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eldritchteaparty · 3 years

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Chapters: 17/22 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane, Melanie King, Georgie Barker, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary: Tim joins everyone at Elias’s house and pressure builds.

Chapter 17 of my post-canon fix-it is up! Read above at AO3 or read here below.

My tumblr master post with links to other chapters is here.

***

The rest of the first full day ay Elias’s house passed in relative isolation; Martin had a feeling it wasn’t unintentional that Melanie, Georgie, and Sasha spent so long away from the house when they went to the store. Jon seemed intent on mulling over whatever thoughts their talk with Elias had put in his head that morning; Martin tried to break him out of with conversation a couple of times, but ultimately he felt like more of an annoyance than a help. He went back to their room and scrolled through social media until his brain couldn’t process posts anymore. When everyone came home from the store, he helped put the groceries away, but he couldn’t come up with much to say even when Sasha pulled him aside to ask him how he was. All right was the only thing he managed.

When it got late enough that he realized everyone was not likely to be eating dinner together, he made a sandwich for Jon and brought it to him in the great room. They were alone; he leaned over to set it on the table next to the armchair.

“Hey,” he said, lightly kissing the top of Jon’s head.

“Hm?” Jon looked up, and Martin redirected his attention to the sandwich. “Oh—thank you.”

“Take a bite, while I’m here.”

Jon did as Martin asked, still too distracted by his thoughts to make a fuss. “Did you eat already?”

“No,” Martin shook his head. “I’ll have something later. When I’m hungry.”

Jon gave him a look that Martin now understood well, but he simply squeezed Jon’s shoulder as he turned to leave.

“Wait, Martin—are you—” Jon grabbed his hand before it slid away. “I’m sorry. That I’ve been like this.”

“I get it,” Martin said, as reassuringly as he could. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“That isn’t the—” Jon sighed and let Martin’s hand drop, along with his thought. “What are you doing?”

Martin answered the question more generally than he knew Jon had intended it. “Waiting.”

“I think we all are,” Jon said. “But I was actually asking—”

“I know. And I don’t know what I’m doing. I was just going to head back to the bedroom, I guess.”

“All right. I’ll—I’ll be in before too long.”

Martin lay awake for a long time that night, even after Jon had fallen asleep.

***

When he woke in the morning, Jon was propped up on an elbow and looking at him.

“What’s going on?” Martin asked, slightly alarmed, trying to shake off the sleep.

“Nothing,” Jon said.

“Try again.”

“I just meant—nothing new.”

“Oh.” His eyes drifted closed, and he promised himself he wouldn’t let them stay that way very long. He felt Jon’s hand brush his cheek and travel gently up to his hairline; the feeling roused something in him.

“Wait,” he said. “Was I dreaming?” He had the vague impression he had been, although he couldn’t really remember it. He’d been looking for something, maybe. Trying to get somewhere, or find someone. Maybe someone had been lost. It was the kind of dream that made you feel like you hadn’t slept at all, and the more he tried to remember the more disquieted he felt.

“You were,” Jon said.

“But—wait, it wasn’t—”

“No,” Jon shook his head, pulling his hand back. “It was your dream.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” They both knew it wasn’t fine, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Martin closed his eyes one more time, but his mind wandered as he felt Jon breathing next to him, and he opened them again sharply. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about this before.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Do you—you need the statements, right? You need to read them?”

“I—more or less.”

“So yes, then.”

Jon nodded reluctantly. “Yes.”

“And? How are you—doing that?”

“I brought a few with me when we left the archives.”

He sat up, prompting Jon to do the same. “I thought you were basically out of statements. I mean, they don’t really go back that far here.”

“There were—well, there were a few I’d just—skimmed before. I’m sure if I give them a proper read—”

“Jon.”

“I’m doing fine.”

“But what about when you’re not?”

Jon didn’t answer him.

“Jon.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Oh come on, you Martin me all the time.”

Silence fell between them again.

“Ok—what if—” Martin had to try several times to give voice to his thought. “If you need it—really need it—could you ask me to give you a—statement?”

To be fair, he hated the idea himself, and the pit he felt in his stomach was firmly reflected in Jon’s reply. “No.”

“Why not? You basically just asked Basira for one. I’ve given you one before. A few, depending on how you count. It—it wasn’t that bad.”

He ignored the part about Basira. “Absolutely not. That was—that was before. I don’t—I don’t even know that you can really give me a statement at this point.”

Jon was still a terrible liar.

“Look it’s—it’s not like I want to do it, ok? I really don’t. I just meant—what if you get really sick?”

“Then I get sick.”

“Jon—”

“It is not an option.”

“Look, I get that you don’t want—but we’re doing this together, and we need to weigh both—”

“No.” Jon slipped to the edge of the bed and was standing before Martin realized he was getting up.

“No what? We’re not doing this together?”

“Not that.” Jon pulled on the pants he’d worn yesterday, and grabbed a fresh shirt from the drawer he’d thrown them in.

“Oh,” Martin said, watching Jon head toward the bedroom door. “Good to know.”

Jon began to open the door, but then closed it. He did not turn to face Martin. “I realize that—” He stopped again.

“Go,” Martin said. He wished he was saying it for Jon—offering Jon time to gather his thoughts—but he knew he wasn’t. He knew was saying it out of hurt. Worse, Jon knew that was why he was saying it; he had to know. Either way, though, he supposed it achieved the same end.

After Jon left, he took a quick shower; Jon was not back when he was done, nor had he expected him to be. He got dressed and headed toward the kitchen. No one was in the hall or in the great room; Jon had probably gone for a walk, and it was just as well. He rummaged through a couple of cabinets and triumphantly emerged with a kettle. It wasn’t even electric, it was the kind that you set on the stove, and that was perfectly all right with Martin. It will boil water properly, he thought.

He had no intention of repeating the previous day; despite how big the house was, he had already started feeling claustrophobic. After his tea was ready, he left through the back door in the great room, walking across the relatively modest back porch to stepping down to the back lawn. Like the side lawn, it was expansive; unlike the side lawn, there were more than a few trees dotting the view. In fact, as Martin walked down and out on a dirt path cut into the lawn, he realized there was what amounted to a pretty legitimate wood behind the house. Not far in there was a small creek—so small that the little bridge passing over it seemed ridiculous and unnecessary—but it was scenic, nonetheless. A wooden bench, upkept with enough frequency that it remained sturdy if not pristine, stood nearby.

I would have liked this, Martin thought, as he sat down on the bench. I would have written poems about this.

Spring was finally in effect. The trees weren’t green yet, but they were starting to sprout small leaves; a few had tiny buds with hints of pink and white protruding from their smaller twigs and branches. It wasn’t exactly warm outside, but it was comfortable as the light shown through the trees in a mottled pattern on the leaf-covered ground. He sipped his tea and watched how the sun hit the water in the little creek. In some parts it shone straight to the bottom, and he could see small rocks and pebbles and silt; in others, it seemed to dance as it reflected off the top of the water.

It helped, to sit and breathe. After a while, he started to notice birds chirping in the trees, and the sounds of small animals—probably squirrels—rustling in the leaves. It reminded him how when he and Jon had come here, the first sign that they were really somewhere, that there were things that mattered here, had been the sound of birds chirping.

He was glad they were here, he realized. He was glad they were here because they were alive—or more accurately, because Jon was alive, and Martin was with him. They were together. That was what Jon had given him when he’d told him how to end it, and despite himself and everything they had brought with them, he was still grateful for it. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t let himself think about it much further than that; he had a feeling there would be plenty of time for that when they all finally started talking. He could decide then what he’d be willing to do again, what he regretted. There would be plenty of time for regrets. It’s not like having a plan had really helped before. Jon had done what he had done; likewise, Martin had done what he had done.

At least now they knew what mattered to them.

He wasn’t sure if he dozed off or just got lost in his thoughts and the woods, but when he finally checked his phone he was taken back by how late it was. He’d come out mid-morning, and it was already mid-afternoon. He hadn’t meant to stay away for that long—what if Jon was—well, no, Jon could pretty much figure out where he was, and he supposed technically any of the rest of them could message him, but it just didn’t sit well with him that he’d stayed out there for so long.

When he got back in, he found Jon alone, on the sofa in front of the fireplace; like the day before, it seemed no one was particularly eager to tackle the big conversations yet. Martin was glad, for several reasons.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“If you’d like,” Jon answered, not looking at Martin.

Martin took him at his word and sat down next to him. The sofa was wider than he was used to, and he felt like he was just a little bit too far away; he moved closer to Jon, and awkwardly ended up straddling two cushions.

“I didn’t mean to push so hard this morning,” he said. “I’m not saying it’s settled, but—”

“Wait,” Jon said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I mean wait. I’ve been thinking of the words to explain.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Martin—”

“Ok. I’m listening. Take your time. Just didn’t want to push again.”

“I—” Jon paused. “It’s difficult.”

Martin started to tell him it was ok, but changed his mind. Instead, he reached for Jon’s hand. Jon looked down as he did, watched their fingers intertwine, and seemed to find the words—some words, anyway.

“I—like—the statements. Or I don’t, actually, but—I do. Does that—do you understand?”

“Not totally,” Martin said honestly. “But I guess I really can’t. I’ve seen how they affect you, though. I know they help. I know you feel better after you read them. You—like feeling people’s fear. But I mean, I know you don’t, too.”

“Do you know how I felt after we spoke with Elias yesterday?”

“I—you seemed upset.”

“I was. What he was saying was terrible, and wrong. But also there was that part of me that felt—it felt—”

Martin hadn’t realized that. “Jon—you don’t have to say. Please. I—I get it.” It’s not your fault, he wanted to add, but he stopped himself.

Jon nodded and cleared his throat. “I never want to feel—I never want to feel that because of you. And if I don’t—if we don’t—I can still tell myself I wouldn’t. I can tell myself that it’s not so bad. That I’m not so bad. That I can still be—”

Jon’s next words caught, and Martin automatically wrapped his arms around him, the gesture made clumsy by the empty mug he was still holding. “It’s—it’s all right. You still—you heard him, you know—ok, this isn’t about that, really, but—I’m sorry. This isn’t helping. Let me—” Flustered, he somehow managed to set his mug down on the coffee table without entirely letting go; he turned his head to kiss Jon’s mouth, then kissed him again.

“I’m all right,” Jon said. He did not look all right to Martin.

“If I—if I got you some tea, would that—would you like it?”

“I—yes.”

Martin stood up, grabbed his mug to bring back to the kitchen, and then bent down to kiss Jon one more time. “Wait, did you—were you done? I don’t want to—”

“Martin, tea. Please.”

“Ok. All right.” The coffee machine that didn’t really boil water would have to do; in his heart, Martin knew Jon couldn’t really tell the difference anyway. It was the fastest cup of tea he’d made in a while. The supply of coffee cups that had been on the counter had dwindled, and Martin simply rinsed out the one he’d used rather than go searching for a clean one. It wasn’t like that had never happened at home.

As he walked back through the breakfast room, he heard a voice that wasn’t Jon’s, and based on volume alone he was pretty sure they weren’t happy. Just before he turned the corner, he realized who it was.

“—and here’s Martin with the tea,” Tim said. “Are you all on holiday? Having a nice time out in the country? Where is everyone?”

“Tim?” Sasha, who must have been in her room, had also heard Tim and spared Martin from having to answer him. “You didn’t tell me you were coming out today. I could have warned everyone.”

“What is going on? I thought you’d be at least halfway to figuring this out by now, and here everyone’s hiding. What are you all even doing?”

“Coping, Tim. Adjusting to the situation. Which is exactly what you’ve been doing, if you don’t mind me pointing it out. Welcome, by the way.”

Tim took a deep breath, looking as if he were going to resume at full rant volume, but then let it out again. “Ok, fine. That’s fair. But I’m here now. Get everyone. Come on.”

“Tim—”

“Look, is there a reason not to?”

Sasha sighed. “Fine. Hold on. I’ll go get Melanie and Georgie.”

Tim dropped the oversize bag he was carrying right where he was, and walked back in the direction of Elias’s room. “You two—stay.”

“Where would—” Martin was pretty sure Tim wasn’t listening, since he was already shouting Elias’s name in the hallway. He turned to Jon and pressed the mug into his hands. “Here. Sorry, I was hoping—”

“It’s all right. This is—this is good.”

Within a couple of minutes, everyone had converged on the great room. They stood, ignoring the awkward furniture. Georgie and Melanie stood back from the group a little way, Georgie’s arm over Melanie’s shoulder; Elias, in a t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, seemed much more relaxed than the last time Martin had seen him.

“All right, Tim. We’re all here.” Sasha crossed her arms and implied she was waiting for Tim to speak.

“Well—don’t look at me. What are we doing about this?” He turned to Jon and Martin.

“Tim.” Sasha’s voice was stern, but Martin realized Georgie and Melanie had also turned to look at them.

“Oh, come on. Don’t act like the rest of you don’t feel the same way. At least I’m being honest about it.”

Sasha snorted. “I don’t feel that way, Tim. I think I can honestly say—”

“Sasha,” Melanie interrupted. “Tim has a point.”

Sasha closed her mouth as she turned to face Melanie; Martin instinctively took a half step closer to Jon.

“I’m just saying—they brought this here. We didn’t have anything to do with it. And if they aren’t fixing it—”

“What Melanie is saying,” Georgie said, with a quick look at Melanie before she turned back to Jon, “is that the two of you are the most familiar with—this. And if you don’t have any suggestions to stop them—it’s not likely that the rest of us are going to come up with something on our own.”

Melanie frowned. “That’s not exactly what I was—”

“Melanie, please.” Georgie squeezed her arm, and Melanie stopped, although she didn’t look happy about it. “Jon, is there—is there a point to this?”

Jon took a breath before he answered. “I’m—I’m not sure there is.”

“A point?” Tim broke into the conversation again. “You all want a point? Ok, here it is. I just went to go visit my brother. I had every intention of telling him about this, right after I figured out how, and—you know what? I didn’t. I didn’t figure out how. And I’m not going to. I’m never going to tell him about this. We’re going to fix it. You want a point? Danny’s the point. And—and Sasha’s the point.”

Sasha face softened slightly as Tim gestured toward her. “Tim—”

“Jon, Martin’s the point. Surely you understand that.”

Martin started to protest. “Tim, you’re missing the—”

“I’m not missing anything. You are. You’ve given up. Both of you have given up. And at some level, I can understand that. You got beaten, really badly, and I’m sure it hurts. But I can’t give up. I am not going to give up as long as I have Danny—as long as we have Sasha. I understand that you’ve been through this, and maybe you want to be done. But we’re here too, and we haven’t had a chance. And I hate it, but Georgie’s right, we can’t do this without you. For better or worse, Jon is the only one with any real power in this situation. You can’t just sit back. Give us our chance.”

Martin did everything but literally jump in front of Jon. “Hey. No one is sitting back and—”

“Martin,” Jon said quietly, touching his arm.

Unable to silence himself, Martin turned to Jon instead. “He has no idea—”

“They deserve to feel like they’ve had a chance.”

Martin had more to say, much more—but he wasn’t prepared to say it in front of everyone. Tim seemed momentarily surprised, but quickly recovered. “Thank you.”

“Where do we start then?” Georgie asked.

“I have a proposal,” Sasha said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use an actual meal. So—I’ll go start putting something together, and maybe we can have an early dinner after everyone takes a break.”

Georgie nodded. “What are you going to make?”

“I—” Sasha sighed. “I have no idea.”

“That’s what I thought,” Georgie said. “I’ll help. Melanie, want to come sit in the kitchen?”

Melanie looked pained. “I—I guess?”

As the three of them headed in that direction, Elias, who had really only watched everyone else talk, started back toward his room.

“Nope,” said Tim, grabbing his arm in both hands and redirecting him. “We are headed outside for some fresh air.”

Elias shrugged. “You know, I don’t really remember my mother, but I imagine you—”

“Funny, boss,” Tim said. “Move it.”

Martin thought this was extremely strange, until the two of them passed by him. Martin wrinkled his nose after they were gone.

“That smell—was that—”

“Yes,” said Jon.

“Everyone always has to tell me, I can never—never mind. Jon, what—what was that?”

“Um—weed? I though that’s what—”

“No. Back there. I know you don’t think we can stop the fears.”

“Oh. I don’t.”

“So then why—”

“What Tim was asking isn’t unreasonable. I wanted a chance—even if all I learned from it was that there never was one. Of course they want theirs.”

“And ok, I’m glad you’re considering them. I mean, I kind of asked you to. I just don’t like—I don’t want that pressure on you.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“You mean you don’t want them pushing me, because you’re afraid of how that will end.”

“It’s—” Martin swallowed. “It’s both, all right?”

Jon was quiet for a moment, then moved toward the couch. “Sit with me?”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “Yeah.”

***

They moved the chairs and the couch out of the way and spread out on the floor. Martin had to admit it was a better use of the space. Now that some of the tension in the group had been so forcefully broken, there was again a sort of comfort in the conversation, in the company, at least at first. It didn’t feel so empty and dark.

“So… I was thinking about where to start,” Sasha said, after everyone was settled. “And maybe—we should start with the options you talked about before—in that other place—for what to do. Talk about them together, so there’s no misunderstandings.”

“Ok, but it’s important to keep in mind that—that was different,” Jon said.

“How?”

“There was—there was an apocalypse.”

“What about before the apocalypse?” Georgie asked. “Did you ever think about destroying the entities then? Getting rid of them or whatever?”

“No. Not really.”

“That’s weird, honestly,” Melanie said. “I would think that would be the first thing you’d consider. Why not?”

“A lot of reasons, I suppose.” Jon considered. “Mostly, they were just the way it was. We were much more worried about the people and the—things they acted through. And once we really understood, we were simply trying to avoid an apocalypse.”

“Think about a bad storm,” Martin added. “You don’t stop the weather. You just try to make sure there aren’t any trees that are going to fall on your house.”

Jon turned to look at him.

“What?”

“That—that’s a good metaphor, actually.”

“Why does that always surprise you?”

“I—”

“So,” Melanie said, “one option is to deal with it and just try to avoid the worst.”

“Yeah,” said Martin.

“No,” said Tim. “Danny, Sasha, Elias—all of that—that all happened before the apocalypse.”

“And you,” Jon added, but Tim did not acknowledge it.

“But they didn’t know about the—entities,” Sasha pointed out. “We do. That could change things.”

“But some people knew about them. Jonah Magnus knew about them,” Tim said. “I don’t think knowing about them is points in favor of dealing with it.”

Georgie spoke up again. “Jon, you also said you tried to avoid the apocalypse—objectively the worst part, if we’re trying to avoid the worst—and well, obviously it happened. So what about that? Could it be avoided this time?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think, though?”

“My belief is—no. No, I don’t believe it can be avoided.”

“But it could take a long time,” Martin said. “And people might—might figure something out that we don’t know now.”

“So you do think it could be avoided?” Georgie asked Martin.

“I, um—” he glanced at Jon, whose face did not change. “Maybe.”

“All right,” Sasha said, redirecting the conversation. “So option one, live with it and try for the best.”

“No,” Tim shook his head.

At least Tim and Jon can agree on that, Martin thought.

“It’s an option,” said Sasha. “We’re just laying out options. So after the apocalypse—that’s when you thought about destroying the fears themselves.”

“Destroying them?” Jon said. “No, not really. I don’t think that was ever a possibility.”

“Then—what?”

“There were, in essence, two options. Open the door to the other dimensions, let them go—or don’t.”

“We’ll come back the first one. If you hadn’t let them out—then what?”

“Then Jon became god,” Tim interjected.

“That isn’t fair,” Martin responded. “What you have to understand is—”

“Wait, I have been wondering about that,” Melanie said. “How exactly would that have worked?”

Jon replied before Martin could continue. “Well—first, to be clear, there was another choice. We could have let things go on. Just let the apocalypse continue as it was. That—seemed bad.”

“Ok.”

“Otherwise, I—we—could kill Jonah.” Martin’s stomach twisted in a way he hadn’t anticipated, and he set down his fork. “The Eye would then choose me as a replacement.”

“Because Jonah was in charge before that?” Melanie asked.

“In charge? No.” Martin thought he could hear a slight scoff in Jon’s voice, although he could have been imagining it. “It was never his place.”

“But it would have been yours?”

“Yes. More so, anyway. I—I couldn’t stop it, but I could have—changed it. Redirected the suffering.”

“So you would have actually been in charge of—torturing people. Choosing which people to torture?” Georgie frowned. “Forever?”

“Not forever. It would have ended eventually. Death is one of the fears.”

“Well, that’s messed up.” Melanie wiped at her mouth with a napkin. “If you were going to do that, it almost seems like it would have been a kindness to end it faster.”

Martin almost choked.

“Food goes down the other tube, Martin,” Tim said, unaware Martin hadn’t been eating.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Ok,” Sasha said, “so another option you considered was—taking over from Jonah. Making the apocalypse—better, I guess.”

“Is that what you heard?” Tim asked.

“In any case, that’s not something we need to consider,” said Sasha. “There’s no apocalypse.”

Martin’s chest tightened.

“So the last option—also after the apocalypse—was to let them out.”

“Right,” Jon said quietly.

“And ultimately, that’s what you chose.”

“Yes.”

“No,” Martin said. “It’s what the rest of us chose.”

“In the end, I chose it too.”

Silence fell over the group; Martin realized they were waiting for one of them to say more. He willed the tightness in his chest to dissipate.

“So the thing about that is—we didn’t really know. At the time, we’d only just learned there were other dimensions. And we still had no idea—what was in them. Or if there were other entities just like ours already out there, and maybe what we did didn’t matter so much. All we knew for certain was that we could end the apocalypse in our world. This—sending them here—we really didn’t know.”

Next to him, Jon remained silent.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Tim slowly, “and—given the options—if we could send them somewhere else again—that really doesn’t seem like the worst thing.”

“We’re not making any decisions right now, Tim.” Sasha was firm. “We’re just laying out options.”

“And if the options we are laying out are do nothing, Jon becomes god, or we get rid of them—getting rid of them seems reasonable. Why should we be the ones to live with them?”

“For one thing, as Jon said, this is a different situation. For another, we are not done with the options. There—there must be others. We’re just starting with what they considered before.”

“Sasha, that—that’s hopeful,” Melanie said, choosing her words carefully. “But I’m kind of wondering if Tim isn’t right.”

“Melanie.” Georgie sounded slightly reproachful. “Think about that, though. It’s not like they just disappear into the air. They—they go somewhere else. That’s how they got here.”

“But maybe they’d go somewhere—I don’t know, somewhere where they couldn’t really do any harm.”

“No.” Martin felt them all shift their attention to Jon when he spoke, but he continued to stare down at his plate. “They wouldn’t go somewhere next time. They would go everywhere. An infestation of fear, affecting thousands of worlds. I won’t allow that.”

“Now, how do you know that?” Tim asked.

“I just do.”

“Through your creepy monster powers?”

“Yes.”

“Let me guess which option you want, Jon,” Melanie said.

Martin jerked his head up. “You really don’t get it, do you? I mean, of course you don’t, but—”

“Stop.” Sasha dropped her fork onto her plate with a deliberate clang. “All of you. We’re taking a break. Eat your food.”

Martin looked back down at his plate; his whole body was tense. He felt Jon touch his arm.

“Eat,” Jon said softly. “Come on.” He broke off a piece of a roll on his own plate, and chewed and swallowed in demonstration. Something about watching Jon do it helped, and he was able to relax enough to get down a few mouthfuls of the dinner that seemed to have turned to cardboard. He had been hungry when they had sat down.

Ten minutes passed in silence, except for the clinking of forks and glasses; eventually plates were emptied, and Sasha cleared her throat.

“Are we all—ready? Does anyone need a longer break?”

No one answered.

“All right. Then—I want to ask something. To Jon and Martin.”

Martin looked at Sasha and then at Jon.

“Go ahead,” Jon said.

“I think—I know a few of us have been—what actually happened? At the end?”

“Yeah,” said Tim. “I have been wondering about that.”

“Tim—”

“I’m being nice.”

“Good. Stay that way.”

Jon looked at Martin, asking permission with his eyes. Martin steeled himself and nodded.

“We—those of us who had survived—we talked. And it was decided that we would let them go. Martin would kill Jonah, severing the primary link between our world and the fears; Georgie, Melanie, and Basira would blow up the gas main underneath the panopticon, destroying the tower and what remained of the archives. That would release their power, and allow the fears to access the—the gateway to the other dimensions.”

“But it didn’t quite go like that,” Tim stated.

“Correct. I changed my mind.”

“Why?” Tim asked.

“Because I couldn’t live with it. It wasn’t right.” Martin was grateful he left out the part about his nightmares.

“So you snuck up by yourself, stabbed Jonah and—took over.”

“Yes.”

“But then you changed your mind again. Why?”

“I hadn’t accounted for everything. I didn’t realize that they could blow the gas main without my—help. There was—there was—” Jon stopped. “I don’t remember how they did it, honestly.”

Martin could never quite remember that part either. All he remembered was that he had told them to go ahead and do it. “It was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Ok—just—what happened?”

“I told them to do it,” Martin said, “and then I went up after him. I didn’t think he’d—I thought I could stop him. I thought—I thought we could still leave. But we couldn’t. He couldn’t. He was part of it.”

“So they blew it up, and you lost control?”

“No. I could have kept them there. I could have. I was strong enough. If—” Jon looked at Martin and stopped. “I changed my mind. I let them go.”

Tim ignored the finality of Jon’s tone. “But why? How? And why was there so much blood? You said it was yours. Granted, you also said you didn’t kill anyone and you very much did—”

“He didn’t count,” Jon said disdainfully.

“Agreed, but that—that didn’t all come from Jonah. What happened?”

Jon sat back. “That is between me and Martin.”

“It’s ok,” Martin said. “You can—you can tell them. I just—I have to—I need another break.” He felt dizzy as he stood up; there wasn’t enough air.

“Martin?” Sasha started to get up too. “It’s all right, we don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. You should know why things are like this.”

He meant to go to their bedroom, he really did, but somehow he found himself in the hallway bathroom instead. Tears began to fall as soon as he closed the door; he sat on the toilet, the only real seat available.

“Jesus,” he said out loud to no one, as he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, willing it to stop. For once he was glad that Jon knew how he felt; Jon would stay, and he would tell them.

