#based on my own illegible handwriting

[velvet-games]

I finally finished the piece for @prince-liest's OC, Tzafael! this really reminded me of how fun character design is (and also that I've completely forgotten how to make digital art, but that's besides the point...) <3

credit to @hogbogglerspirits for the umbrella design! I kind of butchered it so please look at the original and throw lots of love at them

LOTS of notes, draft sketches, brainstorming, etc. below the cut. enjoy!

(note: a lot of what I'm talking about is based on posts prince made under their #tzafael tag, so take a look at those if you haven't yet!)

thanks for joining me below the cut! here's the sketch without the colors as a treat (in case you want to color it yourself or something, idk).

notes about making the digital drawing:

holy shit this took me forever -- I was not kidding about forgetting how to make digital art lmao. I forgot how much less forgiving digital lines are and genuinely lost the spoons to even attempt lineart, hence just a sketch below the colors.

some of you might've seen the original sketch I sent to prince, which the digital version diverges from just a little. it's mostly the halo which I'll explain later, and I finally caved and drew the sixth eye (you can tell I drew and erased it multiple times in the sketch lmao -- still don't know if I prefer it with or without)

here's the original color ref by the lovely @gendermeh! my color scheme ended up looking really different, so some notes about that:

I was looking at references for magpies like this

and I wanted to basically follow that color scheme while also being somewhat similar to the original -- dark head/shoulders --> dark top of the jacket, bright blue wings --> bright blue bottom of the jacket, greenish tailfeathers --> green pants, hints of purple --> purplish sleeve and pant ends

I also tried (and mostly failed, let's be real) to capture the iridescence of the feathers -- they look like oil spilled on the pavement or iridescent hematite to me! I think the key ended up being adding bright greens/purples and roughly blending them into the blues or vice versa but I didn't really figure that out until I got to the pants lol.

I'm gonna be honest; I don't remember why I went with this shape for the tailcoat. I just remember being unhappy with the sketch and then trying a bunch of different shapes that mostly looked worse lol -- I think I landed on this because a split tail kind of looks like wings?

KEPT the shoes -- absolutely magnifique. I wish I knew how to color gold better.

added lots of jewelry! they like shiny things :)

ALSO PLEASE LOOK AND APPLAUD ME. I FINALLY REMEMBERED TO LABEL MY LAYERS!! NO I DON'T REMEMBER WHY THE HALO HAS ITS OWN LAYER.

alright, time for some more design notes/explanations + draft sketches!

but first, a couple disclaimers:

I want to make it very clear that I LOVE everything about the original design. I made a lot of changes based on personal preference/the way I interpreted the character. I was actually planning on making a digital piece that was more faithful to the original design too, but I was just out of spoons for it cause of life stuff.

you probably shouldn't try to read the notes I made in the sketches I'm about to show you unless I say otherwise. most of it is incoherent brain vomit in illegible artist handwriting and I'll transcribe/explain the stuff I think is important :) (the stuff in quotes are direct transcriptions of my notes)

I know my sketches are very messy lol. I only draw for fun, so I usually don't force myself to make stuff any neater than necessary unless it's supposed to be a formal piece. try to bear with me.

1:

my first few sketches of them! (I think?) this was before I sent prince a laundry list of questions so I was still trying to get a vibe

"magpie -- beak lips?" -- you'll see this in a few sketches; I considered giving them the lipstick design that velvette has since it looks like a beak. I still kind of think it's cute, but 1) I'm pretty sure velvette is the only character that has them, so I didn't want to make it seem like they were related somehow and 2) I thought it might be distracting with how much other crazy stuff I ended up including in their head/face

also, sidenote since it's relevant to what I said about vel: something I realized was important is how one character's design relates to the designs of the rest of the cast. I wasn't sure how much I should've gone for what looked good in a vacuum, how much should be based on what other characters looked like canonically, or what other characters would look like if I also designed them. it ended up being mostly the second option, but it was honestly still a struggle. should I take away some of the tumblr-sexyman-ness (no shade to tumblr sexymen; I love them) because there are other characters that already have it? should I relate their design to sera's and emily's in the show or should I think about how I would've designed sera and emily? should I follow some of the design philosophy of the original show and just throw stuff on there because it looks cool (the answer is yes btw)? decisions, decisions ...

I don't think this showed up really well in most of the drawings, but they actually have a black line down their nose! let's take a look at sera:

since they're siblings, I wanted to include some similar facial markings. the nose line ended up being the only thing I kept though -- I was going to include freckles, but I have a compulsive need to give every character giant bottom lashes so there ended up being no room T.T I like that the magpie's hints of purple kind of match hers tho!

the wingification of the hair begins! I was still unsure of it at this point, but it was an idea I had since I was kind of struggling with how straight the feathers were in the original.

"maybe the ones on their head count as wings (so only one main pair)" -- I originally just had the 2 pairs of wings on their head, so I was thinking of just giving them 1 pair on their back so there would be still be 6 total. also this middle drawing of them is meant to be their exorcist outfit (I wanted it to be a cross between what the other exorcists wear and sera's outfit)

at this stage, I was thinking of giving them more magpie-like characteristics, so I looked at some references and tried to emulate them in a more human design. this ended up being really awkward so I scrapped it, but I still like the idea that their exorcist mask looks like a bird (kind of like a plague doctor's)

2:

peekaboo! I love the idea of them using the wing hair to cover their eyes lol. (ended up using that idea for my own seraph OC since that's their biblically accurate purpose: to cover their eyes/faces in reverence/humility -- doesn't really fit with tzafael tho lol, so they show their face most of the time)

an eyeball in the bowtie -- pretty self-explanatory. the eyeball motif is important.

the one in the middle is just me practicing drawing the original design, and the one on the right is another exorcist outfit I think. I wanted to include the diamond motif/points that sera has on her dress (the diamonds on the bottom turn into eyeballs, which is why the final design also has eyeballs on tzafael's sleeves/pants)

3:

lots of notes on the side based on what prince said in response to my ask

"localized omniscience (power of sight) -- cool + ironic that their sight was supposed to serve God but made them see Heaven for what it really is instead"

another exorcist outfit, this time including the feathers

I was also experimenting with the halo; I was trying to make it look sort of like sera's crown, but that didn't feel right ...

some practice with eyes -- my style is pretty flexible with eye shapes, so I try to make them suit the character. I drew lute's eye and also an actual magpie's as references -- lute's because of the exorcist background and also because they looked appropriately sharp, magpie's for obvious reasons. once again, my compulsive need for giant bottom lashes strikes

there was honestly a lot to balance with the eyes -- I wanted them to look condescending/bored (lowered top lid) but also amused (raised bottom lid) and like a magpie (round) but also harsh/mischievous (sharp, maybe slit pupils like a snake) and similar to sera's (but not too decorated -- also does it make sense for them to look like sera's if emily's don't even look like sera's?)

considered having wings on the shoulders -- the magpie pattern is super cool, so it would've been nice to have that somewhere more explicitly in the design. I still think that might fit in an outfit they would wear in heaven (maybe for formal occasions)

the introduction of the sweatervest! honestly I kind of love this for the way it captures more of the preppy, spoiled old-money upper-class vibe some heaven residents have, but it was scrapped since I couldn't imagine them wearing that while trying to scare the denizens of hell. maybe something they wear casually though.

"yes nictating membrane (on every eye!)" -- AHH I'm so sad I didn't end up putting this to use. I just feel like the whole effect is based on actually seeing them blink, and I don't animate lol.

4:

ugh, the nefarious laughter one ... don't worry I tried harder on a sketch later on lol.

"like the diamonds on Sera + Em" + "diamonds turn into eyes?" -- I draw the diamonds on the sweatervest turning into eyes later.

tried an actual bow instead of a bowtie -- very cute but didn't fit the vibe.

a skirt! I think they would wear a skirt sometimes.

5:

"FUCK ASS BOB" -- asghdk the wingification of the hair continues. unfortunately, I'm realizing at this point that the silhouette of the hair is starting to look a lot like alastor's. I gave a very half-hearted attempt at mitigating this, but it goes back to the thing of how much I am obligated to the original show's designs and what looks cool to me -- I think the wing hair fits them and I didn't want to change it because of alastor, plus my alastor design actually has completely different hair anyway. I did add a third pair to the back to look like a ponytail though.

introduction of the scarf! I was actually going to include this in the final design but uh,,, I forgor. are you starting to see a pattern.

the reason for the scarf is that the "tzafael going to places they know they'll draw attention/can incite chaos" reminded me of that scene in avengers where loki walks into a fancy building looking pretentious af and just casually stabs a guy's eye out. not really the same thing but I felt like the vibe matched. hence, loki's funny little scarf fit.

6:

uaoughdfjh it was SO FUN to draw the wing hair, and it was at this point that I realized they had to stay even though I wasn't sure if it was too different from the original.

gossiping with rosie cause that's the first person I thought of -- tzafael also summoned a pearl necklace to clutch because of the sheer drama of it all (your ex-husband did what??)

also started drawing the rings on their hands. magpie like shiny.

7:

lots of notes cause I was trying to compile the things I still needed to think about/incorporate into the final (I thought this was gonna be the last draft ... haha)

trying to include more bird/eye motifs

"fish ... purse?" -- ha! I forgot I was gonna give them a fish purse. I think I drew that in a later sketch, but not them wearing it.

"picked up Hellish traits bc of extended stay -- existential crisis?" -- I asked prince about the sharp teeth, and their answer implied that they became sharp as they stayed in hell longer, which got me thinking ... I feel like that's actually a great body horror concept. lucifer falling and looking like a normal angel at first, eventually waking up to more and more devilish features and feeling more and more like he's lost his home and his past self ... spooky.

another exorcist outfit -- I actually really like the eyes on the ribs! I never made a final draft for the exorcist uniform, but it would probably look close to what I drew here.

the one on the bottom was meant to be similar to the feathered shoulder pad idea, but this time with the whole magpie (with giant eyes). tried putting the "freckles" (really just dots in this case) over their brows, but that ended up looking kinda weird.

the eye is pretty close to the final design

the one on the right was supposed to be the full final design, but I was totally off lol -- the long trench coat really doesn't give off the right vibe at all

8:

playing around more with the loki vibes of the scarf, also added an eyeball to the chest

I never got happy with the design of the back of the coat -- I think it should probably just be blank at this point. but the sketch here is meant to look like wings/tailfeathers.

yet another exorcist outfit, this time with more magpie motifs. I actually like this one a lot, but I probably should've added the eyes on the ribs from the last sketch. I think I also considered giving them actual tailfeathers at this point.

9:

thanks for sticking with me! I promise we're almost done. have a trans dinosaur I saw while I was travelling as a treat <3

10:

this is after I finished the sketch for the final piece and realized I didn't like the halo design. I drew lute's, sera's, em's, and adam's as refs. (honestly I love the show's idea that each person/people of each rank have a different kind of halo -- I wonder if they can switch them out?)

my main inspiration ended up being the exorcist halo, but I made it look more like an eyeball -- since it always points toward heaven, we can say it's always "looking" at heaven.

(also sera's feather lashes! they're so cute)

11:

EVEN MORE EXORCIST DOODLES

12:

tzafael shooing away my fox demon OC

13:

these are actually sketches for my own seraph OC (raguel), but I wanted to include it since it has even more wing/feather hair variations. I also think the idea of the eyelashes being feather-like could've been cool for tzafael.

14:

some more OG design doodles

tzafael and raguel together because self-indulgence is the name of the game babey (also wanted to draw tzafael freaked out with their wings flared)

(raguel's blind btw, hence asking for eyes -- tzafael has so many!)

you can probably read the dialogue here so give it a shot. I believe in you.

15:

you know what? the fish purse deserves some doodles

16:

putting them in Situations! I was reading over prince's posts again and I realized there were some funny things I could draw them doing/saying

again you can probably read the words here

angel dust also loves fish (but is apparently bad at taking care of them, hence the suffocating blobfish), so tzafael shows him their aquarium (complete with live fish and flora ofc)

I thought alastor was 8 ft but apparently he's 7.3 ft? so tzafael is enjoying the .2 ft they have on him

trying and failing again to come up with a design for the back of the jacket lol

THE crowley quote

apparently the halo still sends signals from the exorcists -- thought their reaction to the battle at the hotel would be funny

the nefarious laughter (take 2) that I promised -- based on a doodle of alastor viv did that I found

them being sad and curling up in a pile of shiny things like a dragon

OKAY I'M DONE. huge, huge thank you to prince for sharing their OC! this was a lot of fun and clearly inspired me a lot haha. please check out their writing; it's literally so good that I can't read anything else these days. I am chewing on their thoughts constantly.

this was an absolute monster of a post, so if you're still reading, I am both impressed and bewildered at your patience. I hope you enjoyed! (I certainly did!)

#prince (because they are very sweet): I'm excited to see your thoughts! #my thoughts: magpie like shiny hehe #hazbin hotel oc #prince-liest #hazbin hotel #my art #character design #sera hazbin hotel #em hazbin hotel

[cochineal-leviat]

Hopefully, this looks good. I'm new to posting comics online, and I'm unsure if this looks alright.

In case my handwriting is illegible, here is the transcript of the comic:

Magolor: "So, Susie. How did you get Meta Knight to work for you?" *Planet Robobot*

Susie: "Well, I seduced him with my-"

*Flips hair*

Susie: "-feminine charms~."

*Crickets chirping*

-Fun facts of this comic

*This is set during their weekly game night.

*The play cards are based on actual Kirby play cards from the MyNintendo store. I own a deck, and they're pretty cute. Unsurprisingly, all the Kings are Dedede, the Queens are Waddle dees, and the Jacks are Meta Knights. Kirby is all the aces, and various enemies are the rest of the suits, with the Meta-Knights belonging to the spade suit. The jokers are stone, Kirby.

*Marx's arms are a part of his wings/magic. But he cannot have wings and arms at the same time. Except for when he is Marx Soul.

*Taranza's white eyes are not actual eyes. They're fakes. (^∇^)

*Susie's a cyborg and can change her limbs, face and every little piece to whatever she feels like that day. But she is still organic.

#kirby series #kirby #susie kirby #magolor #magolor kirby #marx kirby #taranza #susie haltmann #taranza kirby #kirby gijnka #gijnka #comic #kirby comic #I had fun making this #Humour #or at least an attempt at it #my art #my comics

[whumpshaped]

Tears but make it soft?

tw emotional whump, lashing out, throwing stuff

"I don't want your help! I never asked for your help! I'm telling you to leave me alone!" Whumpee grabbed another book off the shelf, pulling their arm back for yet another vicious throw, but Caretaker's desperate cry made them stop in their tracks.

"No!"

For a split second, Whumpee mistook it for the sound of a wounded animal, one that would finally snap, and pounce, and tackle them to the ground to save their precious possession - but it wasn't that. It was the whine of a scared puppy, and that immediately became clear when Caretaker dropped to their knees, and threw their hands in the air to signal that they were done. No more trying to convince Whumpee. No more trying to force their own unwanted help on them. Anything to make Whumpee put the book down.

"Don't," they pleaded quietly, a stark contrast to their sudden, terrified scream. Whumpee couldn't stand the sight of tears already gathering in their eyes. "Please. Not that. I get it, I'll shut up, just- I know it doesn't mean anything to you anymore- but please..."

Anymore? Whumpee slowly lowered their hand, bringing the book back into their field of vision to take a look at the cover.

Oh.

They stared at the familiar work of art serving as the backdrop for the familiar words of the title. They remembered this book. It was the one they'd given Caretaker for their graduation, the one they'd wanted so badly.

"Happy intellectual birthday or whatever." Whumpee handed them shitty romance novel with a face that said they didn't want to be seen with it any longer than absolutely necessary. "Though I'm starting to doubt that a little, just based on your reading choices."

Caretaker took the book with a wide grin, unfazed by the jab. "It does feel like a rebirth to finally be free of this hellhole. Thanks."

They held their breath as they carefully opened it, only to find exactly what they thought would be there: that photo of the two of them, the one they'd placed there years ago as part of the gift. Their borderline illegible handwriting was poking out from under it, half-hidden promises of friendship in blue ink that was just about to run out. They had had to get another pen and retrace half the message.

Whumpee swallowed, closing the book, and placing it back on the shelf with gentleness Caretaker hadn't seen from them in months. "I'll be in my room," they muttered, leaving their former best friend alone before they could've said a single word.

~

@ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump

#asks #whump #whump drabble #emotional whump #lashing out #argument

[tristringerloveblog]

spent all day making a logo + fake album covers for my inkling's metal band, hadalpelagia! i think they're going to be an experimental black metal band, but i change my mind about their subgenre a lot. the logo text is based off the splatoon square script.

progression under the cut!

first i wrote the name "hadalpelagia" (derived from the hadalpelagic zone of the ocean) in the splatoon square font. i wrote it once in my own handwriting.

the second row i enlargened the first and last letters. the third row, i settled on a runic effect and started enclosing the rest of the text with the first and last letters. i wrote it one last time to clean up the letter designs.

i added some flavor to the bits sticking out and then enlargened the letters in the middle to give it some more variation. next i messed with the line weights and cleaned up the edges.

i knew i wanted the logo to look a lot gnarlier and less legible than this, but a lot of the band logos that do that incorporate symbolism that's either too much effort for me to draw (and doesn't fit their band anyways), like trees or veins; or they incorporate more mythical elements that wouldn't have had the same meaning to my inklings, like crosses, pentagrams, and celtic knots. i wanted the logo to give the same feeling to a human viewer as looking at a band logo with a pentacle/pentagram on it, but i couldn't include satanic imagery because it felt strange to say my inklings knew what that is. (i already had rune-based text, which is already a stretch, but i didn't want to include two stretches LOL).

i settled on basing the logo off a giant squid, but heavily stylized, with the shape of the tentacles and head forming a pentacle. the pentacle didn't really come through, but i'm happy with the design i ended up with. it has the two tentacles and eight arms of a great squid... kind of lol.

the last step was to recreate the drippy graphic style a lot of these illegible metal logos had. and that's where we get the final result!

i haven't even drawn all the oc's for this band yet. but they're all named partly after protagonists from other, older, shooter games.

the lead singer and guitarist, dynamo dacote, is named for buddy dacote, a cut character from doom. the bassist, jethro siemens, is named for jethro "jet" bradley from tron 2.0. (jet's father, alan bradley, was likely named for the allen-bradley electronics company. siemens is the name of a competitor.) lastly, b.j. thresher, the drummer, is named for b.j. blazcowicz from wolfenstein.

#splatoon #splatoon 3 #splatoon language

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Not a Hetalia question but I was told today that handwriting is different depending on the language? Is that true? Sorry if that's too off topic you just seemed like a good question to ask someone who reads old stuff

It can! Almost every time and place in history had its own script! The latin alphabet is very old and variations of writing are found around the world. I'm more familiar with Europe and the Americas because I can only write in European based languages so this sample is pretty narrow.

A lot of Germans I know use a Z that looks like a lightning bolt and I picked up that habit overseas as a teenager.

Cyrillic cursive like this that has bled into one of my Ukrainian coworkers English.

Or take this really cool example of an mid-century American who's first language was English, but wrote her post script here in her father's native Arabic.

