#that would make it possible to stay in contact indefinitely

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

actually...

looking at a bunch of my old favorite mutuals blogs that have been inactive for years. i miss them, even if i never really talked to any of them. when you're mutuals with a person for so long they become a comforting presence even without talking. you see them every day and read their posts about their thoughts or feelings or about what's going on in their life and so on. and they just become a part of your daily life in such a subtle way.

and then one day they just never post again. without warning. shit sucks. i actually hate it.

[diejager]

wondering how doesn't reader get pregnant after a lot of action with both horangi and könig, especially when König prefers to breed reader rather than his wife.

also do they have breeding kink? and what would be reader's reaction if there's a possibility of pregnancy, that would be so dramatic ig coming from reader's mom.

I hope this answered your question! cw: breeding kink, drug replacement?, mention of abortion, forced pregnancy, mention of stalkholm syndrome, tell me if I missed any.

The answer is simple: you either take pills, or got an IUD installed (honestly, that’s what I have since I have so many friends who’ve told me that pills have bothersome side effects and I’m forgetful so I won’t be able to remember to take them every day.).

A) If you take pills, König will replace them with a placebo, he has his ways, relationships built on years of work and alliance. So it wouldn’t be hard for him to find someone who can produce placebos for your birth control. Since he’s made a habit of staying near you whenever he can, seeing as he’s retired, it would be weird if he went out for so long. He has Horangi pick it up, meeting with the agent who’s sent to give them a year worth of box.

B) If you had an IUD installed, he’ll search your room for that little card it comes with when you’re not home, look at the date and he has two options. 1) if he doesn’t want to wait the time, be it a year or two, anything between one and five, he’ll talk to you about taking it out. 2) if he can wait, he’ll use the time to break you in, let you settle with this relationship and get you used to the dynamic they have in mind. Patience is a virtue after all, like a little pet project of theirs.

They definitely have a breeding kink. Ironically enough, they’re family men, a bit rough on the edges and tactile in their ways, very touchy-feely. They like to be hands on, holding you down as they fill you up, fingers bruising your skin with brands, to let people - and you - that you belong to them. König might be fidgety, never being one to sit still and do nothing, but he is patient, like a predator in hiding. Horangi’s a tiger in a hunt, slow and steady steps, certainty exhuming from every decision he takes. They don’t make a decision without telling the other, Horangi and König are a team, they were and always will.

Whichever contraceptive you took, it wouldn’t mater much in the end, you’d end up with morning nausea and a positive on your test. You’re in tears, balling your eyes out and panicking, breathe rapid and shallow, near hysteric as your mind goes through all the different scenarios of what ifs. You might’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of your situation, pregnant with the child of your stepfather or your neighbour. What would your family think? Your mother who’s oblivious and ignores your cries for help; your father who didn’t know where wen after your mom indefinitely cut your contact; or your living grandparents that lives God knows where.

Unlike you, hysteric and frantically searching for a solution to your problem, König is excited, calling Horangi to tell him the great news of your pregnancy. He has a smile on his lips when he finds you, shushing your tears and cooing soft praises. König tells you what a good mother you’d be, what a responsible Stay-at-home mother, with gentle hands and loving lips. When Horangi’s here, he picks you up, holding you in his arms and peppers you in kisses, a few deep, feverish ones, full of passion, and a few wild ones on the corner of yours lips and your cheeks.

Your mother is less frantic than you, worried, but not panicking. As a mother, she’ll ask about the pregnancy, who the father is (knowing you weren’t one to sleep around), and help you. You’re embarrassed at yourself, unable to tell her that the two men in the room are the kid’s father. You’re silent, head bowed down in shame and fidgeting, anxious and terrified, you were in your army 20’s, still in University to finish your bachelor’s degrees and now you’re pregnant. Horangi steps up, telling her that you’ve been having relationships with him - excluding the fact that her husband had a hand in everything as well - in occasions. She’s seen how close you are with Horangi, nearly sitting on his lap at times and often seen in his company.

She’s supportive, ignorent of all the mess in your life. Granted, she’s a bit disappointed, but you’re an adult, she can’t dictate your life like her parents did to her. So all she can do is support you, take l’ombre time off to walk you through the basics of parenthood and the nausea and emotional rollercoaster a pregnancy brought. You want to tear your hair out from the roots down at how oblivious your mother is, but you’re scared of getting an abortion, or if it’s legal at all.

Your angry, stressed and panicked, emotions flaring up with your unfortunate situation with no one to talk to, to turn to, all you want to do is cry. What can you do when you have an ignorant mother and two possessive and criminally wrong men with bloody hands and unrestrained connections.

Tag list: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973

[yuoimia]

WELCOME TO MY HEART

summary: how has loving you changed him?

characters: neuvillette, alhaitham, diluc, xiao. (seperate)

notes: gn! reader, fluff, getting poetic in xiao, weird time skips. wc: 2k!

neuvillette

Hesitancy lingers like a translucent mist around Neuvillette. Thick, but also not thick enough to be indiscernible. As centuries tick by, soon enough, that protective mist wanes into nothing but a fragile facade that threatens to vaporise. That outcome is most unfavourable; simply visualising it already causes a spike in distress in his chest.

Fast forward a few 'scenic meetings’ later, Neuvillette wonders where that mist disappeared off to.

He needn’t put up a missing poster with a contact number because, shockingly, the Chief Justice no longer desired that prudential coverage.

You evaporated Neuvillette’s final layer of defence, stripped his rationality with unwavering strength of character, and erased any uneasiness within the language of love.

Throughout your shared timeline, every point marked with a memorable moment, there are many small aspects about each other that only the continuation of time can reveal. It’s as sweet as it sounds, unless, well, the other finds out about something you did try to conceal.

Sometimes you think to yourself: Who knew the Monsieur Neuvillette could be so…earnest in seeing you flustered?

Truly, there are only very few opportunities Neuvillette would starve himself from such delight. The other times, though, they consist of your rose-tinted cheeks and his charmed chuckle, florid promises ending with a trail of marks of his love down the slope of your neck.

Neuvillette is quite the bold one. Far too cheeky for his own good, really.

alhaitham

It was a warm memory. Still as vivid as ever, despite the years that have passed. A golden tattoo, activated whenever the dazzling drops of summer sunshine radiated down.

Three years ago, summer, the Akedemiya.

Heatwaves weren’t a rare occurrence in Sumeru. For weeks on end, the city of wisdom experienced boiling highs and dry, scorching winds. The streets were empty as shopkeepers resorted to staying under the cool of shaded roofs. That was the correct response, the only response to such situations.

Yet, there were still people willing to test your limited patience even more.

“We’re going to get a heatstroke,” you explained to each member of your darshan. “We can postpone the field trip to the desert some other day.”

“But this weather is indefinite, and knowing Sumeru, it is going to last a very long time. We can’t afford to waste time,” someone argued as nods of agreement travelled across the table.

Wow, you huffed to yourself, sitting yourself down. You were doing this for their own good, and partly yours.

“We should go ahead with the trip,” said the agitating, raucous noise again as a cacophony of voices arose in agreement. Maybe he should be in charge, then. As if you wanted to cancel this trip, you’ve spent endless nights planning the perfect itinerary! Also, the last time you remembered, you were appointed leader of this whole excursion.

“Facing the facts, there’s no traces of concrete evidence that our planned area holds the ruins,” you declared as the table fell silent. “Theoretically, we have more to lose than gain.”

“We’ve already decided,” came another voice. Archons, these people were going to be the end of you. “We’re still going to go next week.”

You came to the conclusion that, to knock some sense into their brains, you needed someone more intimating to interfere.

“…You want me to be pretend to collapse from a severe heatstroke?” the (acting!) grand sage repeated, not even attempting to conceal his bewilderment. “And, preferably, making it look as dramatic and exaggerated as possible?”

At the other end of his desk, you nodded with faux solemnity. “I’m afraid so.”

“Afraid so?” Alhaitham humours. “Everything from your…request to your actions betrays that.”

In the end, you didn’t manage to convince Alhaitham to put on a show showcasing the risks and dangers of heatwaves and heatstrokes, but he did agree to go out for lunch. To negotiate alternatives, of course.

After that lunch, he asked for your presence for dinner, and after dinner, you found yourself making breakfast at Alhaitham’s place.

“Since when did you come over so much?” you asked, sleep clearly clinging to your senses. “Last time I remember, I was waiting by your office door waiting to sneak in ten minutes of your time.”

The coffee he freshly brewed threatens to burst from the confinement of his mouth as he stares at you with a curious expression. “This is my house.”

The realisation spreads through your face like ink in water as you glance at the surroundings. “Oh yeah…that’s right.”

Alhaitham subtly rolls his eyes, letting out a lighthearted tsk as he disappears off into the kitchen. “Do you feel like going to Gandharva Ville in the evening?” he asks, the clatter of dishes echoing through the lounge. “You were groaning over how you hadn’t seen Collei and Tighnari in ages a few days ago.”

He remembered that?  You gawk to yourself, mouth and eyes wide open as you trod towards the sunshine of the kitchen . Moreover, he certainly wanted to go. Since when did Alhaitham suggest you leave the house for purposes such as catching up with friends?

“I’d love to,” you answer as you help him load the dishwasher. “You beat me to it.”

A soft smile imperceptibly brightens his face, casting you in slight awe. “What? You don’t think I disregard your desires just like that, do you?”

Alhaitham is the hopelessly romantic one. Those intricate plans he sets up for your happiness are nowhere as simple-minded as he plays them out to be.

diluc

There was always something peculiar about Diluc Ragnvindr. The snarky remarks about the Knights of Favonius’ poor service, which you found highly offensive in the presence of an employee (you), the genuine air of mystery he upheld, but the most interesting thing you were desperate to crack down on was his frosty distaste for the Cavalry Captain, your co-worker, Kaeya.

As far as you knew, Kaeya was a lovely co-worker. considerate, dedicated and reliable, he was an admirable worker. You didn’t understand why Diluc didn’t applaud him for his discipline renowned throughout the city, especially if he was continuously murmuring about the incompetence of the staff.

Amidst the possible explanations, you came to the conclusion that the unwelcoming atmosphere stemmed from something more personal. Jealously? Past disagreements? No, that couldn’t be. They didn’t appear the closest.

Little did you know that all you needed to do was ask. Not really, but you get the idea.

“You…want to talk to Diluc?” Kaeya spluttered, wide-eyed at your determined face, before moving his gaze towards Angel Share’s bartender with a smirk. “Ah, I see what’s going on.”

“You’re very far off, by the way,” you replied silkily, taking a sip of the apple juice. “I’m not interested in him romantically, if that’s what you were thinking.”

Kaeya raises an eyebrow. “If not romantically, then what could you possibly talk to him about?”

You shrug, making a beeline for the counter. “Thanks for the drink.”

Diluc had caught the words, ‘interested in him romantically.’

According to those four words he heard from you, the context of you and Kaeya’s conversation could already be visualised.

For someone who seemed to be interested in him, your choice of words regarding his interest in you were a little all over the place. So, he assisted you.

“How about we discuss this over dinner?”

Sometimes, you think to yourself, how did this ever happen?

For example, the weak beams of lighting from the east signify that it’s the birth of dawn, your neatly tucked in bed, except this bed isn’t actually yours.

The evidence lies with the person’s arms around your waist, tight and warm against the chills of early morning.

“Good morning,” a sleepy voice suddenly erupts from besides you. “Have I told you how even more striking you are in the sunlight?”

Diluc Ragnvindir is the passionate one—the one who would give you his heart if you asked. In some ways, he’s still as mysterious as the first time you laid eyes on him.

xiao

The moon is the muse for thousands of people. Whether it’s written in a rhyme, painted on a canvas, sung in a song or resonated with a soul, it has immersed itself in the complex depths of the sensitive human heart.

There’s a particular interpretation that has stuck with you since the first time you read it. A lyrical piece of literature from somewhere long lost. You were especially tired that night. A most unlucky dilemma, as it might’ve guaranteed to be one of the most critical and serendipitous nights of your life. Not that you knew at the time.

From that somewhere long lost, between the rolling tides of shadows, tucked away in the safety of peaking mountains, a mysterious figure observed with curiousity at your sentiment.

However, the discreetness of Xiao’s hiding spot was tested most instantaneously when you suddenly made a decision to look up. To the sky, or to him? Truthfully, you were actually aiming for the moon, but the pounding chambers of his chest crashed his steaming trains of thought.

