissing you softly. When he pulled away, he told you he loved you for the first time.

After arriving to Wakanda with him, you then had the privilege in witnessing the start of his freedom.

“You sure you want to be here, doll?” You smiled at his nickname for you. You intertwined his fingers with yours before answering.

“There’s no other place I’d rather be.” He warmly smiled at you before Ayo arrived. You gave him one final nod before the process started.

You got to see him so vulnerable, so broken and so beautiful. After it was over and you saw him sobbing, you didn’t waste any time before you rushed towards him, enveloping him in your arms and holding him tightly against you. When he broke down, you also started sobbing as well. After your cries had died down, he pulled back just a bit, to get a look at you. He gazed at you in a very child like way, lips trembling too.

“I’m so proud of you, my love. You’re finally free.” You smiled before you buried your face in the crook of his neck, his arm coming around you. He started laughing before he repeated the words ‘I’m free’ over, and over again.

You were there when Shuri gave him his new upgraded metal arm. 

“Ok, that’s hot.” You said when he started flexing it, testing the way it moved. 

“Yeah?” He got closer until his arms came around you. You felt the cold vibranium against your back, and had to bite back a moan.

“Not in my lab!” Shuri called from afar, making you and Bucky laugh. He kissed your forehead before whispering huskily in your ear. “Later, doll.”

But the happy bubble you were in, burst one day.

You were sleeping soundly when the feel of cold metal against your throat woke you up. It was Bucky. He was hovering over you, eyes still closed, but his metal hand had a tight grip on your throat. He was having a nightmare. Even if he wasn’t The Winter Soldier anymore, he was still being dominated by the nightmares caused by his trauma. 

“B-buck. It’s me.” You managed to choke out. With the little strength you had, your hand went to cup his cheek, caressing his beard with your thumb. “Come back to me.” When the last words left your mouth, Bucky came back to reality. His eyes snapped open and he immediately realized what was happening.

His body fell from the bed as he went to release your throat from his hold. His eyes widened in horror when he saw what he had done. He was a monster. He then noticed the red marks of his fingers that were starting to form on your neck.

“What the hell did I do?” He looked at his vibranium hand in disgust and terror, wanting to chop it off right there and then.

“You didn’t mean to-”

“No! Just stop, Y/N. You need to leave, now.”

“W-what?” You felt a lump start to form in your throat and tears beginning to gather in your eyes.

“You heard me.”

“No! I won’t leave. Just because you’re scared of hurting me-”

“It’s not that. I don’t love you.” 

“You’re lying.”

“Am I? I only pretended to feel something for you. You were just simply a pretty distraction to get me off.” Tears now flowed freely down your cheeks. You stood up from the bed and approached him. His taller height towering over you, his gaze was set on the opposite side of the room, he felt too sick to look at you in the eyes.

“Tell me that again, but look at me in the eyes.” You grabbed his jaw and turned his face, so that he had no other choice but to look at you. “If you tell me you don’t love me, I’ll leave, and never come back.” His stare was dead serious as his blue eyes looked into yours.

“I don’t love you, never have and never will.” You never thought that words would feel more painful that if someone stabbed you over twenty times, but you were wrong. His lips formed in a thin line as he held your gaze. Your crying that night was an image he would never forget. But he had to love you enough to let you go.

After that awful night, you went back to New York. And reunited with some members of your family that you used to be close with. You thought about him every single day. You tried to move on, going on blind dates, group dates, double dates, but it was all so unnatural. Nobody compared to Bucky. 

And then the snap happened. Half of the universe was gone. You were one of the lucky ones to stay on earth, that was people told you. But you didn’t feel lucky. You felt dead inside. You wished that the Blip would have taken you, it would’ve been so much better than this hell you were living in. 

One day, Steve Rogers contacted you.

“What the hell are you doing here, Steve?” You said when he barged into your apartment.

“Nice to see you too, Y/N.” You rolled your eyes.

“Did Bucky send you? If he did-”

“Wait, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“He..went away, in the snap.” He tried to avoid the use of the word ‘died’, Tears started forming in your eyes but he continued before you could break down any futher. “But we have a plan to bring him back, to bring everyone back.”

[soobirou]

s/o kissing them when they’re scared

anon requested: Hi~ can I request for txt reaction when they're scared (like beomgyu to bugs, taehyun to ghost, hueningkai to height, etc.) and their s/o kiss them to distract them till they're not scared? Thank you so much and, your writings are adorable T3T

pairing: txt x gn reader

warnings: timy mentions of aquaphobia, entomophobia, phasmophobia and acrophobia

＃soobin

soobin had asked if you wanted to come and watch while they were filming the mv for runaway

once you agreed, it made him so happy

but that all changed when the director announced that they would be jumping into a pool

soobin gets so anxious and you can see it

right after the boys jump into the water and are all out of the pool, you pull him aside

and give him a kiss

his mind instantly drifts away from the fact that he’s literally drenched in water

“that’s it?? ☹️”

pouts until you give him another one

at this point, soobin doesn’t even remember jumping into the water

bc now all that fills his mind is the thought of you kissing him again

＃yeonjun

the others were sitting in the dorm while watching having a scary movie marathon

each minute that passed by of the current movie had only scared yeonjun more and more

but he didn’t want to ruin the mood by asking if something else could be played

at this point he’s so creeped out that he’s hiding his face behind your arm

so you decided to occupy his attention by kissing him

poor yeonjun is too shaken up by the movie to even understand what’s happening when you first start kissing kim

omg yeonjun forgots that there’s four other people in the same room

he’ll most likely pull you into his lap and pay attention to you for the rest of the movie

like holding playing with your hands

if he ever finds out that you kissed him so he would feel scared, he’ll start faking it

“y/n this is scary :(( ” “can i have another kiss now?”

＃beomgyu

you suggested going on a picnic date with beomgyu

and he quickly agreed, not realizing that there was a large chance of him encountering a bug

but then he spots a little cricket crawling up the side of his water bottle

he gets so scared :((

when you ask him what’s wrong bc at this point beomgyu is this close to you like 🤏

he tells you about how he was creeped out by the cricket

when you kiss beomgyu he freezes for a split second, surprised that you kissed him when he was taking about the cricket

when he asked abt the random kiss, you tell him that it was to make him feel better

but beomgyu can’t go a day without teasing you so

“you know, you could’ve come up with a better excuse to kiss me y/n 😏”

can’t even remember that he was scared of the cricket

＃taehyun

it’s halloween

taehyun tries his hardest not to show it, but fear is creeping into him at beomgyu’s horro story

he gets so paranoid for the rest of the night

when you enter the kitchen without announcing anything, his body jumped after turning around

“gosh y/n—i thought you were a ghost!!”

after he mentions that he couldn’t stop thinking about beomgyu’s scary ghost story that made him jumpy all night,

when you kissed him, his heart starting beating faster

but this time is wasn’t from a being scared

looks at you like 🤨 before going “what was that about?”

it’s not that he didn’t like it, bc the cutest smile appeared on his face

but it sure did make him forget beomgyu’s whole story as you became the focus of his attention

probably starts showing you a trick he discovered when getting the snacks from the kitchen

and you’re just smiling the whole time, glad that taehyun isn’t feeling afraid anymore

＃hueningkai

you and kai had gone to an amusement park

not knowing that he was afraid of heights, you choose the highest roller coaster

it wasn’t bad during the first few seconds but everything past that part honest scared him

is holding your hand the whole time as a source of comfort

which is why you try to cheer him up once the roller coaster ride is over

kai’s mind goes blank when he feels your lips on his

he gets so shy and giggly

like if you ever want to cheer heuningkai up, just kiss him shsdhhd

the thoughts in his mind are moving at 60 mph

instantly suggests doing something else, 100% forgetting that he just went on the scariest roller coaster

“we should go get some cotton candy y/n!”

if he ever finds out that you kissed him as a distraction, he’ll go from 😊 to 🥲

“y/n~ i can ride roller coasters not”

shshsjsj so cuteee

[shimmershae]

My thoughts on Episode 6--On the Inside

Very appropriate title by the way.  Works in a multitude of ways.  