I am pretty good at reading all kinds of handwriting after 6 years in archives and tbh I mostly think it's because I was taught 2 forms of writing.

One that was my standard 21st century American bubble letters like every teenage/20-something white girl that I still use occasionally.

But when I was really little I refused to pick a dominant hand so my writing was completely illegible. My French Canadian grandparents had me for a few years while my parents worked their careers out and made pick a hand to write with and found the only way my handwriting was legible is when I starre using Seyes. Which is still what I use to write my signature and anything that needs to look nice. The above sample is from me trying to show some niblings what they consider the ancient script of their ancestors (belle époque/Victorian origins lol.)

And then that's what my normal handwriting actually looks like. Legible enough for franglais shitposts and journalling but not very pretty. Without the grid things get pretty gross lol.

#the ask box || probis pateo #archives || sing o muse the voices of the dead

[its-deputy-caleb]

Scribbled Handwritten Notes – Juan Cortez x Reader

summary: based on the theory developed by @rarrabear​ and i, juan has  scribbled chicken-scratch handwriting and i made fic about it

note: this was meant to be a joke and then 4k later its emotional fluff and i haven’t edited the second half (thats tomorrow’s job) 

description: gender neutral reader | fluff | 4079 words |

Your bag hits the metal table with a thud as you waltz into Juan’s office and lean against his beloved workbench, a wicked smile across your face. The man in question drops the blowtorch in his hand, letting it crash into a pile of other exposed and dangerous tools as he begins celebrating the arrival of his favorite guerrilla.

“This better be worth it Señor Cortez– Clara has me working double time to secure these shipments of FND metal and gasolina.”

Juan holds his hand over his heart, faking heartache like he’s just heard the worst news possible. He pouts as he takes a step closer to you, lighting one of his cigars before pointing to his own puffed out chest.

“Didn’t you miss spending time with the infamous Juan Cortez?” His cigar leaves a puff of smoke as his hands wave around dramatically, trying and failing to get your undivided attention. 

“Aw common now, your ego doesn’t need another boost and you only call me to come crawling back to Clara's island when you really need something.” You can’t help but smile when Juan tries to brush your claim off. He had a habit of calling you at any hour of the day, whether to talk casually or to grab some more uranium on your travels and more often than not it’s during a shootout with the FND.

You know why he calls, the man clearly misses spending time with you but the luxury of relaxing and lounging around all day isn’t an option in Yara. Yet that only means you’re both excited to see each other when the bigger operations call you back to Libertad Headquarters.

“What? I’m not allowed to simply miss the company of my favorite guerrilla? That hardly seems fair…” Juan gives you a playful wink before turning around and picking up a flimsy napkin that you’re sure came from a bar. “Here– we’re planning to attack Castillo at Hotel Paraíso and I need you to look over my plans.”

You take the napkin from his hand, eyebrows raised in disbelief as you note the golden ring of whiskey stains along the top, no doubt from when he placed a bottle over the top of it. Your eyes scan over the scribbled chicken handwriting and the illegible words. On a good day Juan’s handwriting is terrible and this time round you can barely make out the words boom, Castillo and fasteners.

“Am I supposed to be able to read this?”

Juan looks at you like there’s absolutely nothing wrong with his genius planning methods. He takes the napkin back from you, clearly attempting to read it himself but even he struggles as he squints and tries to make out his own drunken scribbles.

“Look it's whatever– Dani will plant the explosives around Esperanza. The speech starts, charges detonate and we create a ring of fire around that hotel hotter than the devils asshole! It’s flawless, Castillo’s forces can’t get out and reinforcements can’t get in. Genius, no?” 

Juan takes a confident huff of his cigar, letting you scan over his little napkin again as he stands triumphantly like he’s just solved all of Yara’s problems.

“And you got all that from this napkin?” You don’t sound convinced, even as you bounce from eyeing Juan suspiciously to examining the napkin over and over.

“Ehh I improvised half of it.” Juan gives a cocky shrug, his free hand coming to scratch underneath his chin as he moves to sit atop of the workbench beside you. 

Folding the napkin in half to place it safely in your pocket, you lean into Juan’s space and tilt his head so his attention is on you.

“Mi viejo, how will anyone know your plans if you come up with it spontaneously? You can’t exactly wing it when there’s a team of guerrilla's waiting for your first move– it’s like you’re trying to confuse us all.”

Juan gives a soft chuckle, throwing his head back as he dusts the embers of his cigar onto the floor of his workshop.

“Rule eighty-nine; a Gurrellia’s best friend is confusion,” Juan’s nose brushes your cheek, now leaning into your space like he wants to kiss you but you tilt your head back, humming as he’s held just out of reach.

“Hmm I think you have your rules mixed up– confusion is the best friend of Juan Cortez. Whilst the guerrillas and the FND are busy being confused over deciphering the exact nature of your genius plans, you get to come out victorious right under their nose.”

“That’s why you’ll always be my best.” Juan practically beams from your words and from the kiss you plant on his cheek. 

You step away a moment later, walking over to the table in the middle of the room which holds blueprints of Esperanza’s buildings, sewer pipelines and even a few maps for turistas.

“Don’t spend all day standing there throwing compliments around cariño, we’ve got a dictator to take down and for that we need a legible plan and a well informed team of gurrellias.”

– 

The next few hours are spent working on Juan’s plan to trap Castillo in the Hotel. You listen intently as he explains how the surrounding checkpoints need to be blocked off from incoming forces and the foyer of the Hotel will be Dani’s starting point until he works up to the penthouse which will be where the speech is delivered. He rambles his flurry of ideas, all of them chaotic and have a high risk of disaster but you’d come to expect nothing less from the man.

Juan tells you everything you need to know between different tangents where he’s gone and gotten himself distracted. Somewhere between fighting tigers in Kyrat and stealing biochemical weapons in Chechnya, you’ve managed to pull it all apart and write down what’s necessary for the actual planning process. Your elbows rest on the desk and cradle your chin as you scribble in much neater handwriting all over the maps, drawing red lines and black circles to indicate FND checkpoints and the gurrellia’s rendezvous before hitting the Hotel. 

Thankfully, Juan is sober enough to have some level of readable handwriting at this point so you let him mark out the stations Dani will need to plant the explosives. You can’t help but affectionately roll your eyes and chuckle when you notice Juan’s X’s are much too large for Dani to figure out an exact location but you’ve known the ex-spymaster long enough to know it’s not in his nature to think over little details unlike yourself.

“There’s going to be snipers on every side of the Hotel– most likely on the tenth floor or higher to view the surrounding apartments. Those hijo de putas will spot anyone before we can even attempt to get near the entrance,” Juan holds up tourist pictures of the front entrance, scribbling and highlighting the ledges and key areas a sniper would use, “Reminds me of the time when Espinosa wanted me to guard the capital building, put me way up high to make sure nobody got that fucking zebra as he brought it into the building. That come mierda wan–”

“Juan, you're getting distracted again.”

“It’s all a part of the planning process, don’t stem the flame of excitement! You and me– we’re about to be guerrilla legends!”

When Juan sees your unimpressed look from the opposite side of the table, he places his cigar onto the ash tray and holds his hands up in mock surrender as he smiles at you.

“Alright, alright.. If you’re stationed at the rooftops across from me, we’ll be able to secure the front of the hotel and make sure Dani has cover if he needs to exit quickly.”

Your hand comes to put a red rectangle on the map to mark the buildings surrounding the Hotel, marking it as your position for the attack on El Presidente.

“You know, we might just be able to pull this off.”

Juan seems to have concluded your planning session, standing to gather a bag of supplies Dani would no doubt need to plant the explosives.

“And my gorgeous handwriting better go down in history as the hero in all of this!”

– 

The long drive to the Guerrilla hideout in Esperanza’s southwest is more than enjoyable. After packing in a green duffle bag full of explosives and overnight clothes, the two of you took the trip up to the capital in Juan’s 1956 Beaumont Valentina. 

Tunes were playing softly as the two of you softly sang along, the windows rolled down to let the breeze blow through the car. Sometime after crossing into Noventarmas you’d stolen Juan’s hat, letting it sit atop of your head to block your eyes from the afternoon sun.

It’s rare that the two of you get to enjoy time together just on your own and so you both soak up each other’s attention. Even if it’s cramped in his car, complaining about the amount of FND billboards you drive past.

The mood shifts from lazy driving on peaceful afternoons to something more somber and dangerous as you enter Esperanza through a checkpoint, dutifully liberated by Dani himself. There’s instantly a greater increase in Special forces as heavily armored vehicles patrol the main roads and checkpoints of the city.

Juan parks the car behind San Cayetano Orphanage, draping it in a cover so it won’t be confiscated or destroyed by any patrol which gets too close. From there the two of you took the Guerrilla paths under the city and over the rooftops until you finally met up with the rest of Libertad.

The hideout is nothing grand, looking more like a block of apartments than any real guerrilla station but once the two of you were inside it was alive with the hustle and bustle of busy people. Both of you take in the sights of people preparing weapons on workbenches, tightening armor and spray painting banners before making your way up the stairs to where Clara was waiting.

Having run over everything hundred times over you begin setting up maps along the metal table, ensuring none of the details are left out and there are no missing sections. You stand beside Juan as he relays the plans with Clara, watching as he points with a fresh cigar hanging between his fingers and highlighting all the locations where the explosives need to detonate in order to trap Castillo’s forces inside the Hotel.

Once Dani arrives to hear everything, you can’t stop the smile that forms by the fact Juan is clearly the most excited out of the four of you. Like a child who’s just gotten their favorite christmas present, Juan is jumping for joy as he hands Dani the bag of explosives painted in Libertad’s signature blue and labeled ‘El Boom de Juan’.

Of course, you’d painted the cover for him too. Not that you minded letting your creative outlet also contribute to taking down dictators but if it were up to Juan, his explosives would be painted in stick figures trying to kill each other.

Juan announced he needed a shower not long after handing the bag over to Dani and quickly made his exit. You figured Clara would want a word with the star guerrilla but just as you were about to leave yourself, she placed a hand on your shoulder and called for you.

“Will you relay all of this back to Benito's men? They’re some of our best and I want them to plant the last of the explosives.” Clara gives you a soft and affirmative smile as you return it with one of your own.

“Of course, Jefa. Everything will be ready for tomorrow.”

– 

You spent the rest of the afternoon with the guerrillas, using a pinboard to stand in front of as you directed groups of Benito’s men. As a leader within Libertad, it was easy enough to state mission objectives and make sure everyone knew when the explosives needed to be triggered and which location they needed to be in to assist Dani infiltrate the Hotel. You were quick, simple and to the point which Clara had always admired.

Everyone respected you in Libertad and you were often given the task to lead Los Bandido operations and help with bigger operations such as these which always meant you could spend Libertad member of them all, Juan Cortez. Even if that’s acting as his scribe for the day.

The sun had set long ago and now whilst everyone caught some much needed sleep, you sat on the rooftop terrace preparing your sniper rifle. You’d cleaned the thing more than once but it was something of a therapeutic ritual on the night before operations.

You took it all apart, cleaning each individual part before screwing it all back together again, testing the scope and its handling. Sometimes you’d alternate between modifying the silencer and installing a resolver reflex sight, that was until Dani joined you on the terrace.

He stood beside you, leaning with his elbows on the balcony as he looked nervously out towards the view of Esperanza lit up at night. His whole body seemed tense as he fiddled with the watch on his wrist and you could tell something was bothering him.

“You’re nervous?” You put your sniper back in its case, choosing to stand beside the man you’ve come to see as a friend since his joining at Libertad.

“Well yeah– we’re killing a dictator tomorrow and it feels too easy. Juan’s plan… it’s so spontaneous and loud, wouldn’t it be safer to go in stealthily, I just– I don’t know.” Dani deflates beside you, his posture sagging as he finishes his ramble of doubtful thoughts and you reach out to squeeze his shoulder in a show of comfort.

“Relax Rojas, you’re the best we have so don’t doubt your abilities for a second. If there's anyone who can pull this off it's you,” You look down over the balcony, watching for a moment as a few other guerrillas tinker at workbenches and fix up weapons of their own. 

“I know you may have your doubts about Juan and his tendency to be reckless but I trust him and he’s got more experience in this sort of thing than Clara, you and I combined,” Nodding in understanding and trust, Dani waits for you to continue. 

“You don’t have to trust him but I do. I promise you I've proof-read his plans a hundred times over, if I thought it would get you killed I wouldn’t just let it happen.” You smile softly at the memory of Juan’s god awful handwriting and your lighter mood seems to be the reassurance Dani was looking for.

“Gracias, it’s a blessing Juan has someone to keep him in line.”

Careful not to wake anyone around camp, you laugh gently as you realize being with Juan is like a job, albeit an enjoyable one. “He’s really not that bad.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah… you might not see it under his grouchy old man temper and tendency to drink instead of facing his problems but he can be sweet when he wants to be,” By now your attention is back on the city’s horizon, your gaze far away as you think about the ex-KGB agent who stole your heart. “You just haven’t seen him with all his walls down and well… I've grown very fond of him.”

Dani nods, understanding what it's like to have someone you trust and care about even if it feels like your whole lives are spent fighting constantly and outsmarting danger. When the guerrilla yawns loudly next to you, his hand covering his mouth, you take it as a key to wrap things up.

“Get some sleep Rojas, you’re tomorrow’s star player and we’ll need you well rested.”

– 

The next morning comes quickly and soon you find yourself standing on the rooftop of an apartment complex. Everyone had confirmed their positions over the comms and now it’s a waiting game as Dani plants the last three explosives.

You and Juan had taken out the snipers efficiently, making sure neither of you were in any danger of being seen. As you look through your scope now, Juan can be seen from the opposite rooftop to you, his green Hawaiian shirt wiggling as he raises one hand to wave at you. The two of you act like immature cats as you use your laser red-dot sight to weave between each other’s feet until Dani’s voice finally cackles through the speaker in your ear.

“Juan, the packages have been dropped off.”

“You sound like a fucking postman, just say ‘hey Juan, I planted the bombs.’ but you’ve done good work– I sent you a photo, come find us on the rooftops.” 

Through your scope you watch as Juan takes his phone out, no doubt to send his location to Dani. He then holds the phone out in front of him and at first you think he’s gesturing to you in some strange signal for help before your phone is buzzing and a picture of Juan comes through. He’s winking with a bright smile and if you zoom in close enough, you can see he’s angled it to include you far away in the background.

“Juan, are you on the west side of the hotel or the east?” Dani’s voice sounds slightly huffed and out of breath but if the gunshots a few blocks over are anything to go by, you guess he’s simultaneously jumping between buildings and escaping some of Castillo’s Special Forces.

“It’s the west apartments guerrilla and if you forget what I’m like, just look for the father figure you always wish you had.”

You had to temporarily take your earpiece out to make sure no one heard you chuckle at Juan’s statement but not to the point where you missed Dani’s friendly fire back. “I think you mean drunk uncle Juan.”

“Actually Dani, you’ll find Juan is a whole six hours sober,” You can hear both Dani and Juan chuckle on the other end of the line, six hours was a new daily record for Juan.

“I may be sober now, but who knows what the day has in store. Maybe we can go for drinks later, cariño.” The sultry and suggestive tone from Juan left little to the imagination and you couldn’t help but flirt right back with the man, that is until Dani was coughing in disgust and shock on the comms.

“Ugh I do not need to hear your failed attempt at flirting, Juan.”

“Who said I was failing guerrilla?”

– 

All the banter died down when Dani started to head for the Hotel entrance. The FND soldiers were everywhere, with more numbers than you’d initially anticipated and so you were mostly focused on sniping officers and heavy gunners on the ground.

Everyone’s focus now was on getting Dani up to the penthouse, with the exception of a few compliments from Juan on your aim it was mostly quiet in concentration.

The soldiers that remained outside turned their attention towards the two of you and the other guerrillas on the ground once Dani was secure inside the Hotel. Engineers were wiring tanks and mounted guns to fire on their own whilst Rocketeers and Heavy Gunners fired upon buildings, forcing you to take cover behind ventilation systems on top of the roof.

You were so preoccupied with the soldiers below you that you didn’t take note of the high ranking officer who had climbed the ladder leading to your hiding spot. Everything slowed down as you gasped softly, hearing footsteps behind you before there was a loud whoosh noise and the crack of a helmet.

A body hit the ground and you turned to see the officer lying in a puddle of blood with a red dot still wandering over the now destroyed helmet. Juan raises his hand high into the air from across the foyer as you move to mimic his movement, a silent acknowledgment that you’re safe.

“Dani?! What’s going on? Do you have eyes on Anton?” Clara’s voice comes crackling into your ear, her voice distressed over the prolonged period of radio silence from everyone.

“There’s nobody here… Clara, I think the speech was a recording.”

You press your fingers against your earpiece to better hear Clara and you watch a tank blast open the hotel doors and a team of heavily armed special forces move through into the building no doubt where Dani would be in the penthouse.

“It’s a set up, Castillo’s forces are getting through the building– get out of there Dani.”

That was the cue for everyone to make their exit and so you threw your sniper over your shoulder and began to take the three ziplines over to Juan. It was always such a rush to glide over heights, ziplining and grappling around buildings or caves but it also had its practical purposes of escaping in short notice.

When you reached Juan, you gently took him by the arm, dragging him out of harm's way as the tank rattled the buildings around you. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here mi viejo.”

– 

After the unsuccessful assassination of Castillo, everyone was more than deflated and moral was down but that didn’t stop you and Juan from just being in each others space. Especially considering you had almost died.

The two of you were back in his workshop, lounging in your only pair of soft pajama pants left which had been your favorite birthday gift from Lola. One of Juan’s shirts had taken its rightful place in your pajama set and you were currently cuddled in your shared bed above his workshop. 

It was probably too hot for any form of cuddling but neither of you cared as exhaustion was kicking in with every passing minute. Juan’s head was tucked into your shoulder and you had your arms wrapped loosely around his torso in a warm hug as you both let go of the tension in your limbs.

You were just about ready to fall asleep when you noticed the lack of snoring. Juan was rarely awake for longer than five minutes after lying down so you knew something was bothering him, but before you could ask, he beat you to it.

“Did you really mean it?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?” Tilting your head to the side in confusion, you lean back slightly to look at him with soft eyes, trying to convey without words that he can open up when it’s just the two of you together. Your hands run up and down his skin, trailing the patterns of scars and tattoos which bump and ripple under the pads of your fingers.

“About how you care about me even though I’m an old drunk.”

It clicks into place then, just exactly what Juan is referring to. He must have overheard you talking to Dani last night.

“I meant every word.”

Wrapping your arms around him tighter, you pull him into your arms and place a kiss to the top of his head before smushing your cheek affectionately atop of his hair. Juan’s practically crushed in your hug but he’s in no way complaining, instead choosing to lean into everything you give him as his arms wrap around you too.

“Rule number twenty-two; a guerrilla spymaster can’t go without his kisses.”

Your hands come up to hold his face, practically stopping him from moving as you litter kisses from his forehead all the way down to his lips, both of you giggling and laughing between each of them.

“That’s the Juan Cortez style!”

Juan places a final kiss to the corner of your mouth before he settles beside you, pulling you into a more comfortable position suited for sleep. Your legs tangle together and your head rests against his as you both breathe out a sigh of relief.