He had to restrain himself from investigating further as your figure dissolved one by one into the night. Maybe you'll be there again tomorrow.

What started off as a little exchange of words soon blossomed into short conversations. Short conversations soon bloomed into a gap in time filled with occasional laughter and encouraging smiles. He learned your name, and you learned his secrets. Vicious, woeful secrets plaguing his dreams, or perhaps the title of nightmares suited it better.

On their own, the characteristics were incessant in disaster. Fusing those characteristics with centuries of solitude and emptiness, it assisted in further igniting the raging fire burning away his will.

The idea of somehow unravelling those years of pain seemed so clearly impossible, even if that person felt like they had a chance. Even if they felt just the tiniest bit more special than all the others.

“Some things are impossible,” Xiao had muttered as he watched you go through an assortment of books he lended from Verr Goldet, eyes flickering from your face to the yellowing pages. “It’s better to admit that than spend years searching for hope.”

Skimming through the columns of ancient literature, a strong feeling of suspicion arose as you distinctively felt like he'd seen you do this once before.

“But what if you find the hope?” you whispered gently, switching your attention to his avoidant gaze. “There’s always that outcome, too.”

That outcome. Of course he’s considered that conclusion, wished for it. But Xiao would never dare to believe that far.

“I read a poem a few nights ago,” you started again. “A comparison of us and the moon. Humans, just like the moon, need to wax and wane. We’ll grow and shine our beauty, but that can’t be achieved unless we remember to rest, to wane. After all, a full moon only lasts around three days out of a whole month.”

How can you just return to reading after you told him that?

That moon analogy was shared about a year ago.

It’s likely that you brushed it off, but for Xiao, it’s still freshly etched into the shelves of his mind. And it would be a lie if he said that he didn’t change in small, irrevocable ways because of it.

Particularly tonight.

An exhausted sigh escapes from your lips as you sink into bed. Lying like a starfish, a hollow expression is evident in your eyes alone.

“This project is never going to work,” you spoke, turning to stuff your face in a pillow. Adjacent to you, Xiao observed as you screamed, once again the same words into the fabric. Only this time, the words were separated by sharp heaves and quiet sniffs. Being a little inexperienced with scenarios such as this, Xiao could only reassure you with the same words and actions that you had endlessly showered him with in similar situations.

He knew you were listening, despite the softness of his voice, which was hardly detectable. He repeated the words you told him a year ago when he felt as if the world was about to end.

“Someone once told me humans and moons are alike,” he smiled as he saw your face lift just a bit, as if you couldn’t believe what he was saying. “We both need to wane before we can emit our light in full greatness.”

Xiao is the quiet one, whose love is often under-looked, but in truth, it’s expressed just as vividly, if not brighter.

[madameisaacpereire]

ribs, stained black (a truth you can't ignore)

❝What’s it from? The blood.” You ask, even though you don’t want to know.  

   He pauses. Silence stretches between you for so long, you think your cheek might be stained with rust by the time you put the phone down. You continue winding the phone cord around your finger, the skin of which begins to feel tight and itchy. Up, down, right, left, up.

  “We hit a deer.” Henry sounds like himself again, all giddiness erased.❞

Henry calls you with a question about laundry.

TW blood & dissociation!! this is way shorter than usual, but being any longer would do this specific scenario a disservice.

read on ao3 + guardian angel masterlist

   “Call me if you need anything. Absolutely anything.” Your words are muffled by Francis’s shoulder,  your arms wrapped tight around his slim frame. 

  He laughs, amused and fond. They’ve all come to your graduation, and now crowd around you, each waiting for their final turn to say goodbye. Final for all, except Henry- it’s likely that he’ll see you at some point over the summer. 

   “I’m so serious.” You pull away, fixing him with your most no-nonsense stare. 

  “Okay, okay, of course, angelus. I promise.” He’s trying not to laugh, to appear as serious as you, but ultimately fails. 

  A hand rests on your arm, light but insistent. 

  “That’s enough, Francis. You can’t have everyone important to me all for yourself.” Camilla cuts in.

   Something twinges across his face, but you haven’t the time to react, much less consider it, before you’re pressed tight to Camilla, her cheek on your shoulder. She reminds you of a little girl for a moment. You cup the back of her head and do your best not to think about her lack of parents. It might break you. 

   Charles is next, already smelling faintly of the booze you know him to keep in a flask that resides permanently in his inner suit pocket. He hugs you the tightest, as though you’ll be able to stay indefinitely if he holds on well enough.

  “Don’t go on and forget about me.” He sounds small, tepid. 

   A tone that doesn’t match the joyous expression he wears when you pull away. He sounds like he really does expect you to forget him, or at the very least, is genuinely afraid you will. How could you ever forget someone as bright as Charles? You press a tender kiss to his cheek before allowing yourself to be whirled into the next hug. 

  Hugging Bunny is awkward and somewhat uncomfortable. He does so with an out of place familiarity, as though you touch all the time, when in fact you avoid physical contact with him as much as possible. He’s chattering on a mile a minute while he holds you, talking so much that you’ll hardly remember a word of it later. You will remember the nasal, braying tone of his voice, and the way his breath smells of malted milk and cigarettes when he insists on kissing your forehead. 

  You’re tucked comfortably into Henry’s embrace soon enough, allowed to indulge in a fashion you usually hold back from. His arms feel heavy against your back, solid and secure as a roller-coaster belt. You allow your eyes to drop shut for a moment. You could live here without protest, lose yourself in the electric pinpricks his touch leaves in its wake, until everything turns to dust. You take a deep breath and let it out, more relaxed than you feel comfortable admitting. 

   “I mean it, you know,” You say, pulling back just enough to look up at him, even though your body screams in protest at this separation, “If you guys need anything next year. Even if it’s a dumb question, I don’t care. Make sure to call me.”

   Which is how you end up in your living room, fuzzy with early morning shadow, months later. It’s chilly, so you wrap your thin satin robe tighter. You haven’t heard a word from Henry in months. You pretend not to mind. He’s on the other end of the call, euphoria infusing his tone in a way that might alarm you if you were more conscious. But you’re partly convinced this is a dream, as you yawn, rollers sticking from your head in unattractive lumps.

   He’s asking something about stain removal, particularly getting blood out of white sheets. You assume, in the cobwebbed recesses of your mind, that this means he really has begun dating Camilla. That this blood he speaks of is somehow hers, in a way you’d prefer not to consider. Although you’ve expected this, it aches. 

   “Okay, just… do not scrub at it, whatever you do,” You prop the phone between shoulder and cheek, “If there’s any standing blood, you’ll want to blot with a cold cloth first, then soak it in cold water.”

   He makes a noise of acknowledgement. You hear him scribbling your instructions down on a notepad. You can picture him so clearly, black house phone gripped in his palm, Mont Blanc gliding across the page, copying your words down in his precise hand. He shifts against the phone and your stomach clenches at the background noises picked up; it sounds so much like the twins and Francis are there. You miss them. You don’t want to.

   “And then hydrogen peroxide should take most of the remaining stain out. Wash on cold, hang dry…” You cut yourself off with a yawn.

  “Thank you, angel, I appreciate it.” A smile curves his words into something soft and bright.

    You find this far more alarming than the blood itself. It wakes you more than the laundry inquiry itself did. Fleetingly, you wonder if he’s done something terrible. You assure yourself he couldn’t have, and wrap your finger in the white phone cord. Down, right, left, up, down. It’s soothing. The sky outside is navy blue with the promise of sunrise just around the corner. You run your tongue over the inside of your cheek, irritating a torn indentation from the day before, where you accidentally bit it through a piece of gum. 

   “What’s it from? The blood.” You ask, even though you don’t want to know.  

   He pauses. Silence stretches between you for so long, you think your cheek might be stained with rust by the time you put the phone down. You continue winding the phone cord around your finger, the skin of which begins to feel tight and itchy. Up, down, right, left, up.

  “We hit a deer.” Henry sounds like himself again, all giddiness erased.

  You don’t believe him, but you accept this explanation without question because you want it to be true, and are happy to ignore the other options swirling through your mind. Your finger is mottling purple. You unwind it from the phone cord, and it seems to sigh in relief as blood rushes back in. 

  “You could burn them,” The words glide out thoughtlessly,  “If you haven’t the time to work the stains out.”

  You hear him move again. He’s pressing a hand to the receiver, you can tell from the loud crackling, which does very little to muffle his words. They still sound clear as crystal. Something’s wrong, the illusion cracked open like ribs, stained black with a truth you can’t ignore. You close your eyes. 

  “One of you start the fireplace.”  

   Your breath is shaky.

   “Listen angel, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you again soon, alright?” 

   He won’t. This is the first call in months, one only received because he needs something. You nod anyway, voice inaccessible for the moment. He correctly assumes you’ve nodded and hangs up. The phone stays pressed to your ear long after you hear the click. You’re stuck, rooted deep into the floor like mud sucking at your ankles. The dial tone reminds you of wasps, angry that they’re trapped within the machine, fighting to escape. The sky turns red. Clouds turn pink, then purple, and finally white. You replace the phone and force yourself back to your room.

     You’re tucked away while you dress. That’s how you think of it, anyway. The world around you has acquired a dim sense of unreality. As though you’re experiencing it through meters of warm water, observing yourself from a director’s chair. Time melts into liquid.

  Two fingers in the center of each roller: down, back, up, out. The angry hiss of hairspray. You chip your thumbnail against a vanity drawer and take the time to repaint it. You methodically drag a toothbrush over your teeth and tongue for two minutes exactly, watching the clock to ensure it, and select a wide-armed linen top from the closet. 

  You float through the motions of tucking your shirt into a long, light grey skirt. Secure it with a belt, ensure the top is the correct amount of baggy, slip a beige vest over the top. You button the vest, then unbutton it. Smooth out invisible wrinkles. Fluff your hair once more. 

  By the time you come back to, you don’t recall getting ready at all. You flip through the paper, a relatively new habit, balancing your cigarette between your fingers. This resembles Henry more than yourself, as does the way you forgo cream for sugar in your coffee. You barely notice. You don’t want to. 

   And as the weeks go on, you willfully forget just enough to convince yourself it was a dream. You lie to yourself so skillfully that you don’t connect the dots a few weeks later, eyes scanning an article about a mauled farmer in upstate Vermont. You ash your cigarette and take another drag. You flip the page. 

  You don’t falter, even for a moment, when you read the date.

[marigold-hills]

day 10: making love | @wolfstarkinktober2024 | 3993 words

MINORS DNI - NSFW - EXPLICIT

(also: crying, spit as lube, touch-starved Sirius)

Also on AO3 here

****

The signal takes twelve years to reach Earth.

There are many colonies now. Some stay in close touch, sharing news, sharing commercial routes. They’re an extension of the life already thriving on the home planet; separated by distance but keeping trade and communication alive.

Not Proxima Centauri b.

Remus remembers reading about it when the colony was established. When Black Industries had revealed themselves to be little more than a cult and left Earth behind to start a new, pure human race.

There was nothing from them. Until now.

The colony has collapsed. Send help, the voice said, then twenty two seconds of static silence. Then: please. 

Chances are there is nobody there anymore. That’s what Head Command cited, when they ruled out the possibility of sending search and rescue. The message was sent twelve years ago, the admiral said, whoever sent it, they’re dead by now. 

But those twenty two seconds played on repeat in Remus’ head. He woke up hearing them, fell asleep replaying them. Then, one morning, the final word, the please, appeared in his dream, and he knew he had to do something.

He’s had some favours he’d scrounged up over the years. Things he never thought to cash in, because what for? He didn’t mind covering the odd shift or hiding the odd miscalculation that a higher-up missed. Sure, there was the time when Admiral Dumbledore came to him to fly someone out of the Sol system under the radar. Sure, Moody once did ask him for help derailing legislation through less than stellar means.

As it turned out, he’s had quite a few people he could press on, lean on, to make it happen. Nobody understood why he cared so much. He didn’t understand either.

But he was given a ship, and indefinite time off work (a sabbatical, they called it - like pilots ever had those). He went alone because that was the deal. Nobody is to know. This is a waste of resources and of taxpayer money.

Two weeks, it takes him to reach the exoplanet.

(Nothing, in comparison to twelve years.)

He doesn’t mind the solitude. Just him and his little ship, and all the stars in the sky. It’s a newer model, easier for a crew of one to manage than the older ones. The computer working the systems keeps getting smarter. Soon, Remus thinks, his job will be obsolete.