You bastard. His own words. He understood now why Jon had done it, but it still hurt. Understanding didn’t undo the past and what he had felt then. The moment he had seen Elias’s body on the ground—the moments afterward as the realization had dawned on him—

You bastard. He still didn’t know how much of Jon had been left then, how much would be left again if it came down to it. Maybe less this time. Maybe none. How long could a person stand up to something like that?

You bastard. In his mind, he felt the pressure of a body giving way at the point of the knife, heard Jon gasp as it entered his chest. He was so tired of feeling it, so tired of hearing it, and it was always there—it was part of him now. He could ignore it sometimes, most of the time, even, but it was always there. It was always just below the surface, just waiting for a moment like this one. He would always know now what it felt like to take the life of a person, the person, who loved him. It was the only thing he had said he wouldn’t do, yet in the end it had been the only thing he could do.

It had just gone so wrong.

He breathed; he tried to breathe. Breathe in a square, he told himself. He didn’t know where he’d learned it—maybe the internet. Probably the internet. He breathed in, held it; breathed out; held it. In, hold; out, hold. Slowly, gradually, he was able to take full breaths. He almost had control again when there was a knock on the door.

“Hang—hang on,” he said. “Sorry, I should have—”

“Martin?” It was Melanie. “Can I—can I come in?”

“Um—”

“Please?”

“It’s unlocked.”

Melanie slipped in and closed the door behind her; she walked slowly to the edge of the tub and sat down. They looked at each other for a long moment.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

“I just—I didn’t know.”

“We didn’t tell.”

“But I should have known. I mean, not the details, but—of course it had to be terrible. I think maybe I didn’t want to think about it.”

“What do you mean? Think about what?”

“I think—I think it was easier to imagine that you were hiding things because—well, Georgie said Jon wasn’t like that, but—” She shook her head. “When it comes down to it, I just didn’t want to think about how bad it could be, how bad it could get. I wanted to think I’d already seen the worst. I can’t imagine if Georgie—god. I’m just so sorry.”

“Me too.” He went to take another deep breath, but this one hitched at the top.

“Wait—hang on. I’ll be right—just hang on.” Melanie slipped out again, but quickly reappeared, this time with a large ball of black and white fluff in her arms. “I know this might be a bit silly, but—I don’t know. He really helped me after I—I mean, it feels like nothing now, but at the time—”

“It wasn’t nothing. I mean, that’s kind of the thing. It’s all awful.” Martin watched as Melanie set the Admiral down on the bathroom floor. The cat was cautious for a moment; he sniffed at the edge of the tub where Melanie had resumed her seat, then at the cabinet under the sink. Then, with no warning at all, he plunged his face against Martin’s legs, running his whole body along them before turning around and doing it again.

Somehow, Martin smiled.

“See?”

“Yeah.” He reached out a hand, and the Admiral sniffed it before he began to rub his face against it furiously. “Is he—is he purring?”

“Yeah. He’s weird,” Melanie said. “It’s pretty great. I didn’t think I was a cat person before I moved in with Georgie, but—he’s changed my mind.”

“I can see that.” He dangled his fingers above the Admiral’s face, who swatted at them with a soft paw. “Is Jon—ok?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s fine. He had a moment, but—he was talking to Georgie when I came to look for you.”

“Good.” He pulled his hand back, and the Admiral quickly switched his attention to something in the corner of the room that Martin couldn’t see. “Listen—are they still—do you think I need to go back out?”

“Oh—no. Not if you don’t want to. I mean, they’re still talking, but I think everyone’s had enough of the serious issues for tonight. Even Tim.”

“I think—I think I might go to bed early. Do you mind excusing me to everyone?”

“Not at all,” Melanie said, gathering up the Admiral; he protested with a small squeak. “I think they’ll all understand.”

“Thanks, Melanie. Sorry for the trouble.”

“No trouble.” She opened the door, and they both stepped out into the hallway. “Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight.”

He took one more deep breath, and headed back to their room. He was very, very tired.

#the magnus archives #tma #mag pod #tma spoilers #jonmartin #tma fanfic #my writing

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arcticdementor · 3 years

Link

The hilarious headline in the Daily Beast yesterday read like a cross of Clickhole and Izvestia circa 1937: “Is Glenn Greenwald the New Master of Right-Wing Media? FROM HIS MOUTH TO FOX’S EARS?”

The story, fed to poor Beast media writer Lloyd Grove by certain unnamed embittered personages at the Intercept, is that their former star writer Greenwald appears on, and helps provide content for — gasp! — right-wing media! It’s nearly the exclusive point of the article. Greenwald goes on TV with… those people! The Beast’s furious journalisming includes a “spot check” of the number of Fox items inspired by Greenwald articles (“dozens”!) and multiple passages comparing Greenwald to Donald Trump, the ultimate insult in #Resistance world. This one made me laugh out loud:

In a self-perpetuating feedback loop that runs from Twitter to Fox News and back again, Greenwald has managed, like Trump before him, to orchestrate his very own news cycles.

This, folks, is from the Daily Beast, a publication that has spent much of the last five years huffing horseshit into headlines, from Bountygate to Bernie’s Mittens to classics like SNL: Alec Baldwin's Trump Admits 'I Don't Care About America'. The best example was its “investigation” revealing that three of Tulsi Gabbard’s 75,000 individual donors — the late Princeton professor Stephen Cohen, peace activist Sharon Tennison, and a person called “Goofy Grapes” who may or may not have worked for Russia Today host Lee Camp — were, in their estimation, Putin “apologists.”

…

For years now, this has been the go-to conversation-ender for prestige media pundits and Twitter trolls alike, directed at any progressive critic of the political mainstream: you’re a Republican! A MAGA-sympathizer! Or (lately), an “insurrectionist”! The Beast in its Greenwald piece used the most common of the Twitter epithets: “Trump-defender.” Treachery and secret devotion to right-wing politics are also the default explanation for the growing list of progressives making their way onto Fox of late, from Greenwald to Kyle Kulinski to Aaron Mate to Jimmy Dore to Cornel West.

The truth is, Trump conservatives and ACLU-raised liberals like myself, Greenwald, and millions of others do have real common cause, against an epistemic revolution taking hold in America’s political and media elite. The traditional liberal approach to the search for truth, which stresses skepticism and free-flowing debate, is giving way to a reactionary movement that Plato himself would have loved, one that believes knowledge is too dangerous for the rabble and must be tightly regulated by a priesthood of “experts.” It’s anti-democratic, un-American, and naturally unites the residents of even the most extreme opposite ends of our national political spectrum.

…

Follow the logic. Isikoff, who himself denounced the Steele dossier, and said in the exchange he essentially agreed with Meier’s conclusions, went on to wonder aloud how right a thing could be, if it’s being embraced by The Federalist and Tucker Carlson. Never mind the more salient point, which is that Meier was “ignored by other media” because that’s how #Resistance media deals with unpleasant truths: it blacks them out, forcing reporters to spread the news on channels like Fox, which in turn triggers instant accusations of unreliability and collaborationism.

It’s a Catch-22. Isikoff’s implication is a journalist can’t make an impact if the only outlet picking up his or her work is The Federalist, but “reputable” outlets won’t touch news (and sometimes will even call for its suppression) if it questions prevailing notions of Conventional Wisdom.

These tactics have worked traditionally because for people like Meier, or myself, or even Greenwald, who grew up in the blue-leaning media ecosystem, there’s nothing more ominous professionally than being accused of aiding the cause of Trump or the right-wing. It not only implies intellectual unseriousness, but racism, sexism, reactionary meanness, greed, simple wrongness, and a long list of other hideous/evil characteristics that could render a person unemployable in the regular press. The label of “Trump-defender” isn’t easily removed, so most media people will go far out of their way to avoid even accidentally incurring it.

…

The consistent pattern with the Trump-era press, which also happens to be the subject of so many of those Greenwald stories the Beast and the Intercept employees are complaining about, is that information that is true but doesn’t cut the right way politically is now routinely either non-reported or actively misreported.

Whether it’s Hunter Biden’s laptop or the Brian Sicknick affair or infamous fictions like the “find the fraud” story, the public increasingly now isn’t getting the right information from the bulk of the commercial press corps. That doesn’t just hurt Trump and conservatives, it misinforms the whole public. As Thomas Frank just pointed out in The Guardian, the brand of politicized reporting that informed the lab-leak fiasco risks obliterating the public’s faith in a whole range of institutions, a disaster that would not be borne by conservatives alone.

But this is only a minor point, compared to the more immediate reason the constant accusations of treachery and Trumpism aimed at dissenters should be ignored.

From the embrace of oligarchical censorship to the aggressive hawking of “noble lies” like Russiagate to the constant humbugging of Enlightenment values like due process to the nonstop scolding of peasants unschooled in the latest academic jargon, the political style of the modern Democratic mainstream isn’t just elitist and authoritarian, it’s almost laughably off-putting. In one moment it’s cheering for a Domestic War on Terror and in the next, declaring war on a Jeopardy contestant flashing the “A-OK” sign. It’s Dick Cheney meets Robin DiAngelo, maybe the most loathsome conceivable admixture. Who could be surprised a politically diverse group finds it obnoxious?

During the Trump years conventional wisdom didn’t just take aim at Trumpism. The Beltway smart set used the election of Trump to make profound arguments against traditional tenets of democracy, as well as “populism,” (which increasingly became synonymous with “the unsanctioned exercise of political power by the unqualified”), and various liberal traditions undergirding the American experiment. Endless permutations of the same argument were made over and over. Any country in which a Trump could be elected had a “too much democracy” problem, the “marketplace of ideas” must be a flawed model if it leads to people choosing Trump, the “presumption of innocence” was never meant to apply to the likes of Trump, and so on.

…

By last summer, after the patriotic mania of Russiagate receded, the newest moral panic that the kente-cloth-clad Schumers and Pelosis were suddenly selling, in solidarity with famed progressive change agents like Bank of America, PayPal, Apple, ComCast, and Alphabet, was that any nation capable of electing Trump must always have been a historically unredeemable white supremacist construct, the America of the 1619 Project. The original propaganda line was that “half” of Trump supporters were deplorable racists, then it was all of them, and then, four years in, the whole country and all its traditions were deemed deplorable.

Now, when the statues of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt came down, there was a new target, separate and apart from Trump. The whole history of American liberalism was indicted as well, denounced as an ineffectual trick of the oppressor, accomplishing nothing but giving legitimacy to racial despotism.

The American liberalism I knew growing up was inclusive, humble, and democratic. It valued the free exchange of ideas among other things because a central part of the liberal’s identity was skepticism and doubt, most of all about your own correctitude. Truth was not a fixed thing that someone owned, it was at best a fleeting consensus, and in our country everyone, down to the last kook, at least theoretically got a say. We celebrated the fact that in criminal courts, we literally voted to decide the truth of things.

This new elitist politics of the #Resistance era (I won’t ennoble it by calling it liberalism) has an opposite view. Truth, they believe, is properly guarded by “experts” and “authorities” or (as Jon Karl put it) “serious people,” who alone can be trusted to decide such matters as whether or not the Hunter Biden laptop story can be shown to the public. A huge part of the frustration that the general public feels is this sense of being dictated to by an inaccessible priesthood, whether on censorship matters or on the seemingly daily instructions in the ear-smashing new vernacular of the revealed religion, from “Latinx” to “birthing persons.”

In the tone of these discussions is a constant subtext that it’s not necessary to ask the opinions of ordinary people on certain matters. As Plato put it, philosophy is “not for the multitude.” The plebes don’t get a say on speech, their views don’t need to be represented in news coverage, and as for their political choices, they’re still free to vote — provided their favorite politicians are removed from the Internet, their conspiratorial discussions are banned (ours are okay), and they’re preferably all placed under the benevolent mass surveillance of “experts” and “professionals.”

Add the total absence of a sense of humor and the inability of “moral clarity” politics to co-exist with any form of disagreement, and there’s a reason why traditional liberals are suddenly finding it easier to talk with old conservative rivals on Fox than the new authoritarian Snob-Lords at CNN, MSNBC, the Daily Beast or The Intercept. For all their other flaws, Fox types don’t fall to pieces and write group letters about their intolerable suffering and “trauma” if forced to share a room with someone with different political views. They’re also not terrified to speak their minds, which used to be a virtue of the American left (no more).

From the moment Donald Trump was elected, popular media began denouncing a broad cast of characters deemed responsible. Nativists, misogynists and racists were first in line, but from there they started adding new classes of offender: Greens, Bernie Bros, “both-sidesers,” Russia-denialists, Intellectual dark-webbers, class-not-racers, anti-New-Normalers, the “Substackerati,” and countless others, casting every new group out with the moronic admonition that they’re all really servants of the “far right” and “grifters” (all income earned in service of non-#Resistance politics is “grifting”). By now conventional wisdom has denounced everyone but its own little slice of aristocratic purity as the “far right.”

#matt taibbi #substack #glenn greenwald #journalism in action

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 4 years

Text

Dazed and Confused (Part 3)

Summary: Dean Winchester grew up wanting to be a cop. When he gets kicked out of the police academy on a fluke though, he turns to a life of crime. After breaking up with Dean and seeing him committing a crime in the act, the reader becomes an officer herself and eventually a detective. Four years after that day, the reader is sent undercover to figure out what Dean is up to. Only she has no idea how far Dean is willing to go to keep her from finding out the truth…

Pairing: AU!Dean x reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 3,400ish

Warnings: language, scary situations, violence, murder, etc.

A/N: This series has been on Ao3 only for awhile now and I am finally reposting here as well. It’s not new but it may be new to you. Please enjoy!...

______

You kept your mouth shut as Sam dumped Dean in the backseat of his car. You kept it shut as Sam drove the three of you out of town to one of the nearby farms. You kept it shut as Sam pulled inside one of the rundown and abandoned places, grabbed Dean and put him down on top of a stray bale of hay.

But when Sam pulled out a pair of zip ties from his back pocket, you shoved him away from his brother.

“What the hell are those for?” you growled, standing in front of Dean, Sam sighing and running his hand through his hair.

“It’s for our protection more than anything else,” said Sam. “He’s going to be swinging fists the second he wakes up.”

“And if he wakes up after his little brother just knocked him out and tied him up, how good a mood do you think he’ll be in?” you asked, Sam’s face scrunching up before he purses his lips.

“Okay. I know you’re pissed off but-”

“I spent four years pissed at him, Sam. I turned to you to help me through it. You’d be a little pissed too if you found out the one guy you thought you could trust turned out to be lying to you for who knows how long,” you said, shoving on him again when he took a step forward. “Stay away from him, Sam.”

“Y/N, this isn’t…” said Sam, his eyes wandering behind you, Dean grunting to himself as he woke up. You turned around and found him sitting up with his hand on his head, blinking at Sam and rubbing a hand over his face.

“Great. You’re hallucinating, Winchester,” he said, shaking his head, catching your worried stare.

“Dean,” said Sam with a neutral face, your eyes drifting to Dean’s hand, clenched up in a fist. “Sorry about the head.”

“What’s going on?” asked Dean, looking around, something extremely small and vulnerable showing on his face. You wondered when the last time he was in the dark on something was. “Sammy before I-“

“Always had to shoot first, ask questions later, didn’t you Dean?” said Sam, leaning up on a hay bale not too far off. Dean squinted at him, mouth open and closing a few times, pressing his lips into a thin line after a moment. “You forget how to think on your own after all these years?”

“Fuck you,” said Dean, staring at his lap, closing his eyes. “My head is killing me and Y/N looks as confused as I feel so would you please , Sam, explain what is happening?”

“Spark Notes version? Y/N called me after the bank incident. I got even more pissed and thought I’m going to shove it to you so hard. I thought something snapped in you and what better way to track you down than to be in law enforcement myself. I applied FBI, took a test, did an interview and they asked if I wanted to do internal investigations. I’m too nice for field work they said. It was fine with me and gave me access to shit even you don’t have, Dean. Two weeks in, I dug at your ‘arrest record’ and lo and behold, you’re a fucking FBI agent too. I mean, I was thrilled but then I wondered what case you were working that you were doing bank heists and stuff like that. Your team told you that you were building up your profile so you could get in with mom’s killer, right? Be like him and he’d come to you, take you under his wing, right? Well, that’s your story. Mine is different. Mom’s killer is on your team. He’s grooming you to take the fall, to show a pattern of committing crime and rip your story to shreds that you were ordered to do it. He’s going to pin it on you and you’d never even realize it,” said Sam, Dean blinking up at him. “The really short version? You work for the FBI. Someone told you a lie to get you to do shit that would make you look guilty. You fell for it. I’m trying to save your ass and on top of all that, you just dragged Y/N into this for no damn reason.”

“But you go to law school,” you said. “You take classes. You do homework. I’ve seen you working on projects and crap.”

“It’s my cover, Y/N,” said Sam, frowning when you glared at him. “Y/N…”

“Both of you...I should…” you said, storming around the barn, hands in your hair, turning around to face them with a snarl. “I hate you both so fucking much.”

You marched over, slapping Sam in the face, Dean closing his eyes while he waited for his turn.

“I think you’re off the hook,” said Sam, rubbing his cheek as you pointed at Dean.

“He has a concussion. He might have lied but he didn’t do it to my face and pretend to care and be pissed and have nightmares and-”

“Y/N, I didn’t lie about that,” said Sam. “I knew Dean only said mom’s death was my fault for his cover after a couple of months but it still messed me up. It still hurts.”

“She wasn’t, Sammy,” said Dean, gulping from his seat. “She really wasn’t. Y/N...when you were younger, that wasn’t your fault either.”

“You said if I had gone straight home after school, I would have been able to protect her, Dean,” said Sam, shrugging his shoulders. “I would have...maybe I could have-“

“You were a shrimpy ten year old Sam. No way you would have been able to stop him. You would have wound up like her,” said Dean.

“I always thought that was the point. You’d rather I had ended up like that,” said Sam.

“No Sam, never,” said Dean, his face losing its hardness, soft eyes looking over at his little brother. “My whole life I’ve tried to protect you. I said that to screw with your head. It worked. Too well but it worked. Protecting mom was not your responsibility.”

“Finding her killer wasn’t yours, either,” said Sam, Dean staring at his lap quietly for a few moments.

“After I went off the radar, started doing stuff, how was dad?” asked Dean, fidgeting on the hay.

“I was at school at first and then went straight to training and work. I haven’t lived in that house in a long time,” said Sam, kicking at the ground. “He wasn’t too bad I guess. I kept away for the most part.”

“Y/N take care of you?” asked Dean, Sam nodding his head once.

“I crashed at her place for a while,” said Sam, kicking at the ground.

“Is your bro makeup moment over? Cause in case you two don’t realize , something bigger than your little boy issues is going on,” you said, Dean whipping his head around to Sam. You knew you’d be angry but you didn’t realize quite how much until just now.

“Y/N, maybe if you just relax-”

“I don’t want to relax, Sam,” you said, pulling your gun out of your pants, aiming it at the ground. “I want…”

“She wasn’t this pissed earlier,” said Dean, Sam carefully taking a step over.

“Why don’t you put that down, Y/N and we-”

“No! I’m tired of you stupid Winchesters screwing up my life,” you said, rage rushing through you, hand fiddling with the safety. “It’s stopping. Tonight.”

“Y/N,” said Sam, quickly rushing over and snatching the gun from your hands. “What is…”

“Give that back, Samuel,” you said, hitting him in the groin, Sam doubling over as Dean caught your arm. “Back off!”

“You need to calm...she doesn’t do drugs, does she?” asked Dean, Sam’s head shaking. “Why are her pupils fucking huge then Sam?”

“I am not on drugs!” you shouted at him, Dean grabbing hold of both of your wrists, your blood boiling as you squirmed against his hold. “Let go, Dean!”

“I brought her these pastries earlier. It’s the only thing we didn’t both eat tonight. They were at my apartment before I went over to her place,” said Sam, getting back to his feet just in time for you to kick again.

“I’m pretty sure she’s drugged, Sam! This ain’t exactly normal,” said Dean as you ripped away from him. “Something pretty intense too.”

“I said to leave me…” you said, your pounding heart skipping a beat. “Leave me…” you said, the words catching on your throat.

“Sam, if whoever messed with the desserts put enough in their to take care of you… ” said Dean, sliding his arms under you as you started to fall.

“It’s more than enough to kill her. I need to get her to a hospital,” said Sam, Dean shoving you in Sam’s arms. “Dean.”

“Your cover is broken. Maybe mine isn’t yet. Besides, I’m a wanted criminal. Take her, get her fixed and I’ll find a way to contact you,” said Dean, shoving the two of you towards the front of the barn. “Go!”

“You’re gonna be alright, Y/N,” said Sam as you started to squirm in his arms, everything aching and pulsing. “You’ll be alright.”

Three Days Later

“Y/L/N,” you heard as you ate your jello from your hospital bed, Jack raising an eyebrow at you. “How’s detox going?”

“Uh, shitty,” you said with a smile. “No heart damage thankfully. They were worried about that. I get to go home soon if my tests come back good.”

“My mentor can’t die. It’s kind of against the rules,” said Jack, grabbing a chair and taking a seat next to your bed. “I’d have to have Bobby be it.”

“I wouldn’t put that pain on you, Jack,” you said with a smile.

“As your friend, I have to ask...” said Jack, pursing his lips.

“I had a bad day and the department thinks I took the drugs myself?” you asked, Jack staying motionless. “I didn’t do this to myself, Jack. Somebody...I don’t know what happened but I did not do this.”

“I know,” said Jack, grabbing you unopened Jello pack. “Just tagging on you like a good friend.”

“Rookie…” you scowled, Jack simply ripping the lid off and sliding it back to you. “Good boy.”

“I know,” he said with a smirk.

“Shut up,” you said, shoving on his shoulder, spotting Sam poke his head in your room. “Hey. What’s up, Sammy?”

“Just checking on you,” said Sam, biting his bottom lip. “Jack, you keeping her company?”

“Uh huh,” said Jack, looking back over his shoulder. “Hey Sam. You’re the one that found Y/N, right?"

“Yeah,” said Sam, Jack cocking his head.

“Why’d she have her coat and shoes on?” asked Jack. “It was the middle of the night.”

“She probably went to go get help. I heard her leave. Or her head was so messed up cause of the drugs she didn’t realize what she was doing and walked right past me,” said Sam, Jack nodding his head. “I bet you’re sticking to home cooked meals for a while, aren’t you kiddo?”

“Yeah,” you said, Jack standing up with a stretch. “Leaving already?”

“I’m on duty,” said Jack, fixing his uniform back into place. “Just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. I’ll leave you in Sam’s hands.”

“Jack,” you said giving him a smile. “Thank you for believing me.”

“Get some rest while we figure out who did that to you,” said Jack, squeezing your hand. “Later Sam.”

“Jack,” said Sam, waiting until he was gone to shut the door. “How you feeling today?”

“Alright,” you said, Sam sitting down with a sigh. “Sorry about trying to beat the shit out of you. And shoot you guys.”

“You weren’t yourself,” said Sam with a grin. “I heard from Dean. Well...more like I got a cryptic text from him.”

“Let’s see it,” you said, Sam sliding his phone over.

Ear Heart. K. Metal. Turnpike. 1. Sunrise. +1.

“He heard my heart was okay. He wants to meet at the old metal sheet factory off the turnpike at 1am. The plus one means bring me along,” you said.

“Really?” asked Sam, watching you bite your bottom lip.

“He used to pass me notes in Chem lab sophomore year. You couldn’t use your phone or anything in there so he used to send them in code to be a smartass. Some of them were pretty hard to figure out,” you said, shrugging your shoulder.

“You up for getting discharged today?” asked Sam.

“Yeah. Let me get a nap in and then you can bust me out of this place.”

12:53 am

You woke up in the passenger seat, Sam quietly listening to the radio. It was dark at the entrance to the factory, no lights on at the abandoned facility.

“How’s he want us to find him? This place is huge,” said Sam.

“Mr. FBI can’t figure out the obvious?” you asked, pointing at the map by the front entrance spray painted with a big red arrow.

“Hey, I worked at a desk in my apartment. I’m not used to this like you,” said Sam.

“Yes, because I’m an expert on secret government operations. All those parking tickets and noise complaints I spend 99% of my time on really prepare you for this kind of thing,” you said.

“What’s the other one percent?” asked Sam.

“Drunk and disorderly. Lawrence ain’t that exciting Sammy,” you said, Sam getting the hang of following the arrows deeper into the complex.

“I know. I mean now it is. Just…you know...” said Sam, giving you a sideways glance.

“You be the brains and I’ll be the muscle,” you said, patting your thigh holster. “Nothing’s going to happen to you Sam.”

“I’m not scared,” said Sam with that same tone as when you and Dean watched The Strangers with him one night years ago. “I’m not!”

“Well, I am,” you said as you came to the last of the arrows. “Fear isn’t a bad thing. Don’t let it cripple you is all.”

“Who taught you that? Bobby?” asked Sam.

“Dean. He was trying to get me to kill a spider in the bathroom once,” you said with a smile, hopping out of the car.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“Nope. I thought it was still sweet,” you said, Sam rolling his eyes.

“Let’s go see what Dean found out,” said Sam as he followed after.

You took the lead inside, Sam sticking close by as you attempted to get your bearings. The place was huge with far too many angles to even attempt to cover. You dug your flashlight out, looking around for any sign of Dean.

A whistle caught your attention, following it to the left down a hall, poking your head in what used to be a conference room, Dean giving you a wave in the dimly lit room.

“Hi guys,” said Dean, Sam peering over top of you to spot a computer on the table.

“Dean,” said Sam, Dean’s gaze landing on you.

“You alright?” he asked. You shrugged and took a seat, Dean seeming to understand forgiveness was something that would take a long time, if it even happened.

“You figure out who tried to kill me?” asked Sam, your head cocking. That’s why he’d been so nervous. Whoever drugged you hadn’t intended to kill you. It was meant for Sam.

“Concretely, no. But my best guess is our friend at the FBI. They must know you work for them too. If it had worked it would have taken you out and I’m still the fall guy who just thinks his little brother overdosed until it got pinned on me. I need to know your team, Sam. Who do you work with, who knows you’re working this case? Tell me everything,” said Dean, tapping his fingers against the file.

“I can’t tell you that,” said Sam, Dean nodding his head with a scoff.

“Y/N almost died , Sam. I don’t care about your policy and protocol bullshit. I need to know about your team,” growled Dean, clenching his fist.