“And Juan?” Your voice breaks the gentle silence of the room.

“Hmm?”

“Next time, when I’m to be your designated scribe I’ve got a challenge for you,” With your eyes closed and voice drowsy with sleep, your nose lightly brushes along his cheek in lazy affection. “I’ll buy you as many drinks as you’d like if you can make it through explaining your plans once without getting distracted.”

Juan’s laughter reverberates through both your chests, settling a warm feeling in your stomach.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

Fin.

#long story short toddler's have better handwriting than juan #but we love him #juan cortez #juan cortez x reader #gn!reader #far cry #far cry 6 #fc6 #fc6 writing #fc6 fic #clara garcia #dani rojas #anton castillo #Benito Ménguez #benito fc6

[sezja]

Based on this art (and a Twitter conversation) from @charmwitch!

Endwalker MSQ spoilers (approx. 83)

"Guydelot, your handwriting."

"A man's hand gets sore after the first hour or so, Chief." 

"It will have to be rewritten-"

Guydelot scoffs. "Rewritten?"

Sanson hands the report back to him, careful not to jostle the cast around his own right arm, safely tucked into a sling. He counts himself fortunate to have returned home from the snow-whipped fields and rubble-strewn streets of what had once been Garlemald with few injuries to show for it - a broken arm is better by far than some of his fellow Serpents, and with healing magic already in place, doubtless he'll be ready to remove the cast in a day or two. But his report on his role in the contingent's duties afield must be written and submitted before long.

For that, he has conscripted Guydelot.

The bard's handwriting begins with surprising elegance, perhaps too much so for a military document, but quickly deteriorates into an impatient scrawl, finally collapsing into nigh-illegibility by the end of the report. Sanson supposes he may have dictated too quickly for Guydelot to keep pace; when in the thrall of reciting the events of the campaign to free Garlemald from the Telophoroi's control, he had perhaps failed to slow down enough to allow for careful copy… but the resulting product is entirely unsuitable for submission. While he doesn’t suppose every member of the Order is as precise as he himself strives to be in his work, he does object to the idea of submitting this report under his own name when half of it cannot even be considered proper words.

“If our superiors cannot read the report,” Sanson says patiently, resuming pacing the narrow length of his small office, “they will not accept the report. You already know what it needs to say; you must needs only rewrite it again-”

“Balls I will,” Guydelot mutters, threatening to ball the offending report up and toss it into the bin. “Write it your damn self - you’ve got one good hand.”

“I can’t write with my left hand. It would be no more legible than this.” “Don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“Guydelot…” Sanson sighs. “Would you not see those who served under our command receive their due credit? We must submit this report-”

Guydelot rolls his eyes. “You know they don’t even read this shite anyway; it just gets shoved into a folder somewhere and-”

But he stops short when Sanson winces, pausing abruptly in his pacing. Guydelot surges to his feet, all but leaping around the desk to gently seize Sanson’s good arm in one hand, peering down at the Hyur in quiet concern - and for a moment the façade fades, laying bare the concern that lurks under Guydelot’s presence.

Others had offered to copy down Sanson’s words, after all.

For a moment, only a moment, they return to the terrifying moment beneath the shadow of the Tower of Babil, when the lurch of a rogue magiteck’s attack had carried it too close to Sanson, too quickly for him to dodge - to the moment when metal and bone met, and bone shattered under the impact. The lance falling from an arm gone limp. The scream of pain, lost amidst the roar of battle. The certainty of death, defenseless on the battlefield. The whistle of arrows, machinery sparking where the arrows pierced exposed circuitry, the creaking groan of the metal beast as it collapsed under its own weight. And Guydelot there with him, suddenly, terror in his eyes, and all Sanson could think was, Why have you stopped singing? Why aren’t you…

Only a moment.

And then it passes, and they are only standing in the stuffy confines of Sanson’s office, with a report needing to be written, and an arm that cannot write it.

“Mind that arm, Chief,” Guydelot says, stepping away and returning to his seat at Sanson’s desk, taking up the quill again between fingers that have nearly - nearly - stopped trembling. “Right. Well, read the old one back to me, then, and I’ll rewrite the bloody thing.”

“You cannot simply read it yourself?” Sanson collects the parchment, frowning. “If you cannot read it, surely I…”

But the bard grins. “You know what it ought to say. You’re the one who said it, eh? From the top; the brass hats won’t wait all day.”

#sanson smyth #guydelot thildonnet #my writing #today we injure sanson for amusement #bickering is a love language.

[aniimxses]

@devctiion || ( KAVEH )

Al Haitham,

It would figure you wouldn't show your face even around your own birthday! If I hadn't gleaned the day for myself, I would have thought you had never been born at all and were already fully formed since your conception as the most infuriating man alive.

I swore I wrote this date on my calendar somewhere, but I must have... accidentally burned that one between then and now, because there was no note to remind myself. And you sure didn't see fit to remind anyone yourself! I only even remembered by complete happenstance, so sorry if the end product is a little rushed, so you should feel grateful you're getting a gift from me at all at this rate.

Anyways... Happy birthday. This is for you. I hope you find this useful. Pick up your damn books for once______

The letter is hastily scrawled, Kaveh's handwriting only degenerating the longer it goes on, with certain phrases scratched out poorly, leaving them somewhat still legible to anyone whose vision isn't blurring from a two day engineering bender. The ink must not have even been dried yet when he fell asleep, because there's a long streak trailing off the last word, leading all the way to the quill resting in his limp grip.

Beside him is the gift he didn't have the opportunity to wrap yet: A book cart, but an unsurprisingly ornate one, considering Kaveh's predisposition for the aesthetic. It doesn't even have anything so mundane as wheels. That would be too primitive. No, this book cart is a Kshahrewar project, and so it floats just so above the ground, unimpeded by any potential obstacles on the floor and perfectly balanced to right itself if shoved one way or the other.

One can always trust the Great Kaveh to over-engineer the solution to even the smallest of problems.

Birthdays aren’t anything special to the Acting Grand Sage. Haitham comes home to find a suspiciously quiet house and decides to investigate, scouring each of the rooms for any sign of life. Presumably his roommate is in his own quarters, but Haitham thought he might at least like to know that there was some extra baklava from the batch that had been gifted to him.

Although, based on the quantity alone, it’s clear enough to the scribe that this was always intended to be a shared dish.

He supposes he’ll have to have Kaveh thank the Traveler later in his stead.

It’s only decent practice to knock, but Haitham pauses at the door when he sees that it’s slightly ajar already.

“Kaveh?” He calls out before pushing it open. Light spills into the hallway and he finds the architect slumped over his desk, a plush cheek resting against his own arm. It’s not unusual to find Kaveh asleep in this kind of position. It’d be far from the first time, at least.

Haitham walks over to at least turn off the lamp beside him when he spots the unfinished letter tucked underneath Kaveh’s arm. Immediately, he identifies his name scrawled onto the top and goes to carefully extract it.

Kaveh’s always been a heavy sleeper once he actually went to sleep. Haitham doesn’t react even as the blonde snuffles and shifts a bit. Instead, he focuses and perusing the contents of the letter. Honestly, it’s good that he has a lifetime of linguistic study and is familiar with Kaveh’s sleep-deprived chicken scratch, otherwise this would be completely illegible.

Once he finishes reading it, he looks over to the floating contraption beside the desk. Curiously he goes to push it, then presses his hand onto it to see how it tilts and re-aligns itself with its own center of gravity.

Haitham pockets the letter and then proceeds to cap Kaveh’s opened inkpot. He clicks his tongue in distaste and makes a note to get the man a new one, now that this one has dried out. He then plucks the quill from his roommate’s loose grip, setting it onto the desk properly before carefully treading over the clutter on the floor to grab the blanket on Kaveh’s bed. It’s draped over the exhausted man’s shoulders with careful deliberation. The scribe also does his roommate the favor of removing the remaining barrettes clinging on for dear life in that nest of hair.

Finally, he turns off the lamp, and after bringing his gift out from the room, he shuts the door with a soft click.

In the morning, Kaveh will find Haitham asleep in the living room with his birthday present beside him.

...Atop it is a plate full of baklava crumbs and an empty tea cup.

#&&birthday; #muse: alhaitham #thread: kaveh #devctiion

[tgablissortonn]

i used this as a starting point, for me it’s easier to work from a regular reference and build pixels ontop of of a sketch. this also helped me get used to drawing this character and getting his build and general design correct. i find it easier to use this as a visual guide and work from it.

here, i was blocking out the silhouette of my character. I wanted to give each shape it’s own layer, so that i could easily work out his design and add details ontop. i used different opacities on each layer so that i could tell each one apart. i used it as a base to separate each body part which would make it easier to work with shadows later. despite the character having thicker legs in my sketch, it didn’t translate over well into this style. i was inspired by Octavi Navarro’s style when making this, the characters are very simplistic, and their features aren’t defined. it’s also noticeable that they all have distinctly long, noodle legs. i really liked this style, so i decided to try to take inspiration from it for this character sheet.

here i started blocking in base colours on a lower opacity layer. this was so i could see the silhouette below.

next, on a multiply layer, i added shading using a warm purple. i used shadows to show roundness in the stomach, shoes, and on the hat. also, i coloured the “skin” on a layer below everything with a lower opacity to make it see through.

i’m not sure what happened here, but i pressed the wrong shortcut keys, and i wasn’t able to recover the base colours or silhouette i had just done, and i had to redo everything other than the shading. this was purely my fault for not properly understanding photoshop and pressing the wrong shortcut keys too fast.

after redoing the base colours, i added more depth to the shadows by adding another multiply layer and using the same purple colour i put more darkness in darker areas, ex under the stomach on the legs and on the arms. i also added highlights on an add layer with a slightly warmer version of the blue base colour on a low opacity. this gives a better sense of shape, as it shows how and what catches the light. also, i put a grey background behind everything to show the see through skin.

next, i added some details on a new layer ontop of everything. using colour picker, i would use a darker version of the darkest shadow to add dark details such as the middle line to show the coat (?? i don’t know what it’s called) and to add a little more darkness to some of the darkest areas. also, i added some more obvious highlights to the rim of the hat and the shoulder pads to make them stand out more and show that they are shiny. i also finally added the key, i put off doing it because i wasn’t sure how to draw it properly in this format/character pose. but, using a bright blue i made it stand out against everything else using contrast against the dark blue. and, i added a mouth once again to make him more human looking. this is less detailed than even the 32 bit character art, but i wasn’t looking to make him very detailed as i was somewhat inspired by Michael Myers’ X-Men Adult Swim ad artwork. https://drawsgood.com/x-men-apocalypse-adult-swim-ad-spot-pixel-art , i like that his artwork here doesn’t have lines, i think it would’ve made it too harsh. i also like that the colours are quite muted, as it adds to the aesthetic i’m going for with this character.

i chose a front from dafont. com, i went with picturama founder. i think it would look similar to how the character’s handwriting would look in the 19th century, i like that it was like cursive written with a fountain pen, it looks very old fashioned in my opinion and fits the aesthetic.

i think that the font though was a little hard to read because of the exaggerated lines on the letter “t”, it interfered with every word that came after it and it made it sometimes illegible. although, i still think this fits the aesthetic as old handwriting styles that were written in cursive are known for being somewhat illegible. i think that it also fits his character that his handwriting would be a bit unreadable because he is a careless character. also, the font didn’t allow numbers, which was annoying since i had to type out every number.

[nartothelar]

hc that mic’s penmanship is shit

#based on my own illegible handwriting #bakugou #present mic #bakugou katsuki #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #kaminari denki #yamada hizashi #mina ashido #fanart #bnha fanart

[greenninjagal-blog]

The Rumor Mill Game (pt4)

I swear I didn’t forget about this au. This chapter is just....long.

Welcome back to this mess of an au :) If you need a refresher, you can find Part Three [here!] Or if you’re new check out the first part [here!]

Summary: Logan is...dealing with the fallout of him and his coworker, Remus, having created a rumor about them being married and now apparently having a kid except not because Logan screamed at the top of his lungs that Virgil wasn’t his kid. His boss has a different definition for what “dealing” actually means. 

Words: 8292 (Holy shit remember when this au was 2k words)

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

When Logan had seen his boss after he made Virgil cry, he hadn’t expected it to end up like this.

Granted when he hadn’t exactly been expecting anything. He hadn’t been looking ahead, hadn’t been making plans, hadn’t been thinking at all. Which was most likely how he ended up outside the bar in the first place. 

Logan could, of course, count the number of times he had been drunk on one hand. College had been a time for experimenting, and of course for his twenty-first birthday his friends at the time had been insistent that he needed to imbibe an unholy amount of alcohol in one night. They had turned it into an experiment, where Logan documented exactly what he was feeling after each drink and he still had the notes in his desk at home, despite the fact that his handwriting had become illegible after the fifth drink and someone had spilled an orange soda based tonic on the third page. The notes themselves were worthless, but they served as a memoir to people who he no longer associated with and a younger version of himself who had still been learning.

And Logan did have a soft spot for that imbecile: Twenty-one-year-old Logan Ackroyd who still believed in the goodness of people and who wanted to change the world and who could fall in lov--

Logan pitied him-- that kid he used to be-- which he was certain that his younger self would be indignant about. Logan always did hate when people pitied him. Those emotions had rarely ever been genuine, rarely ever been helpful, rarely been productive. What was he to do about people feeling bad for him? About others being disappointed? About others making assumptions about him and how he felt?

He didn’t need pity, and he didn’t want it. Not when he got rejected to his first three colleges, not when flunked that English class and had to pay to retake it the next year, not when he had bought that ring and gotten down on one knee and made a whole carefully edited speech and--

And he’s not nearly drunk enough to deal with these types of thoughts. Or any thoughts for that matter. Wouldn’t it just be great to stop thinking? 

Then he wouldn’t have to remember the looks on his coworkers faces when he storming into the office less than fifteen minutes after initially leaving for lunch and demanded that Beatrice turn in her overdue spreadsheets in twenty minutes or he’d have her fired before slamming his office door hard enough to crack that frosted glass, or the look on Remus- fucking- Prince’s face when he tried to act like everything that had happened was not his fault and that Logan had taken the game to far by himself without any sort of prompting from Remus, or the look on Virgil’s face when Logan lost his self control.

Like an idiot. Like an asshole. Like someone who doesn’t think before he acts.

Like someone who should be alone for the rest of his life, because he can’t seem to get a hold of those useless emotions of his. 

And Logan wanted so very badly to blame Remus Prince for this whole endeavor, the whole production, the whole catastrophe. He wanted to say that without Remus he never would have gotten that angry, wouldn’t have had that conversation, wouldn’t have even gotten Thai today. 

Logan wanted to say that, but really it's his own fault. If he had just dismissed Remus’s rumor in the beginning, if he had just told Jen and Quin that his personal business was his own, if he had just ignored the urge to get coffee and finished the spreadsheets without getting up that last night.

His fourth finger itched around the base, the area where that little silver ring had been sitting for less than a day. It was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, because Logan had never worn a ring before and now suddenly the absence of it caused his skin to crawl in a most unpleasant, unproductive way. 

Distantly Logan realized that by gifting Remus such a wonderful present, he had also thrown away four hundred dollars. And perhaps ironically Logan noted that he feels annoyed about it-- four hundred dollars had been sitting in a pocket of a dress jacket in the corner of his office for over nine months and he had tossed it aside in a fit of impulsive anger.

Logan had not been hurting for money recently, with how decently he was paid, and the amount of overtime he worked, and how little time he had taken off since that disastrous night.

But perhaps he might have been able to return it to the jewelers and weathered the terrible, awful pitying looks they would give him when he requested about their refund policy or a location where he might be able to sell it himself. It was a ring that was worth four hundred dollars and he had given it to Remus, and isn’t it funny that that’s farther than he got with the one for whom the ring had been originally intended?

And as Logan downed his next rum and coke of the night, he hoped that Remus found a better use for it. Newton knows it hadn't done any good for Logan. 

(Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the way that he had screeched “He’s not and never will be our son!” Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the way that Remus had hummed mischievously “I think I enjoy being fake-married to you, Logan." Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the the way his last partner had said “We should see other people”. Its stupid, stupid, stupid--)

“Hmmm,” A voice behind him said, “I thought I would find you here!”

Logan didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until he heard the voice and felt every atom in his body figuratively threaten to combust. He wasn’t drunk enough to be thinking about him, and he most certainly wasn’t drunk enough to turn and look at the incessantly, perky man that had decided to sit down next to him.

Logan waved at the bartender and ordered another rum and coke and watched his freshly emptied glass disappear like the handful of others he didn’t bother to keep count of.

“And I’ll have two waters, please!” Patton Hart added with one of his peppy, happy, insufferable laughs, before turning to face Logan. “Hiya, Lo! It's been so long since we’ve seen each other!”

“Not long enough,” Logan disagreed, with a rueful smile that should very clearly, very precisely detail how much he does not want company at the current moment. “Don’t you have things to be doing tonight, Mr. Hart?”

Patton hummed, pressing his lips together as he thought-- a monumental task for someone like him, surely. Logan was partially convinced that if he removed his glasses he might be able to see the squirrels beginning to run on that rusted wheel in the other man’s brain. If Logan was of a less logical mind he might even be brazen enough to call this the first time Patton had used his brain all week.

“Well,” Patton said, carefully settling himself on the stool next to Logan. “I was graciously informed by my son that he would be enjoying the perks of being a teenager with no bedtime tonight and along with where exactly I could shove my homemade lasagna.” He laughed lightly, “Kids, these days! He really does keep me on my toes!” 

Logan did his best not to roll his eyes. “I do not know the whereabouts of your son, Mr. Hart.”

“Patton,” He said easily, “And I’m not here for my son. I’m here for you, Logan.”

“If this is about the glass in my door, you are very capable of taking that out of my paycheck.” Logan told him.

The bartender placed Logan’s new rum and coke in front of him and he reached for it almost immediately, only stopping when Patton’s hand landed on his forearm.

“Mr. Hart--”

“Patton,” Patton corrected with that smile that Logan suspected was the worst thing in the world. Worse than Virgil’s blank expression when he told them to get out, worse than Remus’s smug one when he suggested that Logan did indeed enjoy the ability to manipulate his coworkers, worse than Beatrice faulty excel sheets, than broken glass of his door, than a ring he never wanted to see again and yet he still felt like it was missing from his finger.

“Mr. Hart,” Logan said again, “I am going to get horrifically drunk tonight, and I will be calling out sick tomorrow, regardless of what you say. So my advice to you is, say anything of importance now, before I am too incoherent to register and respond accordingly.”

“That doesn’t sound too smart there, kiddo!” Patton said, like he was any older than Logan was.

“I do not feel like being smart right now,” Logan said snippily. Because being smart involved thinking, and Logan had done quite enough thinking for the day. He was tired of thinking, tired of memories, tired of the lump in his chest that had formed during his lunch break and hadn’t dissolved in the eight hours since. He was tired.

“Would you like me to be smart for you?” Patton asked.

Ah.