Proxima Centauri b is pretty from orbit. Vast oceans, swaths of green, sun-bathed clouds hiding it from view in the most picturesque way. Remus watches as the line of day-night moves across the surface of the planet, so, so slowly. He’s stalling - he’s here and now he’s stalling, because this is it. What if it was for nothing? What if the voice had been extinguished in all the years that passed?

He’s not to land unless he makes contact: a waste of fuel on an already wasteful journey. It’s a clear command and already he knows he’s going to break it, because he’s not come this far just to be waylaid by the colony’s malfunctioning communicator, or the owner of the voice not seeing his message. Because, if he’s there, why would he check it? After all those years? 

Still: there is flagrant disregard of orders, and there is covering one’s tracks, so Remus sends out the message.

Survivors of the Proxima Centauri b colony, come in. 

The little black text on the little green screen flickers with its own electrical life. 

No response comes and Remus tells himself you knew this would happen, it doesn’t mean anything. He sends the message again, and then again after a couple of hours. He has enough fuel to stay in orbit for a week and still get back to Earth with a safe amount spare.

He’s planned it like this: three messages, equal times apart, to show he tried it that way first. Then, short circuit the communicator - notoriously unreliable on the class of ship he’d been provided. Nobody can blame him for not trying. Nobody can blame him for finishing the mission in person.

What else was he to do, turn back?

He lands as near to the colony as the landscape allows. The compound is vast but the atmosphere is breathable. Remus has gotten used to the staleness of the recycled air he’s been in for a fortnight and this freshness is so welcome it makes him a little bit dizzy.

From the first look, it’s clear that the colony was abandoned - that something had happened. Remus’ footsteps echo against the white walls of the compound in an eerie quiet. He’s been to these places, these colonies, more times than he can count, but never once had he seen it empty.

It’s only the steady humming of power, running through the cables built into the floor, that gives him hope.

He comes across a doorway to an Aeroponics bay and this - this can’t be something that had cultivated itself. There must be someone here.

The plants have grown tall, their exposed roots well maintained - the air is moist, warm and hazy and Remus doesn’t think he sees an automatic water deployment system. Somebody must have just sprayed them. He touches the leaves of potato plants, gathering the moisture with his fingers because it’s a dual thing of life here - a sign and a gift.

There’s corn, and what he thinks is spinach, and strawberries. He shouldn’t be surprised - this was a large scale colony, with families and children. Of course they’d have things just for pleasure, even if it’s not the best use of the space.

The first time Remus sees him, it’s just a glimpse of a person walking through greenery. An afterimage of dark hair, of leisurely steps, of a strong, straight posture.

And then the man takes a few steps into the main aisle and turns around, and there he is.

It’s clear he’s been living by himself for too long. His hair hangs past his shoulders, unkempt but clean, a mess of black waves. There is a thinness to his frame, a suggestion of jutting elbows and sharp hipbones, clothes hanging on him like they were used to a larger body. Facial hair accentuating the edges of his cheeks, the set of his eyes.

Even like this, clearly malnourished, clearly not caring for his appearance, he’s beautiful.

They stand apart - two meters, maybe three. Remus still in his flight suit, the man in something soft and worn and comfortable. There’s the buzzing of electricity and the humming of the air purification unit and no other sounds, none at all.

Remus knows it’s him. He knows his silence as others would know his voice

And then: “You came,” and the voice, too, is familiar.

“I did.”

The man takes step after halted step, like walking on unfamiliar ground. He comes closer but not close. Remus understands.

“How long has it been?”

“Twelve years.”

An interface on one of the plant unit beeps and the man turns to it. “Huh,” he huffs out, a small sound almost like no sound at all.

He fiddles with the positioning of roots and presses buttons that make the beeping stop, then picks up an atomiser and sprays a fine mist over the plant. He has lovely hands, even if the fingers look a bit bony and the nails have been bitten down.

“What’s your name?” Remus asks because he’s wanted to know since the first time he heard the recording.

“Sirius,” the man speaks to the plant.

And Remus is a pilot. He knows the stars. He’s flown amongst them, used them as guides. He knows which one is the brightest in the winter sky and how to orient by it.

“Suits you.”

Sirius turns to him again, surprise written clear across his face. “You’re still here,” he says, then pauses. It’s the same pause Remus knows. “You didn’t go away.”

“No, I didn’t. I won’t.”

“No?”

“Not without you.”

More plants get sprayed, more roots adjusted. Sirius checks things on the interface displays along the aisle he stands in.

There is no need for him to maintain them anymore. Back on the ship Remus has enough food to last them both a month. He won’t tell Sirius that - he watches him care for the plants as if by muscle memory. They must be what kept him fed all the years he’s been alone.

He doesn’t move. Everything in the Aeroponics bay feels fragile and breakable, the air soft with mistwater, the silence held up by humming electricity. “Will you come with me?”

“Not today,” he walks out of the Aeroponics bay, doesn’t look back.

***

Proxima Centauri b is situated in a binary star system. The days are almost never ending, and the nights, when they happen, are so black that navigation becomes impossible.

The dual suns are larger than Remus has ever seen from any planet surface, the size of the Earth’s moon when it hangs full low over the horizon. They’re both red Dwarfs, giving out little heat. The sky is painted a dark maroon and the shadows are strange, multi-positioned. Everything looks one-dimensional. Flat, like a photograph. Rendered in tones of reds and greys, and deep, rich blacks.

Walking into the compound is like waking from a surrealist dream.

Sirius is in the Aeroponics bay again, tending to his plants. He doesn’t startle when he sees Remus.

“You came back,” he says after a long stretch of silence. He maintains eye contact this time, waits for the answer. 

“I said I wouldn’t leave.”

“There is a difference between not leaving and coming back.”

Remus wonders where the bodies of everyone who didn’t leave but didn’t come back are. Every other member of the colony of dozens. Did Sirius bury them, dug up the cold, hard ground? Is there a cemetery outside in the infertile red soil? Was it slow, gradual? Or did the colony collapse all at once, suddenly and quickly, until Sirius was all that was left?

“Come,” Sirius says, but doesn’t look if Remus follows.

There is a Mess Hall across from the corridor, with a small kitchen attached. Sirius gestures for Remus to sit. He does, choosing a chair closest to the kitchen and wonders if this is where Sirius would normally sit, or if he rotates his spot, or if Remus is the first to sit there in twelve years.

Sirius placed two bowls on the table, cream-of-potato soup and cornbread. “Eat,” he says, dipping the bread into the soup in lieu of a spoon.

“Thank you.”

Sirius drops the bread and looks at Remus and it’s clear that before he wasn’t, not really. Not at Remus, but through him, like he was an apparition or a hallucination or maybe not there at all. A trick of the light or a figure of mist.

The scrutiny verges on uncomfortable. Remus tries eating, tries to look natural - it would be so easy to spook Sirius here, one wrong move is one too many. Remus can’t afford to make a mistake, not when the eyes looking at him (into him) are so bright with life that simply wasn’t there before. He didn’t notice that Sirius was as flat as the horizon until he sparked up.

“This is very nice,” he says about the food.

And Sirius barks.

It’s a laugh, Remus supposes. An approximation of one. Sirius silences it and touches the hollow of his throat with unsure fingers. Remus wonders how long it’s been since he laughed.

“It tastes like shit,” he says. It’s the most animated he’s sounded since Remus found him. His fingers don’t move from over his trachea, as if he’s feeling the vibrations his voice creates there. “I ran out of salt years ago.” 

Everything they’re eating was grown by Sirius’ hands, then made into food by him too, and that annuls any complaints Remus could have had about the taste. He’s seen how SIrius is with his plants, delicate and caring, like they’re more than just something which provides him with nutrients. 

Did you speak to them? Remus wonders. Did they keep you company, the only other breathing things left here?

Once the food is gone, Sirius meanders away. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Remus says to his retreating back. Whether Sirius heard it or not is unclear - his steps don’t falter, he doesn’t turn back.

Not today.

***

There is an artificial day-night cycle on Remus’ little ship. Lights simulate the natural progression of the Earth’s sun to keep his circadian rhythm from deteriorating while he’s off planet.

(He dreams of silence.)

In the morning, Sirius is outside of the compound. The angles and edges of his face look softened in the strange reddish shadows. He doesn’t say you came back, doesn’t say anything. The way he watches Remus is unlike he’s ever been watched before: shrewd intent, no hesitation. Each step he takes towards him is like that, too.

Remus doesn’t move. Waits for Sirius to reach him. (He thinks he’ll always wait for Sirius to reach him.)

“Who are you?” Sirius finally asks as they’re face-to-face, less than an arms’ length apart, close enough to touch.

“Lieutenant Remus Lupin,” he answers in the simplest way he knows how. They both know that’s not what the question meant.

“Why are you here?”

“You know why,” Remus tells him. It’s not you sent a call for help and it’s not it was my duty. 

Surely, Sirius feels it too - maybe felt it before Remus got here; when the message made it to Earth or when Remus was played it for the first time, or when he downloaded it onto his personal drive and snuck it out of the lab. These things don’t happen in a vacuum. Surely, Sirius too must have dreamt of this moment when the silence gets filled with words, and the next one when it will be filled with sound. Just the two of them, where before Sirius was alone, reminding the air what it feels like to resonate.

Sirius takes the last step forward and brings his hand up, fingers trembling as, haltingly, he places it over Remus’ heart.

“We don’t have to,” Remus tells him, “we can wait.”

“I did my waiting.”

Sirius moves his hand up, along the zip of the flight suit, until he reaches Remus’ throat: a mirror of how he touched his own, fingertips light against the skin.

Remus speaks just so Sirius can feel his voice as it’s created. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

Sirius is conservative with his words, with the humming sounds he chooses to respond with. Everything from him is a bit rough - a voice unused in too long a time. Some words he overpronounces. Forgotten how they feel on his tongue, Remus guesses.

The hand on his throat stretches out, fingers splayed until they span the width of it, then slip around and into his hair. Sirius watches as if he isn’t the one doing it. As if it’s something that just happened, that was always going to happen. Inevitable. Written into the atoms that make up the both of them, aeons ago when they were still stardust caught in nebulae, strewn across the cosmos. Cyclically, with each universe beginning and each one ending, coming back to this moment - to this first touch.

Delicately, because Sirius should always be touched delicately, Remus takes hold of his wrist. Sirius’ breath hitches, then stops. It's divinity to touch him. 

Remus makes it gentle. Makes it safe. If he’s the first in twelve years to place marks of fingerprints on Sirius’ body, then he’ll make himself into something worth it.

It’s a wonder how seamless everything is. As if it isn’t new. Remus knows Sirius is going to kiss him before he does. There is no change in his demeanour but there is a shift in the silence, something else stirred through the determination. 

And then Sirius does. And Remus finds his home on Proxima Centauri.

It’s odd, that he didn’t realise a part of him was missing until he found it, but it’s so clear now, with Sirius’ lips against his own. There was a hole inside of him and now, with each second he is allowed this, each second he’s given this, that hole is filled.

Sirius is slow about it. Patient. If nothing else he must have learnt patience, surviving like this. Remus keeps it like this: soft touches as their lips come apart and come together. Warm, where Sirius is warm, the only source of heat on the surface of this cold planet, the only source of life.

Sirius leads him toward the compound and it’s like stepping into the ocean - the water welcoming its long-forgotten counterpart.

They walk through the corridor, past the Mess, past the Aeroponics Bay. There are more spaces there - Engineering and Storage and rooms Remus pays no mind, too engrossed in the way Sirius has weaved their fingers together to pull him along.

The bedroom they enter is sparse. Utilitarian. Somewhere Sirius shouldn’t belong in and yet, through circumstance, does. Remus thinks of his home back on Earth. Comfortable bed strewn with blankets, an old wood fireplace he’s had converted into plasma. Thinks of Sirius in his kitchen or on his little balcony or in his bed.

Then Sirius reaches for the zip of his flight suit, and Remus thinks of nothing at all.

“Don’t touch me softly,” Sirius asks when Remus runs careful fingers up his arms. “Touch me like you’re here.”

So he does: tightens his hold, puts his hand into Sirius’ hair, down the sharp bones of his face, across the harshness of his beard. Sirius’ eyes flutter open and shut, once, twice - on the third they’re red-rimmed and wet.

“I’m here.”

They kiss again and it’s harder this time. Purposeful. Remus walks them forward until the backs of Sirius’ knees hit the bed and he collapses onto it, still held as he wants to be held.

There are tattoos down Sirius’ sternum. Remus discovers them with his mouth as he pushes the soft shirt up and off and out of the way.