“I can’t tell you that because I only know one guy ,” said Sam. “My handler. I don’t know other investigators unless it’s a large case which this one isn’t.”

“Then tell me about him, your handler,” said Dean, taking a deep breath.

“His name is Cas. I don’t know if it’s his first or last. He sits in DC behind a desk. He’s kind of weird but not crazy weird,” said Sam.

“Tell me everything you know about this guy. Everything.”

Two hours later you had your head resting on your arms, sleepy eyes watching the boys bicker back and forth over bits of information about Cas. He had a clean record, two pet guinea pigs and a on and off girlfriend named Meg for the past nine years. He seemed like any other guy with a desk job to you.

“Maybe we should see who Cas reports to,” you mumbled, yawning loudly in the next beat. “Cas doesn’t know anybody on your team, Dean. Maybe his boss does.”

“Sam doesn’t know Cas’ boss, Y/N,” said Dean.

“Well, I thought you could hack into anything you wanted. Cas is Sam’s boss. They work in the same department so they have the same HR department code, right? Look up the code and figure out who else has it. Hell, look at an org chart. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out,” you said, scratching your head. “Super secret agents can’t figure out basic business operations.”

“You’re angrier than I remember,” said Dean, Sam stealing Dean’s computer and typing away on it.

“How’s your head feeling?” you asked, Dean shrugging.

“Okay. Mild concussion but-” he said, your palm smacking him across the face.

“Glad to know you’re feeling better. Asshole liar,” you growled at him, shaking your hand out.

“I deserved that,” said Dean, rubbing his cheek.

“Y/N, when you stop hating everyone, you mind reminding me when Jack joined the department?” asked Sam.

“I don’t know. About two years ago I guess,” you said, Sam spinning the laptop around.

“Jack Kline works for the FBI apparently. He’s a field agent,” said Sam, sighing towards Dean. “Under a different boss but same department as me. Internal Investigations.”

“Why would they have two guys investigating the same case? Not to mention keeping you in the dark about each other,” you said, Dean shaking his head as he stared at the screen. “Or the fact that Jack definitely isn’t a guy who sits behind a desk.”

“Look, Jack has known who Sam is this whole time,” said Dean, pointing out something on the screen. “He’s not in investigations like Sam. I mean he is but he’s a field agent too. Based on the timing of when he’s gotten here, he’s probably been watching Sam for years.”

“What’s that mean?” you asked, Sam running his hands over his face.

“It means we need to talk to Jack about what he’s doing in Lawrence stalking my little brother.”

______

A/N: Read Part 4 here!

#supernatural #spn #dean x reader #dean winchester #au #spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #series

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outerloop · 6 years

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Anatomy of a Falcon

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We recently announced Falcon Age, a game about nurturing a falcon from a baby, bonding with them, and together resisting the forces that colonise your planet. Falcon Age will be out in 2019 for PS4 and PS VR.

We showed off the game at PAX last week, got a great response, especially on the falcon. Let’s do a deep dive of the design of the falcon, animation and rig setup, AI and navigation, feather tech, and raptor sounds.

Falcon Design

Chandana Ekanayake and Darran Hurlbut

Our falcon design combines multiple raptor types. She is big as a golden eagle, fights like a hawk, has some eagle-hawk resemblance, some owl-like tufts, and falcon tendancies. She’s one of the last of her kind left in our world and we wanted to make her unique visually for the story and also visually stand out during gameplay against the sky and desert like environments.

One of the early inspirations for Falcon Age came from videos of golden eagles hunting large mountain goats. That led to some research on falconry and the idea of having a falcon as a pet and designing mechanics and gameplay around that core idea. We made a rough prototype early on to test out the ideas. The first time we successfully whistled for the bird in VR and saw the scale change from it approaching from a distance to landing on our hand, we knew we were on to something that could serve as the core of a unique game.

Animation and Rig

Aung Zaw Oo

FALCON FEET TRACKING

There are lots of animation options out there, but none of them would easily solve our specific falcon feet tracking needs. Inverse kinematic setups, root motion and other complex plugins could do the job if we had a bigger team and more time to dedicate to it. We wanted a more predictable outcome so we went with a multiple pose based solution made in 3dsmax.

However, the biggest reason for not using IK, is that this is the best way I could come up within a couple of days. We were building the prototype so fast back at the beginning of the project that we didn’t have time to look at what other solutions are available. This is the most reliable and least ugly way I found and we’ve stuck with it since. If it's not broken, don’t fix it.

Here is how I imagined the bird claws blending IRL. The ball is the fist that is attached to the VR motion controls.There are limits to this method. The claws needs to be able to wrap around a fair chunk of the fist and the fist pose needs to be as spherical as possible.

Note that head and legs are siblings of the pelvis. This makes the bone masking and making separate blend trees easier. Ignore the word ‘eagle’ in the naming. That was just a temp asset name before we figured out the bird design.

Short version of how its done; the fist is a ball and the bird’s feet rotate around the ball using 30 blend poses and shuffle animation to get the feet back to center when the ball(motion hand) has rotated too far.

30 Blend Poses on a ball

A shuffle animation let feet recenter

And the the blends start again after that quick shuffle animation from the new rotation of the hand. According to our programmer Justin, he is doing some regular old quaternion and linear algebra math. And I’m using 3 float values that he’s giving me and feeding them into those anim blend states.

For baby bird, the 2nd knuckle on the index finger is treated like a ball.

The one edge case where the ball concept doesn’t work is when the glove is pointed directly down. Pictured below.

We had several ways we could’ve dealt with that case. One solution was to have a collider on the forearm part of the glove and have the bird fly away if bird’s collision intersects with it. Ultimately we decided to let it be as is. It’s more player friendly that way since it lets you scratch your left hip while in VR without having the bird leave you. Also most people would never have their hands positioned that way in normal play.

Unless they’re playing in a headstand for some reason. All kinds of animation features would look wrong or broken in a headstand.

FALCON HEAD TRACKING

Short version of how its done; the head (bone_Head) is a direct child of the highest object in the bird skeletal hierarchy ( bone_Root ).

Bone_Root’s position(not rotation) follows the position of the motion controller and bone_Head counters that motion. Basically a 2-object hierarchy where a positional blend is used to counter motion of the parent object to keep the child object in same global position. The rest of the bird body uses a blend of 27 poses to try its best to keep the bird looking natural.

With the size of the adult bird we have, a 12 cm translation in all axis(24x24x24 cube) seemed ideal for getting the stabilizer effect without stretching the neck too much. The head will also move at the edge of that range and when the motion hand stops moving, that new position is now the new center and another 24cm cube is formed there. Math wise, headlock is mostly just a vector transform with a lot of extra 'fluff' for limiting speed, transitioning in and out, and moving the lock point when it gets too far from the body but the bird is still in the area.

Bird Navigation and AI

Justin LaLone

BIRD BOREDOM

For the most part, the falcon obeys Ara’s commands and follows her around. If you stand around long enough in one area while the bird is just circling or if you launch her with no orders, she will start looking for something else in the area to do - usually hunting or landing on a point of interest. She will also take some initiative when perched on Ara if anything else tries to grab her (she’s possessive like that), and likes to help lead Ara to the next hole in lightning golf.

SUN BLINDING PREY

Some of the prey, such as the rabbits, are very skittish and as soon as they notice a falcon diving towards them they will take off for the nearest bolthole. They have a more difficult time seeing Ara’s bird if she approaches with the sun behind her, so paying attention to where the light is coming from and sending the bird from that direction can make catching prey easier and more reliable. On the other hand, simply diving from higher up can be good too, as the bird can pick up more speed before being noticed, giving her prey less time to dodge out of the way.

Coming in fast and and from the sun, for a guaranteed hit.

FALCON 3D NAVIGATION

Getting a flying animal to reliably traverse a 3D space in a somewhat natural looking way isn’t something you typically find out of the box in a game engine. We have roughly three levels of bird-navigation logic going on to get the bird from point A to point B without running into too many things or getting stuck in a corner.

For high-level navigation to find its way through the world, we build a 3D navigation graph and use A* to find a path. What’s probably somewhat unique in our implementation is that we are using the fairly new Unity job system to do all our A* pathfinding, giving us fast searches that stay off the main thread, allowing more time for other AI, physics, and more stuff in general. Most of the graph is generated automatically, with manually placed connections for flying through narrow gaps like windows that are small or require an approach from a good angle.

The purple line is a rough path for it to follow to get around the big rocks in between where the falcon started and where Ara is standing. The bird doesn’t try to follow this line very closely; it would be trying to make some pretty strange and sharp turns if it tried, so as soon as it has a clear shot to the next part of the path it heads there instead.

Sometimes smaller objects or moving objects can get in the way. The falcon looks ahead and goes over or around these objects. This rock is actually just big enough that it would normally navigate around it with A*, but I forced it to “forget” about that for now. Here, it’s turning left to go around the rock - the red lines show where it has been looking for the past few frames. It usually won’t try to go under things in this way, but the A* navigation can direct it to go under arches or walkways.

The last level of bird flight logic is the actual maneuvering logic, or how the bird decides how fast it wants to go, how much to ascend or descend, how quickly to turn, and how it applies physics accelerations, limited by what it is allowed to do, to get there. This feeds into the animation system telling it how hard the bird is working, what sort of pose it should be in, if it should be banking, etc. The object avoidance is tied in somewhat strongly with this, but all the A* navigation is completely separate. It is also a big pile of math and logic.

Feathers and Rendering

Ben Golus

The small body feathers, or contour feathers, on our birds flutter in the wind, and react to the player’s hands brushing against them to give a greater sense of tactile interactivity. The way this was done for the PAX demo is a bit of a hack which I hope to replace before we ship. (This of course means it’s the solution that will ship with the game.) The short description is each small feather on the bird is a treated like many grass or vegetation shaders. Several overlapping sine waves are used to calculate some simple noise used to flutter the feathers and give them some life. Their timing is offset by a random value per feather stored in the vertex color, and the flutter movement is scaled also using the vertex color. This means the base of the feathers don’t move, but the tips do. It also means longer feathers move more than shorter ones.

Unlike most grass shaders, we need the feathers to not move in random directions, so we can’t use world or local space directions. Plus this is on a skinned mesh which makes the direction even more dynamic. Instead I use a combination of the feather’s vertex normal and tangent so the feathers flutter in and out and side to side relative to their orientation. This isn’t strictly accurate, but for small movements like this it won’t be obviously wrong.

To handle hand interactions, the player’s hand has a script which tracks the bones and creates a list of capsules that follow the shape of each finger, and a sphere for the palm. If the hand is in range, the vertex shader iterates over the list of capsules to find closest distance to one and softly scales down the flutter if a capsule one is overlapping it. The feathers are also squished down towards the body. The capsules are oversized as the overlapping tests are soft, so this isn’t an instant on-off, but a gradual change. It’s roughly tuned so that once the visible finger is touching the feather it has stopped moving entirely and will push down.

Here’s an early test of this system in action. You can see how the feathers react to the sphere before it actually touches it, but the interaction is still convincing.

For the final release of the game I’d like to move to a geometry shader or compute shader approach which would solve some of the issues the effect currently has when only one vertex of a feather is being overlapped, and the fact the feathers light normals don’t change when being touched.

FALCON DAMAGE FEEDBACK

We needed some way to show when the bird is hurt, and we wanted to avoid using a health bar or similar mechanic as much as possible. Animation is used to make the bird look tired, and in pain, but we still didn’t find that it was clear enough to users that she had taken damage. We decided we wanted her to look physically damaged with blood and frayed feathers to really strongly communicate her state. The obvious answer was to do a material swap. However we also wanted to show a gradual increase in damage rather than a hard on / off, and did not want to have to have a lot of different maps. There was also the issue that most feathers shared the same UVs, which meant blood spots would be repeated all over the bird.

The solution we ended up with was done in two parts. First was feather damage and fraying. The alpha channel of each feather is setup in a special way so that both an undamaged and damaged version exist in the alpha at different opacities. The feathers are using alpha test cutout (actually alpha to coverage) at 50% opacity when at normal health, and 25% opacity when damaged to switch between the two states.

For blood splatter the bird has a second UV for the blood texture so we don’t have to reuse the original feather texture UVs, and then we blend in the blood on top of the base texture. The result is we only need one base texture set, and one blood splatter texture set for the bird and we can get variable damage effects on the bird.

Raptor Sounds

Rob Pearsall

The bird wasn’t designed to be different - futuristic or magical - from any bird in our world, just an amalgam of several flying raptors (except for wearing hats); so, it didn’t make any sense to create a voice for it that might sound ‘cinematically awesome’ - it just had to work and be believable.

That said, I did have the choice of “borrowing” the calls of any raptor I thought would communicate to the player the various moods, feelings, and responses of the bird. So, I listened to the sounds that raptors make; and to my surprise, the biggest, most impressive bird - the eagle - was absolutely the worst sounding predator of them all. First place for “don’t use this”.

The hawk is always a great choice. Everybody loves the screech of a hawk. I used to think that there was only one good recording of a hawk screech and every sound designer owned it and that’s why all hawks in all shows and movies sound the same. Not true. It turns out, all hawks sound the same. Not much variation at all. Now, don’t get me wrong, it sounds awesome, so yea… we’ve got that sound on our bird too. But that’s not all.

The best thing I had going for me was that I didn’t have to limit our falcon voice to one specific kind of falcon; and there are many kinds. Because of this, I could liberally choose any sound any falcon produces that makes sense as a kind of emotional statement from the bird.

Conveniently, the emotions were limited; I name them as statements from the bird:

All is calm, all is well

I hear you call me

I’m attacking

I’m hurt, but I’m still flying

That hurts

Getting a recording of a raptor that’s annoyed is really easy; show up with a bunch of recording gear, get into it’s space, and it’s already annoyed. So, there’s a lot of material of raptors sounding negative and mad. This works for ‘pain’. The hawk’s sounds work for flying responses and attack calls. The “all is calm” sounds were the difficult ones. There were several chirps that worked, but then I had to edit a lot of different kind of calls to get partial, short squawks that fit with the chirps, and it worked.

Keeping track of the bird sonically while in game… well, that’s another story for later.

Thank you!

Thanks for reading. For more info and latest updates follow @outerloopgames

#gaming #birb #falconage #vr

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brownstonearmy · 4 years

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2020-09-25: Juiced! (Part 5)

August 7 (Friday midmorning)

After the events of the previous day, you'd think our lovely band of adventurers would catch a break. BUT YOU WOULD BE MISTAKEN! Messages, insights and calls to action proliferate throughout the party.

Lucky receives a letter from Miss Mavis asking for a favor:

"Lucky, can you and your friends help me find a crystalline energy amplifier? I need one for a restoration project. They're worth a hefty price, but I'll gladly reimburse if you find one."

Norm, meanwhile, has learned that Yance Elbereth is convalescing at SHART HQ. The time to strike against his assassination target is nigh!

Spleenifer has learned through meditation and spiritual attunement that the waterskin from the monk is a type of holy water and the decorative bowl is actually a bowl of Commanding Water Elementals. And on Spleenifer's first day of official work as Mayor Dunwall's assistant, she has been asked for her input how best to solicit donations to help the Mayor with reelection.

Q (going as Jay on this auspicious day) found a note under their door:

"From one bard to another, here's a piece of advice: never trust a Stout you can't drink. I have Stout problems of my own, if ever you want to meet for a pint at the usual bard hangouts. I'm easy to find, since the scales stand out. -Kadana Meristan"

Everyone splits up to start on their respective tasks, so let's follow one adventurer at a time and see where things lead!

Up first we have have Jay, and they strike out for the Juicy Lyre tavern to meet up with the mysterious author of the letter. Kadana, an attractive dragonborn, is nursing a pint while composing a song on the back of a playbill. After Jay takes a seat, she explains that Lawrence Stout was once her patron. But like Jay, she got into some hot water when things got a little too close between Kadana and Russell Stout. The younger Stout seems to have a habit of fraternizing with the arts (as the euphemism goes). But in Kadana's case, her arts funding got cut off as punishment.

Jay and Kadana muse for a bit on strategies to get back at Lawrence and/or Russell. The best way to strike back seems to be breaking up the Stout family businesses, but neither of them are quite sure how to go about doing that. Kadana excuses herself to attend to some other bardly matters, but it's clear that Kadana is playing this as a playful round of hard to get. Folks, we're seeing the beginnings of a beautiful friendship (and possible romance)!

But we must fade to black for now and pick up on Spleenifer's tale! She's back at the Mayoral Manor to discuss the upcoming election strategy. On the way over to the Mayor's place, she found a slightly-charred scrap of paper that probably fell out of someone's pocket during the events of last night. It reads: "You promised me I could use the ring to fix my problem. -Rooney"

Spleenifer stuffs the scrap in her pocket and focuses on the task at hand with the mayor. Since Zaribeth Quickfingers is mounting an unexpectedly strong campaign (though really, any campaign at all is probably unexpectedly strong against Dunwall), the incumbent mayor needs to take the special election preparations seriously. Spleenifer suggests mounting a spin campaign to solicit donations, but her methods are a bit... unorthodox:

"Make it say incontinent instead of incumbent!"

That'll surely take away from the discontent brewing about the mayor's presumed incompetence! What's a giant dung beetle to do? Approve the suggestion and blast it out across town, of course!

Now we switch POV to Lucky, who suggested at the start of the adventure that the party should investigate an unusual announcement in today's Brownstone Bugle where the Meyrick family was looking to hire someone to kidnap their daughter for ransom. But Lucky isn't abandoning Miss Mavis's task! In her words, she's gonna try to kill two stones with one bird.

Lucky is already familiar with crystalline energy amplifiers, and knows they can be found in certain naturally occurring crystal deposits. The catch is that only the biggest crystals (worth at least 1,000GP) can function as a proper amplifier, but she's got a lead on a potential source in a mine about 10 miles east of town. If Lucky can win the audition to kidnap the daughter, she could potentially stash her quarry in the mine while looking for crystals.

She knocks on the the door of the Meyrick estate, and the butler escorts her Mr. Meyrick's study. Mr. Meyrick is a skinny man with wild hair that is graying at the temples. If Gary Busey was a used car salesman and the characters knew what car salespeople were, that's what everyone would say the elder Meyrick looks like.

Mr. Meyrick asks Ms. Lucky Proudfoot what her plans for his daughter are, and she explains the plan. She also plans to scurry off to the mines in a mobile house on chicken legs for extra dramatic flair. The daughter can work in the mines hunting crystals while waiting for the ransom payment to arrive. Meyrick thinks this is an excellent plan and hires Lucky on the spot. He just needs some time to subdue his daughter before she'll be ready for the exchange. Come back later this evening, he says, and she'll be Lucky's problem for the next few hours.

Now's the perfect time to switch over to Norm, who's sneaking his way to where Yance is staying. The recently-concussed trader of illicit antiquities is laying on a cot staring at the ceiling. Norm applies some of the St. Ignatius's Re-Dead Juice to his dagger and moves in for the kill. But Yance rolls over just as Norm enters the room and makes eye contact.

All is not lost, though! Norm shifts into playing the part of an ally who is checking in on him after the concussion. "How many fingers am I holding up?" Norm asks. He goes through a series of simple tests and then "checks for bumps" on the back of Yance's head. That's when Norm makes a tiny nick at the base of Yance's hairline with his poison-coated dagger. Yance passes away seconds later, peacefully slumping back onto the cot.

Sounds of a loud scuffle erupt outside, and from Norm's vantage point, it appears to be a fight between five drunken sailors and a sober-seeming ship's officer. Despite being split up, the rest of the party is close enough to hear the sounds of the brawl and everyone converges on the scene.

Lucky triggers a wild surge and casts Suggestion on one of the sailors, telling him to "make love, not war." Every time she blinks, a duck appears nearby. The sailor under the influence of Lucky's Suggestion grabs a fellow sailor by the arms and pulls him over for a deep kiss. The sailor on the receiving end of the kiss is surprisingly receptive to the romantic gestures, and they stumble away from the fray to keep the passion burning.

Norm exits his building, dashing through alleyways so as to make it look as though he came from a completely different building. There's a drunken brawl and a separate manly make-out session and at least a dozen ducks by this point. What the heck is happening here?

Spleenifer, having been a sheltered woman of faith, has never seen men kiss before. She grabs a duck and announces to her newfound companion: "Let's watch together!" Regardless of the duck's opinion on the matter, it's along for the ride. The passionate pirates are flattered by Spleenifer's audience, but their ships don't really sail that way, if you catch their drift.

While all this chaos is unfolding, Lucky has a bit more fuel to add to the fire. She drops her suggestion and casts invisibility on two pirates and the officer. It's hard to fight when you can't see each other, right? Well, it does stop the fight for the most part, as the two invisible pirates stumble off to rob a bank with their newfound invisibility powers.

The remaining pirate is lifted up by an invisible force (spoiler: it's the captain) and slapped. Now the captain's visible again and orders him to return to the Rising Howl, their ship that is currently docked until the river rises high enough to let them sail. Spleenifer grabs another duck from the flock (now called Prongle), while still restraining the original duck (now named T'Pam) in her sturdy arms. She manages to coax them into pecking at each other like they're kissing.

Norm dashes over to where the sailors were fighting and is nearly overpowered by the stench of alcohol. He pulls out a match lights it to see just how much of a drunken cloud the sailors left behind. Lucky adds a little pizzazz to the situation with a little bit of flammable luck, and the cloud ignites in an impressive cloud of flame in the air that leads in the direction of the fleeing sailors. Jay leaps in front of the two kissing sailors to shield their love from the explosion.

Once things calm down (always only briefly in this town), the party swings by the general store for some pickaxes for their upcoming mining expedition. Not wanting T'Pam and Prongle to feel left out, Spleenifer fashions some miniature pickaxes out of twigs to give to the ducks. Lucky snags a caterpillar cocoon (foreshadowed magical purposes!) on the way to contact the lizardfolk to borrow their house.

At the Meyrick estate, Mr. Meyrick greets the party and directs them to a wagon containing a tied-up sleeping giantess (technically half-giantess, but still LORGE). Once their "hostage" is safely aboard the house, the party contemplates what to do.

"I've never done kidnapping before," asks Lucky "but is it reasonable to ask for her emancipation?" But that is soon answered once the giantess wakes up. Lucky is able to communicate with her, and learns that the giantess's name is Tina. She's well-spoken and her family loves her a lot. This whole kidnapping thing is a publicity stunt to get some sponsorship deals. The house gallops toward the mine, reaching the entrance after about 20 minutes.

Tina agrees to help the party mine for crystalline amplifiers and takes up a pickaxe along with the rest of the party. Lucky uses the cocoon to transform herself into an umber hulk with a sweet, sweet burrowing speed. But after some time has passed, a group of eight drunken brigands arrives at the mine's entrance to hide out.

Norm puts down his pickaxe and sneaks toward the boisterous brigands to assess the situation. One of the group has a rucksack full of books, while the rest carry sacks of more conventional treasure. As Norm listens in from the shadows, he learns that the treasure comes from their recent break-in of Salem's.

The sound of picks against stone catches the attention of the brigands, who drop their spoils and tread deeper into the tunnels. A massive chunk of crystal has just been unearthed, and it could function as a quality crystalline amplifier if it can be completely excavated. However, that's the time the drunkards show up. One of them makes obscene and probably physiologically incompatible advances at Tina and a fight soon breaks out.

Smites, spells, and sneak attacks smash into the metaphorically-smashed sailors. Lucky's burrowing triggers a small tunnel collapse, and her confusing gaze disorients even more of the sailors. Spleenifer smacks at the base of the crystal to uproot it before the tunnel collapses further, and soon the party emerges victorious.

Mr. Meyrick arrives to collect his daughter just as the last brigands flee into the night. He mentions that the sponsorship deal fell through, though he still brought the promised ransom. Maybe they'll be able to collaborate on another scheduled kidnapping in the future? Who knows!

The party searches through the stuff left behind by the brigands and finds wealth of many types. Material wealth in the form of gold and gems is most obvious here, but there is also informational wealth. Among the books that were stolen from Salem's is a copy of Zaribeth's accounting ledger. As in, the true version that depicts all the shady stuff going on with Zaribeth's businesses.

With that realization, the adventure concludes for the night and everyone advances to level 12. Stay tuned next time for more!

#Shits and Giggles #Dungeons and Dragons #Adventure Log #FishDavidson #Kidnapping

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ginnyzero · 4 years

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Completely Harmless Ch. 37

Completely Harmless An SSO SilverGlade Re-imagining Story (Or Fix it Fan Salt fic) By Ginny O.

When Lily and her friends wanted to buy horses and were directed to the Silverglade Manor and its myriad of problems, they didn’t expect to start a revolution. They were just a bunch a stable girls. Completely harmless. Right?

A/N: Things are only canon if I say they’re canon. Pre-Saving the Moorland Stables compliant for the most part. Posted in its entirety on my website. Posted in 2000 to 4000 word bits here. Rated T for Swearing Word Count 177,577

Chapter Thirty-Seven Vandalism and The Valley of the Hidden Dinosaur

Rainbow Week it appeared had invigorated Baroness Silverglade. For the very next morning she called an employee meeting over breakfast. Everyone from her children, to the people who worked the shops and restaurants, and the stable help were all in attendance.

Over waffles with vanilla ice cream and piled high with mixed berries and served with duck egg omelets, the Baroness sipped her coffee before she said without any preamble. “We have several projects that need to be handled in the upcoming weeks before Midsummer. While most of our house has been put in order, and we have received high marks on our recent inspection.” The Baroness’ lips tightened since it had been anonymous and she’d only received the results after it’d been completed. “There are still things left to finish and the rest of our domain hasn’t been so lucky.”

No one quite dared to say anything.

“As for the Winterwell family, I have sent a strongly worded admonishment to Baron Winterwell about paying more attention outside of that mockery of what he calls a town and to the rest of his part of the county. If I have to step in, I will be informing Count Marchenghast.” The baroness swiftly buttered her toast. “Fortunately, you ladies are a credit to your various upbringings and are an asset to this county.”

Not even Linda knew what to say to that. A simple thank you didn’t seem sufficient. Not that the Baroness seemed to require any responses. This was her meeting and interruptions weren’t on the agenda.

The Baroness’ knife went on the side of her plate. “Ms. Lily, please arrange for me to meet with Ms. Melissa of the Valedale Running Bulls? Anytime today will be preferable.”