Yes, Logan remembered suddenly with just a few words why he hated Patton Hart so much. Why he hated those too-wide brown eyes, those stupid freckles, that soft smile. Why he hated the way that Patton had tracked him down despite the fact that he had turned off his phone, the way that Patton had ordered two waters, the way that he hadn’t taken off his jacket. The way that he had taken out his keys and put them on the bar counter between them and Logan could pick out his own house key from the jumbled mess of bits and bobs.

“I heard something pretty interesting today,” Patton said, when Logan didn’t reply because he was too busy remembering why he hated Patton so much.

“Please don’t pretend like you didn’t know about my so-called affair before I did.” Logan snapped. “Honestly, Patton!” Logan dropped his arm from the glass and instead pressed his knuckles to his forehead. “Playing dumb about your own company is my least favroite thing about you.”

“I thought you hated my laugh the most.” Patton looked at him, letting the smile slip into something more serious.

“I hate everything about you.” 

“Pay for the drinks, Lo.” Patton told him, “And I’ll take you home. We can have some of my lasagna and watch a space documentary, like we’re twenty years old again.” 

Logan hated Patton and hated the way his chest ached at the offer. His knuckles bore into the side of his head, jabbing the frame of his own glasses into this temple. He hated the way that Patton was looking at him, soft and sweet and naive.

He hated the way his fingers itched to take Patton’s hand and go home.

“And after all that,” Patton continued so lightly, “You can tell me all about how Remus Prince got under your skin.”

 Logan’s hand slammed on the counter, so suddenly he surprised himself. Patton, however, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, didn’t react other than to hold that smile. 

“I am not drunk enough to be talking about Remus Prince,” Logan spat. “Especially not to you, Patton.”

Patton was quiet and at first, Logan really had thought that he had won something-- he thought that perhaps Patton would grant him mercy and let him drown his sorrows alone and miserable in a bar until he forgot his own name. But Patton was too good of a friend and Logan really should hate him less for that.

“You know,” Patton said with a cold type of humor that doused Logan with awareness. Bad awareness. The type of awareness that sunk it’s metaphorical claws into Logan’s chest and pierced straight through his heart before Patton finished what he was saying. “I think….yeah that does sound familiar. Do you remember the last time you said you weren’t drunk enough to tell me something?”

Logan did.

Logan couldn’t forget if he tried. 

And he had tried so very hard for so very long-- except that Remus Prince had waltzed into Logan’s life, had called him a Robot, had smirked at him and run their coworkers around like cattle with pretty little words. Except that Remus Prince had gotten bored and decided that the only logical next course of action was to mess with Logan’s personal life. 

Except that Remus Prince had played along with the rumor game, and smiled at him, and kissed him, and---

And Logan had started thinking---

And Logan’s mouth had started moving--

And Virgil face had--

Logan reached for the glass in front of him, reaching for the cool ice and the spritzy carbonation and the burn of the rum.  

Patton watched him, blinking in the long, slow, dumb way of his that had fooled just about every person that he had come in contact with. With the goofy smile and the habit of deliberately misunderstanding key phrases and making puns and jokes when things were tense, it was hard to see him as anything other than a rich son who became CEO via thinly veiled nepotism. 

Logan knocked back the drink, blinking back the burn behind his eyes that were from the alcohol and definitely not from the lump in his throat that had started dissolving.

He didn’t want to close his eyes, because he knew what he would see when he did: a nice suit, a fancy dinner, a walk to the bridge dotted with fairy lights of all things. He’d see that stupid ring, that stupid face, that stupid end of the night that everyone had told him would be nice, and perfect, and everything he would ever want! 

And he didn’t want to think about how it had not been nice or perfect or anything either of them had ever wanted!

He didn’t want to think about how years ago he had come to a bar just like this, and tried to get so drunk he could pretend that it hadn’t happened, and Patton had shown up then and offered him a job and--

“He wants to go by Janus now,” Patton said, picking up one of the waters and taking a sip.

Logan squinted at him and tried not to be happy about the distraction from his own thoughts, “Who?”

“My son,” Patton said, like it was obvious he had switched back to a neutral topic. “He told me earlier during our phone call he wants to go by Janus, now. He said he’s hated the name Dante for forever. Can you believe it, Lo?”

Logan couldn’t actually. Because he had known Patton since they themselves were teenagers, since before Patton had brought up how empty being a CEO was without anyone to come home too, since Patton had first invited him to Sunday brunch and introduced him to the child he called “son”. Logan had babysat Dante when Patton had business trips and Dante had always been proud of himself, of his better-than-the-status-quo lifestyle, of his name that held power and prestige and weight.

Dante had been practicing saying his name in the mirror since before his voice cracked. Dante Hart, future CEO. Dante Hart, son of Patton Hart. Dante Hart. 

“He’s a teenager,” Logan said, “He’s rebelling.”

“Maybe so!” Patton laughed, and it dwindled down to something that was easier felt in the air than definable in terms Logan was familiar with, “Gosh, I love him so much, Lo. My baby! He’s growing up so fast now! The other day he told me he had a boyfriend. He’s at that stage where he doesn’t want me to help him anymore!”

And despite the buffoon having not had a single drop of alcohol, Patton was tearing up. Logan gritted his teeth at the implications of a weepy, teary, so-full-of-emotions Patton. He had spent enough time in college trying to console him as he figured out the whole “Why does it always have to be about sex? Why can’t I just love hugging someone, Lo? Why does everyone make me feel so broken?” Logan hadn’t been any good back then, and he definitely hadn’t gotten better with time. 

After that disaster with the last guy, Logan had decided that feeling things, frivolous things, emotion-like things, were not something he was into anymore.

Logan learned from his mistakes, after all.

Even the mistakes that started with “R” and ended in a $400 ring being thrown away.

“Is that why you’re here, Mr. Hart?” Logan asked, in that way of his that told even Patton with his squirrel run brain that it wasn’t actually a question at all. “You can’t baby your son anymore so you’ve moved on to the next best thing?”

Patton stuck his tongue in his cheek and set his water back down. “Patton.” He stressed. “And I’m not here to baby you, Logan. I’m here to be your friend.”

He said “friend” like it was a word in the dictionary Logan didn’t know. It was infuriating: the insinuation that Logan had never cracked open a dictionary before, that he was so unknowledgeable about the concept of a friend that Patton was about to show him the online Oxford dictionary definition, like someone who played dumb all day and peppered his windows with sticky notes in the shape of a game of Frogger knew more about something than Logan who had clawed his way up from nothing and was constantly needing to prove how he earned his position.

Patton nudged the second water in Logan’s direction.

Logan stared at it, at the condensation on the glass, at the ice cubes, at the refraction of the low lights from the bar counter. He stared at it like it was a portal back through time that would allow him to slam some sense into poor, pitiful twenty-one-years-old Logan before he let himself fall in Love.

Before he bought a ring or stopped taking days off unless Patton tromped down to his office himself. Before Remus Prince borrowed his cup and before Logan got it in his head that he was serving revenge rather than idiocracy. Before he let himself think too little and say too much and hurt a kid that had never deserved to be upset before in his life.

“If my son wants to be called Janus, I’ll call him that,” Patton says softly. “Because even if it doesn’t make sense to me, it means something to him. And even if my friend is struggling with emotions that don’t make sense to me, I’m still gonna try to help him, Lo.”

Patton ducked his head just a little, just enough that he managed to catch Logan’s strategically averted gaze and make something out of it: a swell of guilt, a sense of hope, a pinch of safety and unadulterated kindness.

His throat was dry, but it was the type of dry that couldn’t be fixed with a glass of water.

“I made a kid cry,” Logan said, because self loathing is a coat he had thought he’d outgrown but he can still fit his arms in the sleeves.

Patton nodded. “Yeah, I heard about that.” He sipped his water. “I think we all have at one point or another.”

“See, the distinct difference that you are missing here, Patton, is that you are a father.” Logan snapped, “And your son will cry at the drop of a hat if he thinks he can get something out of it. And you would never harm a child! Not for any reason in the entire world!”

“And you would?”

“I did.” Logan felt himself sink into the chair, sink like an anchor in the ocean, sink like the floor below him had turned into a blackhole. “I did, I did it. What type of person does that make me?”

“I hate to break it to you, Lo,” Patton said, as kindly as he could, which Logan knew was truly, sickenly nice. He wanted to choke on the sentiment but he found that he couldn’t quite make his chest hurt the way he wanted it too when it came to Patton’s pity.

 “But that just means you’re a normal person.” Patton smiled dumbly, tilting his head and shrugging. “Everyone says things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” Patton countered gently, “Like when I hired Beatrice before realizing that she had lied about knowing how to use Excel.”

“Fuck, Beatrice,” Logan agreed, because if he closed his eyes too hard he thought he might still see grid patterns as much as he might see Virgil’s hurt expression and he hated it so much. So much. 

“I also told-- Janus once that I would get him anything he wanted for his birthday, and he asked for a snake.” Patton shuddered, almost comically, “And you saw how that turned out.”

“I’ve always been impressed with his ability to sneak things into the school buildings,” Logan sighed. “I doubt anyone has ever forgotten that Show-and-Tell.”

Patton chuckled quietly. It was almost lost in the buzz of the other patrons in the bar. He drew a smiley face in the condensation on his glass and Logan reached over to wipe it away, like he had done a hundred seventeen times since college.

“So….Lasagna?” Patton offered. “We can make some garlic bread too.”

“I regret ever meeting you,” Logan said, even as he picked up the keys on the counter between them. He wished that Patton didn’t look so self satisfied, so pleased, so smug when the words tumbled from his lips, but Patton had never been one to pertain to the wishes and whims of Logan like that.

Settling his tab was quick; a pile of bills from his wallet that he didn’t actually check, but decided the bartender deserved anyway and then Patton linked their elbows together so that Logan couldn’t walk off the way that he used to when he would agree with Patton just to get him to shut up. Logan snagged Patton’s glasses from his head and fogged them up with his breath, before taking on the tedious task of cleaning the fingerprints off the lens meticulously while walking in a wobbling straight line. 

Patton laughed like silver bells and it alone brightened the entire street with a type of magic that Logan had long since given up on trying to scientifically explain. The poet in him that Logan had buried under Calculus classes and Statistics courses and a Business degree and only let out when the alcohol out weighed the blood in his system, whispered that it was because it was Patton and his aloofness, and his kindness, and his generosity that never made any sense, and wasn’t that reason enough for the universe to lighten up?

It was drizzling outside, scattered raindrops and dark heavy clouds that whispered of a thunderstorm later. Patton skipped, Logan rolled his eyes and let himself be dragged towards the familiar pale blue punch buggy. It was the same exact car from their college time together, if one ignored the frankenstein replacements of just about every single component in it. Patton clung to the car the same way he had clung to the delusion of Logan being a good friend; sticking close through every breakdown, excusing every letdown, and spending far too much money on it when economically it would have been more beneficial to just let them go.

A wave of self loathing wrapped over Logan again when he pulled on the car door. Patton was genuinely a good person, a good friend. He was stupid at times and he made decisions that made Logan was to strangle him, but he cared so much more than other people. He offered fourth and fifth chances when Logan would have stone-walled his offender at one. 

Not to mention, he had come out in the rain to find Logan specifically, probably traversing through three other bars to find the one that Logan had chosen to be his misery echo chamber.

By some sort of lucky happenstance, Logan had originally walked far enough to hail a taxi  to get to this bar, leaving his car in the safety of the parking garage where Patton’s company paid a nice sum for security. Logan had tried to argue about that expense with him back in the day, but Patton had pulled out a picture of his toothy grinning son-- Janus-- and said “Lo!! What if my son comes to visit when he learns to drive?! I don’t want to worry about him getting attacked in the parking garage!” 

Logan had brutally pointed out that his son would never visit him during work, and so far he had been correct in that assessment, but that didn’t stop him from feeling the slightest bit guilty about his bluntness even so much time later.

Patton had always looked for the best in people, had more strength than most of humanity, had more hope in happy endings that Logan had trust in fact and numbers.

“Is your son okay with me calling him Janus? I’m unsure of etiquette on this. Should I wait until he tells me his preference or should I just make the switch and not bring it up to him?” Logan asked with a sigh as Patton pulled out of the parking spot and set them towards Patton’s house on the other side of town. Unobstructed and following the driving laws, it would only take them about fifteen minutes, and yet Logan wondered about the possibility of Patton having Advil in the car.

The back of his head was already aching from the days events: banging his head on the keyboard all morning leading up to his disastrous lunch date, Remus, Virgil, squinting at spreadsheets until he couldn’t make out the numbers anymore, and the of course stumbling his way to the bar and dealing with Patton.

Patton giggled. “Oh yeah! I asked him earlier if it was okay to tell you. He said he wanted you to call him Janus now. He also said to tell you, you can take a hike.”

Knowing Janus, it was probably something more volatile than “taking a hike”. Most likely it had been something that might have required him to put a full five dollars in the swear jar that they kept on the counter next to the cookie jar. Not that it would matter much. Logan had stayed over at their house dozens of times and every single time he had come across Janus taking that money back out of that swear jar.

As far as Logan was aware, the swear jar had never actually been full. Patton must have noticed at some point-- probably that very first time Janus had taken the money back out-- but he was irritating insistent that he play dumb about it. Thus, Janus continued to swear in excess, Patton continued to make him put money in a swear jar for no real reason, and Logan continued to never understand either of them.

The radio in Patton’s car had been broken fifteen times since Patton had gotten it, but Logan assumed from the silence of the drive that it was now sixteen. He rested his elbow on the window and watched the drizzle turn into a steady rain and the windshield wipers flutter across their vision to occasionally bring them clarity.

The night life was somewhat dreary. The driving pace was slow, and they hit every single stop light in the city because that was just Logan’s luck. There were a few people running around in the rain: a family with a small child who was jumping in every slowly forming puddle on the sidewalk, a couple sharing an umbrella walking so close together they appeared as if to be one misshapen form, a group of friends chatting outside a 24 hour dinner in raincoats, and a few smokers huddled under an alcove with embers burning just enough for Logan to make out their forms through the downpour. 

Logan realized almost immediately that the pit in his stomach was much more bearable if he instead focused on the raindrops on the window that are much easier to look at, much less representing something that Logan had always expected he might one day have, much less accusatory in wondering what is wrong with him that he can’t act like a normal human being, this isn’t working, who wants to marry a robot like you--

That was the reason why he wasn’t expecting the sudden jerk of the car coming to a hard stop at a yellow light that they absolutely could have made. 

“PATTON!” Logan yelled.

The car behind them blared it’s horn and Logan rubbed his neck and reset his glasses from the sudden movement, ready to question what exactly Patton thought he was doing, because truly of all the things Logan was not in the mood for, this was one of them. 

Except that before Logan could get any words out, Patton had put the car in park and whipped off his seatbelt to kick open his door. A wave of rain came pouring into the car as the man threw himself from the driver's seat like there was something wrong with the car, and for a second Logan entertained the absurd idea that they were going to blow up.

Which truly, would have just been a fitting end to his horrific day.

“Patton!” Logan hissed, grabbing after the other’s coat to pull him back inside before the rain soaked into the seats. “Get back in th--”

The other man ignored him, frantically waving to someone in the rain. “REMUS!! MR. PRINCE!! OVER HERE!!”

If Logan knew slightly less about human biology he might have been inclined to say that his heart jumped straight to his throat and climbed its way up his esophagus to strangle him. He wouldn’t have recognized the figure on the street corner on his own: Remus Prince was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans with holes in the knees. He was soaked to the bone, without an umbrella, and his usual bouncy brown curls were matted to his head, as if he had been walking out in the rain for much longer than the rain had been sweeping through the city.

He was standing with the smokers under their minimal tarp, although he, himself, was without a cigarette at all. When he turned at the call of his name, there was only confusion and exhaustion in his face. None of the smugness, or the ego, or the energy that he usually had.

Logan didn’t know why that bothered him. He was hurting from earlier; that was good. 

After all, it was Remus’s ridiculous game that he had dragged everyone else into. 

((Logan’s finger itched and he dug his nails into his skin so deeply he was afraid to glance down in case there was blood pouring off hands.))

Remus ventured out to meet them, dodging across the lanes of traffic without a care in the world, or perhaps with a death wish. Remus didn’t seem particularly like he would mind getting run over by the way that he opened the back door, climbed in, and shook the excess water out in the interior of the car like some type of undomesticated dog. 

“Is this a kidnapping?” He asked, rain dripping down his face. “A murder? Do I get to know your name before you dismember me, cutie?”

Patton laughed joyfully, even as Logan felt his face screw up at the sound of Remus calling their boss “cutie”. It was beyond unprofessional, even if Remus was apparently unaware that his career hinged entirely on not insulting Patton. It took a lot to make Patton angry enough to fire someone-- his patience was the best and worst thing about him, as Logan had been reminded every time they interacted-- but once Remus crossed that line, not even a cockroach like him would be able to drag himself out of the metaphorical wasteland Patton would make out of his life.

Cutie, honestly. Who calls anyone they’ve just met cutie. Logan could understand Remus having called him Lovebug and Lolo, but cutie? 

For Patton?

Patton climbed back into the car, snapping on his seatbelt and managed to get out of park at the very same moment as the light turned green. He wiped his sleeve along his glasses, and brightly said, “I’m Patton! And you already know Logie here!”

“Logie?” Remus repeated, sitting back against the seat taking in Logan for the first time. “Oh shi--”

“Do not call me that,” Logan said. “Patton, you can drop me off at the next corner. I will walk home.”

“Don’t be silly!” Patton said, in the same tone that he had used during their college days to coax Logan into driving him to the nearest grocery store after he had successfully managed to pull two all nighters in a row. Logan hated that tone, and Patton knew that well.

“If you do not stop the car, I will throw myself from it while it is still moving.”

“I can get out, actually!” Remus said far too loud for the small car. Logan resisted the urge to turn around and scowl at him. Surely, his pea-sized brain had managed to figure out that he was the point of contention here and that his best move would be to shut up, so why had he decided to open his mouth? “I need to get home anyway. Big day tomorrow and everything.”

“Oh?” Patton said delightedly because Logan would not ever play into subject changes willingly. “What’s tomorrow?”

“I’m getting fired,” Remus said with a nonchalant shrug.

Patton blinked for a moment-- his squirrel-run brain jamming at the sudden twist of the words because whatever he was expecting from his visitor it was not that. Logan resisted the urge to reach over and give him a shake at the shoulders: of course he wouldn’t be able to expect anything with Remus Prince. The man was insufferable and illogical and he wrought chaos for fun. 

With everything that had happened, did Patton really think that there was an exaggeration in there?

Remus wanted attention. And he said whatever he needed to in order to get it: a fake affair, a fake divorce, a fake child-- Of course he would say he was getting fired tomorrow if it got Patton to have to use all of his meager brain cells to figure out how serious he was.

“Is that something to celebrate, Mr. Prince?” Logan cut in coldly. “Getting fired?”

“And here I thought that you would be happy, Ackroyd,” Remus said. “Unless you think you’re going to miss me.”

“If only I would be so lucky,” Logan said, digging his phone from his pocket, and turning it back on. The screen was blindingly bright and Logan’s eyes ached just glancing at it in the corner of his vision. “Patton, pull over. I am not doing this tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever again.”

“I’m not going to let you walk home after however many rum and cokes you had, Logan.”