As always, my randomness is going beneath a cut again to spare the eyeballs of those of you that don’t want to see it at all and also?  Help those of you that have somehow stayed spoiler-free in this brand-new age of early release episodes.  It is still so wild to me that I’m a full episode ahead of half the fandom.  I don’t know what I’m going to do when we get to the final episode and they decide to make us all suffer together--because somehow I do feel they will do exactly that after spoiling us for the first 23 episodes.  It is going to be agonizing.  

Anyway.  Without further ado, Shae’s stream of consciousness review (of sorts).  

Not fair, Angela.  Opening the episode with that shot of that big ass spider.  I hate those suckers.  So naturally, they’re an easy sell for setting the horror scene to me, lol.  

Okay.  Who the hell’s chasing Virgil and Connie?  Walker No-See-Ums?

Barely a minute in and the atmosphere for this episode is moody AF.  

What is this?  Tara Jr. The Walking Dead?  LOL.  Where’s the Scarlett for this mini plantation house?  Anyway.  First three minutes of this episode?  Just as attention grabbing as the first five episode openings this season.  I don’t think people out there are giving our writers enough love for that.  Every episode so far has opened like a mini movie.  

With the way the Walking Dead logo keeps crumbling away with each successive episode, somehow it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the Carol and Daryl spinoff was eventually titled The Living and had flowers growing out of each letter, lol.  I mean, there would be a certain sort of life-affirming symmetry in a show that’s been promised to be much lighter in tone doing just that.  

More Carol and Aaron?  Yes, please.  I don’t necessarily like Carol staying at home and sitting the sidelines like a figurative happy little homemaker in the B story while the rest of the mains are trying like hell to sell the A story, but if she’s going to be totally prohibited from the main storyline until it’s time to blow shit up?  I’m going to continue enjoy getting to see her do what she should have been doing for seasons--interacting with others in the community, especially Aaron and the ladies.  

Truly.  I really am loving my girl getting some quality Aaron and Rosita time.  It’s so long overdue.  

Bless sweet Kelly.  Riding off to her sister’s rescue.  

Why isn’t Lydia shown as part of these plans?  For someone that could barely read last season, I doubt that big ass map was a piece of cake for her and it’s all just guesswork anyway without her guidance.  I mean, why does it feel like they are cutting some of this stuff that might not seem like much plot-wise but would go a long way toward establishing different character beats?  Personally, I would have loved to see her involved in the search and sharing scenes again with Carol and bonding with Kelly. 

Virgil be having that “I always feel like somebody’s watching me” feeling.  Don’t you hate that, lol?  

“You haven’t slept in days.”  But how many days, Virgil?  I’m going to need a number because I’m confused AF about this timeline at this point.  What we’re seeing and what different pieces of dialogue is telling us is not exactly lining up.  I’m going to find it awful hilarious if it hasn’t even been two weeks since the cave in.  For reasons.  

Connie’s spidey senses are clearly tingling.  

Alrighty, then.  She’s clearly got PTSD.  Understandable.  They’ve all had it.  Some have been treated more sympathetically than others, though.  

I mean, it never seems to cross anybody’s mind how Carol probably sees Henry’s head on that pike, Mika’s pale and bloody body, Lizzie crumpled face down in a bed of yellow flowers, Sophia with a smoking bullet hole through her undead head whenever she closes her eyes but whatever.  

Okay though.  But what if Connie had really shitty, impossible to read handwriting?  AKA doctor’s  handwriting.  What then?  

Leah’s face honestly twists my insides whenever I see it, lol.  It’s quiet a visceral thing.  No, that does not make me a horrible person.  Not everybody wants or has to drink the awesome, great, redeemable villainess Kool-Aid.  IMHO, she’s got a face meant for a Walker.  Perfect makeover idea.  Eh.  Mostly it’s her expression and the deadness of her eyes.  

Anyway.  Why is it always the fingers?  Eff that.  

Listen.  If ya’ll can’t tell Daryl’s conflicted AF with the situation he’s landed in, you don’t know how to read NR’s face and eyes.  He’s not a masterclass like MMB but he’s pretty darn good when he wants to be.  

I honestly feel sorry for Redshirt Frost.  

“You do what you gotta do.”  Frost knows what’s what and he’s willing to walk the walk for Maggie.  Impressive loyalty.  I’m left wondering how the current, colder incarnation of Maggie inspired it because I’m still struggling to see it.  Anywho.  My point is the dude knows the score and just gave Daryl the okay.  

Daryl taking off his angel vest before stepping into the role of torturer/interrogator=him shedding the persona/the man Judith and RJ and Lydia and Carol know him to be.  Pushing away his man of honor status so he can just survive somehow.  

Pope never quits chewing whatever the hell he’s got in his mouth.  It’s kind of distracting.  

Ohhh.  We’re back to the Haunted Mansion.  I mean house.  Where are the Hitchhiking Ghosts?  

All the eyes scratched out of those creepy pictures=spooky.  

The good old fogged up bathroom mirror shot.  Somebody’s been watching and studying their horror movies, lol.  Not gonna lie though.  I’m legit bracing myself for the jump scares I know have to be coming.  

I’m loving the music/score in these scenes.  

Truthfully, I could care less about these Reapers.  But they are hella attractive, lol.  Listen.  Angela knows what she’s doing.  

Kelly’s horse is so pretty.  Prayer chain for that baby.  

More dead horses?  Why?  

Connie’s slingshot?  Sorry.  I maintain, no matter how much I like these two, that they have the lamest weapons ever.  Endless supply of Virginia rocks or not.  

So.  Did Virgil and Connie enjoy a little equine for dinner?  Did they kill it before the Walkers fed?  What monsters!  Yeah, no.  Not if they were starving even if I personally could not have.  The more probable story is they fled the camp in a panic and left the horse behind and then it went down.  Sorry.  I didn’t exactly study the wounds on the poor animal because it is so traumatizing to me to continue to see them meet such dastardly ends on this show.  I don’t know who the hell has such a score to settle with horses but stop it.  

Days.  It’s only been days.  Not weeks.  So many times with all that Daryl and Company have had to contend with since the cave in?  Those do not exist, lol.  They’re just a convenient, appeasing piece of dialogue thrown at a fanbase primed and ready to read everything into not much of anything.  There’s just not been enough time for it to happen unless Daryl has literally been up 24/7 for all of them.  You know, strategizing how to attack the remainders of Alpha’s horde, figuring out how to defend Hilltop before it fell, healing from the wound he sustained at Alpha’s hand, sitting on that log all damn night with Negan waiting on Carol to come home, having a lover’s quarrel with his best damn everything, taking care of the Grimes babies and Lydia, being the reluctant leader.  Kang, why you playing them like that?  Daryl’s a super guy but he’s not a superhuman with clones.  So many times my ass.  

Seriously.  Who been watching Connie and Virgil?  The MIA Oceansiders?  Beta’s Fee Fi Fo Fum Ghost?  

Nice.  A Michonne mention.  Maybe the truth will start to trickle out.  

LMAO at Connie’s “I’m not staying here.”  Me neither, girl.  I would be outta that house so fast.  

They really “Quiet Placing” this episode.  Honestly?  I’m kinda loving it.  

WTF was that?  I know she can’t hear but you telling me all the little hairs on her arms, legs, and neck didn’t stand the fuck up and say fuck this shit, I’m gone?  Pardon my language, lovelies, but that moment had my heart kicking up several beats.  

Okay, okay.  To be fair to Connie, every hair on her body been doing that since the front door closed.  Maybe they’re desensitized.  

Gollum’s chasing Connie!!!  He/She wants their Precious!!!

The knee jerk reactions about this episode sight unseen are OTT, honestly.  And I mean no disrespect by saying that.  I can understand completely where they’re coming from because we’ve been burned so long in this fandom.  But it’s obvious the spoiler source has their particular biases and reads into things in such a way that don’t line up with what’s actually being shown onscreen.  Daryl’s loyalty in this episode and all along quite clearly lies with his family and his community.  He’s been playing Leah since the start and is truly just trying to survive somehow.  

Awful thought.  The Reaper that’s so suspish of Daryl--haven’t quite caught his name or really cared to.  I feel like he might try to get to Daryl somehow.  When he realizes that Daryl cares no more for Leah than any human would care for somebody (they thought) they used to know?  He’s going after Dog.  Or Carol should she finally join this story. 