“Yes, Baroness,” Lily made a mental note to text Melissa after the meal was over.

“The contractors will be starting our permanent event pavilion over the next week. Something about having to build the proper molds to have a level floor. It involves a big pipe and honestly, as long as they get it done and its level, I don’t care how they manage it. After the pavilion has been finished, we will be moving onto to the race track.”

Godfrey appeared with several boards filled with pictures and architectural sketches. He placed them on easels so everyone could see them properly.

“The racetrack will reflect the pride of the Silverglade family and honor the prior Moon Riders and Aideen,” the Baroness said. “Those who come to compete and to watch the races will see the care and grandeur of the place, and give our family the respect it deserves.”

There was a very large entrance arch over what would be the main entrance and it was perpendicular to the rest of the building. To either side of it were banks of columns and then each side had a porch with statues of women dressed in Greek clothes. Those must be the former Moon Riders of the Silverglade family and Aideen.

The inside stands had more columns holding up the roofs. The roofs curved inwards where there were stairs. The stands curved around both ends of the track.

“Antonia, the Silver Glade will be providing food for an outdoor café at the entrance,” the Baroness said. “There will be stables for the competitors on the first floor of the stands, while the atrium will be the ticketing area. I won’t expect you ladies to take care of the stables at the race track as well. We will be hiring specifically for the times the race track is in use. I won’t ask you to put up with a rival club so nearby. Nor will I stand for another club near my manor.”

“Thank you, Baroness,” Lily murmured. It was the only appropriate thing to say.

“While the contractors are working on that, we shall be dealing with the shameful prospect that is Valedale,” the Baroness took a bite and wiped at her lips. “And for that we’re going to have to find out how bad things are and how far this has spread.”

Linda cleared her throat. “There’s a scientist in Crescent Moon Village that knows who to test soil and water samples, Dr. Hayden.”

“He’s a bit of a grouch,” Lily warned.

“I can deal with grouches as long as they can do the work,” the Baroness nodded.

“He’s an entomologist,” Linda added tentatively.

“Then he would have to keep an eye on the water and the soil to see if it is effecting the bugs,” the Baroness’ lips twitched. “Or at least, he should be instead of capturing them and pinning them to boards.”

“I don’t know if that’s his type of entomology,” Lily murmured. “I don’t think Ginny and Susan have much to do with him.”

“Or want to,” Pauline added.

“Lily,” the Baroness turned her attention to her. “I want you and Melissa to go to the Valley of the Hidden Dinosaur and check the source of the water there. The Great Tank drains off into the lake under the ice and from there it trickles down through springs and the Silversong River throughout the Valedale, Firgove, and Mistfall areas. Dress warmly.”

“What about Firfall?” Lily asked.

“What about Firfall?” the Baroness voice turned tart.

“They’ve been cut off through an avalanche of rocks and brambles,” Lily said.

The Baroness closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “And what were the rangers going to do, shovel them out?” She asked, voice vicious. “Well, I guess we’re borrowing the bulldozer again. Though we might need the excavators as well and several skips from Jorvik City. Aaron, get the permits and papers ready to clear the road to Firfall. Hire some skips. Lily, you managed to get G.E.D. to bend last time.”

“Cookies and shillings,” Lily said.

“Have Harold bake them a month’s worth of cookies and I’ll pay them. We can get to it as soon as the papers and permits are ready.”

“I’ll get that started today, mother,” Aaron said quickly.

“It’s probably former Councilman Skoll who didn’t say anything. He was working with G.E.D. to get money to the town. Maybe he thought he could get them to clear the road for him.” Lily explained. “I don’t know if Rania’s mother knows about it yet. She’s got a large mess to sort out with the town as it is. They really need a ferry.”

“Aaron, add that to the list.”

“New Hillcrest needs a ferry,” Tyra murmured.

“That’s up to Baron Winterwell,” the Baroness shook her head. “Now, who is the new leader of Dundull?”

“Sigry Varanger,” Linda said. “Rania Varanger is her daughter.”

“Good woman. I like her,” the Baroness nodded. “We all know what we need to be doing,” she said and applied to her food.

They all finished breakfast and scattered to do chores and take up their posts at their jobs. Aaron was muttering about getting back to Jorvik City right away. Anastasia had designers to check on in order for all the other girls to have their own new outfits.

Linn came back to the stable, riding fast. “Lily! Linda! Judy! Someone’s spray painted rude messages on the riding hall, and there’s trash all over, and egg on the windows!”

“What?” Linda gaped at her.

They mounted their horses and rode down to the stables to assess the damage.

“Who would do this?” Linn waved her arms. “We worked so hard to clean it.”

“It’s a good thing that marble is protected.” Linda sucked her cheeks in.

“We’ll get it cleaned up,” Lily promised Linda.

“You shouldn’t have to do stuff like this. Take pictures. Document everything before you clean it.” Linda said. “And I’m not unlocking it until it’s clean.”

“It’s lucky you locked it then.”

Linda shook her head. “Not luck, precaution. I don’t want people to sneak in the arena at night to try the course and hurt themselves.”

They went back to the stable for cleaning supplies and returned.

Sabine stood outside the door with a nasty smile on her face, but she was also checking her watch. “What’s the hold up? The arena should be open by now.” Her timer stood behind her wringing her hands.

“If you used your eyes, you’d see why it isn’t open yet,” Lily told her. “The Arena will be open once it’s ready.”

“If you want it open sooner, you can help,” Linn smirked. “There are plenty of supplies.”

Sabine glared at them and marched off with her horse.

Linn shuddered. “Her and her horse give me the creeps.”

“Then why did you time for her so long?”

“My job?”

Lily shrugged. Point.

All the girls hurried up their chores to help out as soon as possible as they had to scrub off paint and eggs, and pick up trash.

By the time they were done, the contractors had arrived and were locking together molds to make the floor of the pavilion. It was a kit so it should go up fairly quickly once they had the floor poured and they could set the walls onto it.

They saw what the Baroness meant by a big pipe. They had a big pipe it looked like that they were going to use to roll across the top of the molds to make the floor level.

But it looked like the contractors were digging some of the dirt out. Bjorn and Agnetha were taking it away in wheelbarrows. They knew better than to ask.

Lily texted Melissa about seeing the Baroness.

Melissa texted back she’d be down right away.

Lily headed back up to the Manor as Agnetha drafted a couple of the girls to help them shift the dirt.

Melissa had a new outfit on with a stylized charging bull in green and deep maroon.

“Nice,” Lily said.

“Anastasia came through. I’m so happy not to be wearing druid symbols anymore. Elizabeth kept giving us the stink eye.” Melissa rubbed her hands on her breeches.

The Baroness was in her office. “Someone vandalized my arena,” was the first thing out of her mouth.

Lily passed her phone over with the pictures.

“Send these to Aaron,” the Baroness said after she looked through them. “If we can catch them, we’ll press charges.”

Lily took her phone back and did just that. Poor Aaron was going to have a busy day.

“Tell me what you have,” the Baroness ordered Melissa.

Melissa got out her own phone. “We’ve taken as many pictures as we could. One of my members is an amateur photographer. So, we rented a zoom lens to take pictures of what they’re doing above the mountains. We can’t see much since they’ve penetrated the mountain now. There’s one way in and one way out. The path curls around the mountain from the lake to over the village. Both waterfalls are being affected. But they’ve posted no bills. We think there isn’t any more than three or four of them.”

The Baroness looked through it. “Can you send these to my son? We can see what we can do about trespassing and not having the proper permits.”

Melissa took her phone back and Lily showed her Aaron’s information. Lily sent him an email to expect Melissa’s email.

“Has Elizabeth been giving you any trouble?”

“Not Elizabeth.”

“Someone is?”

“Rhiannon has gone through our horses and insists that several of them are Starbreeds. We paid for those horses fairly. We have papers,” Melissa turned red in anger. “We aren’t giving them up.”

“Nor should you,” the Baroness said. “The druids have long overstepped in trying to acquire what they call starbreeds. Whether or not Starbreeds exist is none of my concern. My concern is the welfare of the horses that are under my care and that I sell. And I don’t know what the druids do with my horses, thus I refuse to sell to them.” In her mind, it was as simple as that.

“Baroness Silverglade,” Lily said it tentatively. “You, don’t seem to have a good relationship with the Keepers of Aideen.”

“I have my faults. One of them is the firm belief that the Keepers of Aideen do very little for Jorvik and instead lure young women in with false promises of sisterhood and then refuse to impart anything useful to them before putting them into danger.” The Baroness laced her fingers together and appraised them. “Keeping their secrets hasn’t rid Jorvik of John Sands and his like. Have they ever won against them? Or are we in an eternal stalemate.”

Lily inhaled sharply.

The Baroness changed the subject. “As I told Lily earlier, I would like the two of you to go to the Valley of the Hidden Dinosaur. Dress warmly and do whatever you need to do to get into it. Linda may have some information for you about it.”

Lily stood. “Then we better get going so we can return quickly.”

Melissa stood as well. “Thank you, Baroness Silverglade.”

They left her and went to the library.

“Anything we should know about the Valley of the Hidden Dinosaur?”

Linda chewed her lip and gestured for them to sit. “The Valley of the Hidden Dinosaur is an ecological anomaly. It’s believed that is where a meteor crashed and hit Jorvik before Aideen came. The meteor’s magical and scientific properties such as having its own magnetic field, have created an area of eternal winter. The meteor crater originally completely filled with water. The water drained out and created an ice cap over it. Researchers were able to explore under the ice cap until it collapsed in 1912. No one has been there since.”

“So, dress warm? Have lots of rope?”

“Your horses might not move as fast in the Valley. There are references to the pack animals being slow until they brought in the Icelandic Horses. Those horses got left behind when they left and that’s why there is most likely a herd of them there today. Assuming they survived.”

“Take a shovel,” Melissa said.

“Sunglasses,” Lily murmured.

“The notes say there was an elevator down into the crater. I have no idea if it works or not.”

“After a hundred years of abandonment?” Lily raised her brows. “There is this thing called entropy.”

Linda smiled. “I don’t know, thus, I say so.”

“All right. We’ll check that first.” Lily said. “Good thing, Anastasia included a winter coat in all of this. And New Hillcrest had mittens.”

The two agreed to meet at the base of the mountain in Valedale with supplies. Not sure how cold, cold, really was, Lily grabbed a purple sweater she’d bought and put it in her saddlebag along with her winter coat. There wasn’t any reason not to layer. She put on wool pants instead of cotton and tugged on the winter boots.

She raided the tack room for a shovel and a bunch of rope. Then asked Antonia for food. She didn’t know how long she was going to be gone. How big was this area anyways?

Satisfied she was as ready as she was going to be, Lily put on a beanie and took the transport to Valedale.

Melissa waited on her horse at the base of the mountain as agreed, also wearing warm clothes on the bottom. She and Elizabeth were exchanging glares. Lily inserted herself between them.

They urged their horses up the mountain towards the snow covered pass. At the top, they were able to look over across the waterfall and see Dark Core’s camp. Black smoke streamed out of the machines as green water flowed out of their cave and into the waterfall.

“What a mess,” Lily murmured.

Wind hit the snow and them making them shiver.

They pulled on sweaters and shrugged into winter coats buttoning them up and tugged on mittens.

“The pass must have opened recently. I’ve been checking it since we got here,” Melissa said. “We sent some lemmings up this way.”

“Can anything really live there if it’s been covered in snow?” Lily asked.

“I hope we don’t find a pile of horse bones,” Melissa whispered. “That’d be sad.”

“We might find horse bones and living horses,” Lily said and urged her horse forward.

Her stallion’s nostrils flared in distaste but he went.

The pass turned and opened out to a cliff on the edge of the mountain. Right in front of them was a huge wooden structure with a snow covered wooden walkway; the elevator.

They walked up the ramp and got off to look at the elevator. There weren’t any boxes, only thick chains hanging down. Lily knelt by the edge and looked down.

“Oh, that makes me dizzy, Lily. Stop.” Melissa groaned.

Lily took several pictures using the zoom function on her phone. “The cars are both down there, but I don’t see any of the mechanics up top, do you?”

Melissa looked around. “Not at all.”

“So, the controls are down there,” Lily backed up and stood.

Leading the horses, they searched the cliff area.

Melissa pointed. “That could be a way down.” She said gesturing at the cliffs.

“But I’m not going to call it a way back up, and I’m not going down unless we can get out,” Lily bit her lip. She pulled out her phone and sent a president wide group text. They needed a mechanic.

FOR THE ACCOMPANYING IMAGES PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE MY WATERMARK AND CONTACT INFORMATION. THANK YOU. I get it. Some of you might get excited and want to see this stuff in the game, especially the clothes, tack, and pets. However, the only way I want to see this in the game is if I get paid for it. If I see it in the game and I’m not paid for it, there will be hell to pay. You think I’m salty. I’d be angry. Personally, I’m not going to send this info to SSO. If you do, leave my contact information there! Don’t give them any excuses to steal.

Now, I’ll know you haven’t read this note if you leave me comments about how ‘salty’ I am about the game and if I hate it so much I should do something else. I am doing something else. It’s called Mystic Riders MMORPG Project. Mystic Riders however is a very baby phase game. You can check out our plans on the game dev blog. (Skills, Factions, Professions, Crafting, Mini-Games, 25+ horse breeds!) If you know anyone who would be interested and has money or contacts about game making, direct them to the blog.

#star stable #sso #star stable online #fan fic #jorvik reimagined #star stable salt #completely harmless #silverglade reimagined #many nods to ruth westside

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stevecoleridge-posts · 4 years

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Day 6 ..Friday Struggling .. which is why i did nt see the news or spend time on Social Media yesterday.. I thought it would be a breeze and after a little concentration id have it down .. but no , even the first part…known as lumpedy lump was proving tough , because of the triplet walk up from the V to the 1.. and i think thats the part Jimmy Reed himself is playing… If you ve read previous episodes you will know i refer to Honest I Do….the song. Im learning it on a You Tube lesson , now a lot of people who think of themselves as pros , seem to think there s some sort of stigma ro learning stuff on You Tube, but i know a French guy , of Spanish descent , who is a really hot Flamenco guitarist who has mastered nearly all the Palos , and all on You Tube They are right, if you dedicate yourself to different songs at the same time, but it s like working form home…you need time and discipline ..and take the lessons very slowly and don’t move on till you can play it 20 times with your eyes shut..preferably standing up .. then move on up. Yesterday was the first time i managed to do this. There is a different tone on Social media today .. angrier , more prone to blame others, more censorious…and on one group forum i saw they were going to ban Humour..well , i don’t personally know the Group leader.. but it does nt take much imagination to know she s not someone you d want to be quarantined with. The only thing to fear is fear itself.. well i certainly don’t think that applies in this situation, quite the reverse, the more frightened we are the less we will venture forth on errands that are not strictly necessary..i was on my way out the door , literally, when my mobile rang…it was the charming woman from the bank.. she d got my message .. id gone way over my limit.. which was why i could nt withdraw funds…She , and i won’t name her, is working from Home and sorted it all out on her laptop..no need for me to go to town.. Is nt that great?..well , I thought it was..and a good thing too,as she has not been provided with any masks..and we are talking about a Bank..if they cant get basic stuff like that no wonder the Government are nt testing people .. they don’t have the wherewithal…it is nt as though this has nt been on the News everyday since December the something. .I remember listening to Radio Four as i was driving through Slough, in December,… don’t ask … the M4 was closed..and i was listening to a woman in Wuhan describing how her parents were dying in the Street.. that really got my attention. It did nt seem to get the attention of the people in charge here however, as when the inevitable arrived nearly three months later , they had done nothing to prepare for it. The Spanish Disease is politics, it creeps into every corner of life and spreads its poison , a bit like you know what,..and in the past when people got fed up with their venal politicians there was a Military Coup , and then they realised maybe life was better before with democracy … and the cycle starts again. This model has been exported successfully to Latin America.. with the possible exception of Mexico. and Costa Rica Its all very well for us stodgy Northerners with our bad weather , to criticise, but Sun affects people,and when things are good they seem so much better in the Sunshine..but something about Sunny weather produces Volatility, and an @ i won’t fix the roof as its not raining @ World View… and Italys colossal death rate is the price to be paid .. not that it is nt sunny in China..or South Korea..but they do a lot more than just fix the roof..and to put it down to Confucianism .. well maybe best not to start on that. Australia will be interesting, they have lots of sun , but its a pretty organised place ..and i don’t see them making this sort of Balls up.. also they have the experience of natural disasters,,and pulling together, and will not let Politics interfere…any country that had leaders with names like Abbott and Costello doesn’t waste too energy on petty politics. The Current Classic example of petty minded, spiteful, pointless, negative ,oppurtunism , is the attempt on social media and what sup groups to denigrate the Royal Family organising people to rattle saucepans at a given time, because apparently the current King s father had a rather large amount of money in a Swiss Account..well, it was Saudi Money , not money stolen from the Spanish taxpayer, unlike the billions stolen by the previous administration , the PP .The idea for this stupidity was inspired by the Custom of applauding the Medical profession every night at eight o clock.. an excellent morale boosting , bringing everyone together kind of gesture..well everything has its opposite and this is an excellent way to breed more discontent and fracture an all ready pretty fractured society.. it beggars belief and you really have to have lived here to see these Barca Madrid idiocies at first hand. Barca Madrid is a term used to describe the divide and conquer ,us and them , attitudes that have stopped Spains progress since the collapse of their Empire, culminating in the most vicious Civil War in recent European History, and one would have hoped that after 40 plus years of Democracy it would have disappeared , but sadly, like in the USA and a lot of other democracies , it seems to be on the increase.The anger on Social Media which results from the claustrophobic frustration of a lockdown will hopefully not boil over into something with unpleasant political consequences, which would be very sad , as after Francos death and the adoption of constitution that is the envy of many countries, Spain was a beacon of hope in the last quarter of the 20 th century… how the mighty are fallen .. one hopes not.. SPANISH LOCKDOWN DAY 7 Slept really well , but then I remember reading that people on Death row sleep 16 hours a day so possibly not a good sign. Last Night i watched the Spanish news ,on the main channel and things are looking up , relatively speaking, in the sense that testing has arrived ..someone, or some country, has sent several thousand, or may be half a million test kits.. which is obviously excellent news , and testing in Galicia is going full steam ahead. There was the obligatory item about a vaccine..which I think one can take with a pinch of salt. .Military erecting field hospitals next to various main hospitals…the eight o clock applause of medical staff…all in all well put together not too desperately pessimistic, and generally not as disheartening as Facebook.. afterwards i felt like some light relief so we watched eleven episodes of 2 and half men, in Spanish ,to cheer ourselves up before going to bed. .. Today i decided to live a normal day .. if such a thing were possible , so , after taking Tina for a walk i got the Old TV and DVD working and put on Marty Schwarz s Intermediate Blues Guitar Course part one…and it started raining .. so that was encouraging as it took away any temptation to venture outside.. except for firewood that is. I worked through the course without rushing , but also without too much pausing , as i d done those lessons before, and all that repetition of Honest I do is paying off.. On going outside for firewood i could not ignore the noise of the generator that kicked in yesterday evening, as we ve had not Sun for several days, so i decided to fill it up with diesel, and see how much 15 hours constant running had used,only half the 20 litre can to fill up the tank…but was it full to begin with?..anyway it s very rare to have 4 days without sun , so even if it did use 13 euros of diesel Im not going to freak out as that was expensive diesel.. and I’m entitled to use the cheaper stuff .Of cause i spilled Diesel over my hands , and shoes , and when i spent a good 5 minutes trying to wash the smell out i realised this was the ultimate anti virus test.. so i will leave a bowl of Diesel outside every time i go to town and use that as first part of the disinfection process , yet another excuse not to go to town. My neighbour M. rang and suggested i look at his scheme on Facebook to institute Food Deliveries , so one does nt have to go to the Supermarket in person and infect and be infected… a good idea of course , but like so many , i don’t see it happening…I pointed out several objections , lack of drivers, expense, one would need a sort of Uber program which will probably not be ready for a year .. etc..and the Supermarkets are making so much money i doubt they need this sort of input.I promised to look at it later , which I will , as Lunch was ready. We ve run out of Bread ,Oranges and Chocolate, Aurora has broken a nail and the nail bars are closed till further notice…but otherwise we can probably get through till Monday without suffering too much ..on the other hand Monday is probably the worst day to go shopping..Im toying with the idea of going to the small Supermarket, at 8 am Sunday morning, and hopefully having it to myself , as i cant face the idea of a queue. I know English people are supposed to love queueing but i must be an exception, and queuing nowadays is a High Risk Activity. The Sun is out and i did one of the jobs from a month old to do list… pumping the water out the flooded pump room , it all went very well , and i felt very worthy , and now , with the Sunshine it s time for a walk , with Tina , of course. I return , feeling optimistic .. and the phone rings, i assume it s my neighbour asking if I’ve read his article.it isn’t , it s C another near neighbour, with some very bad news . The police are in Quarantine…and the Army will soon be here. No Tobacco..as they will close the Tobacconist. A completely different ball game I rang M, and gave him the news…I f he d had a kalashnikov he d have been checking the magazine I rang another neighbour F, whose office is next to the Police Station , to warn him. .When the Rumour , comes to your Town , It Grows and Grows, Where it Started No-one Knows…*Robbie Robertson I rang my source in the Town Hall G…no , it s only one cop , and he has nt got the results yet.. I rang M again…he had spoken to his friend who is a Guardia Civil .no , it was nt a Cop it was a Guardia Civil..he also told me the Cuban woman who cleans houses had been stopped, by the Police and they checked the receipt for her shopping I rang the first neighbour and corrected the original story I opened Facebook .. and there was the original story , which had started a firestorm of comments along the likes of whats your source? etc as though we were in the Watergate hearings, not only that, the people reading the story imagined it referred to Mojacar , not Carboneras , and were all frantically ringing the Police Staion , The Town Hall and each other to see if it were true. The tones of the respective comments went from shrill outrage that anyone should suggest such a story without due documentation , to fear , to I knew this would happen, all these irresponsible idiots .. blah blah It began to increasingly resemble an episode of Dads Army with a false alarm about a German Landing.., which Facebook does anyway There is the Captain Mainwaring..@While i was out today making sure everyone was behaving themselves i saw these irresponsible panic shoppers, and these people walking around without a good reason @ The Fraser .. We Re Doomed The Air raid Warden…Its all the fault of the Ruling Class, and rules are rules etc Jones ..Dont Panic... in a tone of complete hysteria Pikes mother…Be sure to wear your gloves , motorcycle helmet , hazchem suit, mask..galoshes, .Do you have your hand sanitiser , all clothes must be burnt on reentry etc By this time Auroras original alarm had been replaced by hilarity, as she was sitting by the fire hearing one side of these conversations.. I went out for some more wood and we relaxed by watching a Documentary about the Boeing 737 MAX..complete with simulation in the Pilots cockpit The best part was the CEO of Boeing trying to justify his 30 million Dollar salary at a Congressional hearing..…i wondered what the Shareholders thought about that , i know what the victims families thought , as they were being interviewed and did nt sound too impressed

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thetaboochristian · 4 years

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Some Mother’s Day Musings

Ok, so this post is going to hit a few different angles, as it relates to motherhood. I’ll mention a little bit about my mom, but I’m also going to throw a couple other philosophical ideas in here too the most people might not think about when it comes to Mother’s Day.

I’m totally not going to mention anything about “Rebecca” in this post, nothing really positive or negative, even though yes technically I mean she is the mother of my son... she has a new husband to celebrate her in that regard and that’s fine. I still love my son “Aaron” and... “Rebecca” has still taught him some good things despite all of the conflict you’ve already heard about in my previous content, and I believe that my son will still learn some great things from her in the future.

Ok so moving on from that, I want to first say thanks to my mom for all of the crazy things she put up with as I was growing up and even during much of my 20′s, since I still had to be around her a lot for work even when I wasn’t living with her anymore.

Even though my mom and I have certainly had our rough patches, my relationship with her is WAY better than my relationship with my dad. With my Autistic brother requiring most of her attention growing up, and my dad not around or doing stuff with me that often, I spent most of my childhood alone. I mean yeah, my mom fed me and took care of my basic needs, but I spent most of my day playing or researching stuff on my own, or day dreaming... lots of day dreaming and philosophizing, even as a little kid.

You see, my mom feels kind of bad that she couldn’t spend more time with me as a kid, and while I understand it, it shaped me in a way that has helped me a great deal in my life as an adult. All of that time spent alone helped me become the intrepid researcher, scientist and philosopher that I am today. Because of that upbringing, I don’t mind being alone most of the time, and aside from my current desire for a wife (a good one this time around), I don’t have much NEED for friends, though I don’t mind socializing with others as long as they aren’t @$$holes and the socialization isn’t impeding on some big important project that I want to get done for my business or personal development.

So thanks mom, for loving me and supporting me through all of the awkward stages of my teens and early twenties as I figured out what I wanted to do and become in life. {*I’m writing this in her honor, but I sure as heck would never let her read this, or my blog as a whole that is at least, because I DEFINITELY don’t want her seeing some of the other things I’ve written about... they’re just not things that parent’s and their children want to hear or know about each other.*}

Ok so now, I’m going to get into something a little bit more abstract, regarding the mothering instinct and heart.

This is going to get a little spiritual here.

In Christianity, God is referred to as Heavenly Father, and if you believe the Bible is true, then you know that God Himself spoke that to people, told them that He was a He... however, God made human kind in God’s likeness... both the male and the female. So, in reality, while God may assume the form of a man/father, God also contains the feminine nature and mother-heart. God has an equal amount of masculine and feminine qualities inside of Him, in His heart and soul and mind.

Interestingly enough, though I’ve often times considered what I’m about to say next as a curse, I noticed something interesting about myself when I thought about this concept of God’s dual masculinity and femininity. So... I am a man who has a good amount of masculine nature inwardly and outwardly, but I also have... maybe a little bit more of a feminine nature within my heart than most men do. I’m not effeminate, as like a gay man would be, but I think I have an interesting blend of masculine and feminine traits that makes me much more like God and Jesus than I once thought.

You see, Astrologically speaking, I am an Aries/Pisces cusp... I’m a mix of the two signs based upon when I was born. Aries is the MOST Alpha (Type A) of all the signs, and Pisces is the MOST Beta (or Type B) of all the signs. Aries is the most Masculine in terms of personality and behavior, and Pisces is the most Feminine in terms of personality and behavior. I would say that if I had to really break it down, I’m 65% masculine and 35% feminine overall, in regards to my personality, world view and lifestyle.