“Patton,” Logan snarled. “If you continue to treat me like you treat your son, I will tender my resignation tonight. Pull over now.”

Patton opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was swallowed up in Remus’s empty voice speaking. 

“You went drinking?”

“Do not talk to me, Mr. Prince.”

“You’re not even yelling.”

Logan wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, which may have irritated him more than the fact that he was so insistent about continuing to talk when Logan was liable to push the car to crash and kill all three of them. Remus was already staring at him, his expression dark and serious in the passing car lights and somehow Logan thought that he looked vulnerable. 

Logan gritted his teeth as his headache pulsed behind his eyes. 

“Shut up,” he said. “And put on your seat belt.”

“Or what? You’ll divorce me?” Remus pushed forward between the seats until he was just a few inches from Logan’s own face, grinning with all his teeth. It was at once the same smile that Logan had catalogued through every week of working with him and also something completely foreign.

Remus had pulled him into a kiss earlier that morning, and Logan remembered the taste of pickles on his lips just as well as the smirk he kept as Logan walked away. But this expression is somehow inverted, somehow shifted, somehow a weapon more than a challenge.

“Boys,” Patton said. “Please don’t fight in my car!”

“If you did not want us to fight, why did you invite him in this car?” Logan asked. “You, of all people, know my opinions on--”

“Logan, you’re drunk.”

“What does that have to do with this?!” Logan bit out. He glared at his phone: there were three missed calls from Patton and a handful of text messages from him that Logan couldn’t actually read in the combination of the bright phone light and darkness around them. His eyes were blurry even with his glasses on and the frustration of not being able to read only heightened as he made out the notification for his email which meant that Beatrice had managed to finish her work (allowing Logan to be able to go fix it) or that news of him yelling at a child made it around the office and now he was going to harassed by them as well.

All because of Remus Prince’s inability to shut up. 

 Patton threw a hand out and grabbed Logan’s phone from his hand and carelessly tossed it over both their shoulders to Remus.

“Patton!” Logan hissed, rubbing the irritated tears from his eyes. “Remus, give it back!”

Remus, however, was just staring at the phone in his lap like it was some type of bomb. Logan’s phone locked itself and the screen went dark, and still Remus sat inhumanely still in the seat, staring at it, with a type of blank expression that Logan oftentimes related to their coworkers when Logan asked them to perform any sort of math without a calculator.

“Remus,” Logan said again.

Remus jerked at the sound of his voice, snapping out of whatever fit the phone had put him in almost meekly-- if Logan could describe anything Remus did as meekly without it being a blatant falsehood. “Meekly” itself had never seemed to be a word in Remus’s vocabulary which was another irritating fact about him that made Logan break out in figurative hives.

Logan knew how Remus was.

He knew Remus.

It didn’t matter that he had never talked to Remus before today, that his thinly veiled contempt for his coworkers kept him from being willing to stand in their presence more than he was being paid to, that this fake affair was the first stupid relationship of any kind he had gotten outside of Patton and his son since his last boyfriend had dumped him on the night he was going to propose and hadn’t he thought he’d known him too? Isn’t that what led to all this? 

It didn’t matter. 

Logan was smarter, now. Logan was better now. Logan was--

“I don’t…” Remus said, trailing off as he stared at the messages popping up on Logan’s phone and Logan wondered why it felt like his lungs had shrunk right in his chest. “I don’t think you should be reading these right now.”

“He definitely should not!” Patton said, with a very convincing amount of forced happiness. “Hold that for him will you, Remus? Oh and why do you think you’re going to get fired tomorrow?”

Remus looked up at Logan and then at Patton and then back at Logan, like Logan was supposed to know what that meant in addition to every other stupid look he’d given Logan all evening. Logan shoved his glasses up to his hairline and rubbed his aching eyes, and yet somehow that still didn’t fix the pounding in his head or the exhaustion hollowing out his bones. It also didn’t make Remus disappear from the backseat, which was equally annoying, even though Logan hadn’t truly thought he was a shared apparition for him and Patton.

“You didn’t mention anything about today to your… what are you a fuck buddy?” Remus said.

And Patton laughed. 

Logan grabbed the door handle and yanked on it, but of course the ridiculous safety locks were engaged, and Logan had spent far too many sober years getting locked in this car to try to puzzle out the broken locking system in order to drunkenly throw himself out of the car. He was not in the habit of wishing for miracles, or even believing in deities, but he imagined that some powerful entity was finding ruining Logan’s life to be semi enjoyable.

“See this is why I can’t fire him!” Patton said through giggles and Logan thought maybe he was being addressed for this. Patton met Remus’s gaze through the rearview mirror and shook the last bit of water from his damp hair. “You make everything so entertaining!”

“What?”

Logan grit his teeth and yanked on the door handle again. “Remus, meet Mr. Hart, the CEO and your boss. Also put on your seatbelt.”

Remus blinked at them both, leaning between the seats and definitely not putting on his seatbelt. Logan counted backward from ten, reminding himself that one of the hiring requirements for Patton’s company has always been must be the stupid beyond belief. He’d known for a while that his coworkers were idiots on a good day, hazards to his health on bad ones, and yet somehow in the whirlwind of the day he’s had, Logan had forgotten that Remus counted as a coworker still.

“I’m not… getting fired?” Remus said, acting much like a computer after being turned on. “Why do you know my name then?”

Patton shrugged, flicking on his blinker to change lanes before the next light. “You have interesting ideas for your advertising strategy! Of course I would know your name! I’m sorry about vetoing that last one. I know Logan liked it, but I wanted to stick to the family-as-a-whole angle.”

“Patton,” Logan warned with an edge.

“Logan liked…?” Remus echoed, before turning towards Logan with a look of bewilderment that annoyed Logan far more than it had any right to. “You actually look at my shit?”

“Put on your seatbelt, Remus,” he said, because wasn’t it obvious that Logan looked at his things? Before the whole Robot incident Logan hadn’t had a problem with Remus at all: he was effective and efficient and the rumors were irritating but below him to indulge in. Before Remus had dragged him figuratively kicking and screaming into this mess, Logan approved the budgets that came with the projects Remus created.

He still did that, just with more anger than before. Petty feelings for Remus himself aside, his work was objectively good. 

Logan knew that about him.

“So!” Patton said over both of them, with his signature grin that Logan suspected he would still be wearing even if Logan decided to kill him right now. It must be the by-product of being controlled by rodents running on a wheel. “How was your volunteer work Remus?”

Remus froze in the back seat, going unnaturally still again. “Are you some kind of stalker-- uh sir?”

“Will you knock that off?” Logan snapped, which only made Remus’s shoulders jump straight to his ears. “And put on your seatbelt.”

“Just curious!” Patton said, ignoring Logan entirely. “Darlene is a good friend of mine! I make sure to send monthly donations to the organization since I don’t have a lot of free time to jump over and help.”

Remus didn’t say anything to that. He swallowed audibly and leaned back against the seat, dragging fingers through his wet hair and then tucked his arms in his own armpits. Logan pressed a palm to his forehead watching the street lights bend from behind his eyelids because that was easier than staring at Remus act like Patton was trying to pull his teeth out.

“You actually do volunteer work?” Logan said. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Ha,” Remus said without any inflection. Logan thought that was the quietest that he had ever been. Where was that stupid ass smirk? Where was the stubbornness that pushed back against everything? Where was that loud voice and that confidence?

“Put on your seatbelt,” Logan said again.

“Why do you care if I wear the belt or not?”

“Remus put on your seatbelt or, so help me Newton, I will climb back there and put it on for you, myself!”

The air simmered from the acid in his tone, making the silence figurative chafe against his ribs. Remus stared at him, blinking slowly, with the street lights casting roving shadows on his face. His dark eyes were just so-- so--

Logan dug his nails into his palm. Why was it Remus Prince could make him feel like this? What gave him the right?

“It’s okay!” Patton said, setting the car to park. “We’re here anyway!”

Logan reached up and pulled his glasses back onto his face properly, but it still took him a moment to realize that they were near a bunch of townhouses, double parked outside one that Logan had considered moving into all those years ago when he had first been looking for an apartment for after college.

Remus too, apparently needed a moment to recognize the area. “We… are at my apartment? Holy shit, you are a stalker.”

Patton giggled, flashing Remus with his blinding smile and reached back to pick up Logan’s phone from his hands. “Thank you so much, kiddo! We’ll wait until you get inside all safe and sound, and I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“You will not,” Logan said. “Tomorrow you have a business deal two hours away to complete and if you miss it--”

Patton stretched back in his seat and let out a hugely exaggerated yawn. “But they’re so boring! Maybe I should bring Janus with me. He always makes my business deals entertaining. I love when he sets his snake on people. He looks so happy and he laughs and--”

Logan squeezed his eyes closed and recited the first twenty digits of pi in his head to keep from grabbing Patton’s squirrel run brain and slamming it into the steering wheel.

“Homicide is wrong,” Logan said.

“I’ll help you vouch for insanity,” Remus said. “I mean, tied together through a murder, and possibly hiding a body is much more juicy than a fake marriage that’s falling apart. We’d be the talk of the office.”

“They would not find any body that I hid,” Logan said. “Nobody would.”

Remus opened his mouth to say something more, but whatever it is he decided against it. Instead he slid over the seats and kicked open the door right behind Logan and stepped out into the night air.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Hart, sir,” he said, strangely formal, then squinted and added, “Daddy?” 

“I’m not firing you, Remus,” Patton said. “No matter what you call me!”

Logan ran his tongue over his teeth counting each and every one. Remus looked at him but ultimately finally adhered to that whole shutting up thing. He closed the door to Patton’s blue punch buggy and started towards the door to the apartments.

“Oh,” Remus said, and turned back at the last second. He knocked his knuckles on Logan’s window a few inches from where Logan’s gaze fixed itself on a light. Patton apparently knew more about what to do than Logan because he pressed the window lowering button and Remus reached his entire arm into the window to drop a small object right into Logan’s lap.

Logan caught it mainly due to reaction rather than skill and his skin tingled at the familiar item. Even in the dark, Logan’s fingers roll over the shape of the ring that had always reminded him of the worst day of his life. It was still warm from being in Remus’s pocket.

“I think that should stay with you,” Remus said, like it wasn’t a big deal at all. “You know… for the next boytoy you take to your sex dungeon or whatever nerds like you do on weekends.”

And then he turned around and fled towards the apartment building. Patton turned off the hazard lights and slipped back into traffic and Logan wondered if he would be polite enough to not comment if Logan started crying right then and there.

His throat felt swollen, his tongue too big for his mouth, and the headache thrummmmmmed painfully. 

Logan knew Remus Prince.

“You know that Remus Prince isn’t gonna be like him,” Patton said to fill the silence.

“Remus Prince isn’t like anyone.” Logan didn’t whine. To whine would be unbecoming. And childish. And embarrassing.

So Logan didn’t whine and Patton mercifully didn't call him out on his not-whining.

And neither of them mention the choked tone that Logan had for the rest of the night.

When Logan had seen his boss after he made Virgil cry, he hadn’t expected it to end up with him clutching that ring like a lifeline, but as he ran his fingers around the rim, he wondered if it had fit on Remus’s finger at all.

(Part Five)

#intrulogical #sanders sides #logan sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #Far too many OCs gross #Rumor Mill Au #rumors #well fake marriage #sympathetic remus #Logan is bad at feelings #so bad #now with more logan angst #Patton is a good friend #This au is so old that I called Janus Dante and I decided to fix that #alcohol #drunk logan

[merlinmerlot]

sorry for cringe but I made this chart for my own sanity and also to broadcast my Thoughts and Opinions.This is all based off of canon dialogue I was able to gather and also just the vibes. i know my handwriting is super illegible, ask me if you want me to like, elaborate.

Apologies for no notes on the ford+bob and lucy+compton lines, I got literally nothing for them; Ford especially is hard to get info on because none of his mental worlds have any psychic seven projections, unlike the rest.

EDIT: I FORGOT ABOUT THE AUDIE O AND MALIGULA SCENE WHERES HES LIKE "she just needs someone to listen" AGH

#psychonauts #psychonauts 2 #psychic seven #you can tell who my favs are just by which lines r more fleshed out ghdskldskl #i tried to be vaguely unbiased tho #THO SRRY TO OTTO LIKERS i luv him but I Know cassie and bob got at least A Little annoyed by this man #art #not actually art but i want to be able to find this again sooo #i so very much believe in the cassie bob friendship and the helmut lucy friendship #i just love these four very much

[diary-of-an-onliner]

feet on the ground [f.w.]

word count: 3381

warnings: none

a/n: this is based on, and a counterpart/continuation of @ickle-ronniekins 's head in the clouds — thanks for the inspo babe, this one is for you

Fred Weasley was not happy. Sure, he had made a lot of questionable, or as other people like to say 'bad', decisions in his life, but taking Care of Magical Creatures was one of the worst. Yes, it made Hagrid ecstatic, and that's always a good thing to see; yes, it's useful for his future business. However a hellfire-cracken the size of a shoebox was making him rethink his choices.

For the lack of a better distraction, he focused on digging a hole in the grass with his trainer as Hagrid’s rumbled instructiones flew over his head, missing both ears and zooming away into an indifferent oblivion. George is taking this already, he looked to George, who was quite enchanted with his partner, and thoroughly enjoying it, couldn't we have split up? He kicked the dirt lightly, startling the girl next to him.

Neither Fred nor his Slytherin partner were thrilled with each other,but misery loves company, so it might be for the best.

"How's the weather up there?" said his partner, who was crouching eye — er, shell-level, with the creature, but keeping her distance nonetheless. Her hair waved and flickered on her shoulder as she bounced on her heels.

"Immaculate, thanks for asking." he said, not wanting to get closer to the scorpion-lobster lovechild from the asshole of hell. "Y'know Hagrid said those things burn, bite, and sting, right?"

"So do I.” she said sarcastically, still keeping her gaze tied to the monster. “I'm not going to touch it, I'm just looking. You're aware we need to sketch it, label its parts and write an essay about it later?" Fred shifted his weight from foot to foot restlessly.

"Yes." his nostrils flared.

She pursed her lips and, after a moment of silence, said: "I dare you to touch it."

He crossed his arms. "I am not taking dares from you. We met three minutes ago and I haven't enjoyed a second of it."

"What's up your ass?" she turned to him, still crouching. "Actually, I don't care. Just don't take it out on me." The creature clicked their — tail? — pincers? — their something.

"I wasn't—" she raised an eyebrow and he fell silent, and looked away.

"'m not very thrilled to be here." he mumbled. "And that ugly death trap isn't making it better. Can we start over?" he asked, sighing and tiredly sweeping his left hand through his hair, and offering his right to her.

She took it and pulled herself up, then promptly smoothed out her skirt, shook his still proffered hand, and introduced herself.

Unlike his messy untucked shirt, her uniform was pressed down to the socks and her shoes held no traces of mud. It gave her a calculating, and slightly cold aura, as if she was drawn with a set of rulers and a compass. She was probably more geometrical than anyone who had ever taken Care of Magical Creatures.

"Fred." he said, even though she knew.

"Well Fred, we will be working together on this Blast-Ended Skrewt for the next few weeks, so that 'ugly death trap’ is our son you're talking about." she chided with a smile that better belonged on a sly fox rather than a girl.

"You sound very attached to it." he shot back. An idea, a thought, a silver of a notion that this might be fun slithered along the floor of his skull.

"Him.” She corrected with her pointer finger in the air. “And it's called being a good parent." she lightly jabbed him in the chest.

"Okay then. Go pet your son." Fred smirked.

They turned toward the beast which was playing in the grass like a puppy. It seemed to be wiggling its tails.

Her eyes narrowed: "Which part is the head?"

"I don't know. We should probably figure it out, since the other side shoots flames." he said in an amused tone.

"It's supposed to be a sucker, so it might be the penis-looking side." he chuckled, but when she turned to stare at him expectantly, his red eyebrow jumped in question. A breeze ruffled their hair.

"Go on then, don't be shy, we need to compare." she said flatly.

He burst out laughing so hard, a few people around them turned to stare - quite a dangerous thing to do at the moment seeing as some of the beasts started snipping. A yelp sounded from afar, and Fred laughed even harder.

At least his partner is funny.

"Seriously though, this thing is going to fire-fart on us soon and we need to figure it out."

“You don’t feel better in nature?” her tone piqued as she turned the pages of a book. Their desk was covered with them, during the first of their many study meetings.

“No.” Fred played with his quill, spinning it through his fingers. “You do?”

“I feel clearer, especially near water.”, thump, she shut her book and discarded it.

“How come?” he balanced on the back legs of his chair, eyes darting around.

“I don’t know. It’s not a thing I question.”, flip, flip, flip, “It just lures me out of my head, and makes me feel a little more real, like I’m aware of my own existence. Sharper, yknow?”

Fred shook his head.

“I don’t have a need to get out of my head, it’s great in there.” he joked. She snorted and passed him a book with a piece of paper sticking out.

“Don’t you? You seem to be in there a lot though. I think you think too much.” Fred chukled, “That’s something I've never been told.”

“Then it’s about time.” she threw his way, but she had yet to look at him, Fred noted. The idea of her as geometrical played around in his head. “Try it next time. People exist a little sharper sometimes. It stops you from feeling like you’re going to float away.” her eyes finally flickered to him like two needles of her compasses, and shot him down. His chair hit the ground.

Before Fred had a chance to say something else or roll her idea around in his brain, she passed him a piece of parchment with a soft order to, “Write.”

His diagram of their unnamed child was much neater than hers, but his illegible handwriting distracted from it perfectly.

"That is not a t."she said, her hair almost electrified from stress-combing it with her hands.

"It's obviously a g." he chirped, but his tone sounded worn down all the same. She squinted at the paper with her mouth open for a moment, then gave up.

"How are you still this peppy?" she asked as her gaze lazily rolled itself away from the books. His tie was completely undone and being used as a bookmark, his shirt unbuttoned and ruffled like his hair, ha, carrot head!, but he took no note of it as he balanced on the back legs of his chair again. Every so often, a clank would sound amid their conversation when the chair struck against the stone floor and his feet hit the ground, before he leaned back again.

"What are you talking about? I'm knackered." he yawned.

She looked up, and her thoughts leaked out of her head. The scenery through the window behind him was gorgeous, lit on fire by the dusk— oversaturated reds and pinks which lined the dark purple clouds.

With a loud tap on the library floor, the front legs of Fred's chair touched the ground and his head covered the sun perfectly, giving him a golden lining and making his orange hair melt into the background. The clear lines of his face looked almost chiseled in contrast to the haziness behind him.

A weight settled in the center of her torso, an iron bowling ball rolling between her stomach and her heart. He was handsome. She knew this. But she used to know it the way one knows they should drink water when they’re thirsty. Knowing you needed it after you drink him in, swallow, and sign, is another story.

She felt a warm metal line grow out of her chest, like a vine towards the sunlight, enter his chest and settle.

For a few moments she imagined it. She tried to note the dragging sensation of warm iron and let herself be pulled to him. She imagined the ball rolling in his center, and all his squirming being in an attempt to adjust it instead of just staying awake.