This is the first one: a soft, quiet whimper, laced with the tears that finally spill. It sounds both like pleasure and like pain. Remus coaxes more of them out of Sirius’ throat as he mouths across it. Feels the trembling under his skin as his body remembers how to make these sounds. Feels the skin heat as it remembers why. 

“I found you,” he says into Sirius’ ribs. “I knew you’d be here.”

Sirius doesn’t reciprocate. He lays stretched out on the bed; hands twisted into the pillow, one a fist he bites into. “Don’t hide,” Remus tells him, “let me hear you.”

“I don’t know how.”

“It’s alright. We'll find it.”

He licks down Sirius’ hipbone and the sound comes again. Louder, needier. More like a moan. He does it again, and again. Encore. One more time. For me, once more. Then: harder and Remus obliges, bites to bruise.

There is no teasing. There are hands in hair, pulling, and mouths tasting and then please Sirius says - please, the word that brought them together. 

Remus doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to resist giving in when Sirius asks like that. He pulls one of Sirius’ legs up, wraps it around himself to spread him open. Licks his own fingers until they’re soaked. Kisses Sirius through the first touches, apologetic. Forgive me for the pain. Sirius grabs at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin. He’s so impossibly tight, so wonderfully warm, and Remus knows when it turns from hurt and discomfort into something better. Sirius’ face doesn’t relax, but contorts into pleasure.

“I’ve forgotten,” he says in halted breaths.

Remus fucks him with two fingers, slow but hard. Kisses each moan straight from his mouth. Sirius clings onto him through it. “Please, Remus, more,” he uses the name for the first time. 

(Better than silence, the sound of the name ripped out of him mid-moan.)

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Remus doubles his efforts to make just his fingers good enough. They have nothing to help with the stretch.

“It won’t hurt,” Sirius uses the leg thrown over Remus’ hip to bring him closer. “Let me feel you. Let me have you.”

“You have me,” Remus tells him and means it in so many ways, “whatever happens here now, you have me.”

Something softens in Sirius’ expression. He pulls Remus in, fingers splayed across his jaw. Kisses him so slowly. The contrast - fingers hard where they bring Sirius pleasure but his lips soft and yielding and pliant - the contrast is almost enough to send Remus towards his own edge.

He’s not prepared when Sirius surges up and reverses them. Pushes Remus to the bed and straddles him. Rids them both of what clothes they have left on. Then, hand on Remus’ cock, his face turns mischievous and that? That is the look that suits him better than any other. “You’re so hard for me already,” he purrs. “I want to feel you everywhere, inside of me and outside.”

And who is Remus to deny him? No one. He’s no one, but a vessel for the things he feels for the man above him. Before he was empty and now, here, he’s overflowing.

I think I love you, he wants to say as Sirius lathers him up in spit. I think the stars have sent me you. 

The moment you laid eyes on me was the moment my existence began.

Sirius is careful about it, but inch by torturous inch he lowers himself down Remus’ cock. He’s warmer than the double suns keeping the planet alive. Remus could stay like this, surrounded by him, until the permaday ends.

And then Sirius sits. Arse flush to Remus’ hips. Throws his head back in pleasure, mouth agape and eyes closed as he feels it out.

“That’s it,” Remus tells him, voice tight and hands splayed on Sirius’ hips, grounding them both. “Take your time.”

Sirius, a contrarian, starts to move almost immediately. Minute rocks back and forth. Remus feels it as static electricity in his veins. He brings Sirius down, until he lays down on Remus and their lips can meet again, and Remus can bend his knees and drive himself further into Sirius, use the grip on his hips to bring him down closer on each thrust.

It’s maddening. Unlike anything. That he found it here could be proof of a higher power, had Remus not flown across the known galaxy. He always knew there was no space for such things in the sky. (He didn’t realise they were hiding here.)

Their movements grow erratic. The tears in Sirius’ eyes return and Remus wipes them off with his thumb. This gesture he allows himself to be soft, and Sirius turns his face into the palm of Remus’ hand, welcoming it.

“I’m so close,” Sirius says. The way he clenches over Remus a giveaway. Maybe a reward, but Remus doesn’t think he’s done anything in this life worthy of such a thing. 

Remus takes Sirius’ cock in hand, keeps his thrusts deep and steady. “That’s it,” he says, “come for me.”

Sirius moans into Remus’ mouth, loud and unashamed and this, this right there, is what makes Remus cum.

There is an eternity contained in the time they cling to one another. Remus runs his fingers up and down the lovely curve of Sirius’ back. All the ways left to discover you, he thinks, tracing vertebrae. All the time we’ll have, now we found each other.

***

In the two weeks they take to get back to Earth, silence becomes a thing of the past. Remus reminds Sirius what it’s like to be touched, and in return Sirius rewrites each sensation for him like it’s brand new. 

“Stay with me,” Remus asks before they land, and:

“Always,” Sirius replies. 

[usagi-chwan]

Fukuzawa x Reader - Where I belong

Reader's name is Eiko in this chapter!

By dint of going round in circles, she finally had to face the facts.

She was bored stiff. She had long since finished her work for today, had even gotten a head start on the next few days, her personal office was glowing like the rest of the room, and the quietness that reigned in the agency, which had satisfied her for a while after the day's running around she had just had, had finally worn her out.

She was content to look out the window at the few lights of the cars, which passed in the street below without her seeing them, knowing that she was on the fourth floor.

Her fingers had been absent-mindedly playing with the same pen for a good five minutes, and the seconds that ticked away on the clock seemed to last for hours.

Everyone else in the agency was long-gone, at least a good two hours if she remembered correctly. But she was still waiting, hoping that the person she was waiting for would finally appear.

The boss of the agency, Fukuzawa Yukichi, stayed as usual to finish his work. And Eiko, as a good girlfriend, was waiting for him so that they could go back home together. But, that night, the ‘overtime’ lasted much longer than usual.

Even Kunikida had gone home, that was to say.

The young woman finally decided to get up from her chair, when, due to a bad manipulation, her pen previously in her fingers had ended up flying across the room. As expected, sitting too long did not help the state of her poor back, already badly treated by the day she had just spent.

She went around her chair, then her desk, and had to get on all fours to get her favorite pen, the one Ranpo had bought her for an occasion she had forgotten exactly what it was.

The dark-haired man was as attached to her as he was to Fukuzawa, so much so that Eiko was convinced that he considered them both as father and mother. This did not bother her at all, on the contrary.

Ranpo was like a son to her, after all.

Carefully placing the newly recovered pen on her desk, the young woman finally decided to act, instead of waiting indefinitely without doing anything. It was also possible that Yukichi had fallen asleep on his desk, in the middle of the papers he had not finished filling in.

Usually, she let him finish working quietly, but now she did not have the patience for this. She turned off the light in the office of the agency, and went into the corridor that led to her companion's office.

The light that passed under the door was evidence of Fukuzawa's presence inside. When she reached out, the sound of a pen scratching paper could be heard, a sign that he was still wide awake.

And that he still had not finished his work, she deduced with an annoyed pout. Deciding not to knock, the young woman discreetly opened the door, the warm light of the room welcoming her at once.

Yukichi was well and truly there, behind his desk and half hidden by several piles of papers, sliding his pen on an umpteenth report. She knew he had heard her, even though he did not look up to make sure it was her.

He just knew it.

Once the door closed behind her, she silently approached the gray-white-haired man, stopping a few steps away from him, glancing at the various files that gracefully fed the mountains of paper.

He had almost finished, as far as she could see. He only had one pile left, which did not look too complicated to fill out. She could have helped him in his task, but she knew that he preferred to do everything himself.

Besides, she might not be the best person to help him fill in the reports...

Resigned, Eiko decided instead to move forward a little more, her legs almost touching the armrests of the chair on which her boyfriend was sitting. Without anything being said, this one forsook one moment his work, moved back his seat and waited, establishing finally an eye contact with the young woman.

The tiredness was literally read in his eyes. Eiko took the time to deposit a kiss on the forehead of the man, whose tense features relaxed almost at once, only to come to take place on his knees, answering with joy to the silent invitation.

Once her legs passed on each side of those of Fukuzawa, her buttocks well wedged on the knees of this last and her arms surrounding the size of his lover, Yukichi advanced again his chair, replacing it in the position which it occupied previously, and started again to work, his pen scratching again the paper of the reports.

His free hand was now resting on Eiko's waist, the latter not hesitating for a second to snuggle up to Yukichi, enveloped in the familiar and comforting scent of her boyfriend.

Since she was much smaller than him, her face just reached Fukuzawa's shoulder, on which she rested the upper part of her cheek.

Only there, perfectly installed on the knees of the one she loved, she let her eyes close, the force that her arms exerted on Yukichi's waist progressively decreasing as sleep came to seek her.

The hand that was gently caressing her lower back distractedly continued to perform its task, as its owner slowly but surely finished what was left to finish... Hearing the young woman's breathing slow down, a sign that she had arrived in the land of dreams, he risked a glance in her direction, lowering his head, discovering her sleeping face a few centimeters from his, tearing him a soft smile.

When she snuggled up to him like that, she looked like a little cat. And God only knew how much he loved those animals.

Bringing back his hand to chase a lock of hair which had fallen in front of the closed eyes of Eiko, Fukuzawa nevertheless took the time to deposit a kiss on the forehead of this last one, as to repay the one that she had given him a few moments ago.

Now that he was not all alone, the necessary courage to finish what he had to do had returned to him.

The presence of his favorite cat at his side was worth all the energy in the world, after all.

This presence that reminded him where he belonged.

[livlepretre]

I prefer Elena as a vampire why doesn’t Klaus want her to be one I’m a new reader

Well, what chapter are you on, because the answer changes depending on where in the fic you are.

At the start, he doesn’t want her to be one because he’s using her for her blood. That mercenary view remains in place for many chapters, even after he begins to pursue her “romantically.” (Well, sexually anyway.)

Spoilers below:

We learn through the flashbacks in chapters 42-44 (I think) that Klaus had actually offered to turn Elena at the end of the 2nd Nola arc— essentially he thought he was in love with her and he had decided to throw out all of his hybrid plans/desires to use Elena to continue her bloodline, and instead turn her so she would be useless to any witches or other powers seeking to use or harm her for her blood, and so that they could be together eternally. He argues that if they are going to be together, then that is the only way forward. Elena meanwhile does not want to be a vampire and turns him down. I take Elena’s rejection straight from canon: she is clear in canon that it is not a path she desires. Klaus actually listens to her and desists that night, and, of course, they never return to this conversation in a meaningful way because of the events which directly follow.

Klaus does allude though as he is leaving Elena after daggergate that he has decided to return to his original plan to use her for her blood, keep her prisoner, and basically go total no contact. He did not take the break up well.

The next time Klaus is asked his opinion on this directly is when Rebekah basically asks him for permission to turn Elena right after they flee NYC. He tells Rebekah no, in the most definitive terms possible. Besides the “and have her haunt my steps forever?” line (which is so revealing; he is actually afraid of turning her because he is afraid of making her a permanent emotional problem for himself, rather than a transient one), he cites Elena’s professed desire to remain human. The deal is that he is actually, in this moment when pressed on the topic and not performing for Elena, defending what he considers her heartfelt interests. He will not allow his sister to violate Elena’s free will in this regard. Elena eavesdrops and doesn’t know what to make of any of this, but that’s the essential sum of it. (Let’s not get into the general fucked uppedness of Klaus choosing to honor Elena’s wishes here and then trample over the ones he wants to trample over— he’s a complicated creature with lots of contradictions, even within his own thoughts— the entire problem that Elena poses for him is actually that she makes him self-aware of those contradictions, which means eventually he is going to break.) Rebekah (incorrectly) argues that Elena would turn for her, which does stir Klaus’s envy, although he does not quite believe her, either. There is also the possessive element that if anyone is going to turn Elena, it’s going to be him.

When Klaus discovers that Rebekah has been feeding Elena her blood during that kiss right after Elijah leaves, the reason he is so so so furious is that Rebekah has steamrolled over Elena’s desire to stay mortal. Elena doesn’t realize it, but she had complete and total control over Klaus here. Everything depended upon how she responded to this information. He really would have boxed Rebekah up indefinitely over this had Elena not chosen forgiveness— which Klaus took poorly, but, like, of course he did.

[granulesofsand]

Is it possible for a headmate to be programmed by another/feel programmed? As in they have "tasks" they start to complete with certain triggers. Doubt this would be related to RAMCOA though, and would probably use a different word, but not sure.