I refuse to believe Carol isn’t going to be a part of this story.  Because they messing with her mans, lol.  

“You’re ever with us or you’re not.”  Now where have I heard those words before?  I wish I could find that Daryl gif because that had to be one of the funniest things ever, lol.  

Unrealistic suggestion to Daryl, Leah?  Breathing oxygen seems to piss off Carver.  Oh look.  He finally has a name for me, lol.  

I love how all three of the ladies--Carol, Magna, and Rosita--look at Kelly with such indulgent, adoring “little sis, you alright?” eyes.  

They are seriously the most beautiful quartet of characters.  I mean all of them are lovely but Carol and Rosita this season?  Ugh.  The unfairness of the pretty.  

Human bones.  Terminus callback, lovelies.  How it all would have eventually gone down if Gareth and Co. hadn’t met the business end of Rick’s red machete.  

So many horror movie homages in this one.  

Virgil’s like “let’s leave this Texas Chainsaw Massacre behind.”  

Connie and Virgil have obviously bonded, ya’ll.  I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying their scenes together when the character mostly got on my nerves with Michonne.  He’s a good actor and the core of his character is sympathetic, but I’m not going to lie.  I wasn’t super enthused when he was the one that rescued Connie because I didn’t know how their scenes would play out. But there’s a nice synergy there.  

Okay.  Does Carver want Leah for himself?  Because I’m sure Daryl at this point would love to scream “take her, I know where I fucking belong!”  

Daryl’s digging in deep because Carver has shown him Leah’s potential weak spot.  Nuance is truly lost on some people, LMAO.  He cares about Leah as a human being probably.  He’s Daryl, after all.  The sweet one.  But he sees her as his way outta this and he’s going to exploit it.  

It’s nice to have a silent Negan for once, lol.  I can pretend he didn’t take my baby Glenn away from me and enjoy JDM’s pretty.  

So.  These cannibal people were the watchers?  Hmm.  

I’m really digging Virgil 2.0.  Yeah.  Nobody’s surprised more than me.  

Sweet, sweet scene between Virgil and Connie.  His determination to reunite her with her family brings back the sympathy I felt for him when he told Michonne “I promised her flowers.  Every day.”  

Damn.  How many of those creepy crawly cannibals are there?  

How brave of Connie to confront her fears to save someone she’s obviously grown to care about.  

The Kelly/Connie reunion gave me chills and made me cry.  Thank fuck Angela didn’t cheapen that moment by having it focus on literally anybody else.  Kelly is the most important person in the whole world to Connie and vice versa.  Just like Carol is the most important person in the whole world to Daryl and vice versa.  Angela fucking knows.  Everybody does.  Except the people busy building castles out of sand while the waves of Carol’s and Daryl’s converging stories keep crashing closer and closer to shore.  

Such a beautiful moment given to us by Angel Theory and Lauren Ridloff.  So authentic and sweet.  Kelly and Connie are home to each other.  

Poor Frost.  That’s all I gotta say about that.  

WTF, though.  Was Mel just not available or what?  I want to see more of the ASZ characters that I care about, not the Reapers.  Like I’d be fine with the story if all the characters not named Maggie, Negan, or Daryl weren’t surviving on crumbs during it.  Especially the 2nd billed actress on the entire show.  Angela.  Please.  Fix this.  

One last WTF.  Seriously.  WTF has Maggie done to inspire Pope’s obsession?  It better be juicy after all this shit.  

Overall impression of the episode--

One of my favorites of the season so far.  The horror aspects were fantastic, IMHO. I truly didn’t expect to like Connie and Virgil’s scenes as much together so that was a nice surprise.  She got the reunion that felt most true and earned for the character and her story and I thank Angela from the bottom of my heart for that.  

I would have loved more Carol but I always want more Carol.  I’m okay with her taking a backseat because ultimately?  This was Kelly’s moment with her sister.  Carol and Connie will eventually have their time to sit down and talk.  And pick back up their blossoming friendship because I truly do not feel Connie blames Carol at all.  

I do wish Lydia had been included with the girl group.  Last episode felt like it was leading up to that.  

The Reaper storyline continues to be the weakest link because every time we see them the dialogue and interactions feel totally recycled from the time previous.  I feel like it would have totally been helped by a tighter focus and less stretching out because 8 episodes of this is really diluting what I feel like Angela and Co. are going for.  I’m not here for Leah being redeemed or being a bigger focus in any of the episodes because she does nothing of interest for me.  I’m just peeking in on that story for the Daryl of it all.  

Speaking of the Daryl? You lovelies out there gotta stop taking that spoiler source’s recaps at face value because it’s obvious to me at least that there’ some bias at work.  Every action and word coming from Daryl is coming from a place of loyalty to his family and wanting to protect them, no matter how he has to dirty his hands.  Leah is just a means to his ultimate end.  She’s not his future.  She never was.  His future’s already spoken for and 2023 can’t get  here soon enough.  But like Daryl, we have to just survive somehow.  

Oh goodie.  More Maggie and Negan next episode and looks like no real follow up on Connie and the ASZ reunions.  Hopefully, this is yet another instance of the previews being deceiving but I’m not holding my breath.  

Until later, lovelies.  

Hope my word vomit didn’t bore you too much.  

[theoriginalladya]