Then she blinked. Took in the real scene. Despite being exhausted, she felt tranquil in their little corner filled with books and a few very ugly sketches. She picked one up.

“Are we allowed to call his head a dick?” She questioned, but Fred just yawned and shrugged. His chair tipped back again.

“You’ll hurt yourself.” She said flatly, words moving from line to line like trains with the shittiest track designs ever.

“The thrill keeps me awake.” he closed his eyes, hair still a burning red. She didn’t dare look at the Sun for too long. Her eyes tried to follow the words. The ball rolled.

He slid another sketch towards her. “I think we should use this one.”

She put the first one aside, their hands brushing as she took the new parchment. She heard the scraping of his chair on the floor as he moved closer until his collarbone pressed against her shoulder as he leaned over to point. The body heat he was emitting only reminded her of the weariness her body carried. It also refashioned her bowling ball into an anchor slowly sinking through her stomach, tickling her insides on the way down.

The sketch was neater and much simpler than others, no more than a handful of black lines on a yellowing parchment.

“This part is the head.” Fred pointed out. “I think. It looks weird and there isn’t exactly a good reference for a randomly cross-bred demon.” He seemed so focused on his drawing that she got the feeling he was avoiding her eyes intentionally. Stupid, really. They’re both just tired and have a lot of work.

Look at me.

He didn’t.

She banished all her stupid silly thoughts, and tried to turn to the books for the next few hours.

Fred stayed circling warmly on the edge of her orbit, moving around her but never looking, never acknowledging her as anything other than a voice and a pair of friendly working hands. The silly stupid thread she felt earlier vibrated. She didn't bring it up for fear they wouldn't finish all their work if she were to derail the conversation, so she waited until the end of their study session.

However, when the anticipated end neared, his chair hit the stone the last time and when she turned to him, Fred was lying on his arms on the table, asleep. His outline was as bright and as sharp as ever, but his face was soft and smooth from relaxation, like a marble statue melting. The anchor in her stomach lurch up at the sight, but she swallowed it down, smiled, and laid her head on the table too.

Another sunny afternoon had George almost skipping to his quirky partner. And Fred was glad, he liked to see his brother happy and loved teasing him for being in love even more — but he still hated the bloody beasts. He was thankful for George's efforts to cheer him up, but Fred refused to move out from under his personal gloomy cloud, choosing to carry it alone instead, the way one would an umbrella.

As soon as George mentions his partner, he knows it's time to leave him to his beloved, as he does, with minimal mocking involved (—but come on!).

As Fred approached her, he saw her roll her eyes. Funny. Something about knowing she's as un-excited as he is made his chest swell up with what can only be described as the sudden understanding of the real depth of companionship between you and a stranger, an acquaintance, a friend. I might not like this, but I am not alone.

"They're four feet long already. Your future sister-in-law," said his partner, gesturing to George's love with her head, at which Fred smiled warmly, "said we only get to work with them for another class. I think she might cry." His clouds stopped thundering.

"Don't be rude." he replied but did not sound angry in the least.

"I'm not. She's a nice girl and God bless her for being passionate about this. We need people like her, otherwise the rest of us would have to care as well." she reasoned.

"There's that warm and welcoming Slytherin care I've heard all about." he said sarcastically.

"Rude. Gingers truly are soulless." Fred got nudged in the ribs.

"Oi!"

"Oi yourself!" she flipped her hair and flashed her foxy smile. No, it's fox-like. "Don't start things you can't finish."

"Well, I'm ready to be done with this thing." he looked pointedly at the snapping creature reaching out to them like a baby in a cot.

They received their instructions from Hagrid to feed, entertain, and check the health of the creature and set off to work. After a few minutes of silence, Fred spoke.

"I think there's something wrong with this thing." he squinted.

"Him." She corrected, "He's our son."

"Well I think our son is pregnant." Fred’s face soured.

“No way." she replied, kneeling closer to the beast than she'd ever dared before. "How do you know?"

"A hunch?" Fred shrugged his very nicely shaped shoulders. No! "I'm not sure. It did eat three times as much as the others. It should be a lot fatter."

"He." She absent-mindedly corrected, trying to get a good enough look.

"He doesn't look sick but he's being weird." he squatted next to her, bouncing on his heels.

"Maybe he's lonely. We both ditched a few times." She bumped her knee into his. "I dare you to touch him."

Fred laughed as he turned to her. "I'm not that commited of a father. You do it."

"Why me? You need to do something too!" she whined as their son approached in a rather puppy-like gait, as if he was going to rub against their legs, and Fred's gaze slipped off her, like that day in the library.

"I'll do whatever you want.” he paused "Within reason, of course."

"Touch him."

"Within reason."

"Fine." their dark-shelled son stood before them now, but they were not as hesitant this time. The beast looked at Fred with either his head or his stinger (how is it still not clear?).

Slowly and shakily, her hand reached out. She almost withdrew it, but it already made contact with their son's back and he made a sound similar to purring, which was both surprising and unsettling. Her face bent in disgust as her entire palm pressed against his black shell, gleaming maroon in the sunlight.

"Ew. He's slimy." she detached her hand to see a catran-like substance coating it. "How is he slimy?"

Fred's nose was scrunched as well but an amused gleam flickered on his face nonetheless. “Disgusting.”

"Well, I did it." she complained, trying to wipe her hand on his arm, but he rose to his feet quickly, laughing.

“Keep that to yourself.” Fred warned, trying to avoid her swift attempts to use him as a rag.

“Come on!” She whined. “We’re in this together. If I have to be gross then so do you.” she jumped up after Fred.

He felt weightless as he maneuvered around her and the clawing beast that still purred by their feet, and he realized how warm the sunlight was. His little cloud was gone. In that distracted second of their impromptu three-creature quickstep, she wrapped her clean hand around his hand and pulled herself closer to him.

She grinned from ear to ear, and Fred felt her wet, cold hand sliding down his shoulder. She wiped a few times down his arm and chest with a wickedly satisfied look in her face as he wondered why he didn’t mind it so much. His eyes danced over her face the way his trainers had over the grass mere seconds ago.

“What?” she asked. Wait, she was speaking.

“Um, nothing.” his face rearranged itself from a goofy smile (What?) and he looked at his stained shirt. Before he even had time to comment, her voice made the center of his stomach tighten.

“Do you think he'd lick one if she asked?” Fred followed her gaze to George, looking as dreamy as his partner who was purring back at their Blast-Ended Skrewt. Sunlight covered them too.

Her hand still held onto him.

Fred sighed, both amused and lightheaded from a new discovery threatening to unveil its face in his mind. George laughed so loudly it reached Fred’s ears, and he responded, “Yes.”

“Would you lick one for me?” she batted her eyelashes.

“Absolutely not.” he said without missing a beat.

“What kind of a father won't even lick his own son?” she put a hand on her chest, faux-horrified.

“I still think our son is pregnant.” he said, grinning at her.

“What kind of a father won't lick his own pregnant son?” she humored.

“You're making this worse than it has to be.”

Her eyebrow rose as she offered: “You can always do this alone?”

“No.” something ugly and covered in spikes spun in Fred's stomach.

“Well then,” she said smugly, as if she knew, “you need to start cooperating.” She tugged on his arm with her hand that was there the whole time. Her arm slid around his as she pulled him along, and Fred adjusted his collar with his fingers. When did they get so far away from the group?

“You don’t pet him, you don’t groom him with your tongue like a cat, what do you do? I haven’t seen you change a single diaper!” she over-exaggerated. “I’m basically a single mother!”

He laughed and apologized, feeling lighter and sharper than he had all day.

His future sister-in-law was wrong. They worked on their loving, puppy-like hell scorpions for three more classes, and had another one in a classroom, correcting their essays. During that class, they found out that their son really was pregnant, at which they laughed all the way to the Great Hall.

Fred felt something heavy rolling over his intestines when he thought of the end. It wound itself around his organs until his lips dropped. Nevertheless, he grinned at George (who definitely saw through him), and, with his chin up like a proud lion, departed from him to sit next to his partner, one last time.

He thought about her more often than he expected to, and he feared he might have to stop soon.

As he slid next to her, his metaphorical tail curled closer to him. She beamed brightly at him, and offered her closed fist.

“You ready, partner?”

No, he curled his fingers with a smile, I don’t think I am, and bumped their hands together.

“Doesn’t have to end? Didn't you listen?” she asked him incredulously as he caught up with her. He couldn’t say he has, as his ears buzzed deafeningly loudly since they received their O.

Maybe she had a point when she said there were moments when people felt more defined as he was more sure than ever that he existed in the corridor leading to the Care of Magical Creatures classroom, as his limbs filled with lead at the way she spoke.

“I just thought if you—” his mouth shit on its own. “You know—”

“Holy shit, you really didn’t listen?” but this time she laughed. “Hagrid said we can pick our own partners for the next project.” Her arm curled around his own, “So unless you want to dump me, we march on.”

Whatever heavy thing has been making his stomach a winter home the past week flew off to their summer residence.

She definitely had a point about grounded moments, because when her hand squeezed his arm, the lead leaked out and the awareness of every part of his body slammed into focus.

And Fred smiled back.

She smiled promisingly at him, his heart stuttered, and his sneakers sunk into the stone beneath him.

#fred weasley #fanfic #fred weasley x reader #hp fanfic

[hermannsthumb]

I saw something somewhere about Newt and Hermann being married the entire time and just assuming that everyone knows, despite having the entire shatterdome convinced that they hate each other. I was wondering if we could get your take on it?

omg yes you absolutely can

-----------------------

“Don’t forget,” Hermann greets Newt in the lab in lieu of a hello. He’s already been hard at work diagramming or equating or whatever it is that’s scrawled across his chalkboards. Newt’s vision is still a little blurry from sleep, so he can’t really make it out. “Your paperwork for your research expedition is due today, or else they won’t let you go.”

“Research expedition,” Newt yawns. “What research expedition?”

Hermann hands Newt his favorite mug full of coffee (awesome) and a small, stapled stack of papers (not awesome). “Your trip next week to Manila,” Hermann says, “for the kaiju sample you’ve been going on and on about. This is meant to be on HR’s desk by five-o’clock; I would get started, if I were you.”

Newt flips through the first few pages of the stack and groans. So many questions Newt needs to fill out—all of them blank. “Oh, fuck me,” he says. “Ugh. Is this really due today?” Hermann nods. Newt gulps down the coffee, glad, at least, that Hermann remembered he takes it black and bitter. “Thanks for the reminder. I guess.”

He speeds through as much of the form as he can without his handwriting going illegible. Predicted expenses (as much as they’ll give him, frankly); what he expects to bring back with him (part of a kaiju stomach, if he’s lucky); how long he’ll be gone (week maximum, too much shit to be done back here); if he needs a team (Newt laughs and leaves this one blank, because he hasn’t had a k-biology research team since 20-fucking-21, and it’s not like Hermann would be of use to him for this); next of kin. “Foreboding,” Newt mutters to himself, but he supposes you can’t be too cautious these days. His plane could go down. Or he could be smushed in a random kaiju attack. Or he could, like, fall on a rusty nail or something. Hermann Gottlieb, he writes. Spouse.

“What number should I put for you?” Newt says. “The lab extension?” They’re technically not allowed to have cell phones on base, and Newt doubts they’d be getting any reception down in the basement anyway, so ancient lab phone it is. He guesses. He can’t remember the last time someone actually called them on it.

Hermann’s chalk squeaks to a halt on the chalkboard. He’d been working on his diagram thing again. “I suppose,” he says. “Newton, please do refrain from speaking while I work. You know I—”

“Right, right,” Newt says.

It takes Newt most of the morning, and all of his lunch break, but he finally manages to finish the fucking paperwork and sprint it down to the slowly-dying HR department by one in the afternoon. “For Manila,” he gasps, handing it over to the woman on duty. “For my trip.”

The woman doesn’t seem very enthusiastic; she takes one look at Newt’s disheveled state, then another at his forms (written in the only pen he could find in his desk, bright purple), sighs, and nods. Newt wonders if she’s the one who has to read through all of Hermann’s complaints about him. He doesn’t envy her, if she is. “Better late than never,” she says. She flips through it, clearly not really caring about taking any of it in. “Looks like everything is—spouse?”

“Uh,” Newt says. “Yeah?”

She stares at Newt, then at the form, then back to Newt. “You’re married,” she says, “to—?”

Newt shifts in place. He kinda thought everyone knew at this point; he doesn’t wear a ring around, but that’s only ‘cause it’d get lost in kaiju guts in seconds, and Hermann only puts his on when he’s feeling romantic, but it’s kinda...like, obvious, isn’t it? They’ve been hopping Shatterdomes together for years. They eat all their meals together. They share a workspace, for God’s sake, when logically they have absolutely no need to. Newt’s submitted requests for couples’ quarters (all unanswered), like, fifty times in the last year. “Yeah?” he repeats. 

To Newt’s surprise, the HR woman suddenly swivels her chair around and taps her co-worker (a grumpy-looking dude who's typing away at a computer) on the shoulder. He turns; she brandishes Newt’s paperwork. “Look at this,” she says.

He co-worker’s eyebrows jump. “Hermann Gottlieb?” he says. “Not that Hermann Gottlieb, right?”

They both turn to look at Newt.

“Is there any other?” Newt says.

“Dr. Gottlieb has filed so many official complaints about you that he has his own drawer in our filing cabinet,” the woman says. “We might even have to start another soon.”

“It’s a big cabinet,” her co-worker says.

“Yeah, well,” Newt says, weakly. “Some couples go to therapy?” Privately, Newt’s about eighty-percent sure Hermann thinks submitting HR complaints counts as foreplay, but he’s not about to tell two perfect strangers that. “Hey, actually, while I’m here,” he says, though he has a sinking feeling he knows the answer he’s going to get, “can I check up on the status of that new quarters request I submitted last month? For me and Hermann?”

“Oh,” the woman’s co-worker says, and laughs. “We thought that was a joke.”

“Right,” Newt sighs.

Couples’ quarters request form number fifty-one later, Newt finds himself trudging back to the lab in low spirits. Is it really that unbelievable that he and Hermann are married? He loves Hermann; Hermann loves him. They argue a lot, yeah, but that’s just...how they are. They always make up afterwards, thoroughly, and lovingly. They don’t hate each other. Obviously they don’t hate each other.

Does Hermann hate Newt? “Hermann?” Newt says.

Hermann turns from his work with a grunt. He has chalk smeared over his cheek and a small part of his forehead, like he pressed his face against the chalkboard in thought. It makes Newt smile. “Mm?” Hermann says. He returns Newt’s smile, warmly, and sweetly, and it crinkles the corners of his eyes. 

Newt’s heart skips a beat. “Eh, nothing,” he says. “I turned in my forms. Do I get a reward?”

“I suppose we could work something out,” Hermann says, grabbing his cane, and slowly steps down from his ladder. “Come here, won’t you?”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #whatsallthisnow

[silvercrystalwhump]

Little thing based on an idea for Ash

@ashintheairlikesnow owns all of these characters I just an idea one day and decided- Hey I'ma write this. Enjoy

TW: implied noncon, noncon photo taking, general bbu warning, Owen Grant exists

-

Vincent drums his fingers across the wood with nails bitten to near bleeding. A hard drive sits on the table in front of him, almost eating at his eyes by simply existing. It’s red, and the word Memories is written on the side. His eyes bore into the table, wanting the hard drive to combust and leave his life.

“You know I could always see what's on there?”

James, the only person other than his therapist to know about Owen, leans by an open window. The sound of Blue Jays singing outside dances through his words like background music on set. The only reason he had the displeasure of knowing about that migraine-inducing part of his life was that Vincent forgot to watch his liquor intake at an event and vomited out his entire life story to James in one night. Needless to say, he woke up the next morning with a hangover that could kill god and a very concerned James who knew too much.

Vincent shakes his head, “I am fairly certain I know what's on this, I don’t want you seeing that.”

James doesn’t respond, “I have an incinerator at home. You can just get rid of it there.”

“If it’s not I’ll be destroying something I actually like.”

Vincent did not even know why he had him come over. After he saw the handwriting he just went on autopilot. “Could you drive down about five minutes down, there’s this small coffee place that makes pecan pie flavored coffee, can you go get me some?”

“Sure,” James says, “Do you want me to go so you can do this alone and I can come back later or?”

“No, I just need you out of the house for maybe 15 minutes, it’s not like you probably have already figured out what I think is on this hard drive.”

James shrugs, “You want something to eat too?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Vincent hears James’ keys jungle quietly and the door opens. He can hear his footsteps walk down his porch. As he listens to James’ car start, Vincent puts his head in his hands. His finger knit into his hair and closes, threatening to rip the follicles right from his skull. I really don��t want to see this. He exhales as he hears the car pull out of the driveway and his gate slide closed.

Inhale, he closes his eyes and fumbles the hard drive into the laptop. Then, exhaling, he opens his eyes.

USP Pot In-Use. Transfer 486 GB of data onto this device?

Half a terabyte of data just sitting on a hard drive. A hard drive that was in the button of one of Vincent’s bags for months. Vincent starts to chew on the inside of his cheek, hands trembling near the mouse pad.

Yes.

Not enough storage for transfer. Preview file?

Yes.

A handful of files transfer to his laptop. Some files were named with dates, some with pet names, some with actual event titles but all were photos. Vincent closes his eyes and opens one simply labeled Coffee. The actual photo itself is just him sitting in one of his old dressing rooms back when working with Owen. There is a blurry spot in the upper left-hand corner of the photo. This was definitely Owen’s phone. Owen’s phone always had a blurry spot in the upper left-hand corner no matter how much Owen wiped it off.

The photo looks like it was taken at an awkward angle. Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose and mutters, “So he stalked me long before the incident, I stopped working there months before it happened.” The other handful of photos are similar; pictures were taken without Vincent noticing, usually at work. The last one was in his own house, but it was during a party he remembered that he invited Owen to.

Then a video pops up only labeled with a date.

Vincent reaches up and mutes his computer, and slowly presses play on the video. It starts with Owen muttering something before sticking his phone up and peering through a window. The video is of Vincent sleeping, and it lasts for nearly 30 minutes before the phone is dislodged, and the video finishes.

The next set of photos and videos are dated during his time with Owen.

He gets through three before rushing to the bathroom to puke.

-

When James gets back, Vincent has seen enough. He was right. It was Owen’s hard drive, and somehow he got a hold of it. James hands Vincent the coffee and the bag.

“I’m not gonna lie, I kinda forgot what you said about food so I just got you a scone since I was listening to the radio talk about the new federal policy on box boys.”

Vincent took a sip of the coffee and raised an eyebrow at James, “Something changed?”

“The emancipation law, it was signed by the president a week ago and the changes went into effect today,” James says as he sips his own coffee, “If you own a box boy for over a year and they meet a handful of prerequisites you can emancipate them and give them legal citizenship.”

“I honestly thought it would get shot down.”

“Well since the senator that was so against it was voted out this election no one else has objected,” James says, and he pulls up his phone, “Well the owner has to be the one to sign them for emancipation. Senator Grant was her name wasn’t it?”

Vincent takes a bite out of the scone. He swallows both the scone and a thought.

“Does it say anything about private transfer?”

“I think you just have to have their papers. Why?”