When it comes to tackling tasks that need to get done, or trying to fix some urgent problem that could wreak havoc on me or my family if it isn’t resolved soon, I’m 100% Aries mode, I’m like a bulldozer with nitrous tanks and a turbo! I’m attacking that problem with everything I’ve got and people better stay the heck out of my way and not hinder me unnecessarily.

When it comes to socialization, I either have nothing to say or I’m almost too chatty. I never know which one is going to come out of me when I’m in a given situation. I guess I’m more feminine when it comes to having conversations with people.

When it comes to romance, I start off VERY Pisces-like (feminine), very slow and gentle and wanting to rub, cuddle, nuzzle and slow kisses, etc. Then, once that has started, I start turning more and more Aries-like again (masculine), increasing in intensity regarding the forcefulness of my touching, kissing, and expressing my burning flame through my voice and words. This is where I need a girlfriend/fiancé/wife who’s OK with being told blatantly X-Rated things that I want to do to her OR for her, once we’ve reached the point in our relationship where we’ve had the talk and know each other’s “Yes and No” list. If she can’t handle and enjoy dirty talk during the right times, she’s not the one for me. I need a woman who will let me fully express my sexual energy to her through words, and who will do the same to me.

Once it gets to sex (which is only within marriage according to the principles I practice), I will naturally repeat the cycle of Pisces-like first, and Aries-like a few minutes in, and I’ll alternate back and forth throughout the time together unless she asks specifically for one or the other primarily. It really though, boils down to “Vanilla” days and “Not-Very-Vanilla” days, regarding my desires and expressions of them within a marriage.

When it comes to managing a house hold, parenting, finances, etc, I’m very masculine. While I care about people’s feelings, they don’t come before the structure, cleanliness and integrity of our house, car, bank account, etc. I will NOT let my kid make huge messes, or I will ONLY let him make messes in designated places. I don’t mind saying NO to something that my kid would find fun if it can’t be done without damaging something in my house/car or wracking up a bunch of debt for something that’s not a necessity.

Finally, when it comes to movies, TV shows and books, I kind of rapidly cycle between Masculine and Feminine. Basically, anything in a story, show or movie that typically makes most women cry, it will make me cry too. I can’t help it. I really can't! Sometimes I’ve even gotten more teary eyed and emotional over something than my mom or one of my exes did. While that might be kind of embarrassing in one way, it shows what a genuinely caring and empathetic person I am. If I see something on TV about a little girl in a hospital bed and they bring in a therapy dog for her to pet and she get’s all excited and emotional about it, I’ll usually get a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.

Same thing applies to tragic stuff in movies and shows. When there’s a 100 car pile up in the middle of a blizzard and people are trapped and freezing and rescuers have to go around and help people... that makes me tear up. When someones’ loved one is dying in a hospital bed... it makes me cry. I REALLY took it hard when I read 50 Shades of Grey and got to the end of the first book in the series and Christian Grey whipped Anastasia with a belt really hard over and over and she got so upset and cried and ran away and said to the effect of “WTF is wrong with you?! How can you enjoy doing something like this to a woman?!” I know that in the next story, Christian eventually learned his lesson and felt sorry and changed and became a better person, but my goodness... I understand LIGHT bondage/“Soft-Dom” and I’ve kinda grown into my interest in that (both to give and receive it in my next marriage if she’s willing), but I just can’t understand people who get pleasure out of INTENTIONALLY trying to inflict pain on other people. I guess I thought about it from the perspective of what I would or would never do to a woman who I loved. Arguments and hurt feelings are inevitable but physical harm... I could NEVER do.

What’s so interesting about my Masculine/Feminine balance is, if you read the descriptions for Aries signs and Pisces signs, I’m like a 95% accurate match to BOTH of them, even though they are pretty opposing. This strange combination probably played a large part in what made me into a “Sigma Male”.

You’ve heard of “Alpha Males” and “Beta Males”, “Alpha Females” and “Beta Females”, but a SIGMA is one who has a unique balance of both Alpha and Beta characteristics, but this doesn’t make them “average”... it makes them incredibly special and unique. Most people are only either Alpha OR Beta (though there are some other types that are less common, like Omegas who just sit around all day goofing off and have no ambition or drive for anything except video games, internet and junk food.)

But anyway, SIGMA men and women are like lone wolves, they have some big grand mission in life that they want to accomplish, and they care little for the rules of Social Hierarchy. They can be friends with pretty much any clique but are rarely close to anyone except a romantic partner. They find socialization a waste of time many times, and prefer to spend most of their time doing something productive or pleasurable. Sigmas are the Christian Grey’s of the real world, in the sense that they prefer to be rich, mostly isolated people who are ABLE to socialize and be a people person but like to do so only when it fits their schedule. Minus the abuse part, I saw A LOT of similarities between Christian Grey and myself when it comes to how I would structure and manage my life if I had a lot of money. I’d be just like him, just with Christian moral values and no sadomasochism. If you look at all the other personality traits and world views, etc that he has, it’s probably 75-80% similarity to my thoughts and feelings and interests and world views.

While I couldn’t find any lists of famous people who are Sigmas, I did find some links to webpages that explain Sigma’s in more detail. Even if it says it applies to Males, the characteristics pretty well cross over to women too, and I know because I used to date a Sigma girl, and she was the best girlfriend I ever had, even though we eventually broke up.

Here are the links:

https://herway.net/life/11-traits-define-sigma-male/

https://hackspirit.com/sigma-male-11-things-they-do-and-how-you-can-become-one-too/

https://www.zoosk.com/date-mix/dating-advice/sigma-male/

https://www.aconsciousrethink.com/9304/sigma-males/

SO... in closing...

What does all this Sigma stuff have to do with Mother’s Day and mothering nature? Well... I believe that Sigma men (straight ones that is) have a particularly high amount of “mothering instinct” without being effeminate or seeming devoid of masculinity. I believe that Sigma men and women both exhibit the most “God-like” or “Christ-like” nature just how they naturally are. I believe that it’s probably fair to say that GOD is probably a Sigma... if He had to be classified as having one specific personality type. God is the epitome of Masculinity AND Femininity (in all of their good ways), and I think that Sigma men and women are also like that... the best balance of Masculine and Feminine in one being.

Come to think of it, my mom seems an awful lot like a Sigma to me, now that I think about it... and while my dad is a little bit more “Beta”, he also has a good bit of “Alpha” traits too, so when I consider what both my mom and dad are like, maybe that’s where I got my Sigma traits from... but more so from my mom... I’m sure.

My dad for the most part taught me what I did NOT want to do or be like, and my mom for the most part taught me what I DID want to be like. Come to think of it, now looking back I think that my mom’s dad (who recently passed) seemed a lot like a Sigma male too. Maybe that’s where my mom got her’s from. My grandpa on my mom’s side taught her how to be a good hearted person and how to not take advantage of people or be greedy. He taught her how to be financially responsible and care for those in need who can’t help themselves. While some of my mom’s siblings may have not adopted all of those good life lessons and characteristics, thank God that my mom did.

While I may not have much good to say about my Dad or most of the people on his side of the family, I am sure thankful to have had all of the good lessons, teachings, foundation and love that came from my mom’s side of the family, which my mom passed on to me and lavished upon me, even when nobody else had my back.

:) <3

Until next time, take care and God Bless!

“Luke Davidson” - Author of The Taboo Christian book and blog

#mother's day #mother #feminine #masculine #femininity #masculinity #family #love #sigma #beta #alpha #aries #pisces #personality type #God #Jesus Christ

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master-sass-blast · 5 years

Text

Paint it Red

DEAR GOD THIS TOOK FOREVER. HOLY SHIT.

Summary: You and Piotr celebrate Valentine’s Day together --and because Piotr is Piotr, he knocks it out of the park by spoiling you at every turn.

This is a fluff fic. Not a drop of angst in sight. You’re welcome.

Rating: E for HOLY SHIT HOW DID SO MUCH SMUT END UP IN THIS?

Warnings: Consumption of alcohol, roadhead (drive safe, kids), and graphic (consensual) sex.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Tag list: @marvel-is-perfection

Side note: The lyrics in the beginning portion are from Paramore’s “The Only Exception.”

Special thank you to @starman-thorsus-canos-jock for beta reading this! If you hadn’t, this wouldn’t be getting uploaded tonight because I wouldn’t have had the guts to do it!

“When I was younger/ I saw my daddy cry/ And curse at the wind...”

You hum along with the song playing on your phone, swaying back and forth slightly as you work on applying your makeup for the evening.

You’d never celebrated Valentine’s Day as a child --save for once, when you’d been on your uncle’s farm when the holiday had rolled around, and he’d decided to celebrate with you by fixing both of you massive ice cream sundaes and telling you about all the ridiculous bad dates he’d been on.

Sometimes, you think that man’s the only reason you have any sense of humanity in you.

Wade, technically, had properly introduced you to the holiday once you arrived at Xavier’s. He’d tossed five different bags of red, white, and pink wrappered candy in your lap before putting some sort of classically bland and saccharine rom-com on and watching it with you.

You still have some of the wrappers saved, tucked away in a box in your closet.

Piotr, though, had been the one to introduce you to Valentine’s Day to a whole new level; he’d kept things tame during your first year together, at your request, but the night --an evening picnic in his art studio, complete with candles and flowers--had been completely and utterly perfect.

This year, though, you’d given him free reign to do what he wanted --he’s the planner of the two of you, with legal access to a car and legally earned money in his bank account

--and thus far, you’re completely and utterly swept off your feet by what he’s come up with.

He’d told you to pack an overnight bag last night, with reasonably detailed instructions on what to pack: a nice dress and things to pair with it for an evening out, pajamas, and comfortable clothes for the drive back the next morning.

And toiletries, makeup, etcetera etcetera --not the fucking point.

Because the fucking point is that the next morning he’d surprised you with breakfast in bed before telling you to get dressed and grab your bag. And then he’d driven you to the fanciest fucking hotel you’ve ever seen and revealed that not only had he booked a room for the night, but he’d made reservations at a restaurant that --when you’d taken a moment to look it up on your phone--was so expensive it nearly made you fall over.

How he could afford it was beyond you, but leave it to Piotr Rasputin to blow every guy on the face of the planet away on Valentine’s day.

A day out of the mansion, away from everyone, just for the two of you.

There’d even been a vase of roses and a box of chocolates waiting in the room, as per instructions your wonderful boyfriend had left with the hotel staff.

Again, leave it to Piotr Rasputin.

He’d taken you out to lunch, then to a nearby art museum and showed you around with the intensity, passion, and mild distractedness that only an artist could have in such a place.

And you’d watched him, entertained and enthralled and endlessly endeared.

And now, now you’re back at the hotel, getting ready for what promises to be a fabulous dinner.

“You are/ the only exception/ You are/ the only exception--”

You sing along with the song, swaying as you continue working on your makeup. You’re almost done and all you’ve got left is to change into your dress --you’d thought it best to leave it off until your makeup was done and put away, thus making spills impossible--and put on your shoes. You grumble as you try to get your eyeliner done --and realize that, perhaps just maybe, swaying isn’t exactly conducive to making even eyeliner wings. “Why. Is. Eye-line-r so damn hard? Why. Is. Eye-line-r so damn hard?”

A loud snort from the bathroom door makes you pause.

Piotr’s wiping at his eyes as he braces himself against the door frame. “Did you mean to sing that with the song?”

You smirk and shrug. “Hey, I think I’m onto something. Just you watch, it’ll be the greatest hit of the year.”

“Are you almost ready, myshka? Our reservation is soon.”

“Yeah, yeah --fuck it.” You cap your eyeliner pen and toss it in your makeup bag. “Who needs wings? They’re just a pain in the ass anyway.” You swipe on some lipstick, do an obligatory lip pop at the mirror, and then change into your dress for the evening.

It’s a relatively modest, lacy, red number that neither clings to you like a second skin or hugs your every curve. It does, however, fit you properly, match Piotr’s tie perfectly, and make you feel like a princess or a superstar when you wear it, and that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?

(For the record, it is.)

You put on your shoes --a pair of black pumps with enough heel to make you sound fancy without being high enough to risk twisting any ankles--then fluff your hair before doing a little spin. “How do I look?”

He smiles at you, dreamy and almost shy. “Krasivaya. Always.”

Beautiful.

You can’t help but preen a little at his praise, and take the arm he offers to you. “Take me to dinner, Mr. Rasputin.”

He chuckles as he opens the door that leads to the hall for you. “But of course, dorogaya moya.”

The restaurant is located near the Hudson river, and is out of the city enough that you don’t have to worry about getting clipped by a taxi when you get out of the car.

It’s the small things in life, really.

Piotr hands his keys to the valet before opening your door and holds out a hand to you. “Moya lyubov’.”

Some whimsical, inane, distracted part of your brain whisks you away in a bizarre sort of fantasy, where’s he’s actually a Russian crime lord and you’re some kind of waitress or college student or otherwise financially strapped young woman that’s being seduced by the trappings of luxury and crime, and he’s in turn being charmed by your plucky personality and down-to-earth sensibilities.

Granted, it’s not the weirdest thing your mind’s ever come up with, so you just giggle and let him escort you inside.

Given how all out Piotr’s been going for the holiday, you’d half expected to be seated in some sort of private room --and are grateful when you aren’t. You enjoy the background hum of the other diners and the opportunity to people watch; it keeps the lulls in conversation from feeling too stifling.

Besides, it’s not like you needed a private dining experience to make the evening any more memorable. The view of the river is divine, ripples and currents glittering as the lights from the city refract off the water. And the dining room itself is heavenly, all white linens and tea light candles and soft, jazzy piano music being piped through seemingly invisible speakers.

You’re feeling more and more the part of the seduced, ho-hum citizen, almost dizzy from the heady thrill of it all. You can’t help but giggle when he pulls out your chair for you --and pushes it back in, ever the consummate gentleman--and peek at him coyly from beneath your lashes when he sits down across from you. “You’re going all out for tonight.”

He smiles back and takes one of your hands in his --careful to avoid the little tealight candle sitting at the center of the table, ever the consummate worry-wart. “You deserve to be spoiled. Today is good excuse.”

You arch an eyebrow at him, smirking playfully. “You need an excuse?”

He winks at you. “Only to get time off work.”

You open your mouth to say something else--

And then a perfectly coiffed blond man dressed in an chef’s uniform is walking up to your table with a smile. “Piotr. It’s good to see you.”

Piotr stands and shakes the man’s hand with a smile of his own. “Grant. It has been too long.”

“No kidding.” The man --Grant--glances at you with a smile. “Are you going to introduce me to your date?”

You can’t help but preen a little --again--when Piotr does, basking in the glow of his affection the way a cat basks in the glow of a sunbeam.

(They may as well be the same damn things, as far as you’re concerned.)

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you and even lovelier to see that Piotr can, in fact, do something other than pine in the presence of a pretty girl.”

You giggle when Piotr shoots Grant an indignant look. “I mean... how long were you calling me ‘myshka’ for before you told me it was a term of endearment used by couples? A year? A year and a half?”

Grant groans quietly as the tips of Piotr’s ears go red. “Dude. No.”

“I kissed him first, too, if that counts for anything.”

“I think everything ended up fine,” Piotr says emphatically, trying to end the conversation before it gets too out of hand.

“Says the glacier,” Grant teases before refocusing on you. “Piotr’s an old friend of mine; we studied at Xavier’s together, and he encouraged me to pursue my love of the culinary arts when I felt like I couldn’t keep up with the X-Men. Oh, he did the artwork for here, too.”

You twist in your seat to survey the dining room --and sure enough, you recognize Piotr’s style. You make an approving noise in the back of your throat as you smile at your boyfriend. “I’m surprised I didn’t recognize it earlier.”

“It’s not my best work.”

“Pete, if it wasn’t your best work, I wouldn’t have it hanging up. I know what I’m about.” Grant grins and clasps his hands together. “At any rate, when Piotr called me and asked me to help him, quote, ‘give the love of his life the most memorable Valentine’s Day she’s ever had,’ I couldn’t say no.”

You smile bashfully and duck your head, feeling ever drunker off the depths of Piotr’s love for you and the lengths he’ll go to show it.

“So, far be it from me to tell you what to order or how to order it, but I do hope you’ll let me pick your wine for the evening; a personal favorite of mine, pairs well with just about anything.”

It takes a moment to realize that Grant’s waiting for your approval, not Piotr’s --you’re the lady of the evening, and things’ll go however you want them to--and when you put it together you lift your head with a little giggle and nod. “That sounds great.”

The wine is excellent.

Not because it has undertones of oak or berries or whatever the fuck terms wine snobs use when describing wine. It’s just good. Rich.

It tastes like luxury without the ‘Buzzfeed Worth It’-toss-a-bunch-of-gold-leaf-and-fucking-truffles-on-top-to-sell-the-‘luxury’ ridiculousness to deal with.

The food is excellent. For the same reasons as the wine, but also because it’s delicious.

The inane, fantasy spinning part of your brain --which has been significantly boosted thanks to the wine, not that it needed much encouragement to begin with--is on some tangent about how this is the way to do proper seduction. No ridiculous, cheesy, trendy five star restaurant that puts truffle on everything so they can pump up the prices, or encrusts things in diamond because they could. No over the top shopping spree to start off the day or limo ride on the way over.

It’s about quality. About letting the activities serve as an accent, a backdrop, to the affection you feel for the recipient.

And, fuck, Piotr’s good at it. He’s always been good at getting things ‘just so,’ at finessing everything just right so that you feel like the center of the world without being overwhelmed by some sort of ostentatious display.

“Alright, I have to know,” you say as you take another bite of mashed potatoes that are so damn smooth they may as well be made of silk. “How long did you spend planning this?”

“Most of the year,” he admits. “To make sure I could get proper reservations. I did not want to get caught short.”

“Well, this has been completely and utterly spectacular,” you say.

“It’s not over yet,” he says with a glint in his eye that tells you he’s thinking about exactly the same thing as you.

You can’t help but squirm in your seat a little, excited and impatient. “No, it certainly isn’t.” You drink a little more wine --you’re almost done for the night, you’ve learned your limits by now--and smile at him. “You know, last year, when I told you that you could go all out, I almost expected... I don’t know. Everything big and flashy --rose petals on the bed, or something.”

He catches your meaning and arches a thick eyebrow at you. “Is that what you would have wanted?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. It would’ve been too much. But this... this is perfect.”

He smiles, cheeks pinking at your praises, and holds out one of his hands to you. “I like to think I know you well.”

“You were tempted to go that far though, even if just for a moment,” you press, amused and endeared because you know him too, as you place your hand on his. “Admit it.”

“I was,” he confesses without any trace of shame or embarrassment. “Because you are my world and I want to give you everything in it.”

You can feel tears threatening to well up and you bite the inside of your bottom lip to hold them back because you worked hard on your makeup, dammit. “Well, count me as curious, because I really want to know what stopped you.”

“You’re always curious.”

“And if you were actually complaining about that, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

He smiles. “I will never complain about your curiosity. It is one of the things I love most about you.”

“You keep talking like that and my heart’s gonna actually melt.”

“I know some good healers,” he says with a wink.

You can’t help but laugh, soft and drunk on love. “Okay, but how did you figure out this wouldn’t be too much for me?”

“You think I don’t know you?”

“No, I know you know me, I’m curious about the process. C’mon, babe, humor me a little. Show me how the fascinating mind of Mr. Piotr Rasputin works.”

He chuckles and rubs your knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “I know you can be... overwhelmed by affection at times. That gestures too grand make you anxious because you don’t know how to handle them. So I opted for... a quiet glamour, if you will.”

You honestly can’t think of a better way to describe the evening. “Well, you nailed it. I almost feel bad for not having anything for you.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t. I wanted opportunity to spoil you, and you let me have it.”

“That honestly sounds like a load of crap.”

“You do so much for me every day without realizing it.” His face goes unexpectedly serious, and you know it’s because he’s getting emotional. “As much as you think you offer nothing to me, you are wrong. I may not deal with struggles as severe as yours, but--” he pauses to swallow and find the words he wants “--there are many days where I feel lonely. I know that I come off as idealistic, naive, to others. A ‘glorified hall monitor.’ I know that people don’t always respect me.”

You squeeze his hand. “Babe--”

He shakes his head and smiles. “The people who I care about most respect me. I don’t care about others. Point of matter is, you make me feel loved and appreciated. The parts of myself that people make fun off, you make feel... good. Respected.” He looks up at you, and his eyes are shimmering with unshed tears. “You make me feel like I’m enough.”

Dammit, now you’re gonna cry. “You’re enough, Piotr. Just as you are. You’re so much more than enough.”

“Well, you make me feel like it.” He smiles politely when the server clears away your empty plates, nods when they ask if the two of you want dessert menus, then reaches into his pocket as they walk away. “Ah. Before I forget--”

“Babe --what?” Your heat hammers as he places a red velvet box on the table and scoots it towards you.

You know it’s not an engagement ring. You don’t have a diagnosis yet for your episodes, and the last conversation the two you had about marriage, you still wanted to wait for one and he was still fine with that. If that had changed, he would’ve talked to you about first.

That, and the box is a little too big for it to be a ring box --not to mention the fact that if Piotr was proposing, he’d already be down on one knee.

You open the box and gasp as a tasteful, elegant diamond necklace on a dainty silver chain glitters up at you. “Piotr...”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, moya lyubov’.”

You press your hand against your mouth, eyes watery, and smile. “It’s... it’s really fucking beautiful, Piotr. Will you help me put it on?”

“Konechno.”

He stands as you --carefully, you don’t want to break the chain--extract the necklace from the box, then takes it from your hands and moves behind you.

The combination of the cool metal against your skin and his fingers brushing against the nape of your neck makes you shiver.

And then he’s pressing his fingers against the underside of your chin and tilting your head up so he can press his lips against yours.

It takes all your willpower not to moan into the kiss; it’s closed-mouthed, it’s not like the two of you are Frenching each other in the restaurant, but you can still feel the passion and want behind it.

Your toes do curl in your shoes, though, and you do get a few chuckles out of some nearby patrons at the sigh you let out.

And then your sever’s back with the dessert menus, gushing about how cute the two of you are and complimenting Piotr on his taste in jewelry as he heads back to his seat.

Your hand flits to your neck, feeling the gems in their settings, and once you get your head back you ask “How did you even afford all this?”

He glances around the dining room --at his art on the walls--with an amused smirk before opening his dessert menu. “I know better than to work for free.”

You know you have to make the first move.

Now that lunch and the art museum and getting ready and the drive over and dinner and the necklace and dessert are all out of the way, you know that you’ve only got the drive back to the hotel to capitalize on the burning, throbbing sexual tension between the two of you and get your fun in.

Because as soon as the door to your hotel room closes, you know full well that Piotr Rasputin, the world’s most perfect boyfriend and gentleman extraordinare, is going to fuck your brains out.

You’ve seen the way he’s been looking at you all evening; you know damn well that it doesn’t matter that the dress you’re wearing isn’t a skin-hugger or a cleavage trap. To him, you’re still the most beautiful woman in the world, and his desire for you isn’t something that’s solely stoked by how much skin you’re showing at a given moment.

(Which isn’t to say that showing skin doesn’t rev his engine. You’ve spent enough mornings figuring out how to walk again after prancing around in your underwear while he got ready for teaching to know that it does.)

You’ve also spent enough time being horny for and with Piotr Rasputin to know that he’s his own damn textbook. If he’s hungry for you and can’t get a fix right away, he still can’t keep his hands off of you. He’ll play with your hair, rub his thumb against the nape of your neck, splay his hands against the curves of your waist--

--or, if the two of you are in a car, he likes to put his hand on your thigh.

And you know that if his hand hits your thigh before your hand hits his, it’ll all be over. You’ll be too flustered and wound up to do anything that might drive him out of his skull.

And you really want to. He’s spent the whole day lavishing affection and time and gifts on you, and now you want to repay the favor and drive him out of his mind. Just a little.

You wait until he reaches the part of the drive that isn’t too horribly twisty or bendy --making him less likely to outright reject what you’ve got planned--and go for it. You put your hand on his thigh --midway between his knee and his hip, nothing too conspicuous to start--and let your head rest against his shoulder with a happy sigh. “Tonight was... amazing, Piotr. I can’t believe you actually thought of all this.”

He chuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, I think on fairly regular basis.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you say with a snort. “But no, really. I don’t think I’m ever gonna forget tonight.”

“That was the idea.”

“Stop brushing everything off and let me thank you, dammit.”

He laughs, full on. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Well, I want to. Seriously, you made me feel like a princess today. Or, I dunno, some sort of waitress that’s being seduced by a Russian crime lord.”

And that’s definitely the wine talking, because you wouldn’t have told him that otherwise, and you have to take a minute to check to make sure you’re not hitting a nerve, with what his mom’s history is like.

He’s still smiling though, amused. “Oh, really?”

You bite your lower lip and slide your hand up his thigh, squeezing the thick muscle there. “Yeah. You’ve pretty well swept me off my feet, babe.”

He shifts a little in his seat, which is how you know that you’ve got his attention with the placement of your hand. “The night is still young, dorogoy.”

“Yeah.” You go in for the kill, sliding your hand up his thigh and over to his crotch. “It is.”

He inhales sharply as you start rubbing at his cock through the fabric of his slacks. “Myshka, what are you doing?”

“Making the most of the night.”

His hips flex a little and his teeth come together with an audible click. “Y/N--”

“Eyes on the road, Piotr. This is what you get for driving me nuts all night.” You rub your palm against his half-hard member --proof that his mind is right alongside yours in the gutter--then bring in your other hand into play to undo his belt buckle and start working at the button and zipper on his pants.

“What--”

“I’m gonna make you lose your damn mind, Piotr.” And, with that, you manage to free his cock from his pants and briefs and lean over to put your mouth around his tip.

You don’t take things slow. You know that roadhead is definitely one of those things that falls into the category of ‘dangerous, do not try’ for Piotr, and that if you want to have any sort of impact on him before he calls you off --because you won’t push it after he asks you to stop, you respect him too much for that--you need to move fast.

So you do just that. You work his cock over with your mouth, using one hand to hold him steady at the base while you lick, kiss, and suck him to full mast--

And he’s not stopping you.