WIP Wednesday

A bit more Alenkoats for WIP Wednesday this week since I've been so focused on MEBB to write anything else new...

~~~

His eyes flutter open and it takes a long minute or two for Kaidan’s surroundings to settle into something even vaguely recognizable. The outer edges of his vision are still blurred, reminding him of an old-time movie or a photograph in an oval frame, but it’s a vast improvement from earlier. Slowly, he pushes himself up and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress where he waits. Satisfied that he isn’t any better or worse than before, but something relatively stable, he rises to his feet.

His balance is back, too; or maybe the vertigo is just gone, and that makes walking far easier than it would be otherwise. Grabbing his hoodie, he heads out of his room, descending the stairs. He isn’t certain where he’s headed; the compulsion to walk, to move, is unlike anything he’s ever felt before, but it seems safe enough so he follows it. Through the kitchen. Out the back door. Along the porch around the house until the steps leading toward the orchard come into view.

He descends these steps as well, and as he does, his gaze drifts upward. The night sky out here has always been his favorite. No light pollution makes it easier to see the stars and the bright full moon that accompanies them tonight. Wisps of clouds drift lazily; there is no hint of the thunder he’d heard earlier. Instead, he turns his face into a light, comfortable breeze just cool enough to warrant the hoodie he carries. Pulling it on, he continues forward.

As a child, he’d always found comfort in the night. Tonight, as he breathes deep, and the fresh scent of young apples tickles his nose, that comfort wraps around him like a warm blanket. He’s missed this over the years. There had been a time when he was younger that he’d thought about helping his father with the orchard, making a living at it, tending the trees, and working the land. To be at one with the land, to figure out its fickle nature. But that was before. Before his biotics manifested. Before Jump Zero. Before he killed Vyrnnus. Before…

Despite the hoodie, a chill races down his spine leaving him trembling. He stumbles over to the fence and rests his arms on it for support as suddenly it hurts to breathe.

Before the Reapers.

A movement to his right makes him jump, he inhales so sharply he nearly chokes on his own breath. With a blink of surprise, he finds Ben standing there. “What’re you doing here?” And where the hell did you come from? And how in the hell did you get this close without me hearing you?

Coats grins, that usual, playful smirk he always has. “Heard about what happened. You okay?”

Kaidan snorts softly. Of course, he isn’t, but it’s the kind of thing someone asks when they in these types of situations. Right?

But something about his words feels… off. Wrong. Kaidan stares at his friend for a long minute, but cannot put his finger on it.

Coats waits patiently, and Kaidan finally replies, “Do I look okay to you?”

His friend snorts, clearly amused. “You look like hell. Not that pretty boy image you usually are selling.”

Kaidan purses his lips and huffs softly. “Fuck you,” he mutters, turning back to face out over the orchard.

“Well, that’s one way of doing it, I suppose.”

Kaidan blinks again. Ben has his moments; some snarky, others a bit cruder, and other times unexpectedly kind. This time, the attempt is somewhere between flirty and snarky, and it just pisses Kaidan off. He spins back around, glaring at the man as all of the anger and pain of the last month combine with the inherent fear brought on by the thought of the Reapers takes hold. Control is gone, lost; maybe it had only been a think in his head, he doesn’t know. Tendrils of dark energy swarm around Kaidan, like the hottest of fiery flames, it flickers across his body, searching for a target. Inhaling deeply, Kaidan’s hands move in the familiar rhythms and movements, and it flies off his hand…

His eyes widen in horror as Coats just stands there and takes it, a full-blown battle move like he uses against husks or mercs or Cerberus. Kaidan lunges forward after it, Coats’ name on the tip of his tongue… only to realize once it is past that Ben still stands there before him, as if nothing ever happened.

Ben arches one brow, his usual playful smirk twisting across his lips. “Feel better now that you let it out?”

Feel better…? Kaidan stares at him in disbelief. What the hell are you talking about? “Not really,” he finally replies. That, at least, is truthful, and just about the only thing that makes sense in the moment.

“Try it again. Maybe it will help.”

Kaidan turns away, the thought churning in his belly. What is going on? He peers back over his shoulder in Coats’ direction, but still the man still stands there, smirk in place along with an expectant look in his eyes. Kaidan has half a mind to demand an answer from him as to what is going on, but before the thought can take voice, Ben’s image shifts…

Gulping, Kaidan retreats a step, a second one, until his back hits the wooden fence and he falls to his knees. “Sh-Shepard?”

There, in the full armor and helmet they wore that day over Alchera, stands Commander Shepard, first human Spectre. They take a step forward, hand extended, but Kaidan scrambles backwards again until he gains his feet. “What…?”

The commander remains silent, but there are other ways to communicate, and they point upward, toward the sky. Kaidan glances up. This time, no longer does he see the stars, the planets, and the moon, but thousands upon thousands upon thousands of dark specks – a vast multitude of ships descending toward Earth, all darkest of dark spots against the night sky, and all of them in the image of Sovereign. His breath catches painfully in his chest, and he can only stand there and stare.

“You exist because we allow it, and you will end because we demand it…”

[pettyelves]

The Delivery Boy

Gwendeln had ten gold riding on the ‘package’ being a bomb- but Eilithe herself was almost inclined to believe the human deliver man-boy was sent as a ‘specialist’ to collect Smoke’s bounty. He called himself ‘Dav’, dressed in light plate and green breeches- dark hair and eyes, the sort of face that might’ve been trustworthy if Eilithe wasn’t so jaded but kind looking faces. 

As they came upon the docks, a steady plume of smoke boiled up into the night air- flames licked just below and died down and down. Dock hands were screaming- tossing water on the vessel that came quickly into view. The schooner’s Captain’s Cabin was all but blown into splinters a fire spread over its deck. 

“HA!” Gwen shouted, in victory.

Eilithe was too angry to snark at Gwen. Her arm snaked around Dav’s shoulder and she squeezed him close to her side. “Mister ‘Dav’ was it? You weren’t trying to kill me were you?”

Whatever he said, she must not have liked it- because the next thing she remembered was  smashing his nose in. Foaming at the mouth, she barked at him- demanded from him. Behind them Velerodra drifted around, cautious as she was but it was only the word ‘decoy’ and ‘second bomb’, that Eilithe registered before Eilithe’s body was going through the air in the much smaller elf’s direction. Her hands reached to grab Horros as she was flung, by way of Gwen’s magic and she landed shakily on her feet. This was just in time for her to see Gwen bee lining for them with the one called ‘Dav’ tucked up under her arm like a ball. 

Behind them was the second explosion- controlled and liking from under the dock. As such, the blast sent a radius of metal and wood in a circular pattern, flinging against them. Eilithe turned, Gra’Dighet’s shadowy form rising up over her back like some grand protector. He took the brunt of the damage though a hulk of metal cut down her ear and across her cheek and ripped up her coat.

After she she searched Dav and learned his name was fully ‘Davlamin Gunnulf’, she made an offer. Of course, it wasn’t an offer at all, it was a strong suggestion. Work for her, or be a loose end.

It had definitely been Smoke, which meant Dav had a target now as much as Eilithe, as much as Velerodra. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. There had been someone in the crowd-- someone had to detonate the bomb and someone had to make the contract.

In the morning, Eilithe would negotiate the terms of Davlamin’s service partnership, but the hot water of a bath drew her in. A few crude stitches in her ear, and a cloth pressed up to the cut across her cheek. 

A clawed hand passed through her bath water and up across the length of her cut open ear. “My lady, you ought send your goons to investigate such things. Really, it’s unbecoming to for a leader to slum around getting cut up.” Gra’Dighet’s hands were cold like his soul, the way smoke feels across the skin. 

Eilithe’s head jerked from him and she waved a dismissive hand. “Leave me- go and guard Gwendeln, she’s outside.”

He separated from her then with an airy chuckle- his body twisting into that of a dog’s. “As you wish,” he called back in an echo.

“And, Gra’Dighet?” 

A pause came from the beast.

“Keep your mouth shut while you’re out there, would you?”

@deadsunharbor @fishy-wanderings @velerodra-valesinger

[youngster-monster]

To love is to destroy

Read on AO3

Illidan faces Maiev’s forces with Kael’thas at his side.

It changes nothing.

Well, maybe it does. It’s notably harder to vanquish the demon hunter when every hit, every spell is met by an arcane shield or Kael’thas blade; the two fight like one, always one step ahead of their enemies as they move around wings and fireballs with an ease that spokes of many battles fought side by side.

But there is only so much two fighters can do, no matter how formidable. They slip; they stumble; slowly, they are worn down by a conflict with no respite in sight. Whenever they strike a soldier down another takes their place, whereas they only have each other to rely on. This, in the end, is their undoing — not the disadvantage of their number, but their reliance on each other.

Because exhaustion makes them reckless, makes them prone to taking risks, because in their desperate efforts to save each other they show a weakness that Maiev won’t hesitate to take advantage of.