Vincent looks down at his food, and an idea pops into his head, “What’s Senator Grant doing now since she’s not in office.”

James shrugs, “Let me see if anyone said anything?” He taps on his phone, the little buzzes echo around the room like flies to trash. James pauses, “I’m pretty sure she’s just at home preparing for the next election why?”

“I think I might need you to help me make a phone call.”

-

Weeks later, Vincent paces, listening to James talk on the phone in the other room. He could not physically hear Owen’s voice through the phone without falling apart.

“That’s my ear,” James says sarcastically, “Do you agree with this or not?”

Silence.

Click.

James knocks on the half-open door, “You alright Vincent?”

“Are you done?” Vincent asks, tighter than a spring.

James nods, “After the screaming he agreed, do you want me to go over with the papers so you don’t have to see them?”

“Please, I’m more than likely already going to have to be on a phone call with his Mother and that's stressful enough.”

Vincent opens the door of his study and steps out, “I need a drink.”

“It's noon Vincent.”

Vincent has one hand on the liquor cabinet and chuckles dryly, “Perfect.”

‘Vincent, no.”

Making dead eye contact with James, he pulls a bottle of sweet tea vodka out of the cabinet and pours himself a glass. James sighs and shakes his head, “I thought Dr. Brycan told you not to drink.”

“He said that I need to wait until at least noon since I used to drink from dawn until dusk unless I had work, it’s 12:01.”

“Didn't you tell me that you’re probably going to get a phone call from the ex-Senator today,” James says, stepping back, “I think you want to wait at least until then so you're sober when you two talk.”

Vincent pauses with the glass halfway to his lips. He sets it down just hard enough to hear it but not hard enough to crack the crystal. Vincent grumbles, “Fine,” and walks back for his study to wait by the phone.

-

“You do know this is blackmail, Vincent,” Mrs. Grant grinds through the phone, “And that is illegal.”

“So is paying off someone to hide criminal charges. He either takes the deal or I take this half terabyte hard drive filled with evidence to court and get the press involved, his decision.”

“How much do you have to pay you,” she says after a moment.”

“No amount of cash will buy me over, he either takes the deal or I contact my manager.”

Silence through the phone. Vincent’s nails dig into his jeans. The woman on the other end of the line can’t see the tears pouring down Vincent’s face. One thing acting taught him was how to keep his voice steady for clarity in a microphone. The only difference here is that the microphone is in a phone rather than on a long stick.

“We’ll think about it,” she finally says.

“You have until Sunday.”

“Fine.”

Click.

Vincent holds the phone up to his ear for a second before dropping it onto the table. His head falls into his hands, and he sobs. His mind, blank yet filed with too many feelings, recoils under its own weight. Tears that had been held back for months spill across contract papers and blot through blank ink. The ink spread like blood across bed sheets.

-

“Are you sure you don’t want me to knock his teeth in?” James asks as he holds the contract and transfers forms in one hand and a Sprite in the other, “Because I will and want to.”

Vincent shakes his head, fingers drumming across the velvet seats of the limousine he almost forgot he had. When did I even buy this was the first thought he had when he dug through contacts. “No, just go inside, get him to fill out the forms, and come back. Then we go home and I gorge myself on M&Ms and fudge ice cream.”

James laughs, “Room numbers on the card right?”

“Yes.”

-

James steps out of the car. The condominium looms over the limousine, and James bites through white-knuckled rage as he steps into the lobby.

Guess who’s standing there waiting for him, Owen Grant, and his mother. James steps up to them, “Grant, correct?”

Owen looks surprised and gives James a quick not-so-subtle scan, “Are you who Vince sent, I thought he was coming?”

“Do I really need to explain why that will never happen?”

Mrs. Grant gives James a glare to rival the sun’s wrath on gingers. The demeanor shifts almost instantly to a more business appeal, “Well allow us to get this paperwork sorted out as painlessly as possible.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

How long does it take to sign papers? James thinks as he watches Owen go through the forms. These are pre-filled out records; he just needs to sign in three spots. Pen scratches against the paper, Owen’s friendly demeanor evaporated when he reached the final form.

“Why this of all things?” he grinds out.

Neither of the two people answers him. Owen finally tosses the form and an orange file in James’ direction. “All of Kauri’s paperwork; if Vince needs anything else, he’ll have to contact WRU directly.”

James scoops the papers off the table, flipping through them; he looks to make sure Owen didn’t deliberately miss any signatures. An extra envelope sits in the orange file. James pulls it free and waves it in Owen’s face.

“What’s this?”

Owen, stupidly, answers, “A goodbye letter since I just filled out a no contact agreement, I want to give my final goodbyes if you will.”

James rips open the envelope and takes out the letter but keeps in anything that may be important.

“That’s for Vincent’s eyes only!” Owen snaps.

“And that hard drive was for your eyes only wasn’t it? I got Vincent’s consent to look through these forms.”

Owen and his mother glare daggers at James as he tosses the letter back onto the table, “Goodbye.”

James can still feel Owen’s teeth grinding gaze on his back as the door closes behind him.

-

Jake answers the door, “Hello Vincent.”

“Is Kauri here?” Vincent asks as his fingers shift around the orange folder.

“Depends,” Jake says, leaning against the door frame, “What do you want?”

Vincent sighs, “I called Natalie yesterday and---”

“Just let him in,” Kauri’s voice echoes from inside the safe house, “Let’s just get this over with.”

Jake pierces his lips and steps out of the way. Vincent steps past him and enters the safe house. Natalie had told him to make things as quick as possible, and if Kauri told him to leave, he would. Vincent agreed. Now he simply hoped that he would be able to get this across without being told to leave.

Kauri steps around the corner, a look of tired anger sits behind his eyes.

“Kauri I’m so---”

“Skip the bullshit, Nat said this would be quick.”

Vincent nods and forces the new wave of guilt back into his stomach, “A few days ago, I was able to… convince Owen to transfer ownership of you to me. I want to ask if I can transfer you to anyone else for your own security, so you are entirely out of Owen’s grabbing range.

Kauri stands there with an expression of absolute disbelief. Then, finally, he opens his mouth to speak before stammering, “I said quick but not one sentence, elaborate.”

“Well, to put it in simply I was going through some of my old stuff from during the incident. I found a hard drive with nearly half a terabyte of… evidence that could be used against Owen,” Vincent says as his shoulder tense at memories he wishes to be buried. “A friend of mine brought up the new box boy emancipation law and after that I got an idea. This friend, who I vomited out my entire life story to black out drunk, was willing to help be the liaison between Owen and me. After a telephone call between Mrs. Grant and I, we got the papers signed and so now I have all of your paperwork under my name.”

“Okay?” Kauri says with disbelief still in his tone in tiny blips, “Then why are you talking to me, just leave me alone and I won’t have to worry about Owen.”

Vincent chews at the inside of his cheek, “Here’s the thing, what I did is, in the eyes of the law, black mail. While he could be charged with the same thing, if he took me to court one of the first assets taken for compensation are box boys. So, you could stay under my name but I don’t trust that he won’t try to get you back by either suing or doing something. My question now is, is there someone who you trust enough for me to transfer your ownership form to.”

Kauri pauses. The gears shift in his head for a moment before he looks past Vincent and back at Jake. The widest shit-eating grin nearly splits Kauri’s face in half. He looks over Vincent’s shoulder and laughs, “Hey Jake, want your own Romantic?”

Vincent looks over his shoulder and sees a very exasperated, tired, and just downright flustered Jake.

“I- um- Kauri- I- please don’t wrd it like that, that makes me sound terrible.”

“And.”

“I- mean in order to keep Owen away from you then yes I will but please don’t,” Jake stampers, “I don’t and won’t own you.”

Kauri pushes past Vincent and boops Jake on the nose, “Congrats you get your own boxie.”

“Kauri, please.”

Vincent clears his throat and interrupts, “While I am used to being third wheel um I know you all want me out of your hair so I have the forms with me and after they are signed I will do the heavy lifting with WRU.”

After a second, Kauri chuckles before walking away. Jake just watches as he leaves, a sigh escaping his lips, “He is never going to let me live that down.”

“If you don’t want to-”

“No no,” Jake says, “I will, he's just teasing. What do I have to sign?”

#owen grant should be castrated #bbu #ash is cruel to the boys #kauri #jake #vincent shield #blackmail #tw: implied noncon #tw: noncon phototaking #whump #box boy #box boy universe

[flecks-of-stardust]

Dreamless: Chapter Two — Pale Secrets (Defunct)

Chapter Two of Dreamless, my Hollow Knight AU. Spoilers inbound.

Learn more about this AU; link to the Dreamless masterlist.

Content warning for an instance of passing out, and (warranted) passive aggressiveness. Ask to tag anything else that I’ve missed.

Chapter summary: Ghost enters Hallownest through the Dirtmouth well, and stumbles into the Temple of the Black Egg. They chat with Quirrel briefly, then find their way into the Ancestral Mound, where they are given a vital, but vague, piece of information.

Read this chapter on AO3.

Note: this chapter is heavily outdated, and is not consistent with the current version of the story. Details have changed since this chapter was written, and it will be replaced with a different version in time. If you wish to read this chapter, proceed with the awareness that this is an old version that is inaccurate.

—(Line breaker) The skies have stopped shining. Have you? (Line breaker)—

They spend the next few cycles in Dirtmouth, or what they approximate to be a few cycles; they had noticed this as they’d gotten closer to Hallownest, but the skylight had vanished a while back. The perpetual night here is a bit disconcerting, but they’ve seen stranger things. There are enough lanterns here to light the way regardless. They no longer have a natural way to keep time, though, and all the clocks they’ve seen in Dirtmouth appear to have long since stopped working. 

Their current estimate of how much time has passed is based on Elderbug. It took about a cycle for them to convince him that they are not, in fact, a ghost come to haunt him, another for him to stop being too freaked out to interact with them, and a third for him to actually give them his name. They’re currently on their fourth cycle in Dirtmouth, and they’ve finally figured out a semi-reliable way of communicating with Elderbug.

Elderbug leans in to peer at the slate they’re holding more closely. “Who… last… I’m sorry, little one, I can’t read that word,” he rumbles, his fingers worrying at each other again. It’s a nervous habit that he has repeatedly exhibited throughout their stay, and it’s now more familiar than irritating. “Could you rewrite it?”

They huff, erasing the slate with their hand and painstakingly rewriting their sentence. They’re using a stray piece of chalk they found while rooting around their house. It’s not very long, and had a bit of fluff on the end that they’d picked off and played with, then subsequently lost. Their handwriting is already atrocious, as they’ve never needed to write before, but the size of the chalk ensures that whatever they do manage to write is borderline illegible. It’s still better than charades, though.

Elderbug reads their writing again, reaching up to rub one of his horns. “Who was the last traveler I saw?” he tries, looking at them to confirm the words. They nod, and he sighs. “The last traveler… I believe one passed through just a few cycles before you arrived. He was quite the pleasant fellow, despite the strange mask he was wearing and the nail at his side. He said he was looking to explore.” He sighs, his hand dropping back to his side. “Ultimately, he headed down into the well, just like all the others. I don’t understand it.”

The well leads to Hallownest, he had said earlier. It’s the only entrance left to the kingdom. All the official entrances had collapsed over time, and when there were none left to enter Hallownest, the villagers of Dirtmouth had carved out the bottom of the well to make their own. One by one, they all went down there and vanished. Elderbug had recounted the story with a fair bit of shuddering; it intrigues and disturbs them in equal amounts. Somehow, Hallownest has retained enough power to draw people into its depths even long after its death. It feels sinister.

“Surely you’ve felt it too,” Elderbug says, his fingers scraping against each other again. “How the air feels strange and heavy. Sometimes I feel it pulling at my mind, beckoning me down the well.” He shudders; he does that a lot, they remark wryly to themself. “The other residents of Dirtmouth had given into it, I suppose. All of them drawn down by that rancid air, never to return. That’s reason enough for me not to follow them.”

The heavy air here is about the same strength it was in the tunnels they’d arrived from—King’s Pass, Elderbug had called it. They’ve grown accustomed to its presence over the past few cycles; it lurks in the back of their mind, more persistent than the call, but also more subtle. Whenever they forget it’s there, it draws a finger across their shell, whispering. It’s annoying, but the fact that it’s apparently what’s drawing people down into Hallownest worries them. Polluted air shouldn’t be able to do that, surely. 

The call has gotten stronger over the course of their stay, scrabbling at them and compelling them to jump down the well. It pulses harder, faster, and occasionally the pain flares, much more often than it used to. They can tell they’re close to the source, and they’ve been resolutely ignoring it. They don’t want to find out what it is yet.

They’ve had time to ponder the pain, and the fear, from the call and the distant sound. They’re undeniably similar, and now, if they focus, they can hear the distant sound in the back of their mind, still screaming its mournful, echoing cry. They are both calling, though neither call is specifically directed at someone.

They’re still the only one that can hear them. The fact fills them with equal parts dread and anger. Dread at what they’re going to find down there, anger that they have to be the one to deal with it. They don’t want to deal with it, but they’ve come this far anyway. They may as well see it through.

It’s so much easier to lie to themself that if they ignore the call and the distant sound hard enough, they’ll fizzle out and disappear. But lately, that lie has lost its credibility, and they know that if they run away from this now, after feeling the pain and fear of both of these people, they will never forgive themself for their cowardice. They think about it anyway, despite the guilt that wells up and threatens to engulf them. 

They dust the slate off and stow it, shoving it and the chalk inside of them. Out of the corner of their eye, they catch how Elderbug jumps and turns his head away sharply, and they curl into themself, trying to hide their actions with their cloak. They keep forgetting that most bugs find this alarming, since they’re used to putting things away inside of them. They’ve also never interacted with any particular bug long enough for them to notice what they’re doing and get creeped out; they’ll have to be better about remembering it for Elderbug’s sake.

Elderbug keeps his gaze averted as they hop off the bench and dust themself off. “You know where to find me if you need something,” he mumbles, and they nod, guiltily playing with their cloak. “I’ll see you later, little traveler.”

They stare after him as he hurries off, their shoulders slumping. Will he, though? They’re going to have to go down the well either way. They don’t have a choice in that matter, but they want Elderbug to have company.

They return to their house, dejectedly pondering their options. They could bid him farewell before leaving, maybe. Though from their short stay with him, they can tell he doesn’t have high hopes for their return, and they don’t want to deal with what he’ll say about it. They could also just leave without telling him… but that feels cruel. They had only just managed to convince him they aren’t a ghost.

They sit on a pillow and sigh, looking around their room. It’s now a pillow fort, reinforced with bedding they’d stolen from the houses around them; Elderbug hadn’t been too happy to discover them breaking into the neighboring houses. There are so many pillows and blankets on the bed that they can’t see the mattress, but it’s of no consequence to them, since they burrow into the pile to sleep anyway. The contents of a few drawers and shelves are strewn haphazardly across the floor, the aftermath of them rummaging for a writing utensil. One of the drawers is also on the floor, since they had accidentally pulled it out and then failed to put it back in.

Overall, the room is a mess. A very comfy mess. 

They begin putting stuff back into the drawers and onto the shelves. They’re fairly sure Elderbug would keel over if he saw the state their room is in. Best to avoid that altogether. The drawer probably won’t kill Elderbug, though, so they leave it where it is.

When they’re done cleaning their room, they strap their nail to their back and head out the door, looking around for Elderbug. They find him standing next to one of the benches, staring up at the sky with his hunched back to them. Framed by the soft glow of a lantern against the darkness surrounding them both, with only the soft whispers of wind accompanying them, his silhouette only accentuates how desolate Dirtmouth has become.

They walk up to him, pulling out their slate and chalk. He turns to look at them as they approach, his face a picture of weary acceptance. “I won’t convince you not to go,” he rumbles, his gaze meeting theirs. They swallow the guilt that wells up at the disappointment in his eyes. “I hope your stay here has been comfortable.”

They nod, scribbling, “Thank you for house.” 

His expression softens a fraction. “Of course.” He pauses. “I hope you’re aware you could have asked me to open the doors to other houses for you.” 

They clean the slate off sheepishly. They hadn’t wanted to bother him, though in any other place, burglary wouldn’t be taken in such stride. “Sorry.” 

“No worries.” He looks at them, briefly glancing at their nail. “I wish you luck down there.” His gaze lingers a tick more before he resumes his watch of the sky. 

They look at him for a few ticks, waiting for him to face them again. He doesn’t, so they hesitantly tap his arm to get his attention. “I will come back,” they write, holding it up for him to read.

Elderbug’s face lights up for a brief moment before it falls back into a mask of resignation. “That’s what they all said,” he murmurs, so soft they’re not sure he meant for them to hear. A second wave of guilt surges up, and they clench the slate harder than they need to as they wipe it off. 

They stand there for a few moments, fumbling for something to say and finding nothing. The call scratches at their face, growling at them to just go, and they swat at it. They don’t want to leave Elderbug like this.

They look up at him as he turns to face them again with a sigh. “There is… one bug,” he says haltingly, fingers fiddling at each other again, “who has gone down and made it back previously. He goes there every so often.” He pauses, and they see hope fighting to make its way across his face. They grip their stub of chalk so hard they’re afraid it’ll crumble into dust. “He hasn’t been back in a while. If you find him, I’d appreciate it if you could tell him to return.” 

His expression tells them all they need to know about his expectations. Their hand shakes harder than usual as they write, “What he look like?” 

The resignation leaves his face momentarily as he ponders the question, rubbing one of his horns. “He’s a small bug.” His gaze flicks over them. “About your height, actually. But he has these big eyes, almost as big as his head. Perhaps bigger.” He lowers his hand and folds it over his other one. “He was our shopkeep. You might find some of his wares down there.”

They nod, and use their cloak in an attempt to hide the action of stowing their slate and chalk. Elderbug averts his gaze anyway, but he looks slightly less disconcerted at the action. This time, however, he looks back at them after a few ticks. “Be on your way then,” he says, his voice even but tired. “Safe travels.”

He turns his face back to the sky. They stand there next to him for a few minutes, watching the sky with him. It’s completely dark, save for the light coming from the lantern above their heads. There isn’t actually anything to look at; nothing pierces the fabric of the dark expanse of night sky above their heads. It is just the two of them here, and perhaps their thoughts. They look at him and wonder what he’s thinking about.

Eventually, reluctantly, they leave him standing there. The well is only a short walk away, and once there, they peer over the edge of it. Their gaze is greeted by a bottomless pit, stretching down much further than they had expected. If not careful, any normal bug would likely smash their legs into smithereens at the bottom. How desperate had the people of Dirtmouth been, to climb down this well and to convert this into an entrance to Hallownest? 

How desperate are they, to join them? 

They brush the thought away, brace themself briefly, and jump into the well. The darkness swallows them, and they begin their descent into the depths of Hallownest.

Halfway down the well, the pain of the call suddenly explodes into life, raging, searing agony arcing all throughout their head and their body. They go slack, tumbling through the air as the pain overtakes all of their senses. They try to move their arms, their hand, a finger, anything, but their body has stopped responding to them. They can barely feel the rushing of air around them from the sheer intensity of the pain.

They barely notice when they hit the floor. Their vision flashes, wavering and doubling up. They are on fire. Their shell is splitting in two, the crack lancing through their eye. They can’t see anything on their right side.