Piotr.

Isn’t.

Stopping.

You.

He’s groaning, panting in his seat, gripping the wheel like he’s trying to strangle it, pressing his foot down harder against the gas pedal--

But he’s not asking you to stop.

Your thighs clench together and you moan around your mouthful of his dick when you realize just how fucked you’re gonna be when you get back to your hotel room.

He moans and reaches down with one hand to grasp at your hair --but he isn’t pulling you off. “Myshka--”

“Both hands on the wheel, Piotr.”

He obliges with a keening noise at the back of his throat.

Piotr Rasputin. The world’s most perfect boyfriend, gentleman extraordinare, and putty in your hands.

Mouth.

Whatever.

You keep going until his hand comes down on your shoulder and he’s saying something, voice so wrecked and accent so thick you can barely understand him--

“We’re almost at hotel.”

You release his cock, more than fully hard now, from your mouth with a pop and set about tucking him back in his briefs and pants and getting everything back in order. You don’t need any extra explanation to know that he doesn’t want to get caught doing this, and you’re happy to oblige him on that.

Give and take. The foundation of any good relationship.

Before you know it, you’re pulling into the parking garage connected to the hotel, and Piotr’s parking the car and turning the engine off--

--and then he’s kissing you, growling as his tongue swipes between your lips and into your mouth.

You moan and arch into the kiss, fingers digging into the edge of your seat. Your heart’s pounding in your chest in time with the desire throbbing between your legs, and you simper when one of his hands slides up your thigh, making the skirt of your dress ruck up around your hips.

Seduced and drunk on love, swept away in a torrent of passion. God, what a way to go.

“Maybe we should head up to our room,” you manage when he breaks the kiss. You shiver as his thumb rubs up and down the length of your neck and smile prettily at him. “As fun as this is, I don’t think I can squeeze into the front seat with you. You kinda take up a lot of space, big guy.”

He kisses you again, mouth hot and wet against yours. “As you wish, moya lyubov’.”

The two of you barely refrain from sprinting through the hotel lobby.

You do power walk, though, and between your excited smile and the fact that there’s no good way to hide the hard on Piotr’s sporting, you’re pretty sure the staff know full well what the two of you’ll be doing for the rest of the night.

The elevator the two of you get on is completely empty, and for a moment you wonder what’ll happen when the doors close--

--and then you don’t have to wonder anymore because the doors do close and Piotr practically yanks you against his chest and kisses you hard.

You cling to him, head spinning with delight. His sudden lack of control or care for keeping up appearances has you reeling the best ways possible.

(Part of you realizes that it’s because the two of you are alone, and there’s no chance of Wade or one of the students catching you, and God what is married life even going to be like if the two of you wind up getting a whole house to yourselves?)

And then your back’s pressed against one of the elevator walls and Piotr’s mouth is on your neck.

You arch into him, run your fingers through his hair as he runs his tongue over the length of your neck, gasp his name when his hands skim down your back to cup your ass--

And then the elevator stops and the door opens to let on a handful of other passengers.

You let out a little yelp and giggle out apologies as you get a mixture of eyerolls and faintly amused smiles and move your hands to Piotr’s chest.

Piotr, for his part, just kisses your hair and moves his hands to your arms. He doesn’t turn away from you or even acknowledge the other people in the elevator --probably to save himself from melting with embarrassment.

You let your head rest against his chest, thrill of the moment ebbing into mildly embarrassed contentment. You let your eyes close as he rubs gentle circles against your shoulder, lightly massaging the muscle there, and just bask in his love for you.

And then the doors open again on your floor, and it’s back on.

The two of you laugh as you dart down the hall to your room. You’re pressed between the door and him, mouthing at his neck as he fumbles with his wallet for the room key. He’s got one of his thighs between your legs, holding you up and pining you in place.

You’re like a couple of teenagers, borderline making out in the hallway because you want each other so bad you can’t wait to get to the bed.

Piotr manages to get the keycard into the slot on his second try, and he picks you up with one arm and carries you into the hotel room.

You giggle as the door schincks shut, grab onto the lapels of his jacket as he sets you down and kiss him as he walks you back towards the bed. You wobble on your heels, low as they are, and break away so you can kick them off properly. “Hang on. These aren’t helping anything.”

When you look back at him, Piotr’s gazing at you like a dying man seeing civilization for the first time in years. His eyes are impossibly soft as he studies your face, full of love and reverence.

You sigh, happy, when he cups the side of your face with one of his massive hands and lean into his touch.

“I love you, Y/N. More than anything.”

“I love you more than anything too, Piotr.”

He presses his lips against yours once more, tender and gentle. He keeps kissing you as he moves his hands to your back, starting just above your ass and sliding them up to the collar of your dress. His fingers fidget with the zipper for a moment before he whispers a husky “May I?” against your lips.

The answer’s yes. The answer’s always yes.

You shiver against him as he slowly unzips your dress, goosebumps spreading across your skin as the dress falls into a pool of fabric around your feet, leaving you in your tights and underwear. You slide his jacket off his shoulders --and occupy yourself with undoing his tie when Piotr takes over so he can lay the jacket out neatly on the desk. You toss it across the room with an impish giggle, then focus on unbuttoning his shirt when he sighs.

“What is it with you and making messes?” he murmurs as he trails kisses down your cheek.

“What is it with you and organizing everything?”

He toes his shoes off --chuckles when you finish unbuttoning his shirt and toss it as far as you can, too--and slowly presses you back against the bed. “I guess we balance each other.”

“I’d say so.”

And you don’t say anything intelligible after that, because Piotr starts kissing your breasts and all coherent thought goes out of your mind.

You let out a soft sigh and arch your back off the bed so he can unclip your bra --and you promptly chuck it across the room.

He laughs. “Stop doing that.”

“Distract me better, then.”

It’s a challenge you know he’s more than capable of rising to.

His hands and mouth go to work, caressing and groping and licking and sucking at your breasts until your hips are rocking against the bed.

You whine as he gently teases one of your nipples with his tongue while tweaking the other between his forefinger and thumb. You thread your fingers through his hair, wriggling lower as you do, and gasp when you grind against his crotch.

He’s hard and straining against his dress pants, and he groans as he rocks his hips back against yours. “Bozhe moi --lyublyu…”

You wrap your legs around his hips as he starts grinding against you in earnest, mouth sucking a scattering of hickeys across your breasts. You clutch at his back, dig your nails in when he rubs against you just right. “Fuck.”

Piotr moves his mouth to your neck, but his hands move downwards until his fingers reach the stretchy waistband of your tights. He hooks his fingers around the elastic material --and then he’s sitting back and rolling the tights down your legs.

You yank your legs out of the tights and wriggle out of your underwear as fast as you can. “Pants off. Underwear, too.”

He chuckles as he shifts off the bed and starts working at his belt. “Impatient.”

“So what?” You crawl towards him and tug at his pants as he slides the belt out of the last loop. “Hurry up.”

He laughs softly and widens his stance a little to keep you from yanking his pants off. “Wait --wait. We need--” he retrieves a condom from one of his pockets “--we’ll be needing this.”

“Don’t care.” You tug at his pants until they’re halfway down his thighs, then straighten up on your knees and start kissing a trail up his chest.

“Y/N--”

“Fucking whatever, Piotr, just get undressed already!” You bite down --not too hard, but enough to prove your point--on the muscle between his neck and shoulder.

He growls --actually growls--and then he’s pushing you back against the mattress, nude, muscular body pressing against yours. “Patience.”

You squirm against him, trying to get any sort of relief for the ache between your legs. “No.”

He nips at your ear as one hand skins down your torso, towards where you both want it most. “You can do it.”

“The fuck I won’t--”

And then he’s sliding two fingers inside you and any complaints you might’ve had evaporate.

You moan as he curls his fingers against your g-spot and rock your hips against his hand. “Piotr!”

He chuckles. “Not complaining now, I see.”

You open your mouth to retort --and whine when he presses the pad of his thumb against your clit. You pant as he rubs circles over your sensitive nub in time with the movements of his fingers against your walls. “Oh --fuck--baby, I’m gonna--”

He shushes you gently, kissing your hairline with a tenderness that belies the utter sinfulness of what his fingers are doing. “Just enjoy it.”

And enjoy it you do, right up until the point --and past the point, to be clear--when your toes curl and your eyes roll into the back of your head and you climax with a groan.

Piotr slows his movements, working you through the aftershocks as you pant and gasp, only sliding his fingers out when you push weakly at his arm.

You open your eyes just in time to see him sucking your juices off his fingers and moan. “Piotr --baby--just fuck me. Please.”

“What if I would rather make love to you?”

“I don’t care! Just get your dick in me ASAP!”

The two of you pause, and then you both start laughing.

You nuzzle your face against Piotr’s neck as he slumps on top of you, body shaking with laughter. “Did I really just say that?”

“Da.” He kisses your cheek. “You are… so ridiculous, myshka. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Piotr.” You arch your back as he presses his lips against yours, relishing the way your chest goes flush against his. Your hands skim up the planes of back, holding him to you as he thoroughly plunders your mouth with his tongue.

God, you love this. You love the way he kisses you, the way his body presses against yours, the way--

“I should probably put this on,” he says with a laugh and a vague gesture with the condom as he breaks the kiss. “Before we get carried away.”

You laugh with him and sit up. “Yeah. Here --let me.” You rip the foil packet open, then pause to wrap your hand around the shaft of his cock.

He’s already completely hard, but going the extra mile never hurt anyone.

You give him a few pumps, relishing the way he groans and jerks into your hand, then push at his chest. “Roll over.” You straddle his thighs when he does and carefully roll the condom over his cock. When you look up halfway through and realize he’s watching you, desire burning in his eyes, you duck your head bashfully. “Like what you see?”

“Always.”

You take the hand he holds out to you once you’re done putting the condom on him and let him help you get positioned. You can feel the head of his cock brushing your folds, prodding at your entrance--

And then you’re sinking onto him, and he’s filling you up, and everything else in the world other than the two of you and what you’re doing right here, right now ceases to be of any importance.

You whimper at the feeling of him, the stretch, the exquisite fullness, and rock your hips against his. “Piotr--”

His hands come up to grasp your hips, holding you tight but not stopping you. “Slow. Go slow.”

“Yeah --sure,” you pant as you plant your hands against his chest and --slowly--start to ride him. You take your time --you’ve got nothing else you need to do, other than him--and savor every inch of him, every shift of your walls against his member, every gasp and groan that leaves his lips.

You’ve got all night, just for the two of you. No obligations, no distractions. Just this room, this bed, and whatever the fuck the two of you feel like doing.

He moans underneath you, hips rolling up to meet yours as you pace quickens ever so slightly, and slides his hands back to grope at your ass. “Khorosho?”

Good?

You can’t help but smile; he always has to make sure you’re alright, that you’re enjoying yourself. You nod. “Yeah. You good?”

By way of answer, he lifts one hand to the back of your head and pulls you down for a kiss.

It’s a little awkward, given your height differences; he slides halfway out of you in the process, and you can’t really get him all the way back in your current position. You giggle a little --because it’s ridiculous and kinda funny, really--and brace one hand against his chest so you can reposition yourself and keep moving, as it were--

Piotr’s hold on the back of your head tightens, his other hand slides to the small of your back, and his hips snap up against yours. Hard.

Oh.

The hand of yours that’s not on his chest grips the pillow next to his head when he does it again, and you moan when he does it a third time--

And then the bed starts shaking as he starts doing it in earnest, pumping in and out of you in deep, even, strokes.

Well, if that’s what he wants to do, you’re not gonna stop him.

You squeeze your eyes shut and rock your hips back against his thrusts as best you can. He’s skimming your g-spot with each movement of his cock inside you; not enough to fully turn on the pleasure, but plenty to wind up you up and drive you completely insane.

His mouth is hot against your jaw and neck, and he’s murmuring --and occasionally groaning--a nonstop string of Russian against your skin. “Ty takaya krasivaya ... kazhdyy raz, kogda ya smotryu na tebya, moye serdtse bolit…”

You grit your teeth together and whine as the shaft of his cock just barely rubs against your g-spot for the umpteenth time. “Piotr --baby, please--”

He lets you up when you push against his chest this time, eyes burning as he watches you, steadies you, helps you get repositioned.

You tip your head back and moan, a mixture of pleasure and relief at finally getting pressure and friction right where you want it, as you start bouncing up and down on his cock. You grab his hands when they grip your hips and relocate them to your chest.

He takes the none-too-subtle hint with zero complaining and starts groping at your breasts, caressing and squeezing them before focusing on your nipples.

You gasp as a soft thrum of pleasure courses through you and nearly fall --not that he’d let you, he’ll always catch you. You brace yourself against his chest even harder, arching against his hands while your hips keep working against his.

You can feel your orgasm starting to build in the slow tightening of your core, in the urgency that’s buzzing underneath the pleasure. You pant as you roll your hips harder, faster, feeling sweat drip down your back.

For all your working out, you don’t quite have your boyfriend’s stamina --at least, not when it comes to doing all the heavy moving.

You barely have to gasp out two words before he’s taking care of you, holding your hips to his as he rolls so that you’re on your back and he’s positioned above you. Before he can start moving though, you swing your legs up so your calves are braced against his shoulders.

You’re flexible enough. You can handle it.

He groans when you say as much, face flushed and expression utterly debauched, and he shifts the two of you down the bed before letting more of his weight bear down on you, pressing your knees against your chest and effectively pinning you against the bed. Then, he adjusts his hips and slides all the way in.

You groan and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You thought you were full before, but clearly you were wrong. You completely stuffed now, filled to the brim and whatever other euphemisms erotica writers use to convey being full past the point of reason and believability. You could float away of the sensation, the satisfaction alone, completely lost to the world save for the feeling of your boyfriend’s cock buried deep inside you--

And, without fail, Piotr brings you back down to earth.

A simple kiss to the forehead is all it takes, and you’re back in the hotel room, back with him, able to hear what he’s saying--

“Khorosho?”

Good?

God help you, you love this man so much.

You nod, still too out of breath to make forming words a feasible goal.

He smiles softly, kisses you gently on the bridge of your nose --and snaps his hips against yours with a lack of hesitation that can only be described as ruthless.

You moan loudly as he starts taking you in earnest, then whine when you realize you can’t arch your back or writhe against him in this position. You’re utterly pinned down, completely at his mercy as he pumps himself in and out of you; even with your hands free, there’s not much you can do or reach, definitely not enough to distract from the feeling of his cock driving in and out of you.

You’re here to do one thing and one thing only: take.

You’re moaning with each thrust now, gasping as he works you towards your climax without hesitation or doubt. All you have to focus on is the pleasure you’re feeling.

It’s completely overwhelming. Too much despite the fact that you haven’t actually come yet. You’re drowning in it, going insane from it, choking on it as you take your boyfriend’s cock over and over and over and over…

What a fucking way to go --pun intended.

You let out a high-pitched mewl as he speeds up. You can tell he’s close from the way he’s swearing in Russian and gripping your hips; he’s quite the picture of focus, actually, mouth open and lips pulled back over his teeth as he tries to reign himself in, tries to get you off first.

Ever the fucking gentleman --pun intended again.

And then one of his thumbs is rubbing against your clit, and it’s all over.

You scream his name as you climax --noise complaints be damned, you can’t be assed to give a shit right now--and clutch at the bedspread as hard as you can. Your orgasm sweeps through you in waves, cresting and ebbing again and again--

And then he’s coming too, albeit quieter than you did. He groans your name and presses his hips flush against yours, rocking against you as he rides out his own orgasm.

The room goes silent, save for the sound of your mutually labored breathing.

And then he’s sliding out of you and collapsing next to you on the bed, seemingly as fucked out as you are.

You stretch with a groan and take a few deep breaths as you come down from it all. Your cunt’s still twitching from your release, but you find it in yourself to push through the haze of the afterglow and roll over to face him.

He’s already reaching for you, arms curling around your body and pulling you in so he can shield you with his warmth and love. He kisses the top of your head and pushes the errant locks of hair away from your face, smoothing them as he goes.

You let out a shaky breath, then sling an arm around his neck and kiss his cheek. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“And I love you, dorogoy.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Pete.”

He huffs a gentle laugh. “It certainly is.”

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #piotr rasputin x reader smut #this is so fluffy your teeth are gonna rot and fall out #tw: alcohol mention #tw: moderately unsafe driving #piotr spoils you rotten #x men fanfiction #deadpool fanfiction

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eldritchteaparty · 3 years

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Chapters: 19/22 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane, Melanie King, Georgie Barker, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain, Allan Schrieber Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting, Spiders Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary: The group settles on a course of action much faster than Martin imagined they would.

Chapter 19 of my post-canon fix-it fic is up! Read at AO3 above or read here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

Martin was still tired as they drew close to Hill Top Road the next morning. It wasn’t surprising; the best sleep he’d gotten, other than the first few hours he’d slept before the spiders, had been in Allan’s car on the way out. He’d slept completely through their stop in Canterbury, where Allan had picked up his lab equipment. He woke up with his head on Jon’s shoulder in the back seat of the car, just a few miles from their destination.

“Ow,” he said as he straightened up, his neck cracking.

“I told you you could stay home,” Jon said. “You barely slept.”

“Don’t.” Martin was cross as he rolled his neck, trying to work out the cramp, and Jon put a hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s all right.”

That about doubled the number of words they’d said to each other that morning—and now they were here, back at Hill Top Road. From the street, the house appeared less foreboding than it had the last time; it seemed brighter, somehow, despite the cloudiness of the day. Maybe the owner had been back—or maybe the most recent occupant had left.

Martin waited for Tim to get out of the seat in front of him, then got out of the car himself. He hadn’t really spoken to Tim directly since he’d shown up yesterday, and wasn’t at all sure how Tim was feeling toward him. He was therefore both reassured and taken back when Tim put a hand on his shoulder on his way to the boot of the car.

I must be looking pretty good, he thought. They’re not even asking if I’m ok anymore.

It was just the four of them; Elias and the others had opted to stay together at the house. Jon had of course wanted to go, and that meant Martin went too; Tim had also made up his mind to go once he knew Jon was going. Martin watched as Allan opened the boot and began to pull out a number of padded carrying cases of different sizes, handing a few to Tim as he did.

“I know I fell asleep, sorry—what exactly are you—”

“We’re going to attempt to measure this—gap between the dimensions.” He handed Martin one final bag, and closed the boot as he did. “All of these instruments are designed to measure different types of energy.”

“They’re all from your lab?”

“Most of them,” Allan said, a small grin on his face; Tim shook his head.

“If I get in trouble for any of that—”

“I told you, no one will even know they’re missing. We’ll get it all back this afternoon.”

“So wait—this will show what, that the gap—exists?” Martin asked.

Allan shrugged. “Well—in all honesty, not really. If we get no unusual readings, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It could just mean we don’t know how to measure it. And if we do—it doesn’t really tell us why. It would just be—well, consistent with some combination of my ideas about the entities and dimensional travel, really.”

“Um—oh. Ok.”

Jon sighed, and Martin recognized it specifically as Jon’s impatient sigh. It was one he had heard a lot in the past, although not so much recently. He supposed from Jon’s perspective, it was kind of a waste of time to not really prove the existence of something he already knew was there. As far as Martin was concerned, though, they could take all the time they wanted.

As they approached the porch, Martin found his impression from the street had been correct. There were many fewer cobwebs on the porch than there had been the last time. The lock, however, was still broken when Jon tried the door, which suggested the owner had not been back.

“You think she’s gone?” he asked Jon.

“Yes.”

“Who?” Tim looked at them suspiciously.

“Annabelle,” Jon replied casually.

“Annabelle.” Tim halted at the top of the steps on the front porch. “She’s here? Was here?”

“Was. I would have said something if—" He trailed off as he saw the look on Tim’s face. “Yes, well, the point is she’s not here.”

“Sure,” Tim said, in a way that made it clear he was not at all sure, but he did follow the rest of them into the house.

“This way.” Jon led them back to the spot in the center of the house where the scarred floorboards resided.

He’s so confident. Martin remembered how different it had been the last time they were here. Jon had been so sick; he had been grasping at straws for any way to regain his connection to the Eye. Martin certainly hadn’t wanted that to happen, but he also hadn’t wanted him to be miserable. Now, though, Jon was pushing ahead, jumping in—he was eager, excited even. Given the circumstances, Martin didn’t like it much more than he had liked things the last time they were here.

“That’s it?” Allan said, staring down at the floor. “Not really what I was expecting.”

“Well—obviously it’s not the gap itself,” Jon explained with slight irritation, as if he were offended at Allan’s disappointment. “It’s a representation of it. Certainly someone would have reported it if it were a cavernous maw extending into the infinite reaches of—”

“Yes, all right,” Allan, unbothered, set down the equipment he was carrying and seated himself on the floor next to it. “Let’s see—Tim, bring those over here, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Tim set his bags down on the floor next to Allan and stepped back near Martin to observe.

“So I’m thinking—hmm—let’s just start with this.” He unpacked a small handheld meter and held it up for them to see. “This is a Geiger counter.”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That’s for radiation, right?”

“Yes,” Allan replied, as he pressed a button and the instrument’s screen flickered to life. He looked up in their direction just long enough to catch the anxious look on Martin’s face.

“No need to worry,” Allan said cheerfully as he stood up. “I’ll be looking at this from several angles, and this is just somewhere to start. Don’t let the idea of radiation bother you. There’s some level of radiation around us all the time—background radiation, it’s completely—well, not harmless, exactly, but well within the bounds of what the human body can withstand. This particular instrument is sensitive enough that we should be able to see relatively minor deviations from what we’d expect.”

“Oh,” Martin said, not knowing what else to say.

“All right, here we go.” Allan held the instrument up in the air and pressed a button and waited while it emitted an uneven series of a few clicks, and then checked the screen. He repeated this several more times, then nodded.

“Well?” Tim asked.

“Oh, sorry. I haven’t really done anything yet, just measuring background levels. Nothing out of the ordinary, pretty much what you’d expect for this part of England. But now I’ll know what I’m comparing to when I measure—that.” He gave another unimpressed look at the jagged mark running over the floor before bending over it with the instrument in hand. He moved it close to the mark and repeated the same process of measurements—pressing a button and then waiting for the clicks, then repositioning it to another spot, pressing the button and waiting again. “Huh.”

“What?” Martin couldn’t read Allan’s expression at all.

“Nothing,” Allan said, shrugging as he stood straight again. “I was averaging in my head, of course, so I might not be quite right, but—it would be like taking your temperature and reading 37 degrees exactly.”

Martin was relieved, but Jon, standing apart from the rest of the group, did not seem to be feeling the same way.

“Well, let’s move on,” Allan said, returning to his equipment pile and choosing a new device. “Let’s try this one. It’s for—oh—electromagnetic fields, radio frequencies—it’s sort of a cheap piece of equipment, actually, not very precise—but it should give us a good general picture.” He squatted down next to the mark on the floor again, adjusted a dial on the instrument, and began to move it closer and further away. He adjusted the dial several times as he continued to move it around the floor.

“Still nothing,” he said after a few minutes, sitting back on his haunches.

“Then that’s not the right way to measure it,” Jon said.

“I said when we came in that was a strong possibility,” Allan said, but it was clear Jon didn’t like this turn of events. “I’ve got a few more things we can—"

“It’s here,” Jon said.

“Can’t you just know the right way to measure it, then?” Tim’s tone was sarcastic, but Jon paused.

“Well…” He concentrated for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Apparently I can’t.” His growing frustration was obvious.

“Hey.” Now that Martin was starting to feel a bit easier about everything, he felt a little bit bad for Jon. “That’s—that’s all right. That just means we’ll need more time to—”

Martin’s attempt at soothing him didn’t work. “But it’s right there. Damn it, I know it’s there. I can feel it, it’s like it’s just on the other side of—”

“Oh,” Allan said. Martin’s eyes jumped back to the instrument in his hand, still hovering just over the mark in the floor, and there was some kind of movement on the digital screen. A moment later, it had gone quiet again.

“What was that?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know.” Allan frowned. “It’s like there was a sudden—pulse of electrical activity. A lot of it.”

“Jon,” Tim said, looking over at him, “did you do something? While you were talking?”

“That couldn’t possibly—” Allan started to say, but Jon cut him off.

“Yes,” Jon said. “I—I don’t know, I was looking for the—well, really, the tape—it’s—”

“Oh,” Allan said again, as the numbers on the screen resumed their movement. He walked it intently over different parts of the floor, then moved it further away and then closer again. Martin couldn’t really follow the whole thing from where he was standing, but Allan’s body language was enough to concern him. “This—this doesn’t make sense. Even if—Jon, stop. Whatever you’re doing, stop.”

“All right.”

“Incredible,” Allan said after a moment had passed. “That really shouldn’t be possible. There’s no—” He stood and walked toward Jon, and extended the meter toward him. “Do it one more time.”

“Don’t—” Martin started.

“I’m all right,” Jon snapped, but then softened as Martin felt the slight sting of his tone. “I’m—I’ll be careful. I’m fine right now.”

Allan was concentrating hard as he looked at the screen. “What was—have you done it yet?”

“No, I was—”

“It’s just that—never mind. Do it again. If—if you’re ok.”

Jon nodded, and glanced briefly in Martin’s direction. “I’m ok.”

Martin watched as Allan moved the instrument around Jon for the next thirty seconds or so, again switching the dial several times.

“Well?” Tim asked, as Allan stepped away.

“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely. “Tim, can you—can you fetch the Geiger counter for me again?”

Tim did, and Allan stood back from Jon as he held it up into the air again. They heard the occasional irregular click as he did.

“So for now, don’t, um—just don’t,” he said as he stepped toward Jon. The frequency of the clicks began to increase as he moved the meter closer to his head, and Allan made a small sound in his throat as he flipped a switch on the instrument. “Let’s just—keep the sound off for right now.”

Martin could feel some of the blood drain from his face.

“Ok, now—know something,” Allan asked.

“What?” Jon said. “Sorry, it’s always difficult to think of—”

“Anything. Just not the—the gap. I want to see if—”

“Did I have coffee or tea this morning?” Tim asked.

Jon thought. “Coffee.”

“Stop,” Allan said. “Stop.” He took a step back, white faced, and looked at Jon as if he had just appeared there.

“What?”

“Can I ask—how long did you say you’ve been doing this?”