🗝️🏷️RAMCOA, responding to triggers, ‘you’ indefinite and ‘you(&)’ headmate/system inclusive

As in programmed by another headmate? We wouldn’t call it programming (just because the external coercion is important to our definition), but you can get a similar effect. The first few paragraphs are about dealing with internal perpetration, the last about what to do if there is no perpetrator (it’s common for systems to have trigger-based reactions they can’t control!)

It’s been our experience that headmates can use the innerworld about the same as the outerworld to apply trauma, and even memory sharing can be traumatic if the receiving sysmate isn’t equipped to work through it. The chances of having the physiological effects are also way lower unless your innerworld is super vivid. Maybe co-con or co-front could make that happen?

To my knowledge, collectives with this experience do label it ‘self-programming’, which is uncomfortable for me as a programmed alter, but not necessarily inaccurate.

Treatment for the results would be somewhat different for external perpetrators; group contact shouldn’t be an issue (unless innerworld organization is a problem), but there is no running away from the perpetrator(s) (unless the innerworld has the space for that). Either way, the headmates perpetrating need to stop for the healing to progress. The consequences of sharing a body are difficult to quantify. The programming itself would almost certainly be less complex and group-oriented than externallly perpetrated MC.

Depending on how the perpetrating headmates learned to do this, you(&) might be able to treat them as the equivalent of enforcers rather than external abusers. Compassion is still required for all headmates involved, but I wouldn’t recommend re-introducing the perpetrator and survivor for some time (if at all, depends on system functions if separation is on the table).

I’m honestly not too sure how to go about solely internal dynamics, as ours stem from external events, but I have faith that recovery is possible. I don’t know of any communities centering this, and I’d actually recommend staying away from abuse-based groups (if anything, look for plural/multiple circles and maybe find people with like experiences you(&) can build trust with).

What you(&)’re describing could well be how the system works, no internal abuse required. In that case, elaboration and role-separation are probably more helpful. Let them know they don’t have to do these jobs, and that the triggers they’re responding to (which is normal in traumagenic disorders, CDDs included) no longer require them to perform — or if they are required, that they have choices in how to go forward with their reactions.

It would be less common for an untraumatized (not including endo systems who have post-traumatic responses) system to react to triggers this way, but far from impossible. Brains do what brains do, psychological or otherwise.

Either way, make trigger lists (if this doesn’t further destabilize the headmate/system) and track symptoms. Try to trace whether this is a headmate behaving typically (albeit unhealthily) or if they’re being controlled by another sysmate. Notice if the patterns serve the headmate/system or mostly a third party system member. The words bit is odd, but not impossible to find naturally. Look into it, but mind other symptoms to see if the prying is hurting you(&).

It’s going to be a long task no matter which it is, but you(&) should know what you(&)’re dealing with. You(&) aren’t the first to deal with this, and others have made it out the other side. Good luck.

[serpulalacrymans]

//so... I was thinking a lot recently about my blog, and honestly, there's some things I do not like and am aiming to change. Mainly in the way Lawrence is portrayed in his relationships.

//Let it be known that Law is a very selfish man, and if you're willing to give, he's willing to take. This isn't to say he doesn't care about who he's taking from, but most romantic reciprocation is not as it seems. He simply likes the attention and finds it too hard to let go of. (If you want to know what genuine romance looks like, it's intense infatuation and obsession. He will go the extra mile to stay in touch, to talk often, to interact as much as he possibly can for his person of interest, so much so that he feels entitled to their attention, and may even demand it.) Also, putting things to rest after I was cheeky and mentioned it in tags, I hate to "ruin the surprise" or anything, but I feel like it's important? Law, at this point in time, only sees potential in Ren, or in "Lamb." Good ole 🌫 Anon. I can go into detail why if anyone would like, but it's kind of complex and this is getting long as it is. But there ya go. I hope this makes it easier to navigate his interactions nonetheless.

//Next up is reminding everyone that this is an in-character blog. It's Lawrence typing, Lawrence posting. What he writes is not always what he really means or feels. He could be attempting to cater to a friend, to avoid an awkward discussion, or he could be overly mean because he feels like he needs to be- but, just saying, as an Oleander, like any other flower, he too can be a liar.

//Lastly, on the cutting board is Lawrence, and sexual activity. I don't have a problem with asks. I think those are fun! Finding what makes him tick is absolutely delightful- but actual sexual contact was not comfortable with me from the get-go, and I really should have just said something instead of wishing to throw my RP partners a bone. The doll-thread does NOT apply to this, as that is something Lawrence himself actively invited for his own selfish benefit, but for like.. "Canon" incidents where he has laid with other muses? I don't think I'm comfortable with that anymore. That kind of thing is very sacred to him and by bending the rules too much to cater to my partners, I have lost the plot and I'm sorry- but I think I'm excluding those from this point on. We can always discuss and actually plot, but, it's a long shot. Sorry...

//I will do my best to play the best Lawrence I can, but some very minor things need to change for that to happen. I'm sorry if I let anybody down somehow by posting this, but it's how it's gonna be. I will be going back to normal indefinitely after this is posted, so nobody has to worry about that.

//Have a good night everyone !! Thanks sm for reading if u bothered !!

[nikodimopoulos]

changes; self para

featuring: yiannis & helen dimopoulos mentions: @heyymikki

Even after watching the leaked security footage over, and over again, Niko couldn't quite believe what it was he was witnessing -- and for a person who put a lot of stock in the phrase seeing is believing, that was unusual.

Either way, Alejandra was dead. That much was for sure.

Everything felt like it was on fire; members of the lower ranks were going off the grid, skipping town entirely for fear of being next in line, higher-level personnel were high tailing it to Vegas, choosing to skip town and out of what was now seen as completely uneven territory between the cartel and the competition that had taken Alejandra out. After all, what protection could they possibly have in Tonopah when not even their most protected sovereign was safe?

Worst of all -- it was all because of two men he'd once trusted. Perhaps even with his life.

Word had spread like wildfire, so it wasn't a surprise when his parents had summoned him to their home, even urging him to close the restaurant down early to do so -- yet instead of getting right to the point once he arrived, they dawdled, sitting him down at the table with a coffee and making small talk. It was unusual.

Finally, after half an hour of runaround, Niko asked in his native tongue, "Can we cut the shit?"

This prompted a stern look from Yiannis from across the table. "Remember who you're speaking to, Nikolaos." The older man warned, prompting a heavy sigh to fall from Helen's lips only moments later.

"Stop it, both of you." His mother sat, topping off her husband's mug before taking a seat beside him, the both of them facing their son. "Nikolaos,we have something important to discuss with you."

Yiannis interjected, "and you need to keep your emotions in check for what we have to say. Behave yourself."

Niko's knuckles practically turned white as he tightened his grip on his coffee mug. "What is it?" He pushed, choosing to ignore the slight. Obviously it must have been big, not only because the Tonopah chapter of LS was dismantling, but also because Yiannis seemed to be deflecting his own emotions onto his son. That was how these things typically went, anyways.

The two of them shared a knowing look, and Helen nodded at her husband to go on. "Los Santos is done here. Which means a couple of things," he began, keeping his son's steady gaze. "One; there's no more of the cartel's money flowing through the restaurant. None. Which mean's Dionysos will be operating at a distinctive loss in the coming weeks, going on indefinitely. Two; if we wanted to continue operating, our best bet would be to contact the Vegas chapter, meet with their leadership, set up a deal --"

Helen interrupted, "but it's not a given that they'll bring our business in." She shook her head. "Las Vegas is a big city. Why would they bet on a small, local family operation when they're in the casino's pockets? The theatres? It would be a losing game for them to bet on us."

A pause lingered between them, and Niko could feel his stomach starting to churn. "What are you trying to say?" he asked, jaw clenched so tightly it was making the vein in his forehead start to pop. It was a ridiculous question, really -- Niko knew exactly what they were going to say.

"My son," Yiannis leaned forward, a hand resting on Niko's shoulder, "we're returning home. To Patras." He shook his head, gaze softening slightly. "There's nothing for us here anymore. It's time to go."

Niko stayed stoic, unblinking as the metaphorical bomb was dropped on top of him. Any words of protest sat thick in his throat -- that's not true, we can figure it out, we can make it work -- and instead he offered a simple nod.

Yiannis gave a wide smile, glancing back at his wife with a hearty laugh before giving Niko's shoulder a squeeze. "That's my boy, we knew you'd be on board." The man bellowed, as usual taking his son's silence whichever way benefited him most. They both did, really -- that was why saying anything at all was, at times, worse than just keeping his mouth shut.

"We always talked about going back. We didn't know it'd be this soon, under these circumstances, but..." Helen trailed off, offering a dismissive wave of her hand, "it's better this way. We can retire early. And you, my love, can set up shop back in Patras, maybe invest in another opportunity. Whatever you want to do, you'll have our full support --"

Niko's brows narrowed, a hand raised, "Mom, I --" he scoffed incredulously, unable to help himself. "Why would I go back?"

Helen's expression deflated, mimicking her son's -- for a moment, it was easy to see the resemblance. "Why wouldn't you?" She asked.

"Because I've been here for thirty years," Niko shook his head. "I have a life here, I have --" Mikayla's face flashed quickly in his mind, the thought of leaving her behind after all the promises he had given her, the commitment he had made not sitting well with him. Of course, he wasn't ready to open that can of worms with his parents, but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't at the forefront of his mind in that moment. "-- that's not possible for me right now."

A moment of silence passed between the three of them. "But Patras is your home, Nikolaos," remarked Yiannis. "You would abandon it?"

"I'm not abandoning it. Christ, baba, do you hear yourself?" Yiannis tensed, opening his mouth to say something else before Niko sighed, placing his hand back down on the table. "I'm sorry, I don't mean any disrespect but you're the ones who brought me here in the first place -- you even pushed me into becoming an American citizen."

The logic seemed to assuage Yiannis, thankfully, his expression softening. "So, what?" Helen spoke up next, her eyes becoming glassy with tears. "We're supposed to leave without our son?"

Immediately a sense of guilt washed over Niko, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. This wasn't what he wanted -- wasn't what any of them wanted -- but he truly didn't see another alternative. There were a lot of choices he'd relented to over the years, a lot he'd sacrificed to become a man -- his mental health, his agency, his morals -- but leave behind the last thirty years? That's not something he was willing to do anymore, not when he finally seemed to have a chance at happiness. At something.

Swallowing thickly, Niko forced himself to tear away his gaze from his parents, looking down at the cold, untouched coffee inside of the mug.

Everything was about to change.

"Yeah." Niko answered softly, sliding the mug further away. "Yeah, mom. I suppose you are."

[fruitynancywheeler]

Title: there's blood in the water (but it tastes so sweet) Rating: M Pairing: Robin/Nancy Words: 3,216 Summary: “Turn around slowly.”

A woman. Something about that voice triggered a distant memory in her mind that she couldn’t quite place. Robin raised her hands by her head to show the assailant that she wasn’t armed, at least not yet, and slowly turned to face the person who snuck up on her.

As her eyes locked onto icy blue orbs, the distant memory hit her full force.

A dive bar in Paris. Lilac and vanilla. A kiss that left her breathless and a contact that she’d never forget.

or a Spy AU where Robin is a French Intelligence agent and Nancy is a rogue CIA agent

Hawkins, Indiana 1985

Robin felt like the universe was playing a sick joke on her. She spent all of her childhood years wanting to leave America, choosing to travel the world as soon as she graduated and not stepping foot back in the States unless absolutely necessary, and now she was forced to be on an assignment in the middle of fucking nowhere for an indefinite period of time. What was DGSE doing getting involved in American affairs anyway?

She huffed in frustration as her thoughts continued to spiral. She wasn’t paid to ask questions, she was paid to get the job done, and that’s exactly what she planned to do. With time the pieces would inevitably fall into place on why the Direction générale de la Sécurité extérieure was getting involved in America’s problems. Robin’s only goal was to get this job done as quickly as possible so she could leave this dumpster fire of a country and return to the life she had grown accustomed to.

A lot of strange events were occurring in the small town of Hawkins, so strange that it piqued the interest of France, and Robin wouldn’t be surprised if other countries took a particular interest in these cases as well. Disappearances, deaths, and rumors of supernatural creatures that were yet to be proven true, or perhaps America was just doing a really good job at covering their tracks to hide their mistakes from the rest of the world. Not for the first time, the French intelligence agent questioned why this suddenly became her problem.