Slowly, they get up, and the whole world sways. They move forward regardless, stumbling and tripping over their own feet. Carried forward by instinct and duty, they walk with a purpose they cannot feel, cannot understand. But what use to mull over it? It is not their place to question. 

A building; they enter. A door, dark, spiraling patterns. White, glowing. Blue. Their legs give out. 

They feel it entering them, searing hot. It burns. Everything burns, every fiber of their being. He hadn’t mentioned it would hurt like this. 

They can’t feel their arm. They can’t feel their face. They can’t see anything. 

They’re scared. 

They failed.

Help me, please.

Pain consumes them. Their body burns up. Blind to the world, they fall. 

—*(Line breaker) Secrets untold, waiting to be uncovered. (Line breaker)*—

When they come to, they are staring up at the ceiling. Their vision is blurry, the world around them mere smudges of blue-grey and black. The stone against their back is cool, but it doesn’t dull the intense full body aching.

They sigh. They hate pain spikes.

Their horn is pressing against something, and they turn to look at it, moving as slowly as they can so as not to aggravate the full body pain. They make out something black, attached to something blue. There is something grey nearby, moving rhythmically. 

It stops moving, and they realize that it was making a sound. There is a different sound now, but it’s too garbled for them to make sense of it. They rub their face, irritated. Their mind is always so scrambled after they wake up from a pain spike.

They attempt to sit up, but their body doesn’t cooperate. Something gently pushes them into a sitting position as they grumble and keep trying, and they slouch over grumpily. They also hate how uncoordinated they are after a pain spike. It’s a wonder nothing has eaten them while they’re this vulnerable. At least the aching is starting to lessen.

Their senses finally come back enough that they can understand what the sounds they’re hearing are. “Little traveler? Can you hear me?” a voice says, still sounding a little garbled. 

They look over at the owner of the voice. The black and blue things they had seen earlier are part of the same thing: a bug, with a rounded belly and a strange white mask over their face. The grey thing is a nail, now resting across their lap. There’s a whetstone in their hand, which they had been using to sharpen their nail with. 

Despite the mask, the bug’s concerned expression is evident. They realize they haven’t answered their question, and hastily nod a few times. The concern in their eyes lessens slightly, but doesn’t dissipate. To their relief, they don’t press them for more information. 

They look at the bug’s mask again, and something in their scrambled mind connects. This bug is the same bug Elderbug had mentioned, strange mask and nail and all. Maybe he’d be happy to learn that this bug is faring well.

They realize the bug had said something else, and dig the slate and chalk out, hiding the action with their cloak. “Sorry, you repeat please?”

“Are you feeling alright?” he repeats, reaching up to adjust his hat slightly. He doesn’t appear to have noticed them pulling the slate out of themself, and they relax a little. “You walked in here and collapsed, then started twitching. Did you have a seizure?”

It would be simpler if it were just a seizure. They shake their head, erasing the slate and writing, “Am fine. Used to it. Not seizure.”

The bug’s gaze doesn’t waver, his dark eyes twin pools of curiosity and concern. They look away from him. They don’t want to explain, and they’re not sure he would believe them anyway.  

After a moment’s silence, the bug extends his hand to them. “I’m Quirrel,” he says, and they stare in surprise as his mask crinkles, the holes carved into it contorting into semicircles. What the fuck is this thing made of? “It’s delightful to meet another traveler down here.” 

They gingerly take his hand, and he gives it a firm shake. “Is it safe to assume you’re here to explore Hallownest too?” he asks, leaning back on one arm and resting the other on his belly. “There’s secrets abound in this kingdom, and I’m eager to uncover them.”

How do they even answer that? They stiffly nod, slowly erasing the slate. 

Quirrel gestures to the strange door next to them, seemingly not noticing their conflicted state. “This is one of the most intriguing in this area, and I had to return to sit beside it again. A great stone egg, lying in the middle of these lonely crossroads. I do wonder if the door can be opened.”

They look at the door, dark and imposing in both size and design. Three glowing markings are imprinted on it, gently pulsing. Spiralling grooves coil inward from the edges of the door, curling around the markings, and a strange energy emanates from the door. Something inside them twists. They have a bad feeling about this.

Abruptly, the memories of what had transpired as they descended into Hallownest hit them. They grab at their arm, then their face. Their arm is intact, and their shell is unblemished. They can see out their right eye just fine. They aren’t on fire.

That hadn’t been them. It was whoever is calling them, pressing their memories and feelings into their mind. They know, somehow, they’re behind this door. They continue staring at it, their insides twisting almost painfully. What happened to this person? And who is ‘he?’ None of this makes sense.

The sheer pain and fear that had been channeled to them… Whatever caused this, it matters less than relieving this person of their suffering. How long have they been…? 

“Little traveler?” They startle, snapping out of their thoughts. The concern in Quirrel’s expression has intensified again. Shaking their head to clear it, they write, “No need to worry. Got distracted.”

Quirrel squints at their handwriting a little longer than they think is necessary to read it. “Alright,” he finally says, clearly unconvinced. They busy themself with wiping the slate off, not wanting to look at him. It’s pointless to try to convince him that they’re fine when the truth is far darker.

Quirrel returns to sharpening his nail, and they watch him for a while. It is in splendid condition, its edges razor sharp, and it shimmers gently in the dim lighting. He handles it with ease, ease that can only come from great experience with his nail. They have no doubt Quirrel is a competent warrior.

They unsheathe their own nail and look at it critically. It’s dented. And dull in many spots. They’re not sure how it deals damage still. They look at Quirrel’s nail again with envy.

“Ah, would you like me to sharpen that for you?” Quirrel says, peering at their nail. The holes of his mask are crinkled again in what they assume to be mirth. It’s still weird to see it do that. “Your nail is in quite a sorry state, but the fact that you are sitting here next to me proves your prowess in battle.”

They hesitate, caught off guard by the offering and the compliment. What use is flattery here? And why is Quirrel complimenting them when he’s the one offering to do something for them? Usually they have to get into people’s good graces before they even look at them when talking to them.

Still, a sharper nail would be useful. Warily, they hold their nail out to him. He carefully takes it from them, sizing it up. It’s comically small in his hands, and he fumbles with his whetstone briefly before finding a good rhythm to sharpen their nail with. 

He hums softly as he works, the scraping of the whetstone providing a beat for him to sing to. They watch him, fiddling awkwardly with their cloak. He hasn’t asked them to pay or for some sort of service yet. He probably will once he’s done sharpening their nail, but the fact he hasn’t asked yet makes them antsy. He’d stayed with them while they were unconscious, too. What is he going to ask of them for all of that? 

Quirrel offers their nail back to them, hilt first, and they tense. “It should cut much better now,” he says, amusement lining his words. “I have a spare whetstone, if you’d like it. It may be a bit big for you though.”

They wait for him to add more to his sentence, bracing themself for whatever he might want them to do. Quirrel’s expression merely grows confused at their lack of response. “Do you want your nail sharper?” he asks, setting their nail down and digging for the aforementioned whetstone. “Any sharper and it might break, though.”

Why is he offering them more stuff? They shake their head, wracking their mind for something to say. “Payment?” they write, and stare down at their own writing. Should they even ask at all?

Quirrel leans over to read the slate, putting the second whetstone down next to them. “Ah, don’t worry about that,” he says with a laugh, leaning back on his hands. “Your company is payment enough. It’s not often that I get to chat with another bug on my travels.”

They stare at him, dumbfounded. This has to be some sort of joke. Or some sort of ploy to get them to let their guard down. Or maybe he’s just going to stab them once they turn around. They eye his nail again with considerably less envy.

In any case, they should go before he makes any demands. They get to their feet, sheathing their nail while watching Quirrel for any sign of him going for his nail. He looks up at them cheerfully, still leaning on his hands. “Are you going now?”

They stiffly nod, already backing away from him. He lifts his hand, and they just barely stop themself from drawing their nail. “Safe travels!” he says, waving at them. “May our paths cross once more.”

Creeped out by how nice he’s being, they give him little more than a curt nod before turning and speed walking out of the building. They unsheathe their nail once they’re sure they’re out of his line of sight and hurry back the way they came, only briefly glancing at the bottom of the well as they pass it. Whatever Quirrel’s motives are, they don’t want to stick around to find out. They’ll worry about running into him again later.

A few minutes of walking later, they emerge into a room with a wide array of hanging platforms, dangling from the ceiling in columns. One of them is shaking slightly; they lean over the edge of the stonework and spot an infected bug on one of the platforms, meandering pointlessly. They shudder, inching over to the opposite side of the room from it. The last thing they need right now is to get blasted across a room again. The call, back to its usual level of pain, gently pulses in agreement.

Gingerly, they descend using the platforms, keeping an eye on the infected bug as they go. It doesn’t seem to notice their presence, still ambling about on its platform and quietly growling. The screaming of distant sound gets louder as they pass by it, but it’s easier not to get overwhelmed by it now that they’re aware of it. It still rings in their head as they carefully hop from platform to platform, and they clench their hands in their cloak to ground themself.

They breathe a sigh of relief as their feet reach the floor, and glance around. There’s a few empty boxes around, with a crawlid snoozing in one of them, a lever next to one of the platforms, and a hatch in the center of the floor with a ladder leading down. A few papers dot the floor around it. They pick one up, puzzled. It’s blank. So are the other pieces of paper around the hatch.

They head down into the room below and find more papers strewn about. Whoever had been here earlier had left behind a literal paper trail, leading into one of the tunnels branching off from the room. They pick the papers up as they walk, shoving them inside of themself, and follow the trail. It dwindles as they continue further in, and vanishes altogether as they emerge into a different room. They stare at the last piece of paper, perplexed. What kind of bag is this person using? 

Putting the paper away, they look up and around them. The path ahead of them forks into two, one going directly ahead into what looks to be an abandoned storeroom, and one going off to their left. Fragments of shells dot the floor, increasing in density further up the left path, where it ends in a strange building. Spiral shells are mounted on pikes outside, framing the entrance. The torches along the path cast an eerie glow along the walls, which are dotted with more shell fragments, and the light flickers off of them in a way that borders on menacing. 

As ominous as the path to their left is, they do notice that the heavy air seems to have less of a grip in its vicinity. It seems to slip off their shell as they walk towards the building, scrabbling for purchase but finding none. It goes completely silent as they cross the doorway to the building, and its lack of presence in their mind is foreign for only a tick. 

They forget about it entirely as they walk deeper into the building and feel energy crackling across their body. It vibrates, a wild and frenzied aura of sorts. They can’t hear it, exactly; rather, they feel its heavy presence permeating the air, and yet it is impossibly light, resting on them with the lightest of touches and leaving cold prickles behind wherever it trails. 

They can see it around them in more controlled forms. Above their head, torches float mid-air, seemingly burning all on their own, with no need for a fuel source. A translucent, shimmering barrier ahead of them blocks their progression into the building. Distantly, beyond the barrier, they hear laughter, and see flashes of white that burst into multitudes of color.

They take a few steps closer to the barrier, and the laughter stops. The silence is resounding, and the crackling of energy around them only accentuates it. They shift uncomfortably, taking a step back. Maybe they shouldn’t be here.

A person, with a dark body much like their own and a spiral shell mounted on their head, appears beyond the barrier and approaches them. In their hand is a staff, with a stone talisman mounted on it. There are two hollows carved into it that resemble eyes. Their pace is even, poised, and they don’t break stride as they pass through the barrier. It glistens and ripples as they walk through, then stills, reforming into a smooth white sheet. They can’t help but stare at it. They’ve never seen anything behave like that before. That is becoming a trend in their travels here, though, so maybe they should be less surprised.

The person stops in front of them and glares, crossing their arms. Their gaze drills holes into their shell, and they inadvertently shrink back a little. “Why are you here?” they ask, their voice icy and tight. “Have your kind not done enough already?”

They stare up at them, confused. Their kind? They’ve never met anyone like them. As far as they’re aware, they’re the only one of their kind, and they’re not even really sure what they are. 

The person keeps staring at them, their eyes narrowing. “Your confusion is genuine. Their cruelty truly knows no bounds, then.” They uncross their arms, thumping their staff on the floor once. The eyes on their stone talisman glow white, and they jerk back in surprise. “Have you any idea what I am?”

They slowly shake their head. They have no idea what this person is referencing. The air around them crackles ominously, and they see the person’s eyes glow briefly. Instinctively, their hand reaches for their nail, and they mask the action by twisting it into their cloak. From this person’s stance, they know drawing their nail now is a bad idea.

“I am a snail shaman,” they say tersely, their eyes flashing again. The shaman’s gaze burrows into them, probing, and they shrink back a little more. “I deal in soul magic, and I am familiar with the workings of the Pale.” A note of anger enters their voice at the word ‘pale,’ and their hand clenches around their staff. “You are in our ancestral mound, where generations of snail shamans have lived and died. Were it not for your clear ignorance, I would have struck you down already.” 

They bristle, confusion curdling into anger. Their ignorance? Of what? What had they done to warrant getting killed? They’re used to other bugs’ contempt, but at least none of them had threatened to kill them at first sight. If the shaman wants them to leave, they can just tell them that. 

The shaman stares down at them cooly. “Yes, it is not fair, is it?” they trill, venom dripping from their voice. “To be judged as harshly as this from first appearances. To have death wrought on you at the slightest misstep, without even knowing what it is that you have done.” Their eyes flash dangerously, and they take a step back, hands tightening further into their cloak. “We know that well.”

They stare back at the shaman, angry and confused and frustrated all at the same time. Whatever it is that happened to them, it’s not their fault. They just fucking got here. Why are they being blamed for this? 

The shaman shakes their staff slightly. “I would assume you are also unaware of the dangers of the Influence,” they say, moving on from the previous topic without warning. If they were able to scream, they would be doing so right now. “I can help you with that. It would not bode well for one such as you to fall prey to their whims.” A mocking laugh escapes their throat. “What irony that would be. Or perhaps it was all part of their plan from the start.”

They’re tempted to make a rude gesture at the shaman. None of what they’re saying makes sense. ‘One such as you?’ ‘Their whims?’ ‘Their plan?’ The shaman is clearly implying something, and apparently they’re supposed to know what it is. But they don’t.

“Well?” the shaman asks, not impatient, but still curt. They sigh, but nod, loosening their hands. As cryptic as the shaman is, they don’t seem to be lying. There is a certain exhaustion to the way they carry themself, and in how they are holding their staff. They can at least trust them not to kill them right now.

The snail shaman makes a noise that sounds contemptuous, and they clench their hands again to keep themself from drawing their nail. “Do you know what the Influence is?”

They shake their head, and the shaman sighs. “I should have guessed as much. Undoubtedly, though, you have felt how the air here weighs heavy on everything alive to witness it.”

Ah, the heavy air. They prefer thinking of it as just heavy air. The Influence is a much more sinister name, though it’s aptly named. 

The shaman leans on their staff, their eyes narrowing. “The Influence works by muddying the lines between your mind and the will that they impose on you,” they say, their voice tight with barely restrained fury. “It probes into the minds of unsuspecting bugs, teasing at their thoughts, and inserting new ones that pose as the bug’s own. Some bugs may be able to notice this, but most cannot resist it once close enough to the source.” Their grip on their staff tightens, and they straighten up. “You likely have resisted it. But if you are as ignorant as you seem, you do not know how to fully protect your mind.” 

They think back to what Elderbug had said about the villagers of Dirtmouth, and a chill ripples across their back. All those bugs, pulled down by the Influence… is Elderbug going to join them? They think about him stumbling around in the tunnels here and suppress a shudder. 

The shaman waves their staff, and the eyes of their stone talisman begin to glow. “To protect your mind from the Influence, you have to know where your mind ends, and where the exterior begins.” They point their staff at them. “That is the first step.”

The Influence abruptly is grasping at their mind again, cooing and hissing. They shake their head violently, pawing at it. It’s too easy to get used to not having the Influence in their mind.

They can tell that the whispering is separate from them, though, an external voice worming its way into their thoughts. The more they think about it, the easier it is to tell where its fingers have latched on, and they gently pull it from their mind, untangling it and pushing it out. It hisses, trying to grab on, but they keep it at bay. 

“Excellent.” The shaman’s voice shatters their focus, and the Influence spills back in, its fingers wrapping around their thoughts again. They grumble as the shaman continues, “The separation alone is not enough, as you have experienced. You must put a barrier in place.” The shaman’s gaze is sharp, and they avert their gaze. “To do so, you must be secure in your sense of self. You must be certain where your mind begins and ends. Your identity must be strong, interwoven tightly, so the Influence cannot reach in and tease the strands apart.”

They stare at the shaman. They’ve never had an identity. They’ve never needed one. What are they supposed to do?

The shaman shrugs, leaning on their staff again. “To keep your mind safe from the Influence, you must know yourself. Only then will you be able to keep it out. I cannot help you with this.”

Knowing themself… As far as they can remember, they don’t have much of a self to know. In their many years of travel, nearly every bug they’ve met with has reacted with horror, disgust, or a mixture of both at the sight of them. Few ever got over that initial reaction, and fewer still would actually talk to them. The ones that did usually would ask them to run some errands, pay them with the local currency, and then ignore them again. Across all civilizations they’ve been to, that is the one unifying factor: no one wants anything to do with them, unless it’s to ask them for something.

If they are to have an identity at all, then it would be whatever the world around them wants them to be. And usually, it just wants them to not exist. So they are nothing, then. An unwanted wanderer, with no name or purpose, and no place to belong to, destined to be a shadow amongst bugs.

They mull over their thoughts, attempting to form some sort of cohesive identity out of it. The Influence withdraws, claws scraping at their mind and glancing off, and it snarls. A quick burst of glee flits through them, but it disappears as they feel it find purchase somewhere, one finger hooked onto their thoughts. It lingers, lurking in the back of their mind, quieter, fainter, but still there. Their shoulders slump. 

The shaman’s expression is impassive. “Close enough.” They straighten up and take a step towards them, their eyes glinting again with a dangerous glow as the eyes on their talisman light up again. They take a step back, hand going for their nail. “Now get out of our mound, Pale one.” Their eyes flare, glowing bright white. “Do not return. We will not hesitate next time.”

They turn and run, feeling the magic in the air around them begin to coalesce. They just barely make it out of the mound as it takes effect behind them, and the force of the energy locking into place shoves them away from the exit, sending them sprawling. Glancing over their shoulder, they see another barrier sealing the entryway to the mound. It sparks and pulses, energy radiating from it in heavy waves, and they crawl away from it, knowing better than to touch it. 

Once far enough away, they sit up and pick up a few of the shell shards on the ground, clenching their hands around them and letting the sharp edges dig into their palms. The shaman had called them ‘pale one.’ They don’t know what that means. What had the other ‘pale beings’ done to the snail shamans that their presence alone was something to be kept out? What else have they done? What even is the Influence for? 

What exactly have they been called here to do?

—(Line breaker) Are you watching? Are you listening? (Line breaker)—

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#dreamless au #ghost #the knight #quirrel #snail shaman #elderbug #THIS IS OBSCENELY LONG I AM SO SORRY #wait actually im gonna start tagging with word count for folks #whehehe #6.4k words roughly