“Target Kael’thas first,” She tells the group of mages to her left, the metallic echo of her helmet hiding the faint disgust their art inspires her. “Give it everything you have — without him, Illidan will be defenseless..”

Earlier in the battle she would be wrong, but now, as her two adversaries at starting to feel the drain of such a drawn-out fight, her plan is sound. Misinformed, but only in semantics: it’s not that Illidan can’t face all of them alone, it’s that he won’t

Magic crackles at the mages fingers as they intone together a spell sure to destroy the obstacle that Kael’thas represents. His death is sure to anger the blood elves, but she doesn’t care about those things. The only thing she sees is the fulfilling of her quest: killing Illidan once and for all.

A crack in their defense, a slight opening in their battle dance— there. The mages were all trained by the battlefield as much as they were trained for it, and they see the opportunity at the same time as she does. The spell goes in a flash of light, too bright to describe in colors— she can feel its warmth on her skin even through her armor. Without, it must be scorching hot.

Kael’thas sees it too late to summon a shield, and he can only look with grim acceptance as the magical flames surge toward him. At least, he thinks, he dies fighting: there are worse ways to go. It’s not quite peace, the way he is ready to meet his fate, but it’s close enough.

Of course the spell doesn’t hit him. That would be too easy, now, wouldn’t it?

No, instead, Illidan turns his head just in time— maybe he feels the heat, the arcane energy, maybe he wonders why Kael’thas wasn’t where he expected him to be just then. Whatever the case, he sees the spell and Illidan, perhaps for the first time since he saw the rampage of the Legion and swore to take it down, doesn’t think it through. He doesn’t plan, doesn’t wonder what the consequences will be— no, he reacts on pure instincts and flings himself forward, putting himself between Kael’thas and everyone else.

The spell collides with his back in a flash of too-bright fire before Kael’thas has the time to swear.

(It’s a little known fact that Kael’thas, when stressed, swear like a sailor: it’s an habit he got from Rommath and it definitely hasn’t gotten better with his time passed amongst orcs and demon hunters.)

Great, dark wings curl around him as the flames roar around them, and all Kael’thas can feel is their faint warmth through his strange shelter and Illidan’s arms around his shoulders. Some part of him notes every detail, every wound smearing hot blood on his skin, as it does each time Illidan touches him— as if it were the last time he ever would.

This time, it might.

The last of the fire dissipates into shimmering smoke and, ever so slowly, Illidan lets his wings fall, but it’s less of a conscious thought than a slow fall forward, and Kael’thas wounds his arms around Illidan’s chest to keep him upright. Smaller as he is, it’s mostly useless: Illidan falls to his knees, and Kael’thas now bears most of his weight as he seems to lose the strenght to do so himself. His hands rests on something wet and still hot— blood, raw flesh, what might be bare bones at the tip of his fingers. This is not the kind of wound you recover from, not even for a demon hunter as formidable as Illidan Stormrage.

Illidan flinches at the touch. Kael’thas shushes him soothingly and lets what little healing magic he knows imbues his hands. It’s useless, and he’s well are of it, but Illidan nonetheless relaxes slightly in his hold.

“Why?” He asks, too low for any of the stunnen warriors to hear. “Your plans, the Legion— why me? Why now?”

Illidan looks at Kael’thas, too calm and too peaceful for someone so fierce, usually a breath away from feral. He smirks despite the fel-green blood that runs down his chin and says, not quite an answer, “Don’t worry, Kael. It’ll be alright.”

He repeats it— don’t worry, it’s alright, please, don’t cry, in a voice so low it’s a whisper, his clawed fingers trailing lightly down Kael’thas face and leaving a smudge of dark green blood there. It’s the only thing he says, as if it were Kael’thas who was in need of reassurance, until he runs out of breath to say it and his eyes dim.

Kael’thas’s hands curl where they rest on his shoulders. His fingers dig into Illidan’s skin, blood already drying under his nails. For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

By then the soldiers have had all the time in the world to wonder what happened, as well as to decide that Kael’thas would be better taken alive— something the few blood elves scattered through the band of adventurers strongly advocated for.

They expect him to come quietly. They expect him to cry. They don’t know what they expect, only that it isn’t what they get.

Kael’thas gently rests Illidan on the scorched ground before he rises. There’s blood on his face, on his tongue, dripping down his chin, green and red war paint circling his burning eyes. Felo’melorn glows golden-red in his hand.

The blood elves stop, take a step back as one; a few of them have fought at his side before, and they fear this look more than the Legion itself.

(There’s a common thing between all natural disaster — they are greater than themselves, announced by the way things bend around their coming. The sea retreats in front of a tidal wave; the wind stops before a thunderstorm. For a second, everything is still: this, more than anything, should have warned them.)

He doesn’t say a word — there is no warning, except the slight itch in his breathing, the twitch of his bloody fingers.

But suddenly flames surround them, the roar deafening, scorching heat that reduces a champion to ashes before he can take a step away from the edge of the battlefield. Hell awakes and Kael’thas stands at its heart, embers trailing in his steps, blood dripping from his fingers. It dissipates as it its the ground, hissing like water on a hot pan.

(The Sunstrider dynasty has chosen a phoenix as emblem — it is no mere coincidence. Few things burn hotter than they do, and none in quite the same destructive fashion.)

The flames cast his shadow on the smoke in wavering edges and sharp corners, a crown of molten gold upon his brow and blade sharper than the shards of his broken heart. Things like him shouldn’t grieve; they are, after all, the kind who take the world down with them, fire and ash and the acrid taste of burning flesh.

They didn’t know that but it doesn’t matter. Knowledge couldn’t have saved them; nothing will.

They killed Illidan and Kael’thas Sunstrider stands above his body, burning in the way only volcanoes burn  — smoke and ashes and fire, burning your breath out of the cage of your charred ribs.

(The battle will be carved into the minds of all those fighting here, but none will ever talk about it; if asked, they will speak of fire and screams and the visceral terror of waking horros that are better left sleeping, and they will not shiver but it will be a close thing.)

They don’t kill him, but it’s not a mercy.

The only thing keeping him upright is the instinctual knowledge that he’ll die if he falls, and it’s the only thing he can understand through the rage. If he stops, he dies, and then Illidan’s sacrifice will have been for nothing.

His robes snaps around him, blacked and torn; the air smells of copper and sulfur; when he breathes in, one of his ribs dig into his lung, and the roar of his flames cannot entirely hide the way his chest rattles like a bone chimes. He’s on his last leg and they know it, those few soldiers still alive and figthing more for their lives than the fate of their world.

Deep down, at the heart of the inferno, the only thing he remembers are a few words carried on a dying breat.

Don’t worry. It will be alright. Please don’t cry. He lost himself except for those words, and he clings to them like a lifeline.

This, in the end, is his undoing.

Maiev doesn’t quite manage to dodge his sword and the tip of the blade catch her helmet, leaving a long, bloody trail on its path. It goes flying, rolling on the crumbling floor until it hits a body and stops. Immediately, Kael’thas’s eyes are drawn to her; the source of the hatred burning like kindling in his chest.

Here, he is a beast; a wild thing, carried forward by a remembered voice and little else. Pushed beyond his limits, he knows — better than he knows his own name, now — that he won’t last much longer, and the part of him that rages and rampages throw him toward the warden like a storm of gold and fire, sword shining barely brighter than his eyes.

That’s the opening they were waiting for. Maiev dodges; she’s faster, less tired — although not by much — and he crashes in the empty space she left. The remaining soldiers jump on him, ready a the killing blow that they hold off for one inexplicable, breathless second.

Kael’thas looks oddly small, bloodied and ragged, panting on the ground with his fingers curled like claws in a puddle of Maiev’s blood. He turns toward them, teeth barred like he’s still bigger than himself, but his arms aren’t strong enough to bear his weight anymore and he falls to the ground, too weak to do much more than growl.

Maiev wants to kill him on the spot; stab him in the heart and be done with the whole thing once and for all. She should; no one would blame her for it. But blood elves are loyal to the death, even to those who would harm them; they drag their surviving companions to their feet, bloodied and beaten, and then Kael’thas as well. He doesn’t fight them. The fight has gone out of his eyes, nothing remaining of his previous rage but smoke and slow-burning flames scattered on the dark stone. He blinks slowly, face expressionless, and only moves to keep Illidan’s body in his sight — but even then, his movements are weak, and he simply goes limp in their hold when they drag him away from it.

Many died on that day. Whether Kael’thas is one of them is anyone’s guess.

--

Some would have him hanged. Some want the Alliance to judge him, or the people of Silvermoon — no one wants to be responsible for his acts or those of his master, but all want the right to put him on trial for whichever crimes they accuse him of.