Robin landed in Indiana the night before and spent the majority of her time looking over the very sparse case files she had been given, trying to pinpoint where she should start. She was staying in a hotel just a few miles out of town because there was nowhere in Hawkins that lived up to her standard of living. Call her materialistic, but she worked hard to drag herself out of a life of poverty and make a name for herself, even though most of the people she was acquainted with didn’t actually know her real name. Truthfully, they didn’t know her much at all.

As a child, Robin was a terrible liar, her face turning beet red whenever she was dishonest to her mother or any authoritative figure. When she turned thirteen and realized she was a lesbian, hiding who she was and lying became second nature. Robin hid from friends, classmates, teachers, her parents, and worst of all, for too long, she hid from herself. Even now, she had taken on different personalities and appearances for the sake of getting the job done, so much so that if she dug deep within herself, she would be totally unrecognizable.

Sometimes, it bothered her to the point where she thought about truly leaving it all behind. She certainly had enough money and fake passports and aliases to live under the radar for the rest of her life, but in the end, she’d still be running away in a sense, and she was so tired of running. Robin had been doing this for so long that she didn’t know how to just stop. So, she stayed and continued to play this game where she really didn’t know what it would take to finally win and be done with it all. Staying is what brought her to where she was now, in the shithole town of Hawkins.

Looking over the case files, she saw a disappearance that felt as good a place as any to start. A sixteen-year-old girl that mysteriously went missing in ‘83, presumably dead, but no body had ever been recovered. Robin knew the odds of finding any evidence of the disappearance at this point was slim to none, but she had to start somewhere.

Barbara Holland. Born September 13th, 1967. Sophomore in high school. Straight A student. Last seen at a party at the Harrington residence. No known eyewitnesses to her disappearance.

It didn’t take long for Robin to get to the Harrington residence. She hoped that it being 11 a.m. on a Tuesday meant nobody would be around so she could get a closer look at the premises. She opted to take a cab from her hotel and was dropped off a few blocks from the house. Sticking to the woods around the home, she scoped out the yard’s perimeter, looking for all possible entry points.

After scouting the area for fifteen minutes and confirming nobody was home, Robin was about to make her way into the backyard, where there was a large in-ground pool and some outdoor chaise lounges. Before she could even take a step, she heard a twig snap behind her and immediately felt the cool barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her head. 

Not many things could sneak up on her, so she knew that whoever she was dealing with would absolutely put up a good fight. She hadn’t even been in Hawkins for a full twenty-four hours and she already had a gun pulled on her. At least whatever was going on in this stupid town would keep her on her toes.

“Turn around slowly.”

A woman. Something about that voice triggered a distant memory in her mind that she couldn’t quite place. Robin raised her hands by her head to show the assailant that she wasn’t armed, at least not yet, and slowly turned to face the person who snuck up on her.

As her eyes locked onto icy blue orbs, the distant memory hit her full force. 

A dive bar in Paris. Lilac and vanilla. A kiss that left her breathless and a contact that she’d never forget.

“Fox?”

Paris, France 1981

Robin wasn’t sure why she was told to meet her contact in this shitty dive bar of all places. The music was too loud, there were too many people that smelled of booze and sweat, and the lights were too bright. It was overwhelming for someone like herself who had sensory problems, but she’s learned to hide her anxiety well in her line of work.

She found the quietest spot near the bar and ordered a Jack and Coke. Her back was against the sticky countertop as she sipped the amber liquid that did nothing to quell her nerves, watching the writhing bodies on the small dance floor. She scanned the room for who could potentially be her contact, but all she saw were wasted twenty-year-olds who were probably under the influence of more than just alcohol.

Robin had been used to feeling out of place since she was a child, never quite able to fit in no matter how hard she tried to stuff herself inside of a box, and now was no different. Even in her casual clothes, she felt far too overdressed, considering everyone in this bar was wearing very little clothing. She was donning a striped tan button-up tucked into dark grey high-waisted pants that were cuffed above her ankles to show off her black hightop Converse. The look was finished off with a light grey blazer with the sleeves rolled up and a tie to match, which she was slightly regretting wearing now due to the stuffiness of the bar.

Suddenly, there was another presence on Robin’s right side that she hadn’t noticed until they invaded her personal space. She directed her attention over and immediately felt all the air get knocked from her lungs at the sight of the woman beside her.

The woman had her brunette locks pulled back into a ponytail with her bangs tucked behind her ears, exposing her sharp jawline. She wore a white, long-sleeved blouse that flared at the wrists tucked into a black skirt paired with a matching black vest. The outfit was completed with black knee-high boots and a little red purse that matched the color of the woman’s lipstick. She stood a few inches shorter than Robin, but there was something about the confidence the woman exuded that left the taller woman’s mouth dry. She was the most beautiful woman Robin had ever seen, and anyone who knew her would know that pretty girls made her a nervous wreck.

“Bonjour,” the woman greeted her with a sly smirk and a surprisingly good French accent, but Robin had spent enough time in France to pinpoint tourists from an initial greeting. While she knew she was supposed to be meeting an American CIA agent, and out of all the people in this shitty bar, this woman seemed to be the only person who had the potential to be her contact, she couldn’t be sure quite yet.

“Bonjour, Américain,” Robin greeted, twisting her body so she fully faced her newest companion of the evening. Her left forearm rested against the bar countertop as she held onto her beverage.

“How could you tell that I’m an American?” The shorter woman asked. One of her brows quirked up in a challenge, and the smirk never dropped from her lips.

“Your accent is good, but it could still use a little bit of work.”

To Robin’s surprise, that earned a laugh from the fellow American, and she couldn’t stop herself from chuckling as well. Even if this wasn’t who she was supposed to be meeting, she would indulge in the distraction for a little bit before returning to the task at hand.

“How did you get so good at your accent?”

“I’ve always had a knack for picking up on languages,” Robin shrugged nonchalantly. She was fluent in eight languages and constantly worked on learning more. Her knowledge of languages procured her with valuable intel without lifting a finger, and that’s why she was one of the best in her line of work. 

“You must be very good with your mouth, then.”

She felt heat rise to her cheeks from the comment that she hoped would go unnoticed. The American stepped more into her personal space, reaching out to fiddle with the end of her tie. Lilac and vanilla filled her senses as nothing but a couple of inches separated the two, and the scent was absolutely intoxicating to Robin. From their close proximity, she could now see the woman had icy blue eyes. They were calculated, powerful, dangerous.

“What brings you to a place like this, anyways?” Robin asked, bringing her now mostly melted beverage to her lips to try to give her the confidence she didn’t actually possess.

“A little birdie told me about this place.”

Bingo.

That was the confirmation she needed to confirm this was, in fact, her contact.

“I didn’t think foxes got along well with birdies.”

“I can make exceptions sometimes, Birdie,” Fox purred, tugging on Robin’s tie to close the small gap between them.

To Robin’s surprise and absolute delight, Fox was kissing her, and who could really blame her for melting into the kiss. Her hands found Fox’s slim waist, pulling her impossibly closer. There was nothing shy about it, all teeth and tongue and passion, as if they had done this a million times before. They appeared to just be another couple showing some PDA, but as Fox’s hand slid from Robin’s tie deeper into her blazer, she felt the weight of a tape recorder slip into her inner pocket.

Fox didn’t pull away from their kiss once the job was done. Her hands moved lower, down to Robin’s waist, and it wasn’t until her hand brushed against the small pistol hidden under the blazer that she pulled away slightly. Her breath brushed against Robin’s lips, and those icy blue eyes were hooded with unconcealed desire, which Robin knew was probably mirrored in her own eyes.

“What’s that you’ve got packing down there?” Fox whispered against Robin’s lips.

“Would you like to find out?” The taller woman grinned, knowing that this was a very slippery slope they were both going down, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“I absolutely would, but we’ll have to raincheck,” Fox sighed, planting one last kiss on Robin’s lips before pulling away from the embrace. “I hope to see you again sometime, Birdie.”

With that said, Fox turned and exited the shitty dive bar, leaving Robin to question whether that encounter even happened or if it had been a figment of her imagination. The only proof she had that it did, was the tape recorder tucked away in her pocket and the lingering scent of lilac and vanilla left on her clothes for the rest of the night.

Hawkins, Indiana 1985

���Birdie?” The woman that Robin had embarrassingly never been able to get off her mind flashed that same smirk she had four years prior, lowering the gun that had previously been aimed at Robin’s face.

Fox looked a little different than the last time Robin had seen her. Her straight hair now fell in beautiful curls down to her shoulders. Her face was bare of any makeup, but she still was just as gorgeous as the one and only time they had ever come into contact. Her eyes were just as calculated and dangerous, but they had dark circles under them, similar to Robin’s own.

“What are you doing here?” Robin questioned, her hands dropping back down to her sides now that a gun wasn’t pointed at her. It was a stupid thing to ask, but her brain wasn’t able to catch up with the events currently unfolding. She never thought she would see Fox again, and the fact that she was standing directly in front of the taller woman was slightly overwhelming.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Fox’s smirk morphed into a full-fledged grin. “What’s a DGSE agent doing across the pond?”

“Probably the opposite of what you’re doing here,” Robin vaguely responded. As much as she was thrilled to see Fox again, she knew in a situation like this, they were highly unlikely to be working for the same reasons, and as much as Robin didn’t want to fight the other woman, she wasn’t going to let the CIA agent stop her from doing what she came here to do. “I’m assuming you’re here to stop me from unveiling whatever secrets the CIA has been hiding from the rest of the world.”

“I think we’re actually here for the same reason.”

That piqued Robin’s interest, glad it appeared like she wouldn’t have to fight her way out of this situation. As confident as Robin was in her skills, she knew that Fox would be a challenging adversary just from the simple fact that twice now, she had been able to sneak up on Robin without realizing her presence.

“You’ve gone rogue?” Robin asked, her brows furrowed in confusion as she tried to get a read on the other woman. 

Was this a ploy to lower the DGSE agent’s guard, or was Fox being truthful? It was hard to tell in their line of work. Lies were easier to fall from their lips than the truth. Robin had never trusted anyone, no matter how long she had worked with someone. Everyone was playing their own game and would quickly stab whoever they needed to in the back to get the tiniest step ahead. She was guilty of it herself at times. It’s one of the reasons why Robin preferred to work in solitude, only utilizing contacts periodically. The less anyone knew about her, the better.

“I’m a truth seeker, Birdie,” Fox said in lieu of an answer to the actual question. “And I can tell you, whatever is going on here wouldn’t just tip the scales but completely destroy them.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“Come back with me to my hotel room, and I can explain more there. I could use the help with this. My car is parked a few blocks away,” Fox again evaded Robin’s line of questioning. “You’re wasting your time here, anyways. I already scouted the area before you arrived and didn’t find anything that would help find that girl.”

“You expect me to just take your word for it?” Robin huffed in frustration. She was mainly annoyed with herself by how quickly she wanted to fold for this woman and follow her along. 

Something about the CIA agent made her feel as though she was balancing on a tightrope, and one wrong move would send her toppling down to her death. But in the same token, trusting Fox could be mutually beneficial for both of them. They could both get the answers they wanted, and Robin could leave all this behind her sooner rather than later.

“If you want to go check it out, then by all means, go for it. I won’t stop you. But I’m sure I have better intel I can give you than you’ll find here,” Fox challenged, that ever-present smirk on her lips that was beginning to irk Robin, but also made her knees a little weak at the sight of it. 

“Why do you need my help? You don’t have any American friends to help you with this?”

Fox’s expression turned serious, losing the challenging playfulness that seemed to always be present in the couple of encounters Robin had with her. The French intelligence agent was again struck by the tired look in Fox’s eyes, like the powers that be had used her too much until she had nothing left to give. It wasn’t dissimilar to how Robin felt. There were too many assignments, too much death, too many lies. Even the strongest-willed people would break in this corrupt system, and it seemed both of them were nearing their breaking point.

“I’m done being a pawn. I’m done playing this fucked up game,” Fox sighed, running the hand that wasn’t holding the pistol through her curls. “This is my last mission, under nobody’s authority but my own. The truth needs to come out, or else everyone will suffer.”

Robin held eye contact with the rogue agent, not wanting to admit defeat quite yet, but she couldn’t say it wasn’t an enticing offer. Something about what Fox said made Robin feel as though she could trust her, as dangerous of a thought that was. Plus, Robin didn’t really have any desire to snoop around a wealthy family’s home without the promise of actually finding something worth her while. She silently prayed to whatever higher powers that were out there that this decision wasn’t going to turn around and bite her in the ass.