“Knowing things? Uh—a few years? I mean—not always like this, at first it was much harder, and—"

“A few years.” Allan turned the thought over. “Ok. I’m going to say this once—because I think you should know. I don’t see—I don’t see how you’re—well, alive.”

There were long seconds of silence before Jon answered.

“I’m fine.”

Martin exploded. “You are not fine.”

“I just meant in the sense that—”

“I know, and—”

“I am alive. That is the point.”

More long seconds ticked by.

“You heal though, right?” Tim said quietly. “Like—after you—like when I found you in front of the Institute.”

“Yes.” A look of sudden understanding passed across Jon’s face. “Yes, that’s right. That—that would make sense.”

“Would it?” Allan looked at Martin. “You, um—sorry to—you’re—well, you’re sharing a room, so—I imagine you’re—close?”

Martin wasn’t sure what Allan was getting at. “Um—”

“Yes. He heals too. Or, he has, in the past.” Oh, Martin thought, after he heard Jon’s answer.

Oh.

“Wait. Are you saying that being near Jon is—”

“I don’t know,” Allan said. “I really don’t know. This is entirely unprecedented. It really shouldn’t—” He started to say something else, but hesitated.

“What?” Jon asked.

“I—” he hesitated again. “I want to do more tests, but I’m not sure if it’s—well, entirely ethical.”

“To ask me to keep going, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Allan looked at Martin.

“It’s not up to me,” Martin said.

Allan looked between Martin and Jon. “I’m, uh—I’m going to run out to the car for some extra equipment. Tim, come with me? I could use your help.”

“Sure,” Tim answered, and followed him out.

Martin waited a moment after they were gone, then said quietly, “I’m not sleeping away from you.”

“Martin.” Jon walked over to where he was standing and reached out to touch Martin’s hand. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”

“Good.” He had more to say, but he didn’t.

“Come on. That’s not what this is about. You don’t want me to do this.”

Martin sighed. “Fine. No, I don’t. I don’t want you to do any of this. Not just the tests, or whatever. Like—any of this.”

“I have to,” Jon said. “You know that.”

“Why do you think I didn’t say it? I can’t stop you. And I’d rather you not shut me out.”

“Martin, that—” He stopped himself, and squeezed Martin’s hand instead. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Martin let his hand fall away as Allan and Tim returned; Allan had put on a long-sleeved lab coat, and was holding a pair of gloves and a mask. “Just a precaution,” he said. “If you want to go ahead.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I do.”

Martin watched as Allan pulled out yet another meter from a different bag. “Martin—can you hand me that?” he asked, indicating the case Martin was still carrying. He’d forgotten about it.

“Oh. Sure.” Martin handed it to him and he began to unpack that as well.

“So—this is so I can record the readings,” he said, as he pulled some wires out and began to connect them to the new meter. “And this is—it uses a more powerful method of detection than the Geiger counter. It’s not as sensitive, but that’s, uh—well, that’s not going to be an issue.”

Martin suddenly realized how much he didn’t want to be there anymore.

“I’m going outside. I’ll just be out front.” Without waiting for anyone’s reaction, he made his way back to the front of the house. He stood on the porch, his arms folded and resting on the railing. He looked out over the lawn. The rest of the neighborhood, apart from this house, really was a suburb. It seemed nice enough; maybe not a great neighborhood, but not a bad one, certainly. It hadn’t really done anything to deserve this awful place.

He sat and watched the clouds roll overhead and wondered it if would rain. He tried not to think too much about what was going on inside the house, what they were doing and where it would lead. He had no idea how long he had been standing there when he became aware that he wasn’t alone.

“Hey,” Tim said, as Martin looked over at him.

“Hey,” Martin answered, then went back to looking up at the sky. “So—what’s going on in there?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said. “It’s like some sort of weird playdate? It’s over my head. Allan keeps turning dials and saying things like incredible and amazing and then Jon—”

“Never mind,” Martin said. “Just—is he keeping himself together? Jon, I mean?”

“He seems to be.”

They looked out at the sky and lawn together.

“Martin,” Tim said eventually, “I know I said this before, but I want you to know I meant it. Jon is lucky to have you.”

“Hm.”

“Listen, I know—I know this has to be hard for you. Before we—before we make any decisions, I want you to know that—”

“Don’t,” Martin said coldly.

“All right.” Tim nodded and returned to looking back over the railing. “Do you want to be alone?”

No, Martin thought. I don’t ever want to be alone again. He wanted to scream it.

Instead, he just said, “Not particularly.”

“Good,” Tim said. “I don’t particularly want to go back in there.”

***

“So—wait,” Melanie said, looking at Allan over her half-empty dinner plate. “You’re saying you don’t really know anything at all, then?”

“Well, yes and no.” He was struggling to find words as they sat together in the great room again. “What I’m saying is—from a scientific perspective, which of course is why I’m here—there’s no way to know what any of this means. I’ve never heard of anything like this before. It’s completely unique, as far as I know.”

“So we can’t prove there’s a gap between dimensions, and we can’t prove the entities exist,” Sasha clarified.

“Correct,” Allan said. “I can’t even begin to suggest a mechanism for anything I saw today.”

“But you did see something today,” Melanie prodded.

“Well—yes,” Allan said. “That’s an understatement. We saw massive fluctuations of energy just—across almost the entire spectrum. And—again, I have no way to explain it or understand it, but—Jon does appear to be able to manipulate it, to some extent.”

“Well, that’s definitely something,” Melanie said. “You said you recorded your readings. Do you think you’ll learn anything else from going back through them?”

“Not—not in a way that could help us. It will take years to even begin to make any real sense of this. As—as a scientist. To be perfectly clear, I—I can’t vouch for any particular course of action. I have no way of verifying that there has ever been any travel across dimensions, or that—starting an apocalypse would provide the energy required to do it again, or—or that anything we discussed yesterday is even a possibility.”

“As a scientist,” Georgie repeated. “What about—as a person? What do you think?”

“I’m—I’m not sure that’s really what’s important here.”

“Yes, it is.” It was one of the few things Elias had said at all since they’d come home.

“I agree,” Sasha said. “I’d like to know what you think.”

“Well—personally”—he looked around at the group— “after what I’ve heard from all of you, and after talking with Elias last night—I believe Jon.”

It was quiet for a moment as the group absorbed this. Martin’s stomach, which had already rejected even the concept of any food he’d thought about putting in it that night, tightened painfully.

“Ok,” Georgie said slowly. “Well—for the sake of argument—Jon, do you really think you could do it? Could you—could you really move us to another dimension? In a way that—well, will actually help things?”

“I can do it,” Jon said, without hesitation.

“No,” Martin said.

The discomfort was tangible; Martin could tell nobody wanted to speak.

“Martin,” Sasha finally said, “why—why are you so against this?”

“I’ve already said. It’s too dangerous.”

“So you think he can’t do it? That it won’t work?”

Martin drew his hand down firmly over his mouth.

“Say what you have to say,” Jon urged him. Martin didn’t care for how calm he was. “They should hear it.”

Martin stared at him. “Ok, fine. Fine, I’ll say it. If you think you can do it—I’m sure you can. I’m just not sure you will. What if—what if this time—what if the Eye finally just takes you?”

“It won’t. It didn’t last time.”

“Didn’t it?”

“No. Not—not like that. I still—I still got to choose.”

“And we still don’t know what Annabelle’s been trying to get you to do.”

“She doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, really?”

“Do you believe me that I’ll never let them out of here? The entities? That’s what she wants.”

Martin paused; he knew his panic was coming across to everyone. “Yes. But that’s not—even if you don’t—look, if it fails, that’s it for us. We’re stuck in an apocalypse. This world is stuck in an apocalypse. You said that yourself.”

“And it’s still true. It is a risk. But I don’t think I’ll fail.”

“But what happens to you? What if—what if we lose you?”

Jon looked away.

“Jon?” Georgie prompted.

“It’s—it’s a possibility.”

“How much of a possibility?” Georgie asked.

“It’s—um—” Jon cleared his throat. “It’s not unlikely.”

“I see,” Sasha said.

“That matters, right?” Martin somehow managed to get the words out. “Tell me that matters to the rest of you.”

“Of course it matters,” Sasha said. “I didn’t—"

“No, it doesn’t,” Jon said.

“Jon—”

Several people began to talk at the same time, but it was Tim who won out.

“Listen,” he said. “Listen. I know—I know this is going to sound awful, but—I agree with Jon.”

“It does sound awful,” Sasha reprimanded him. “It sounds completely awful.”

“Just hear me out.” Tim spoke his words slowly and deliberately. “If I were Jon—if I could stop this—if I had this chance to—to save the people they haven’t hurt yet—I would. I wouldn’t hesitate. And I wouldn’t want anyone to stop me.”

“Yes, you would,” Jon said. “You did.”

“And—I know I’ve been angry—but this isn’t about that. It’s not because I blame him. It’s because he’s the only one who can. I think—I think this should be Jon’s choice. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Jon was still calm, controlled. Martin hated it.

Tim briefly met Martin’s eyes before looking down to the floor in front of him. “And I wouldn’t wait. I’d—I’d want to just do it. If we really can’t learn anything else, I say we do it soon. Tomorrow, if we can. Prevent as much further damage as possible.”

“I agree,” Jon said.

“No,” Martin said. “That’s insane. Are you insane?” He looked around at the group; none of them would look back at him. “Have you all lost your minds? Are you considering this?”

“I—I don’t know,” Sasha said, finally raising her face. “Are we?”

“Jesus Christ.” Martin got to his feet, not really sure where he was going; he was halfway there before he realized he was headed for the door to the back of the house. Behind him, he heard several people speaking, although he had no idea if they were talking to him; he couldn’t process it anymore. He couldn’t think at all until he felt the cool night air on his face. He stopped, heart pounding, and crumpled onto the porch against the back of the house. For the first time in his recent memory, he wanted to cry; of course, now he couldn’t make the tears come.

Behind him, he heard the door open and close.

“Go away.” He didn’t really care who it was.

“I’d rather not.” Beside him, Jon lowered himself onto the porch; for some reason, Martin had assumed it would be one of the others. He was surprised to find he felt slightly mollified. “We don’t have to talk. It’s just—I don’t have anywhere else I want to be right now.”

“Come off it. Go back in and keep explaining why you need to martyr yourself.”

“I’ve said what I need to say. It’s better if they talk without us.”

Martin sighed heavily. “They’re going to go for it, aren’t they?”

Jon didn’t answer him. Instead, he moved closer to Martin, leaning into him and resting his head on his shoulder. Hollow as he felt, Martin didn’t even think; his automatic response was to put his arm around Jon, pulling him in even closer. He pressed his lips to the top of Jon’s ear.

“We never had a chance, did we,” he said. “The two of us.”

“We still might.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I never believed we’d be here, either.” Jon said.

“That’s not very reassuring.”

Jon turned so that his back was against Martin’s chest, and Martin did what he always did; he slipped his hand up under the edge of Jon’s shirt, bringing it up to the scar on Jon’s ribcage. Instead of protesting or merely tolerating it, though, this time Jon brought his own hand to rest over Martin’s on the outside of his shirt.

“I loved you here too, you know,” Jon said quietly. “Before this, I mean. In this world.”

“Oh, I know,” Martin said.

“Well. Here I thought I was making a grand romantic confession, but—never mind, I guess.”

“No, it’s—I’m sorry.” He kissed Jon’s temple softly by way of apology. “Thank you. I just meant now that—now that we’ve been together, now that I know what you’re like when you—it’s sort of obvious, looking back. Plus, there was your pin.”

“My pin?”

“You know—when we had forgotten everything when we first—and you couldn’t remember your pin number on your laptop.”

“Oh,” Jon said, and even in the dark Martin saw a smile play across his lips. It had been too long since he had seen Jon smile. “Right. I used your birthday. That’s—is it odd that I feel embarrassed?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Sasha just—she insisted I set it in front of her, and then she kept guessing them—”

“Because you kept typing 1234.”

“Well—yes, but—anyway, it just came into my head, and I knew no one would ever guess, because—because I was never going to tell anyone how I felt. Especially not you.”

“Yeah, well—I wasn’t going to either.” He held Jon tighter. “We’re a couple of idiots. You know that, right?”

“Yes.” Jon turned his face up and back, and Martin couldn’t help but kiss him.

��Martin,” Jon said, “I know—I know I’ll never change your mind.”

“If it were me, you would never go along with it. You would never let me—you didn’t, actually.”

“I—” Jon paused. “No. You’re right. I’m asking you to do something I couldn’t do.”

“Thank you.”

“I just—I want you to understand. I want you to hear me.” He paused.

“I’m listening.”

“Nothing will ever fix what I’ve done.”

“You didn’t do this. Jonah Magnus did this. The Web did this. The—never mind. Go on.”

“Nothing will ever undo it. Every day I think about—about Sasha. And Tim. And Daisy. The other ones, the ones who—and an entire world of human beings who suffered because of things I did. And then there’s everyone here in this world who—none of them should ever have—” Jon’s voice cracked. “But I can stop it. I can make it so it doesn’t get worse. Or at least—at least give it a real chance. And I have to try.”

“And you have to try tomorrow.”

“Tim was right, Martin. Every day that passes like this is—”

“Tim is just worried about Danny.”

“Is that wrong of him?”

“I—no. No, I guess not. My point is just that it’s not like he’s—it’s still completely selfish.”

“He’s not being any more selfish than you.”

“I know that.” His chest ached as he breathed in, and he sighed reflexively. Jon turned just enough to tuck his head against Martin’s collarbone, and he felt his chest loosen just a little. “Ok, but really—what about Annabelle? That’s not being selfish. We both know what she wants—but we have no idea how she’s trying to get it. And we’re probably walking into it.”

“Probably.”

“Well then, why—”

“Because I don’t intend to give it to her.”

“But that’s exactly the point, we don’t know how—”

“Do you really think that waiting will solve that? Even if she is trying to push me—do you really think that she won’t just—change tactics? Adapt?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“If we wait to—I don’t know, learn something, let something happen that she doesn’t want—do you really believe she won’t have some other plan?”

He hadn’t ever thought that far ahead, to what would happen after they waited, whatever that meant. He realized with a sinking heart that no, he didn’t really believe it.

“But then—why are we doing anything at all? Why are we even bothering? If we can’t ever do the right thing—”

“Because we have to try. I have to try. I just do. Doing nothing would be—and maybe—maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Yeah. That—that’s our thing, for sure. Luck.”

Jon reached for Martin’s free hand, the one that wasn’t against his heart, and pulled it to his mouth; he kissed each knuckle in turn. “We haven’t been entirely unlucky.”

Martin was out of things to say. Once more, Jon had already won. Everyone in the room behind them was deciding to go ahead with this stupid plan. There was nothing he could do that was going to stop it.

Well—as he thought about it, he did have one more thing to say.

“Jon—I don’t—I don’t want to go into this like—like last time. So—just so you know—nothing’s changed. I’m going with you. Wherever that is.”

Jon held his breath for a moment before answering. “And if I can save you—"

“Then you’d better save both of us.”

“Martin—”

“No. You know what’s out there for me without you, and—I don’t want it. You can’t—" Jon turned suddenly in his arms, so that Martin’s hand slid from his ribs to his shoulder.

He kissed him.

“Jon—”

“Please.”

They were still kissing several minutes later when Jon abruptly sat up; he opened his mouth to say something, but then learned back in toward Martin.

“No,” Martin said, putting a hand up to Jon’s face. “You know something, don’t you? They decided and you know.”

Jon nodded, sliding his hand over Martin’s as he did. “Yes.”

“Ok.”

“They want to do it. Tomorrow.”

***

It was hours later; Martin didn’t know how long he had lain awake. He’d come back to the bedroom on his own at first; he’d stayed for some of the planning, listened to their excitement, their nerves, their arguing—but it had quickly gotten to the point where he couldn’t do it anymore. He knew where he would be anyway, and that was with Jon; he had nothing else to contribute. The looks he’d gotten when he’d stood up had been seared into his consciousness, a mixture of worry and pity.

“Martin,” Sasha called to him as he was leaving, “are you—”

“Yes,” he’d said.

He’d gone to brush his teeth before getting in bed. He didn’t know what possessed him, particularly, but when he saw his reflection in the mirror, he did something he hadn’t done in a long while. He removed his shirt to look at his own scars. They were still there; they were exactly the same as they had been on the day he’d first seen them, dark red to pale white, torn and jagged and alternately smooth.

He was tired, he’d realized. He wanted to sleep, of course, he was still exhausted from the night before—but it was more than that. This was all just enough. Maybe it was all right. Maybe he and Jon had already had more time than they were meant to. Maybe it was time to let it go. Just—just so long as he didn’t end up alone.

He’d gotten in bed. He’d almost fallen asleep before Jon had come in, but after Jon had undressed and slipped under the sheets next to him, the restlessness had begun. Each time Jon moved, or sighed, or breathed even a little bit out of rhythm, Martin’s brain nudged him awake again. And now, here he was, sleepless and empty.

He breathed out, trying to reset his mind.

“Martin.”

“Sorry.” He’d thought Jon had been asleep.

“What—no, don’t apologize, just—go to sleep. You need rest for tomorrow.”

“I can’t.”

There was silence, and for a moment, he thought Jon had drifted off again.

“Martin, I’m—I’m not leaving you. I won’t go without you. You need to sleep.”

“I—I know.” He was lying, and Jon knew he was lying.

“Martin, this isn’t—this isn’t like last time. For one thing, I’d—I’d have to steal a car to get back to London on my own. All right? Can you trust me?”

Martin swallowed; that was exactly the problem, he realized. “I want to. I just—”

“Ok. All right. You’re right, of course you—that’s not fair for me to ask. I—hang on.” He saw the light from Jon’s cell phone; he heard him stand up and rummage through the suitcase on his side of the bed before sitting down on the mattress again.

“Jon—”

“Here. Give me your hand.” He held up his arm; Jon grabbed his hand, and Martin realized Jon was trying something around their wrists in the light from the phone.

“What—”

“It’s an old drawstring that pulled out from a pair of shorts. I never took it out of my suitcase.” He grabbed one end of the string in his mouth and pulled with his other hand. “There. I can’t possibly untie that without waking you up.”

“Are you going to be able to sleep?”

“I think so.” Jon turned off the light on his phone, and Martin felt the tug on his arm as Jon leaned over to put it back on the table next to the bed. “Anyway, I’m—I’m all right. You’re—not.”

“This—” Martin started to laugh. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yes. It is. Does it matter?” Jon interlaced his fingers with Martin’s and carefully folded up their bound arms between them; he brought his head to rest on the pillow next to Martin’s shoulder.

“I—I guess not.” He didn’t even realize he was finally crying until Jon reached up with his other hand to touch his cheek. He felt better for it, somehow; feeling something was good. It was better than the emptiness.

“Sleep.”

He did.

#the magnus archives #tma #mag pod #tma spoilers #jonmartin #tma fanfic #my writing

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spamzineglasgow · 4 years

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ON: beginnings by Meredith Grace Thompson

In the next instalment of Meredith Grace Thompson’s ON_____ series, ‘ON: beginnings’ takes us into the new year, new decade, with musings on temporality, returning home, solitude, waste and what we must push through to get the good stuff.

> take 1

> on: the new year....

> I read once that Kim Jong-un turned the North Korean clocks forwards half an hour to match South Korea, because he was trying to improve diplomatic relations between North and South Koreas, but he quickly lost patience with the South Korean government and rescinded his decision, moving the clocks back to their original position, and moving time between the nations farther apart. I remember reading this and thinking “Holy fuck. Time means nothing.”

>....shit. No. I can’t write this. This is a terrible way to begin a piece about the concept of New Year. Time means nothing, this is true, but it is not revolutionary. Money also means nothing. Economics mean nothing. The claim that things mean nothing, also—inevitably—means nothing. Reductio ad absurdum into nothingness. Not useful. It is not a radical assertion that anything created for ease in our contemporary society is often meaningless and yet I am not a nihilist, so what would the point that I would be making? Also, I don’t know anything about Kim Jong-un. Not really. I know he is the third leader of the Kim Dynasty of North Korea; the son of Kim Jong-il who was the son of Kim Il-sung, who established the communist party of North Korea, or maybe was just its first leader, or maybe it was just when the country became its own country...I’m not really sure. It’s that place where the extreme left and the extreme right meet at the back of the circle and are one weird blob. Communism, and fascism merge into general totalitarianism. I still don’t know why I would start a piece on New Year’s this way. I suppose I’m thinking about fascism, and nationalism, and Marxism, and critiques of social class more generally, and if my hypothetical children will have air to breathe in twenty-five years, and wasn’t technology meant to save us already? And does the A.I. that I can talk to in my phone have rights? And will my generation ever be able to afford dental plans or housing or to pay off their student debt? I’m thinking about the celebrated new beginning that is the turn of the year, from dark to light, even though it makes way more obvious sense to have a new beginning in the spring rather than dead of winter, but the pagans needed optimism at this point, I suppose, right? Days start getting longer? The sun comes back? I’m thinking about how I can make some sort of impact on this institutionalised oligarchy that is pretending not to have total control over the global economy, and if it will make a difference if I ask for a take-away box for the rest of this veggie sandwich because I can’t finish it but I should have brought a container with me if I wanted to take home left overs and what even are leftovers? And what are New Year’s resolutions? The ball dropping? Where did this ball even come from? The end of an era? Start of a new decade? We’re in the 20’s again? That means the 30’s are coming. Time is a flat circle. Turtle shell. Turtles. Turtles on turtles. Turtles all the way down.

> Nope.

> Next.

> take 2

> on: returning

> It is a strange concept that when you leave a place, the people within that place keep on going. Completely obvious, and yet eternally strange—object permanence in action. They live full lives when you are not beside them, just as all the other people in the world live full lives when you are not there, that you will never affect and will never know and will never matter too. When you leave a place and come back to it, that place has inevitable and irreconcilably changed and that is neither a good nor a bad thing. We are, after all, apparently, beyond good and evil now. Or we’ve murdered God and are now living in the anarchy that follows. Nietzsche wasn’t super clear on that. Forward movement is not synonymous with progress and progress is a word which seems to have lost its meaning. We are arguably no better than we were 200 years ago with the small exception that we have the internet and our systems of defecation are cleaner.....

>..... gross. Systems of defecation. I’m out. Is that how I judge history? The Hegelian swings from thesis, to antithesis, to synthesis; the synthesis being the means by which we figure out how to deal with our unavoidable feces on a massive scale. Isn’t that why we invented the car? Because the horse manure was too much? It got in the air and it got in our lungs and it clogged the streets. But horse manure and human feces are different, I suppose. People don’t usually shit in the street. We don’t even think about our own need to defecate until we are forced to deal with its repercussions. Until we are forced to deal with a clogged main pipe of our house in the middle of the night, on a Saturday, in the frozen Canadian winter, during the Christmas holiday. And we pay the money to the plumber, who of course charges extra for the day and the late hour, and we keep on going—thinking only that that we have less savings in the bank, and that it is fixed, but is it fixed at all?

> This has descended into a discussion of human waste management.

> Nope.

> Next.

> take 3

> I can’t seem to begin anything, lately. I am awash in a weird, churning sea of beginnings. And I hate all of them. My mother says that there are three kinds of people in the world: people who are good at beginning things, people who are good at doing things, and people who are good at ending things. I always thought I was the middle one—good at doing things. So why do I only now have beginnings? I suppose, for me, this is a part of writer’s block. There is a strange beaver dam in my mind that I can’t seems to break through or scale over and the beavers are all so sweet and worked so hard and I don’t want to destroy their accomplishments. I have no answers. Only questions.

> What are the worst things people have done, for fear of being alone?

> Am I afraid of being alone, when I am not afraid of solitude? Just afraid of rejection? Maybe not afraid of anything. Just the usual: snakes, mice, balloons... I am comfortable with rejecting but not with rejection. I think this is a common, yet self-indulgent stance. There is nothing quite like being rejection to make us panic and betray all of our worst bits. I feel like my worst bits have been floating to the surface, like the bits that you skim off when you’re making stock. I hate the smell of turkey stock boiling on the stove. It smells like human flesh. It makes my head feel as though it is floating three unstable inches from my shoulders, disconnected from my throat.

> I think a lot about beginnings. I find them perplexing. There is a difference, of course, between the beginning of something and the act of beginning something. I know how to begin something: you just do it. There’s no other way. It’s the easiest thing in the world, which is also nearly impossible. You just have to do it. Grit your teeth, make yourself stand up, make yourself write something. That is the only solution. Often, I fail miserably. But I try.

> And I end up with lots of beginnings. I don’t always like them. Often, they don’t hold water. They spring leaks the moment any pressure is applied, and what then? How do you cope with mediocrity? Because most of what we all do is going to be pretty fucking mediocre. And you have to push through a lot of mediocre sludge to get to even the possibility of something good.

> Okay.

> take 4

Text & Image: Meredith Grace Thompson

Published: 15/1/20

#ON_____ series #Meredith Grace Thompson #essay #essays #beginnings #new year

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cancerbiophd · 5 years

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hey julia, im really sad because after a year or so of writing for a published paper, the prof analyzing the data found an inconsistency in my database and when he fixed it the new results he got changed the outline of our paper in a big way. i'm still getting primary authorship because i did all the data collecting and initial writing, but pretty much all i wrote is gonna have to be scrapped :( i was really proud of what i wrote and having it go through editing because it was mine (1/2)

(2/2)I feel so disappointed with everything though and i know it’s my first ever real writing experience but i was hoping it would work out a bit better :c im still gonna have access to see how the paper evolves and be invited to the talks about it, but it just isn’t mine anymore and i kind of feel like i failed, i was banking on this paper to apply for grad school because being published gives me an edge but it doesn’t feel like its my work anymore :( what do u do when u have a sad science day?

Oh maria /biiiig hug/ i’m so sorry to hear you’re going through a rough time. it’s ok to feel sad and disappointed because i know it’s tough to watch something you’ve worked so hard on get scrapped like that. but you know what? you’re tougher! and i know you’ll get through this.

Firstly, give yourself a warm hug for completing the monumental task that is writing a manuscript, regardless of what ended up happening. Finishing something so challenging is not trivial! And you know what, all those experience points you gained by going through this journey are yours to keep. So when it comes to writing another manuscript in grad school, you’ll know exactly what to do! And that’s pretty great, yeah?