The Kirin Tor want to judge him as one of their; Maiev doesn’t trust them to punish him as she see fit; the Silvermoon triumvirate fears either one would give their prince the death penalty, despite the fact that the Sunstrider are supposed to live and die for and by their people and no one else.

They reach a compromise, eventually. Kael’thas is sent under Silvermoon, deep under their streets, and locked in a cell designed by the Kirin Tor — there is so much magic in his chains alone it burns his skin. Two of Maiev’s wardens guard the doors; their sight is the only thing that can drag a reaction out of their prisoner, although it is only the faint sharpening of his gaze as he follows their movements until they disappear from view.

Apart from that, nothing. He isn’t peaceful as much as he’s devoid of anything beyond sheer apathy, as if he was only alive in body and not in mind.

He sits crosslegged in the middle of  the circular stone chamber that is his cell, his shackled hands resting between his legs, his dim eyes lost in the distance. There is nothing dignified or noble about the way he acts, no trace of his royalty. His shoulders are low, his head bent, his once-bright golden hair fall over his face. He barely eats or sleeps: like this, he is more alike to a ghost than a prisoner and, were he in any other state, he would be horrified by himself.

It’s as if Illidan’s death had broken something in him. Rommath brings him books and scrolls, anything that could interest him, bring back some kind of light to his features, but they pile up next to the doors, collecting dust. When he and Lor’themar manage to coax words out of him, Kael’thas sounds hollow and tired, and his answers are few and far in-between.

Sylvanas comes to visit, sometimes, mostly to rant about how pathetic he looks and how awful everything is. She appears more irate each time, perhaps annoyed at his lack of reaction. He barely looks at her when she comes, uncaring of the familiar disdain and annoyance in her eyes, and never replies to her biting comments like he used to.

“Don’t you have better things to do than mope?” She aks, the fourth of fifth time, curling her lips in distaste.

He shrugs. It’s more than she usually gets, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy her.

He thinks she enjoys his silence, a bit, if only because it gives her a reason to rant at lenght about how little she likes the idea of making peace with the Alliance.

“The Alliance has taken everything from me,” He explains to Lor’themar when the regent asks him about the ceasefire, in this odd way of his, slow and devoid of feelings, although he does make a small pause before saying everything, as if he wants to put emphasis on the word but doesn’t find the will in himself to do so. “Yet I cannot find it in myself to hate them for it.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but Lor’themar hears it as: do what you must. So he shakes Varian’s hand, and doesn’t ask Malfurion why he isn’t the one grieving for his fallen brother.

--

And then, one day, Lor’themar says ‘enough’. He has watched his friend fade away for years now. No more.

To hell with the wardens, the mages, the factions, whoever thought this was a kinder fate than death. He opens the door and says, “Come with me.”

Kael’thas doesn’t argue. He hasn’t uttered a word in weeks; his grief has only worsened with time, the loss still a raw wound after a decade in the dark. All he does is hold up his hands, for Lor’themar to free or take to help him stand. He does both.

They make their way through the twisting corridors of the castle in silence and Lor’themar doesn’t stop once to reconsider his plan. He marches forward, nods to Rommath, and drags Kael’thas through the portal the achmage summoned without thinking, because this— this spectre, this empty shell of a man — isn’t the prince he has served for so long, isn’t the friend he has fought with.

There is no fire to fear there, nothing of the threat Maiev painted him at. All he is is nothing but a whispered voice in a dark cell that says, I miss him, and hollow eyes that can’t even cry anymore.

So he has no qualms manhandling Kael’thas through a rather rough teleportation that takes them Light-knows-where. The destination doesn’t matter all that much and, for all he knows, it might as well be Stormwind or Argus, for the difference it makes.

(Either way, inhabitants want Kael’thas’s head on a plate; just not enough to cut it themselves.)

Maybe it’s the familiar magic running over his skin that wakes him enough to look around, or maybe it’s some distant knowledge, some primal instinct that tells him to look up. Kael’thas, whatever his reason may be, lets his head tilts sideways, enough that the strands of hair that usually shadow his face fall out of his eyes.

Green meets green as, not too far away that he should have been able to feel him were he in any other state, Illidan meets his gaze.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then the silence snaps like a rubber band stretched thin, and both surge forward without a glance at those assemble around them.

They meet somewhere halfway, Illidan’s arms curling around Kael’thas too-thin frame as he lets himself falls forward and into the hold. Kael’thas lets his shackled hands fall between them and rests his forehead in the crook between Illidan’s neck and shoulder, feeling like he’s been holding his breath for a decade and, finally, has breatherdout.

“It’s okay,” Illidan whispers next to his hear, grinning almost despite himself. “I’m back.”

“I’ve missed you,” Kael’thas replies, and his smile echoes Illidan’s own.

Embers swirl around their feet as, deep in his chest, fire burns once again.

[riyuyami]

I love U-2, he is maybe my favorite creation in the whole yatim universe, but his creation backstory is depressing, and I feel the need to write it out for you guys.

Enjoy!

Warning: vague bod/y horro/r, hum/an sacrif./ice, demonic ink

On with the fic!

--

You scream as you feel the seals burn on your skin as Seto continues to read from the black book he holds in his hand, his other holding onto your wrists tightly, a death grip. You beg for him to let you go, that you’ll design a new character, someone that can be just as enjoyable as Yami, if he just releases you!

But he keeps reading, never taking his eyes off the pages, but his grip tightens more, and you swear you feel one of your wrists breaking. He finishes reading, snapping the book shut, before setting it aside. “Sorry, you had your chance, and we’ve put so much effort into Yami. Then the little brat ran away, this is all we can do until he returns.”

“Please, please reconsider… I’ll go find him…!”

“And risk you leaving for good? Like you said you would? Taking my creations with you as you do?” Seto glares at you before opening a small panel on the side of the machine. “I can’t have you doing that. Be happy, you’ll be a perfect being, a Toon!” He smirks as he shoves you into the panel, despite your screams and protests.

Your cries are cut off by the sudden drop into hot ink, it burns like the seals! The markings drawn on your skin in black ink from the machine glow brightly in gold as you turn to look at Seto, his hand on the door.

“Seto…! Stop-!” The door is slammed shut, and you hear the familiar sound of the lever for the machine being pulled. The seals burn hotter than before and you feel them as they slowly, painfully ink into your skin. There is a churning around you, from the ink, before you’re suddenly pulled back, up a tube, and into darkness. Hot, thick darkness, that you swallow. It’s ink! You try to get away, slamming into glass.

The tank! You’re in the tank!

And it’s so much worse in here, you’re drowning in ink, it’s in your mouth, your nose, in your eyes! All you see and taste is the inky darkness that surrounds you.

Then you feel it.

In your throat, like something it crawling up it.

You gag hard, gasping and coughing, before something comes out. It’s golden for a moment, before it vanishes into the darkness. You scream, but nothing is heard, you’re not muffled, you just… can’t scream.

Another shot of pain from the seals flares up, and you feel like something it tearing at your side, trying to get out of you.

Your left eye burns, it feels like boiling oil in the socket, pouring out of it, down your face. Your silent screams do nothing for you as the pain in your side intensifies, your skin stretching and tearing as something feels like it’s not only trying to break out, but is doing so by an outside force.

With one, harsh yank, whatever it was on your side is torn off and out of you, and you taste blood and ink in your mouth. The burning continues, more so in your damaged side, where it feels like the damage is repairing itself. You’re frozen, you can see something in the ink with your right eye, the left is completely blind.

Something in the ink is taking shape, with white mixing with the constant black, a small bit of purple ink, a shade of orchid you know all too well, fusing with the black and white blobs, same with strings of your blood. At least, you assume it’s your blood, it’s red.

You let out a silent whine as you feel… tired, so tired… you’re only going to close your eyes for a moment…

Eyes fly open and only see darkness, everywhere, it’s consuming and suffocating. You claw around you, trying to get out, but a loud churning, suction, gets your attention. You feel another force like before, pulling out, before you’re yanked away from where you currently woke up in. You slip about in ink, fast, passing glowing marks and circles, before you see a bright light at the end of something.

Then you’re spat you, hitting the wooden ground with a wet splat.

“Damnit!”

A voice…! Is it…

Looking up, you see someone standing before you. Polished black shoes, crisp, clean white pants. Upwards, a belt with SK etched into the buckle, dark blue suspenders, a white shirt, and a blue tie.

You wheeze out a sad, broken sound as you feel fear bubbling in you at the sight of the very angry brunet in front of you.

What… what is going on? What happened…?

“Damnit, it didn’t work!” He growls, glaring at you. “You look like someone took Yami and dumped a bucket of water on him!”