“Lead the way, Princess.”

“I will, only if you promise to never call me that again.”

Robin couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped her lips at the glare shot in her direction. She was glad she managed to get a little under the other woman’s skin, too.

“What shall I call you, then?”

“Nancy. Nancy Wheeler. And you?”

Robin hadn’t told anyone her real name since she became a DGSE agent, always having a different alias for each mission. But she had a feeling the name the CIA agent just gave to her was, in fact, her real name. If whatever they were doing was going to work, if Nancy could show her enough trust to disclose that information to her, then she would have to do the same.

“My name is Robin Buckley.”

[littlespoonevan]

i could buy that more if (1) helena didn't have that line about chris making these decisions as a 13 y/o, (2) ramon didn't compare his mistakes w eddie w this overwhelmingly different situation, and (3) they showed any proof of the diaz parents entertaining a different option. w those first two points, eddie makes a v reasonable point about how the 13 y/o should not be making huge decisions in the heat of the moment that basically amount to running away bc he's mad. and NO ONE backs him up despite that being the most logical thing anyone says the entire episode. helena responds w that line about autonomy (like she ever would have let eddie even entertain the possibility of leaving home at that age. please.) which imo came across as critical of eddie's parenting skills. and ramon starts projecting his decades of fucking up w eddie onto eddie's v v different relationship and situation w chris. tbh both of those lines speak to repeating the same pattern of the diaz parents trying to fix their mistakes w eddie via chris. the only grace i am giving in this situation is to ramon bc he is the only diaz parent that's had actual development; nothing to do w helena has been addressed, so i don't think anything she did in 7x10 is meant to demonstrate growth tbh. w the third point, the diaz parents just show up at eddie's house w no prior warning when they could have called or texted or made contact somehow at any point. they never even try to come up w an alternative to taking chris across state lines indefinitely (given helena's line about replacing anything chris doesn't bring) - they don't offer to stay in california for a bit, they don't try to set something up w pepa so that chris could stay w her instead, they ignore buck as an option completely, they don't say "if you come w us you have to talk to your dad about it" or make any comment about chris missing his friends or having to change schools etc., they don't even give a hard deadline for when chris will be coming home! everything about their presence in this episode was strikingly similar to the way they acted when they came to la for shannon's funeral - they ambushed eddie w a major decision when he's emotionally vulnerable in the wake of a traumatic event. in that s2 scene they also tried to appear sympathetic and understanding at first before dropping a major decision they were pressuring eddie into making on his lap; they end up pushing eddie into this decision within 48 hours of the kim bomb dropping. i also think it's worth noting that there's a p clear parallel between henren unjustly losing a child due to outside interference and the way eddie loses chris. and chris leaving w the diaz parents is certainly framed more like mara leaving w the social workers than mara reappearing w madney.

if that's how you interpret it, anon, that's totally fair. there are many, many people that agree with you. again, i'm not arguing about if it was the right decision or not. it's certainly not the direction i would've taken it and i think the story should've had time to breathe so nothing happened in the heat of the moment but also. no story this season has had time to breathe. tim has ran that line in multiple interviews about how if they're happy there's no story etc etc (which i so strongly disagree with askjdfh) and i think that was the approach he took here too. i also agree that it's supposed to parallel henren losing mara

literally my only point is that i don't think eddie's parents had bad intentions in what they were trying to do. it's okay if you think they did.

[erigold13261]

I am already in LOVE with the idea of the FR-NY AU!!!! So...

Some more concepts (1/2):

Synthia, Hydrar and Timbre, Ex-Jay and some more minor NSRtists get taken away due to their powers (Ex-Jay on purpose but still) Synthia is disappointed that Sharon doesn't even try to bail him out.

Chai! Maybe he also gets thrown in? (Sonic boom powers akin to Hobie, and he doesn't seem to have any close connections that would NOT throw him in)

Wait what are the Psychonauts doing in this whole situation? Their whole job relies on people with psychic powers!

I looked up some data about Utahime Iori aka Shoko's friend and she also has powers! (Powering up individuals' powers within range with the help of incantations, hand signs, dance and music) (maybe also something akin to Gayatri's powers since her name literally means diva)

Utahime somehow manages to get in contact with Yu's sister and decides to go against the odds and find a way to save Shoko by also sneaking herself in too (she's 17-18 at this point, so has a better chance of getting put in unlike Yu's sister who would be idk, 12-14?) (she knows that the Gojo clan would be a huge ass problem for her later, but wants to save her friend)

-You kidding? Sharon probably donates heavily to Nueva York now that Synthia is in there. It would keep her kid from actually bothering her, so she'd happily send money that way (though it could lead to her own downfall in the end if FR-NY keeps going as she is a person with powers to her name).

I don't think Timbre actually has any powers herself. I think I have her as just an object head/glass elemental in my mind, but with how Nueva York is at the moment, they might just start targeting any elemental/object heads just because they have a higher possibility of having powers. Hydrar is definitely getting taken away though.

-Depending on when the failed revolution happens, Chai doesn't even have his robot arm yet. The Tech Revolution happens a year or two after the Power Revolution, so at this point I doubt Chai is anywhere on the radar for Nueva York (and I think cybernetic powers would be excused compared to naturally generated powers).

-For the most part, the Psychonauts stayed out of everything because it was just a small dispute on powers that didn't really need them to step in. However, the way things have progressed has forced the Psychonauts to make a public stance against Nueva York and how any harm to psychic individuals would end very badly for Nueva York (the Psychonauts are a global foundation now that is backed by a few governments, but it still only really has jurisdiction on the mental world and psychics).

-I forgot about Utahime, still haven't gotten to her in the anime yet I don't think. Her powers sound cool! I can definitely see her acting as like an enabler from Psychonauts but obviously in the conscious world. Perhaps it is a voice activated boost, not a kind of control/influence like Gayatri has. I've seen a few videos of One Piece's Uta who uses her voice as a weapon/mind control but also boost people's powers I think? Something like that could be what Utahime has (also just realized UTAhime and UTA are divas, neat!).

Anyway, yea she would have a better time at getting in there than Yu's sister, but perhaps they would need to help each other as I can see younger kids still having a bit more freedom than the older population at Nueva York because Miguel still has a soft spot for kids (though there is a lot more surveillance than before so that a second revolution is not possible).

This also goes into an ask I answered earlier where powers could be taken permanently from people. Maybe after one's powers are taken forever they are let out of Nueva York. Perhaps instead of going into Nueva York to save Shoko, Utahime is going in to get revenge for it?

Still working on how I'd deal with the aftermath of the failed revolution. Either indefinite lockdown or permanent power erasure (honestly it would get to permanent power erasure no matter what, but it depends on when that comes along. Also permanent erasure would have some pretty drastic effects if this idea goes into the 10 year timeskip with what I have planned).

[inheritanceistar]

She was fast, too fast, surprisingly so to the point where Istar couldn't follow between the sudden darkness and her agility. His strike missed, and her follow-up was devastating enough to be felt through the thickness of his armor. With only one eye, he had a major blindspot even without the darkness Alessia conjured. Attacking from multiple directions while staying in motion to take advantage of his limited range of vision? Now she was beginning to fight like a Warrior. Istar could withstand the barrage longer than most witches, but even he, the indomitable wall he set out to be for her,  couldn't take the hits indefinitely. His defensive stance broke as he cleaved a mighty strike in the air. Razor-sharp slices of aquatic force ripped out from him in a triangle to buy a second. One was all he needed to shift Andvari into its earth form.

Body stripped of all armor to instead be concentrated into four large arms at his back, he forwent all defenses to focus his spellweaving and heighten his attunement to the one thing he was certain of in the midst of Alessia's layered assault: the earth beneath his feet. Four palms slammed down, softening the ground to concave beneath him. He dropped out of the barrage and immediately took hold of the room's polarity, putting it under his control with his weaves. In a somatic gesture mirrored by Andvari's arms, Istar commanded a magnetic field of his design, six arms spiraling in total to create a weave of concentric circles. Rock and stone remained solid yet flowed like an ocean, rotating the poles to create instability within the space. Istar didn't need to disrupt Alessia's spell or even stop her from moving in a way that imposed a disadvantage on him, he needed only control the flow of combat.

Chunks of rock matched the pattern of the blades to block while the room folded in on itself, encasing them in a sphere of stone. He maintained his weave, riding the wave of motion around and around as he maintained a constant rotation of the poles. The sphere of stone ocean closed in, restricting the space until … there! A repeat in her movements that his eye caught and one he wouldn't ignore. In that instant, the weaves broke form, swirled around Andvari's arms, and rushed Alessia, magnetized sand buffetting her into the side of the earthen cage he trapped them in. With speed enhanced by the weaves repelling the metal of his armor, he rushed her as well before she found another surge of anger to draw upon. However, Istar abruptly stopped once the runic stigmata on his outstretched right palm was a hair's breadth away from making contact with her flesh. This was merely a lesson after all. "That was … incredible! An Accepted making me put in effort to combat her? Never would I have imagined such a thing possible!" His tone lightens as the streams of sand pinning Alessia dropped. But that didn't mean she was free yet. Oh no. Istar's final attack came in the form of a bear hug strong enough to lift her off the ground as earth threads released their hold on the room, returning it to normal. His laugh was boisterous, his hold tight, and he couldn't have been prouder that Alessia finally showed what she was capable of. "To layer so many techniques on top of each other like that, in the heat of battle, too? Where has this girl been hiding? That magic was far more advanced than anything I could pull off when I still wore white robes!"

Istar had activated all 5 and a half feet of pure bloodthirsty vengeance. This time, the rage that fueled her attacks had nothing to do with hate or desperation and now completely to do with sheer will and determination. His yelling reminded Alessia of no one, because no one ever yelled at her like a crazy uncle before. But his relentless pushing reminded her of The Mountain and the darkspawn. Both the yelling and the pushing that the Warrior gave her was enough to make Alessia subconsciously eager to prove something, and also end this entire ordeal.

A moment ago, her muscles had been aching and her magic pulsing at the erratic beat of her heart. Now, Alessia didn't noticed the ache because she was fueled with adrenaline and she controlled her magic because she was summoning all of it to her conscious will. The Veilmaiden began to glow completely as her mind pulled at the strings of good memories to strengthen her. Fharzai's journey had unlocked that ability within her, but Alessia wasn't sure what the druid say if he found her this murderous, despite all the good vibes that she summoned.

The Veilmaiden waited until the last second, until the halberd would surely hit her, before completely wrapping the stage in magical darkness, disappearing and reappearing a moment later behind Istar. She used the Warrior's own forward momentum and heaviness to kick him at his back, strengthening the kick with weaves of air that blasted the larger witch even more forward. She would usually stop there and gloat or remark something witty, but all that came out was another yell as Alessia mercilessly pursed.

No physical daggers, they were strapped safely at her side. Instead, Alessia's hands summoned their own magical Feyblades that glowed with purple shadow and were wrapped in weaves of fire. They sliced, stabbed, and countered in every which way. Alessia' movements visibly looked chaotic and messy, but anyone experienced and trained in physical combat would eventually be able to see the strategy there, however unorthodox it was. Some warriors trained at the hands of Knights and nobles, other's were built in mountains and ruins, addled with darkspawn and one strange Old Woman.

[funkymbtifiction]

the end of an era

I wanted to thank you all, not only for all the notes of gratitude, encouragement, etc., in my inbox, but for being my faithful readers over the last ten years as I blundered around, answering asks, figuring things out on the fly, mistyping myself half a dozen times, and learning by “answering.” It’s been an incredible blessing for me to be part of your lives, and now, I hope, I have left behind enough of a resource, through my thousands of answered questions, my MBTI book, and my ongoing FunkyMBTI Blog, that you can be guided to your type and start the journey of self-development.

I want to say a few more things, but first, I’ll answer the burning questions that I know are going through your mind directly.

Does this mean no more character typings? No, it does not. I will continue updating FunkyMbti.com for the indefinite future, and those posts will automatically be ported over to this tumblr page, along with posts from Sixy Pixie (which I may expand to include general Enneagram posts/information/insights).

All it means is I am retiring from answering typing questions. I will still be active in various online communities, doing research, gathering information, and sharing it on my blogs. My interest in MBTI has waned since writing my book (which I consider the “achievement” of over a decade of work/research/learning), so the best way I know of is to move forward.