Secondly, I know you feel bad, and that’s ok, but I want to slip a note into your thoughts that you have not failed, my friend. You have not failed. Mistakes happen, even to seasoned professionals, because mistakes are a part of life. I guarantee you that every single research lab in existence right now (and have existed) has had to go back to square one or two and start over at some point. And they did, and fixed what needed to be fixed, and then carried on to do great things. Sometimes you gotta erase what’s already on the paper to make room for something more beautiful.

If you feel this paper doesn’t feel like your baby anymore, that’s ok. I totally understand why you would feel that way, and if squishing and squeezing your emotions into accepting the paper like it was before is adding to the bad feels, then you don’t have to. You can just focus on and own the black and white facts of the paper: the experimental design, the science behind the data, the major conclusions, the impact on society, etc. There doesn’t have to be an emotional attachment to go with it if you don’t want to.

And you know what, the changes to this paper doesn’t change who you are. Maria: you are still the smart, funny, caring, kind, and passionate person that I’ve gotten to know you as. You’re still the awesome person who took the time to put together the most in-depth and hilaaarious powerpoint of fish and fauna to see while snorkeling in the Bahamas for me. You’re still the brilliant marine biologist who has a (really impressive!) CV that 100% reflects your passion and commitment to your work. You’re still a person who will leave the world a better place, and I know this because you’ve already made my world a better place. I feel so lucky to have you in my life.

I hope you’re starting to feel better now :) If not, here are some things I do if I have a Bad Science Day:

Cry it out. There’s an odd sort of comfort that comes after a good cry. So sometimes if I feel like I’ve been holding back, I exhale softly and let it all out. It doesn’t solve anything, I know, but I do feel a teeny bit better and a teeny bit more whole.

Write it out. Something I’ve learned about myself is that my brain tends to over-exaggerate things when it’s just swirling thoughts. But when I write it out and everything gets organized, it turns out things aren’t so bad after all. So give it a go, either in a word doc, an actual journal, or even a tumblr post (that you don’t have to publish, of course).

Talk it out. Related, going on a verbal rant (or even written rant to someone) helps in a similar way. Even if it’s in private to my favorite stuffed animal or a pet. Just anything to get the thoughts out!

Listen to “comfort” music. I have a playlist of my all-time favorite songs and I listen to it on the drive home and I always feel a lil better. It’s hard to not feel a little happy and carefree when your favorite jam comes on.

Sleep it off. Sometimes all I need is a good night’s sleep (or even a nap) to clear my head. Also I love sleeping, so it always feels good no matter what.

Do something comforting. Anything to release those sweet sweet endorphins. My ideas of comforting routines are: eating whatever I’m craving at the moment, watching a favorite TV show or movie (usually something I’ve already seen), curling up with a good book or magazine, scrolling through Tumblr, doing my nails, hugging my dog and/or husband until I feel better, and walking around Homegoods, my favorite store (I’d honestly live there if I could). Doing these things also helps in that it takes my mind off whatever’s bothering me, even temporarily.

Give myself a pep talk. Ok, oddly enough, the pep-talk-voice in my head is Gordon Ramsay. I don’t know how it manifested as him, but when he’s not yelling at chefs to get their shit together, he has a really encouraging and soothing voice! Anyway, sometimes he sits me down and tells me that everything is going to be ok, and here’s what we do next alright? Just one step at a time ok? That’s it. Good job. Good job.

Just keep working. Sometimes my Bad Science Day starts at 9 AM in the morning, or it’s just a continuous Bad Science Week/Month/Year. So I put those feelings on hold and just stick to my schedule and try to be as productive as I can. Because even if Experiment 1 didn’t work, Experiment 2 might, and if it does, I’ll feel a little better! And if Experiment 2 doesn’t work, well, at least I finished it, and I’ll still feel a little better! And in any case, my projects aren’t gonna do themselves, no matter how I feel. So in the wise words of Dory: “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming!”

I talk to my PI. I’m super lucky to have an understanding PI, and I’ve talked to her about my frustrations on more than one occasion and she’s worked with me to come up with good solutions, or have said things to make me feel better. PIs are full of wisdom from experiencing their own fair share of Bad Science Days so they have lots of advice on how to feel better, such as looking at my results a different way so it goes form :( to :)

I let the passing of time lessen the hurt. Time doesn’t always heal, but it does make things that were terrible at the moment not so bad anymore. So if nothing else makes me feel better, at least I know “this too shall pass”.

I hope this helps. I know things are ugh right now, but you’re going to be ok. And I’m here for you, ok? Feel free to reach out via chat or email. I would very much like to help you feel better

#skinny-little-nobody #life advice

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kaikhaos · 5 years

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The Hurricane Sandy Saga Continues…

So here’s the story of my life since October 28, 2012 and all the chaos that has come with it. This is not a happy story, so far, but I’m hoping you guys can help make it one, or at least help prevent a bad end. This is a story of corrupt banks, government bullsh*t, and a 25 year old disabled trans queer who just wants to go home. Over the next five thousand words, I hope you realize the extent of how life has repeatedly NOPED at any sense of logic. At the end of my story, I’m going to ask you to help me out if you can and to spread the word either way.

The tl;dr version is that my family is facing homelessness for the fourth time in eighteen months and I really need you guys’ help to get us back into a stable situation so this never happens again. The mortgage company has screwed us yet again and is holding on to $250,000 that is supposed to be ours. So while we own one house and one newly demolished lot, we have nowhere to live. If you can at all help out, please do. My paypal link is here: http://paypal.me/mihaelkai .

My name is Aleks. This is my story.

First, let’s get one thing out of the way: I’m disabled. I have been legally recognized as disabled since I was 18. I have a combination of mental health issues and physical health issues that make it so my capacity on any given day varies greatly from “I made it through a day at a con thanks to lots of painkillers!” to “I brushed my teeth today and didn’t cry doing it!” But I try. Anxiety, depression, C-PTSD, & ADD are just a few of the things I’ve been diagnosed with by my therapist and psychiatrist, paired with diagnoses from my doctors of migraines, fibromyalgia, and a degenerative connective tissue disorder known as Ehlers-Danlos that all combine to leave me in fairly constant pain basically everywhere. My brain and my body attack me constantly but I still try to do what I can. Unfortunately, it means I can’t just go out and get a 9-5 or retail job to help fix my situation. I can only do what I can do and I have to know my limits.

I live with my mother and my QPP Luca who are both also disabled.

You may know in 2012 we were hit by Hurricane Sandy. If you don’t know that, you’re about to find out. We had six feet of water in our house and my grandfather’s house next door (AKA: my inheritance) floated off of its foundation and was straight up condemned. Ever since then, life has been, in a word, chaos. It’s gotten to be a theme in our house that if it can go wrong, it will go wrong. Even my therapist has given up on making any kind of treatment plan and is basically just focusing on damage control. And honestly, at this point, I just wanna go home.

But Aleks, it’s been seven years, why aren’t you home yet? Oh boy, I am SO glad you asked. Let’s get into this history.

First, a prequel. I’m not rich, my family isn’t rich, but we get by. Our house wasn’t big, but it was beautiful. In 2006, my mother bought two tiny houses next door to each other from an old man who wanted to sell them to a family the way he’d grown up in the smaller house while his parents lived in the other house. The one house was a six hundred square foot bungalow that would become my grandfather’s and its neighbor was a seven hundred square foot house that would become mine and my mother’s.

Our house was gorgeous and cute. Built in the early 1900s by a tinsmith with scraps from all of his jobs, all of the walls were tin instead of sheetrock or plaster, the floors were gorgeous hardwood, and the three bedrooms were each under a hundred square feet. It was tiny but it was ours.

On August 28th, 2011, that house was hit by Tropical Storm Irene. Our house was flooded by two feet of water on the first floor. The Atlantic Ocean took out our floors, cabinets, appliances, electrical outlets, the bathroom tile, and the furniture, not to mention rusting the heck out of the bottom of the tin walls. It took six months to get the final eighty thousand dollar settlement out of the insurance company.

The check was deposited by the mortgage company who said they would hold onto it and dole it out as we hired contractors or finished repairs. But here’s the thing: The settlement barely covered enough for the supplies, so we maxed out credit cards and depleted personal savings and finished our repairs a few months later with the help of very few contractors and a lot of DIY.

We installed our kitchen appliances as the last step and called the mortgage company that day to ask them to come and inspect and verify the repairs were done so they could release the other seventy thousand dollars that they were holding onto. They said they were backed up and that they would come and inspect in a month.

Our new stove was 22 days old when Hurricane Sandy hit us.

Where Irene was manageable, Sandy was devastating. My grandfather’s house floated on the storm surge and landed three feet away from its foundation. The legs of our lawn table were bent and sticking out from under the house like the damn wicked witch or something. Our house on the other hand shifted by an inch. Not much, you’d think, but enough to break every pipe in the house and damage the entire structural stability of the house.

The town building department condemned my grandfather’s house and wrote ours up as “more than 50% damaged”.

Needless to say, both houses were left completely and totally uninhabitable.

The mortgage company inspector came and said because everything was wet and ruined that they “couldn’t certify the repairs were completed” even when we were standing there with a stack of receipts and before and after pictures, clearly proving everything had been replaced since most of the materials had been changed. So they decided they wouldn’t release the $70,000 they were holding onto from Irene until the new SANDY repairs were done. Even though we’d already spent that money on repairs and run up debt because of it, they decided they were just going to hold onto it for longer.

And honestly? Fuck those guys. They are the root of some of the most evil parts of this, as you’ll see.

So back to the Sandy damages. First, the insurance company offered us a FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLAR damage assessment. Fifteen thousand bucks when we had six feet of water in our house. For perspective, fourteen months before Hurricane Sandy, Tropical Storm Irene sent 24 inches of water into our house and the insurance company gave us eighty thousand dollars to make those repairs. So yeah, fifteen thousand wasn’t gonna do it. The construction estimates for the repairs were coming in around two hundred and fifty thousand.

So, of course, we appealed. Our engineer said parts of the house were outright dangerous from the damage and had to be torn down and replaced. We told the insurance company this and they told us they would send their own engineer. And… well… they sent SOMEBODY. Was that guy a licensed engineer? Nope. Did they tell us he was? Yup.

So then we appealed to FEMA. The judge from FEMA told them outright to send a LICENSED engineer in his decision and left it at that. So then they did. This guy now said he thought fifty thousand was gonna do it. The insurance company looked at his report and went “mmm… so how about thirty thousand?”

So… no. So then we had to hire a lawyer and took them to court. We weren’t the only ones, thousands of people had to file these lawsuits. The lawyer told us not to let the mortgage company cash the $30,000 of checks we’d been given for the storm so far because it could be argued to be us agreeing to that number. He said we just had to WAIT. So the checks got too old to cash.

The Visiting Nurse Service started sending a therapist to our house once a week for each of the three of us to help with “Hurricane-Related PTSD”. Yup. Cool. On top of my regular C-PTSD. Awesome. But the guy was nice and having therapists to talk to twice a week (my regular one and this guy) was helpful. And he gave me some worksheets that helped me kind of have more of a tool kit. Everything still sucked but hey, we all trudged on.

Pretty sure this was around when the first roofing shingles started falling off of our rental house. We told the landlord that this was a problem and that the property was going to start getting leaks in the roof. We pointed out that it said in our lease that he was supposed to fix this little ‘issue’.

Repeatedly.

Including in writing and by sending him photos of the slowly growing stack of shingles that were not on the roof anymore and the leaky window.

And he still did diddly squat about it.

For five years.

Meanwhile during this whole… process, New York State started the New York Rising program to help rebuild the houses who were tied up in lawsuits like ours or who didn’t have insurance like my grandfather’s. We applied right away. It seemed like an answer!

…So then uh… New York Rising LOST our file.

…Uh… Twice.

And when they finally DID decide to properly process our application, they gave us a grand total of $88,000 and put us in the ‘Build a whole new house’ category. Our house is, as I said, under 900 square feet in size. You literally cannot build a house in our area for that price at that size. Especially when it’s a property that needs 14 foot deep helical pilings and a nine foot high foundation to comply with current code. The foundation alone is $50,000. The lowest estimate we found from any construction company after no less than TEN bids was $180,000 NOT counting the architect who’s another $15,000. NY Rising expected us to be able to rebuild for a fraction of that. So we started looking into finding other financing possibilities while waiting on the lawsuit to continue going through.

We decided to hire our neighbour’s architect because he was something resembling almost affordable. We gave him a deposit. …A few weeks later, he had a heart attack while leaving the building department’s office. …A few weeks after that, he started being investigated for embezzling money from his clients.

At this point, we’d been out of our house for years. And more and more shingles kept falling off of the roof of the rental. Then a siding tile fell off too because the landlord’s son’s landscaping company crashed a lawnmower into it.

We started looking at houses to buy so that at least we would own something.

Then my grandfather (who had been a major contributor to our household finances) had a severe stroke. Six months later, he died. Suddenly we were $3,000 tighter per month. The possibility of buying a house went out the window. But we made do as best as we could.

FEMA was paying for the rental house we were living in while going through all of the appeal and lawsuit procedures and, when we hit their funding cap, New York Rising’s IMA program stepped in to pay “whichever is less, your rent or mortgage”. It still meant higher costs as the rent around here is more than our mortgage, but it made it so we could get by.

The one silver lining was that once my grandfather was out of the picture (since he’d been living with us in a shared rental since Sandy), I was able to start on testosterone injections. January 28, 2015, I was able to start my injections and officially begin the medical side of my transition.

Then New York Rising hit a cap on IMA funding. Which… sucked pretty fucking hard because then there was a few thousand a month more money we had to find to shell out. But then the program was extended and that was awesome.

Then our cat, Pickles, developed severe kidney problems. She was my best friend since the day she showed up on our doorstep a week after we bought our house in 2006 and wandered into the kitchen demanding petting. She moved into our lives and never left. I couldn’t give her up without a fight. So I spent all of my savings on her medical bills and started giving her saline injections twice a day every day to help her kidneys flush the toxins they couldn’t handle themselves.

Then the IMA ran out again. So back to the land of suck. They told us we would be eligible for a little more funding. But only if we demolished the existing house.

In order to legally demolish the house, we had to pay for a construction company to do it under their license. New York Rising expected us to be able to demo the house for $5,000. The lowest bid we received was for $9,000. When we told them this, their reaction was essentially “yeah, yeah, we know, just make it work”. Make it work is a cool and funny phrase when spoken by an aging fashion consultant on television. It’s not so cool or funny when it’s being told to you by the people who are supposed to help you fix your house. It is stressful as hell.

Then Pickles got sicker. And sicker. And her at-home dialysis wasn’t enough to keep her going anymore. Pickles passed in May 2016.

In 2017, we finally won our lawsuit. The judge ruled the insurance company had to release a full payment to the policy maximum of $250,000! Those jerks tried giving us $15,000 and the judge was like “Uh… no, this is $250,000 of damage”. Victory! But we were still out our legal fees because, unlike homeowner’s insurance where the insurance company pays the fees, flood insurance is federally underwritten so you’re not allowed to get the legal fees paid for. Some flood insurance companies realized they’d fucked up and as a result agreed to pay for the legal fees. Our flood insurance company… wasn’t so generous. But a check was still generated by the flood insurance company thanks to the judge. Huzzah, light at the end of the tunnel!

…Then the lawyer refused to sign the check.

Apparently our lawyer has had dealings with our mortgage company before and run into the same problem as we had with their “we’ll release your funding at the end” theory. Except for him that meant “we won’t pay out your legal fees until the house is finished” and he didn’t like that. So they wanted him to sign the check over to them and he wanted them to sign the check over to him. They spent years arguing over a piece of paper with some dollar signs on it while we got needlessly further into debt.

Then one of my ferrets, Wasabi, my emotional support animal, got really sick really suddenly.

By the time the vet scrambled to find out what was wrong, it was too late and he was gone. It turned out that he had a rare autoimmune condition caused by heavy metal exposure from the water. His sister survived, but now Lemon was alone and she and I were both devastated. Watching the way she would get excited and then sad any time we brought out a toy with Wasabi’s scent on it broke my heart so I replaced her toys.

A month later, people came knocking on our door offering free water filters if they would let us track the toxic plume of decades old industrial chemicals and waste spreading unhindered through the groundwater supply that had apparently reached us and was contaminating our pipes.

Eventually, during all this, New York Rising started to realize that their $160 per square foot amount just wasn’t enough when it came to houses like ours. So they started a program called the Recon 100 program. The goal of this program was supposed to be that New York Rising would take over the build process, they would hire contractors and architects in bulk, essentially hiring them for ‘bundles’ of 10 or 20 properties at a time to get them to accept a lower profit per house because they would be guaranteed months of solid work. We were signed up into the program.

Now, as a condition of this program, we had to stop doing any work on our own, we’d have to return whatever hadn’t been spent on repairs already, and we’d have to give them any insurance checks. But New York Rising was bragging about how they had programs that would allow you to repay the funding over several years because they knew everyone was using a little bit here or there to make ends meet. And that was all well and dandy because once the repairs were done, the mortgage company would release what they were holding one way or another. They would have to. …Right?

Meanwhile, our rental assistance hit the next cap. New York Rising told us not to worry because once this paperwork was approved, we’d be eligible for a higher cap of extended rental assistance. It was just a matter of waiting for the paperwork to get approved, they said.

Then our caseworker at New York Rising decided she was going to deny our receipts for the funds already spent. And that she wasn’t going to file the appeals to that denial that we explicitly asked her in writing to file.

Then on top of that, we discovered that at some point our NYR caseworker had decided to NOT sign us up for the extended timeline repayment thing because… fuck knows why, honestly? And that now she wasn’t going to apply us for it because “oh it’s full now”. So NY Rising decided that, before they’d do anything, they wanted us to give THEM the money that was still sitting in those pre-lawsuit paper checks that went old immediately. The government decided that we either had to magic the money of an un-cashed check out of thin air or else it was up to us to: 1, get them reissued, 2, get them deposited by the mortgage company, and 3, somehow get the mortgage company to issue that money to New York Rising.

And they wanted all this done in less than a week because they decided this in the last phase of our approval process and there were other deadlines really close. …Needless to say, the mortgage company was like “lol um nah” even to the theoretical idea of giving the money to NY Rising for the repairs, nevermind the hassle of getting the checks reissued by the flood insurance company with an active lawsuit ongoing.

New York Rising only said “too bad, figure it out yourself and PS because you’re not in this program anymore, we won’t give you the continued rental assistance, why aren’t you done rebuilding your house yet?” Meanwhile, we were waiting on them for months because they told us it was just waiting for the paperwork to go through.

Meanwhile, we had a new jerk of a builder/flipper neighbour. He’d bought the house next door to us when the family with the new baby decided it wasn’t worth waiting so many years to have their own house fixed. Let’s call him Fish Head. He decided to have his building supplies delivered to our neighbour’s yard WITHOUT her permission because there wasn’t enough room on his property. Straight up, he had a whole pallet of building supplies just dumped on her yard. She complained, obviously, and her husband threatened to call the cops. So he moved his shit to to OUR yard because we happened to not be there that day. It took WEEKS to get him to move the shit, even WITH calling the cops.

Turns out, cops don’t give a shit if someone puts hundreds of pounds of building materials on your yard. They’ll tell you you’re well within your rights to move it yourself but if you don’t have a forklift or a whole team of burly humans to assist you in the move then too bad so sad.

Thanks, Fish Head.

But back to the housing. We were months overdue on the rent because we were “just waiting for the paperwork to finish processing”. They told us we’d get all the back stuff in one lump payment. They lied and now we were up shit’s creek.

Our scummy landlord finally sent a notice saying “I’ve waited long enough, get out”. So that was… cool. We were able to keep him from coming after the back rent by pointing out that he was a slum lord and that we’d notified him in writing about being a slumlord, but it still meant we had to move out immediately and in a rush. Thankfully, it was May.

So on June 1st 2018, we moved into our RV parked at a local campsite. Three adults, a cat, and a ferret, crammed into an RV that was anything but recreational.

We installed cameras on our house around this point because Fish Head kept having his workers trample all over our property and they kept breaking things and leaving garbage everywhere.

Then the engineer said he thought he could figure out a way to save the main body of our house and raise it, that we’d only have to demolish off the back room and possibly the bathroom in order to raise it. It was another light at the end of a repeatedly lengthening tunnel. So we changed tracks completely and had him start drafting stuff up for us to raise the existing house, rebuilding only the porch.

Now, here’s the thing about the local campsites, we don’t have many of them and they sell out pretty quickly. Especially for the height of the summer. So they didn’t have any of their ‘full hook-up’ sites, AKA the ones that get you electricity and everything, but we had water and a bathroom and a shower facility and the barbecue to cook food, and it was… survivable. Not exactly comfortable but survivable.

We started doing the work to repair the house instead of following the line of thinking of rebuilding it. We cashed in everything we could and scraped together every scrap of money we possibly could, we sold things, we asked for help where we could, we got a very understanding contractor to give us the lowest prices we could. We managed to get the mortgage company to pay out some of the Tropical Storm Irene money directly to the contractors. Remember that guy, wayyyy back in 2011? And the mortgage inspector who missed a pre-Sandy inspection by a week? Yeah. They still had that money. So even though it was technically Sandy damages as we’d already done the work from Irene, we managed to get them to pay that out. But WHATEVER. It got it paid.

We had a looming deadline from New York Rising that they wanted the house raised by December 31st. Or at least that they wanted it lifted and pending the new foundation. They call this ‘cribbing’ and it basically means your house goes up on Jenga Towers and that you can’t live in it for a while until the foundation is done and it goes back down. So we had to somehow make that happen. But first things first, the campground was closing for the season and we had to have a place to live.

On November 1st 2018, we were able to move back into our house.

Temporarily, at least, while permits and construction drawings and everything went through for getting the house raised.

So we applied to the mortgage company to get the remaining $40,000 that they had from Tropical Storm Irene, the full final payout. And, amazingly, we got it. In it came and went right back out it went to the contractors who were supposed to be working on raising the house because that December 31st deadline was still looming.

Then Fish Head who we keep running into issues with, FINALLY got a stop work order on his house for not having the right permits. Serves you right, Fish Head. But, in retaliation, he decided to lie to the building department that we were living there without utilities? Somehow? When we literally had all our utilities? And had gotten the “90% complete” inspection from our mortgage company? So THAT was a whole mess to try to straighten out. When we met with the head of the building department, he literally turned to the guy next to him and said “See, remember I told you about this guy? This is the retaliation I was telling you about” because he was the guy who had personally signed the stop work order on Fish Head.

So the next big concern was that December 31st deadline. Everyone kept debating whether or not New York Rising would extend it at the last minute again (as they’d done that once before), and we started scrambling to try to find somewhere to live while the house was raised. Ideally, we were looking for somewhere that WASN’T the cold tiny RV in the middle of a New York winter. We applied to a few apartments but because we were paying the mortgage and everything our debt to income ratio didn’t qualify.

On December 24th, 2018, we got the $250,000 check from the flood insurance company with our name and the mortgage company’s name. It seemed like a Christmas Miracle. So we immediately sent it over to the mortgage company so they could cash it and we could apply to have those funds released, remember, our house was FINISHED and HABITABLE, except for needing to be raised per the new flood zoning stuff. At the very least, we had the 90% inspection, and on our next inspection we got a 99%.

So we immediately started applying for the final permits for getting the house raised and my grandfather’s house demolished. The lady at the building department is… nice but not very organized. So we had to deal with the town jerking us around with the permits taking forever to get done, well past the time estimates they tell you on the phone when you call and ask about time estimates.

We rushed to have our disconnects done. Water, electric, sewer. The house was all wrapped up in a pretty bow ready to be raised. We moved into a hotel. All we needed was the final elevation permit and the money from the mortgage company.

So back to the mortgage company and that $250,000. The mortgage company denied the payout 3 times saying, “Oh we don’t have… this paper or that paper” for papers we had confirmation they had. The guy on the phone one time when we were like “….We submitted that one on x date while speaking to Z employee”, he tried saying, “Oh this fax isn’t legible…” and we were just like “…FAX… you mean the scanned in PDF we submitted via your web upload?” And he was like “…Oh. hold please…” and suddenly he could read the form. Magic. So basically they were just LYING to us. Why? Fuck knows.

Then it was, “Everything is fine and it’ll be issued in 3 days” on the 23rd. And we got the elevation permit! And the demo permit on my grandfather’s house! Everything was rolling along and it was all going to be fine! Right?

Not so fast.

On the 31st we still had no check. We called and it was, “Oh it has to go to this other department because it’s over $70,000, but everything is approved and they’ll issue the check in 5 to 7 days, HONEST”.

We called back on the 5th and THAT lie had turned into “Oh well… we sold your loan effective the 4th, you’ll have to ask the new guys”. The mortgage company SOLD OUR LOAN to another company WHILE our payout was “APPROVED AND SENT TO THE CHECK ISSUING DEPARTMENT”.

We called the new guys who told us, “Oh we don’t even have a ID NUMBER assigned for your loan yet, call back in a week to get your loan number and then it’s another week until we can even see your funds and start your payout claim oh and we probably need to schedule our own inspection.”

So it’ll be easily a month OR MORE before we get the money.

We are trying to expedite this whole process as best as we can. We managed to get the ID number in only 4 days. They seem to be arguing with themselves about whether or not they need a whole new inspection or not.

Meanwhile, we only really had the money for the hotel for the lift time but all the disconnects have been done (there is no heat, water, or electricity) so it’s not like we can just go BACK HOME during the delay either.

We have $250,000 on the way and we’re about to be homeless. Again. For the third time in 18 months.

If we can just get $5,000, we can pay to have the house RECONNECTED AGAIN to everything so we can wait these fuckers out and get the payout.

Every little bit helps.

Please.

The other option is living in the RV again just to have a roof over our heads. But unlike last time when it was warm, it is February and we are in NY. It snowed yesterday. RVs aren’t designed to keep warm when there’s snow out.

Please help me and my family stay in a house.

My paypal link is here: http://paypal.me/mihaelkai .

I am also taking a limited number of 1000 word or less commissions! That’s about the limit of what I can handle committing to right now! DM me for details!

(Mutuals/Friends: If you can’t donate but you can loan us some for two months or so, we can pay you back as soon as we get that check? Please let me know if it is a donation or if you would like to be paid back so I can keep a record.)

#transcrowdfund #trans crowd fund #please help #please consider donating #donation #donations

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