Yami?

Who-what…?

Wait… you know that name, you… yes, yes, you remember him, sorta, snarky guy, cartoon…

Why does your head hurt so much, why can’t you remember anything? What happened? Why is he upset with you?

“Uhg, putting you back in won’t change anything, you’ll probably just come out worse. And you’re already horrible looking. Look at you, a mess, you’re too off-model, and you know I hate when things are off-model!”

Off-model…?

You glance down, seeing two white gloves, with only four fingers on each of them. Slowly, you lift them, shocked to find that these are… these are your…

You see the rest of yourself.

Black body, with no details to it, thin black arms, thin black legs that end in boots that seem to be literally fused with your body. Your feet. The gloves.

You touch your face, it’s so round and smooth, you have no nose, your left eye can see just fine, your right is rather blurred, why hadn’t you noticed before?

Your hair feels wrong, like it’s made of thousands of strands of something wet. Pulling your hands away from your hair, you find them coated in ink, ink you feel dripping down your face and back, where something seems to be moving.

Looking behind yourself, your head spinning completely around to do so, no neck, you see what appears to be… a tail.

Nervously, you turn to look at Seto, yes, that’s his name, he’s Seto…

He’s still glaring at you, as if this is your fault, this… change, whatever this is…

The noise you make is not human as you let out a horrible, deranged, if not demonic, scream of anguish.

Because that’s all you can do.

It comes back to you, like a strike to the head, the burns, the drowning, the horrible tearing and boiling. 

The ink took a part of you, and made you… made you…

“A fucking, poorly designed knock-off.” Seto scoffs as your screams. “Pathetic. Clean yourself up, we have a show to make.” He turns, leaving you alone to your pain and screams.

--

The scary thing for U-2 is that when he remembers something, it hits him full force, and often he remembers the sensations more than the images.

So whenever he thinks about this, he remembers ALL of the pain Yugi felt when U-2 was being created.

The amount of guilt this boy holds in his tiny body is terrifying.

[ask-antihero-phoenix-blog]

Here we go-

Allen had always been a light sleeper, and had ended up pressed close to Alfreds side in the night after finally getting Alfred and Peter both situated and asleep. Of course the position was comforting…or it wouldve been if his datemate wasnt a mini sun. Allen slowly slipped out of Alfreds arms and smiled at Alfreds goofy sleeping expression, kissing his head and going to check on Peter.

He cared for the boy, that was for sure, felt oddly protective of him, but when didn't he want to protect the roudy, younger supers?However, something about this bright, young boy reminded him of himself. Innocent, curious and stuck in the system. He desperately wanted to help. He brushed Peters choppy blonde hair back and smiled as the boy happily snoozed, leaning down to kiss his forhead too.

Allen then walked out to his terrace, he had always enjoyed the veiw, especially when his brain decided he was a night owl instead of a tired man who needed a lot of rest.

Allen smiled at the cool night air, breathing deep and reveling in just how…happy he was in this moment. He finally had someone by his side who honestly cared for him, who made him laugh even if his stubborn attitude made him quite the challenge. A lovable challenge. He could finally think clearly, make decisions for himself, his over reacting powers not an issue any longer. He had begun actually taking time to eat three meals a day, plus snacks, when he had been running on half a box of Cheeze-it's and stomach aches for the past three weeks.

Life was wonderful, his datemate was safe, his friends, god he’d never though he’d have any, were safe, and the fire from earlier had finally been sorted out, the police department having finally proved themselves useful.

How could he ask for more?

Allen closed his eyes in the cool night air, humming softly…however, he begun to notice his palms slowly grow warm, and he glanced down at them curiously, eyes widening in fear at what he saw. The mark.

“No, god no, no please-”

Allens body jolted, and he started to shake as the rest of his body slowly became a furnace, agonizing fire sinking back into his veins as his vision went red.

He could see them, hear them, close enough to touch. He loved them so much and yet he couldnt recall their names. Allens throat closed off a ragged sob as his memories, all of them, crashed down at once, Scramblers powers couldnt last forever, after all.

Allen reached out blindly for them…he knew now who they were at least.

His family

“M-mama….mama please make it stop-” he choked, trapped in his own little hell as his Mother simply smiled sadly.

“It’ll be over soon, bubba, I promise.” She promised softly, hand over her heart, and Allens heart wrenched as his brother smiled too, somehow even more sad.

“You did good, you held out longer ‘n I would, brat. Come on home. Its okay to let go.”

“I can’t, I cant-”

“Oh, but you can.” Allen flinched at the new voice, eerily familiar, and though he couldnt place it, it terrified him to no end, made his body shake violently, bile threatening to climb and claw its way up his ragged throat.

Allen sobbed at the breath in his ear, unable to see as the heat became unbearable. He had begged for death, but never had he wanted it as bad as right this moment.

“Let go.” Allen could see the horror before him now

“Look at what youre doing to them-”

“Mama! Mich!” Allen tried to scream, no sound reaching the outsife world, just him and his inferno.

“Look at how youre hurting them. Let go, let them go.”

He felt the voice double over, consuming his every nerve as he double over before suddenly.

“…I-I’m sorry…”

And everything…went white.

Allens body arched as his powers finally became too much. Faces of those he loved blurred together, making tbem unreachable, yet unavoidable. He screamed with no sound as his body lifted, knees hovering over the terrace as silent tears slid down his face.

It was then the lock that kept the two workds seperate shattered, and all could be heard, all could be seen as Allen hunched forward, shaking slowimg until he was deadly still, floating up until he was well above the terrace, well above the rooftops of new rome.

When he lifted his head there was nothing in his eyes, no love, no laughter, none of the kindness or even sarcasm.

They were empty save for one emotion.

Need

The need to burn.

To burn it all down, to cleanse, to wipe away everything, everything was a threat , confusing, terrifying. The sight before him was no longer a city but a cesspool, fear and agony rolling through his body as he scannned over the city, his eyes which were once such a soft and gentle rusty brown now a dull and vacant purple. His eyes darted like scared animals as he saw horrors that didnt exsist, horros made just for him, looking over the city as he fell silent...

And let loose.

(Power swap event end)

(Lost Phoenix event start)

@ask-kickassia @ask-black-glacier @ask-antihero-al @ask-cristal-reine @ask-sooperhero-peter @ask-huttman @asktheboganman @asktheblackrabbit @ask-villain-nyocanada @ask-silverbeast @ask-schatten @ask-superhero-romania @ask-sirene @ask-the-flower-power @ask-the-scrambler @ask-theroyalbitch @askshirohime @ask-the-destroyer @witchy-nat @ask-the-fading-star @ask-hero-amelia @ask-herodante @ask-maple-gas @ask-clockwork-mikhail @ask-alleycat @caelitum-of-new-rome @ask–sleepingbeaut @ask-stone-cold @asknightwitch

[imaginetonyandbucky]

Tony hates horros movies. He's absolutely terrified of them. (not the panic attack kinda scared, just the freaking terrified, jumpy kind). They are watching a horror together with the team and Bucky thinks it's adorable how Tony pretetnds not be scared, but jumps at every sound, covers his face with his hands, moves closer to people sitting next to him etc. Later probably Tony doesn't wanna go to sleep either.

Ugh. He hateshorror movies.

Tony flinches at another jump scare and barelyresists to bury himself further into Bucky’s arms. Rationally, he knows howstupid it is to be terrified of those, often frankly ridiculous, movies.Especially when you’re an Avengers and fighting crazy psychos can be considereda weekly occurrence. He’s not even sure why he’s scared and often paranoid andjumpy afterwards. It’s just the way it is and he prefers such dumb weaknessesto be a secret but after tonight, the cat will probably be out of the bag.

Thank you, Thomas Bennet from the Australianbranch office of SI R&D. You and your stupid inability to walk down stairswithout injuring your leg. Normally, he’d feel sorry for the guy but he reallycan’t when there’s a chainsaw murderer running around on screen.

Pepper loveshis intense dislike of horror movies and is always eerily quick to supplyhim with important video conferences or meetings whenever the team decides on ahorror flick. Tony tries to tell himself that this is how she shows her lovebut deep down he knows better. But today, not even her CEO-superpowers can savehim.

Tony flinches again at an unexpected movementin his vicinity and even though it’s just Bucky’s arm wrapping around hisshoulders to pull him closer, it takes a moment until the tension in his bodystarts to bleed out. They’ve been together for a few weeks now and it’s stillnew enough to send a nice thrill down Tony’s spine whenever something like thishappens and tonight it feels extra comforting.

And it’s still new enough that it doesn’t takelong for them to stark making out – and excellent distraction from the movie! –and annoy everyone around them with their PDA. It’s nice. Very nice. Bucky isan excellent kisser and nobody’s mocking them. Tony will later think about thelack of whining, derision and cooing but right now he simply enjoys.

After the make out session and some longingstares into each other’s eyes, the movie is, thankfully, over and everyone isfiling out. But where Bucky usually gets him hot and bothered just by existing,Tony’s still a bit jittery from the movie and excuses himself quickly.