Does this mean I can’t request characters anymore? No, it does not. You can always contact me through FunkyMBTI.com’s contact page to make character requests. I have an ongoing list of characters people would like to see, and I hope to get around to most of them. (Such as, people want to see The OC, The Scream movies, and more Hollywood icons, such as Natalie Wood). I also have Sanditon, more Shadow and Bone typings, etc., coming.

How can I know about your Enneagram book and/or other books? Thank you for asking! You can either stay tuned here, since any announcement posts on my blog will update here, or you can join my mailing list to receive all my updates (of reviews, upcoming books, free book giveaways, and more).

Are you going to delete Funky on tumblr? No, it will stay up as long as tumblr survives, not only as a monument to my zillion hours of work, but to the thousands of people who braved the internet to ask me questions and allowed me to showcase my “Big Sister Energy.” Ha, ha. Seriously, though, I appreciate all the questions, comments, compliments, and submissions over the years, including the gigantic assortment of characters from shows/movies I may never watch.

What now? I will stock the queue for a few months and take time off, and then hopefully dig more into the Enneagram, since I think that has real potential to change people’s lives for the better.

Final Thoughts:

It seems fitting that I close “the end of an era” (as my ENFJ friend put it, when she heard about this) as I approach the end of a “decade” in my life, and a big “0” birthday. I can’t exactly recall how my journey started. I think I took one of those MBTI quizzes, shared by a friend on some social media website, got mistyped as an INTJ, and fell down a rabbit hole that took over my life for over a decade. I went through every possible type known to man (other than SP), and can now finally claim with authority to be an ENFP.

I made all the mistakes you are going to make, if you are just starting out on this journey of self-awareness – I listened to the wrong people, I took in the wrong information, I mistyped myself and others, I had to unlearn everything that made no sense, but along the way, I learned how to introspect and be present with myself. To pay attention to what I am doing, and why I am doing it, and that is the most valuable take-away from this experience. You can either go through life oblivious to your true self, or you can go through life friends with yourself, and aware of both your strengths and your weaknesses. I recommend the latter. It's hard but worth it.

Doing that for so long, getting used to being “wrong,” prepared me to read my first book on the Enneagram. And it changed my life. I knew I was a 6, that there was nothing “wrong” with me, that other people struggled with the same things I did. And my introspection started growing deeper. There were many ego battles along the way, denial of the aspects of 6 profiles that I didn’t want to admit to, followed by resignation and self-awareness (that I do that too, and it’s revolting!). But it’s a journey that I intend to walk on, for the rest of my life, and I’m glad to know these things. I wish I had known them sooner. I would have been a much better friend.

All of my current friends came to me through Funky. My friends in Sweden and Tennessee and Idaho and India and Philadelphia and Florida and Spain and Greece. I would not know them, had they not reached out to me, asked me a question, asked if we could e-mail, or helped me figure something out. Funky has been my “social” life for a decade. Some of them are still with me, even though one of them is not – Maddie, my beloved ENTP co mod, my zany, nutty, wild-hearted 793 “DJ” who could simultaneously make me laugh until I cried and drive me insane with frustration, passed away of a heart attack during the pandemic in 2021. One minute she was in my life, and the next she was gone forever. I never told you at the time, but it seems a fitting end to my time here, to pay homage to a friend I hope to meet one day “in person” in whatever comes after this. So Maddie, thank you for everything you put into this blog with me, thank you for the hours of fun and laughter, for the many hundreds of posts that will stand as a testament to your memory. I miss you. And I hope wherever you are, you are doing something crazy.

Thank you, dear reader, for coming with me on this journey. I know we shall meet again.

XOXO, Charity / ENFP Mod / Big Sister Energy

[nnostalg1a]

Class of 1984

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Warning(s): No happy ending. Fluff. Angst. Mutual pinning. Heartbreak. Crying.

Summary: You and Steve are high school bestfriends that are about to graduate. You’re moving away, Steve’s staying in Hawkins. The thing is, you guys are in love with each other, but it might be too late. Some lyrics from Picture Me Better by Weyes Blood. 

A/N: I don’t know if the year is correct but let’s pretend it is. Criticism is always welcome! I hope you guys like this, I’m home from college and I have absolutely nothing to do so please feel free to send in requests! 

Word count: 1842

Mountains of snow gifted to the people of Hawkins by bitter winter weather made it easy for Steve to send snowballs propelling towards your second-story window. Walking to the park around the block to catch the sunrise had been a common occurrence for you and Steve since Freshman year, but it was hard to keep the tradition going when it’s January, averaging 37 degrees, the sun is not rising anytime soon, and all any logical person would do is stay in the warmth of their houses. You and Steve were rarely logical. You forced yourself to get out of bed and walk towards the window, still wrapped in your blanket, only because it was your final year of high school, and you wanted to bask in every possible moment you could share with Steve before you parted ways indefinitely. Your fingers instantly turned red and numb as you made contact with the cold metal lock on your window and the icy glass, lifting it, and bracing yourself to make contact with the cold winter air; instead, you made contact with another snowball sent your way. You look down and see Steve biting his cheeks, trying not to laugh, “I did not expect you to open your window.” “I’m still in my house, you know; I could leave you out there,” Still struggling not to laugh, “Come on!” Checking the nonexistent watch on his wrist, “You have like 10 minutes to get down here if you want to see the sunrise.”  “Steve, it’s the middle of winter; there’s no sunrise at this hour of the night.” Without missing a beat, he throws his head back dramatically and groans, “ Yeah, whatever, could you please get down here? It’s freezing. No more snowballs, I promise.” You purse your lips and pause, trying to test his patience, “I have 10 minutes, remember?” Steve’s “Oh come on!” is cut short by the sound of you closing your window. 

Three months ago, Steve got you the most hideous, old sweater he could find for your birthday. But it was huge, warm, and it was freezing outside. So you put it on, threw on a jacket over it because seriously, it was freezing, put on your shoes, and went downstairs. You spared Steve his promised 10 minutes. You quietly opened your front door and walked out towards Steve. “Finally found a winter for your sweater,” you said. “It’s very stylish, what can I say? I’m a man of great taste.” You let out a scoff as Steve turned on his heel and started walking towards the park, giving you a perfect chance to form a snowball and send it straight towards the back of his head. You, unlike Steve, did not try to hide your laughter, which only grew louder when Steve turned around with his mouth slightly opened and a singular eyebrow furrowed. “You’ve got quite the throw, y/l/n.” He said as he tried to shake the snow out of his hair, failing miserably because it was a hefty snowball, “Thank you, I feel avenged.” A sarcastic  tone under your voice, “Here, let me help you with that.” You said, making your way towards Steve and letting your hands find their way into his, now very messy, hair, shaking out any leftover snow. Steve takes the opportunity to look down and admire you as you ruffle his hair, taking pure joy in watching it grow messier. He didn’t care. He was too busy focusing on the slight redness painted across your cheeks and nose by the cool air. It was dark, but the street lights provided a warm glow that captured your beauty perfectly. You still had a proud smirk on your face. Steve could stay there forever, but the realization that he only has just about six months with you before you have to leave for college hits him painfully in the chest, almost winding him. 

He forces himself to snap out of his admiration and heartache, wrapping his arms around your waist. You have .5 seconds to plead your case, “No! Steve! Ste-” Before you can finish, both of you hit the snow on the ground, you underneath him, before he rolls over with laughter, laying next to you on the ground. “You asshole, it’s gonna look like I pissed myself,” “Pissed me off is what you did, my poor hair. I’m almost positive I have a concussion now,” he says through his laughter. You snorted; “Let’s not forget Harrington, there’s melted snow all over my bedroom floor, and now there’s a wet stain on my ass.” This only sent both of you into a fit of laughter again, “I really didn’t think you’d open the window,” he struggles to say. You both calm down after a minute or so, laying on the ground, taking in the moment. The snow is melting into both of your clothes now. Steve stands up and offers his hand to you. You take it; he pulls you onto your feet. “I’d say we’re even,” says Steve. “Two to one isn’t very even.” You say jokingly. You're both walking towards the park now, fingers still entwined. 

“Still going on a million dates?” You tease. He snorts this time, “I’d prefer not to dive deep into my love life with you at 4 in the morning, but yes, I'm still looking for my fish in the sea.” You groan, “that’s corny.” “Oh, pardon me, let me rephrase; I'm looking for something with meaning to come through.” The words circle in your head. You were looking for something with meaning too. Something fulfilling. If anyone asked, you’d say you haven’t come across it yet, but you have. You feel pretty damn fulfilled at this very moment with Steve. Steve knows it too; he’s always known it. He’s starting to think he’s the one that’s purposely sabotaged all his dates, hoping that something more will come from the both of you. It could work. It would work. The problem is, there’s not enough time for it to work. You’re leaving almost 15 hours away from Hawkins, and Steve’s going to stay right where you leave him. You’ll both continue to meet people and pretend that they can fill the gap in each other's lives in some capacity. The fact that neither of you has ever dared to tell each other how you feel sickens both of you.

“Meaning.” You repeat. “Yeah, meaning. Just-” He turns to glance at you quickly before looking straight ahead again, “Something that makes me feel … peaceful? Fulfilled? Anything at all?” The words are so pointless because you both have already found that something. You don’t really know what to say anymore; you could confess your feelings. Instead, you use the handy tool that has never once failed you, humor. “I don’t know, Steve, those makeout sessions you tell me about seem to make you feel something.” He covers his eyes and groans with his other hand, not wanting to let go of yours like somehow you’d leave right there and cut your time together short. “One, I don’t want to talk about my makeout sessions at this moment. Two, meaningless make-out sessions aren’t exactly what I'm looking for. And third, what about your million dates?” There’s some jealousy behind Steve’s last sentence. “I stopped going on those weeks ago. I don’t want to get into something that I'm gonna have to end soon.” This makes Steve’s heart rate quicken, and he’s sure he’s pale. He doesn’t want you to notice. “Y/n, your six months aren’t going to end tomorrow.” “Feels like it. Three years felt like two days,” you look at Steve with a faint smile, some sadness in your eyes that you’ll know he’ll notice; he always does, so you look towards the park and keep walking. 

Steve notices, and his rapid heart stings. Who knew talking about time could make someone nauseous?  You were right; the three years Steve has known you feel like they ended way faster than they should have. Maybe love did make time go by faster. Steve’s head is spinning. He can’t feel his feet. Sure, you’ll come back during breaks, but Steve knows it won’t be the same. You were his best friend, but he knows that when you come back, he’s not going to be able to look at you without feeling anything but guilt. He hates himself for it. He feels dizzy. You’re slightly ahead of him now; he was so lost in his own head he slowed his pace. He stops and tugs at your hand that he hasn’t let go for almost this entire walk; you stop and turn around to see a visibly distressed Steve. “What’s wrong? Do you want to sit down? We can go ba-” He feels like he’s out of his body and watching himself. He finally breaks your handhold, cupping your face. His heart rate is going so fast that he might just faint before he does it, but he doesn’t. He kisses you. It’s short, couldn’t be more than 8 seconds, but there’s such a desperate feeling of yearning behind it. It’s so intense that tears are filling in both your eyes. It’s painful to come up for air. 

“Steve,” you say, you can see your breath in the cold air, and that’s all that comes out of it because you don’t know what else you want to say. Steve knows. “What if-” god, if you’re real, please don’t let Steve Harrington embarrass himself and ruin his most valuable friendship, “what if we both already found what we’re searching for?” You don’t say anything, just stare at him blankly, and he swears he doesn’t have a pulse, but he feels it once you talk. “I think we have,” you say, the tear that had previously formed streaming down your face, “but Steve, it’s too late. It would never work.” It’s the worst thing that has ever come out of your mouth. You want to scream. Steve’s eyes are red, and his tears warm his cheeks. “Why wouldn’t it?” “Steve, you know why.” Your voice is breaking. Steve is wretched.

“Y/n, please, we could make it work. I’ll take what I can get, whether 6 months or two weeks. Please.” You sniffle, pull your tears into your throat, and swallow them. It’s the only way you’ll be able to talk. “Steve,” you let your hand cup his face, “we can’t.” “Why not?” Steve feels dumb for even asking because he does know why. He knows there will come the point where he has to accept it, but he doesn’t want to. He’ll be miserable. You give him a weak smile, tears pouring out of your eyes even though you’re fighting to keep them in, “We can’t start something we can’t finish.” His forehead leans against yours, both of your hands laced together. It’s just both of you, at 4 am, in the freezing cold, tears streaming down both of your faces, longing for something that you’ve both waited too long for. Goddamn class of 1984.