(more below the cut ♥)

“I really need to finish this project or Pepperwill neuter me.” He says as an explanation and tries not to see Bucky’sconfused and maybe even slightly hurt look when he scampers off.

♠

Tony doesn’t actually work on said project,even though Pepper did threaten himwith rather unattractive things. Instead he alternates between science articlesand videos of unlikely animal friendships and dogs being happy about the safereturn of their owner. It is still at least an hour since their goodbye whenBucky requests entry.

Of course, he lets him in.

“How many times do I have to tell you that youhave your own codes, Bucky bear.” He calls instead of a normal greeting. “Justlet yourself in.” He swivels around in his chair and doesn’t even have to fakea smile.

“This project sounded very important. I didn’twant to startle you.” Bucky replies with a sheepish smile as he approaches.“How’s it going, darlin’?”

Tony feels a little guilty. He should have atleast been working on the project.

“Alright, so far.” He answers an, when heremembers that the animal videos are still open, he adds: “Just taking abreak.”

“Good timing, then.” Bucky smiles.

“The best.” Tony agrees and snatches hisboyfriend’s hand the moment he’s close enough to pull him even closer. “Whatbrings you into my lair?”

“I may have missed you.” Bucky smiles but it’s edged withworry. “Is everything alright?”

Tony nods, then shrugs, then tips his head backand finally gives his head a small shake. He really doesn’t want to tell Buckywhat’s bothering him since it’s silly as heck but Pepper tells himcommunication is key to a working relationship and Tony really, really wantsthis relationship to work.

“I… don’t like-“ hate is more like it. “- horror movies.” Tony tells the ceiling. “Iknow it’s absurd, but they kind of keep me paranoid and awake after watchingthem, so…” He shrugs like it’s no big deal but he still doesn’t look at hisboyfriend, too worried about what he might see.

“Oh.” Pause. “Why didn’t you say something,idiot? We could have watched a different movie.” Bucky actually has theaudacity to sound exasperated interlaced with fondness and a tiny bit of worry.

“Yeah, of course I’d like everyone to know thatI’m scared of horror movies.” Tony scoffs and can’t not look at Bucky.

“Why not? I mean, Steve and Clint arepractically bawling whenever a dog dies on screen, Bruce doesn’t likeunresolved abuse themes and I’m not good with themes like brainwashing andpsychological manipulation. Why do you think you’ll be singled out and, I don’tknow, mocked, when you say you don’t want to watch a horror movie?” Bucky hasbeen coming closer until he’s standing in the v of Tony’s legs, his handscupping Tony’s face. “Have a bit more faith in us. We’re a team and we valueyour wellbeing. Especially me.”

Tony crumples under the intense stare, swallowsand finally nods. It’s apparently enough because Bucky smiles and kisses hisforehead.

“Want to snuggle on the couch?” Considering themany times they’ve done this and more, it’s an innocent request but Tony knowsit’s about something other than a potential make out session. Bucky knows hewon’t be able to coax Tony out of the workshop and he’s enough of a mother hento feel the need to be close and care for Tony, a grown man, who is ridiculouslyterrified of scary movies.

In the end he lets Bucky lead them to the couchand Tony has to admit that Bucky-snuggles are the best. His subconscious evendeems it safe enough to fall asleep in those strong, partly bionic, arms.

 - Auri

[bloodandpopcorn]

Born in 1861 in New Hampshire, Herman W. Mudgett will be later known as America's First Serial Killer, HH Holmes. He was very smart and excelled in school, which had the other kids jealous of him because he was so smart and he was bullied. It seems Herman was afraid of skeletons and two of his classmates knew of his fear. So they pushed him toward a skeleton with its arms outstretched, like it was going to grab him. It's scared Herman but it also opened his curiosity door. In 1882, Herman enrolled in the University of Michigan medical University where he perfected two of his talents: anatomy and chemistry. He had the opportunity to be operating on human cadavers and dust his bloodlust was born. He graduated from the University of medical school in 1884, and during the two years he was traveling he perfected his calling skills as different jobs. Since he didn't want anyone following him or looking into things he did, he change his name to Henry Howard Holmes. He found work immediately in Chicago in 1886 at a drugstore, ES Holton. Several months after Holmes started to work at the drugstore, the husband dies of "natural causes" and then the wife goes missing a few months later after that, after selling the drugstore to Holmes. He scammed creditors and made different inventions to scam people such as a mineral water Elixir, which was just the town's water. In 1888 he buys a vacant property across from the drugstore. Around the time Jack the Ripper was murdering prostitutes in London, Holmes was just finishing his blueprints on his torture building. The bypassers that always gaze upon the building nicknamed it "The Castle". Homes built in the second floor different rooms to kill and torture people and made it a labyrinth so people to get lost but he could find them. He had a trapdoor to dump the bodies down that led to the basement of the building. In the basement, he included an acid vault and a crematorium. After getting rid of the skin and muscle on the bones, he would clean the bones up and sell the skeletons to schools and doctors. Benjamin Pitezel answered a ad in the paper looking for a carpenter for Holmes's new building. They came pretty close friends once he started working for him. Pitezel became aware of what Holmes does to guests. Homes became like another part of the Pitezel family. When the World's Fair came to Chicago, he decided to remodel the third floor and get new decorations and beds and everything to house the visitors and foreigners. He often prayed on women and children who flaunted their wealth. Holmes suited many women in his lifetime and he got Julia Conner, one of his many women, pregnant. And when she demanded marriage, since you already had Pearl her daughter, he agreed as long as he could do an abortion on her. She agreed and her and her daughter were never seen again. In 1892, Holmes had another mistress Emeline Cigrand. He sent her to the bank vault he had and locked her in and suffocated her. In 1893 Minnie Williams became Holmes's new private secretary, and eventually his mistress. She was the beneficiary of a property in Fort Worth, Texas valued at $40,000. He murdered Minnie and her younger sister after they signed the property to him. In 1894 Georgiana Yoke married Holmes, being his third wife. Though he married her under the name Henry Mansfield Howard. It seems that only his wives actually lived their entire lives. Pitezel's drinking problem became worse and Holmes feared that Pitezel would tell about his "work" during one of his drunken nights. So Holmes suggested of a plan to basically trick the insurance company that him and his wife had for life insurance that Pitezel was dead, since Pitezel was worried about money. The plan was to fake Pitezel's, using a cadaver, and have the money from the insurance go to his wife, and Pitezel would be hidden for awhile. Pitezel and Holmes go on a cross-country road trip to commit fraud. Holmes gets arrested trying to commit fraud at a drugstore and 1894 in St Louis. He was later bailed out by his wife Georgina. When they get to Philadelphia Pitezel then goes by the name of BF Perry. They open a shop in Philadelphia where this scam is going to take place. One of the inventors that was supposed to see him comes to the shop and finds him dead on the second floor. Holmes actually killed Pitezel, with chloroform and burned Pitezel's face. Since someone needed to identify the body, they called upon Carrie who is Pitezel's wife. But she and the three youngest children were very sick. So Carrie sent the second eldest child, Alice, to identify her father's body with Holmes. Carrie still believed at that time that her husband was safe and alive. Upon returning back to Chicago, Holmes doesn't have Alice with him. Carrie then questions him about it and he stated that they are both safe and then talked her into sending the other two children with their father. During this time the insurance company gives the money to Carrie and Holmes finagles most of the money away from her. He then spends a lot of time traveling with Carrie and the other kids. Homes is finally found by the pinkertons on November 17th 1894. In Boston. He was suspected of murdering Pitezel and the children that they could not place. A detective follow Alice's letters that you was writing, that never made it to her mother, and found all three children's bodies around the country. Howard's body was found chard and a little houses oven. The remains of the two girls were found in Toronto. On July 19th 1895 the Chicago police enter Holmes' Castle of Terror. The police found human bones and animal bones, bloody women's undergarments and a wooden dissection table with dried blood on it. Police were giving a list of missing people from the World's Fair, and 50 of those missing people were traced back to the castle of Horrors. As newspapers were giving Holmes different nicknames, people wanted to buy the castle of horros and turn it into a type of murder Museum. But right before somebody could buy it, somebody burned it down. While Holmes is in prison, he writes his own autobiography called Holmes's Own Story. October 28th 1895 was the first day of trail. Carrie Pitezel comes to the court house during the third day of trial. She finally sees the letters Alice never sent. The judge and everybody there then sees his horribleness once more. He did not show any remorse nor care that she was crying over her dead children. Holmes then is found guilty of first degree murder and is sentenced to hang on May 7th 1896. Before his hanging, he wrote his confessions about every murder that happened, showing his true monstrous side. Source: H.H. Holmes: America's First Serial Killer documentary