#i have seen the horrors (aged and gone through multiple fandoms)

[bi-bi-severussnape]

It's been 84 years later but I still love Snarry 😔

#shows up on your dashboard covered in blood #i have seen the horrors (aged and gone through multiple fandoms) #uhhh idk if i'm back i've just been thinking about the boys a lot recently #maybe i'll take a crack at writing them again

[popurikat]

Newtmas essay when?

Finally getting to this, thanks for waiting, I needed to go over a few bookmarks. (Warning, this post contains spoilers from the MAZE RUNNER book and FEVER CODE book, so if you haven’t read either or yet and want the jist of my analysis; just know that in general the fandom interpreting Newt as gay before it was revealed on a twitter post was not just a random headcanon and that Thomas in general is portrayed to have very strong unconditional love for Newt throughout the series; and it shows. To the point that even the director for the movie has stated that Newt and Thomas have a strong bond and portrays that in the movies. I will also preface that I am NOT adding personal opinion anywhere here, these are just backings from quotes and how they are thus meant to be taken/read as. My words are taken as a reader who is currently reading Scorch Trials has yet to fully read Death Cure or Crank Palace.) Anways, without further ado at 3AM today, I’ll try my best to explain how even though Dashner tries his best to make Thomas have other, female love interests; he creates a not so subtle gay subtext for Tommy boy here when in the context of interacting with Newt throughout the lore. Apologies beforehand for any grammar mistakes along the way.

To commence, I am going to start with FEVER CODE, as its supposed to act as the story’s preface to the actual events that play out later. Newt and Thomas upon meeting each other describe their presence as “familiar” and or as a “long lost friend” and they genuinely hit it off from the start to the point that Newt is okay with having Thomas see him cry over the fact that he and his sister are separated since he is doomed to be WCKD’s control analysis as he’s the only one lacking immunity from the flare itself. Once Newt is done being emotionally vulnerable we get our first instance of his personal nickname for Thomas: “That’s the way things are Tommy,’ he said his voice not quite steady. ‘The world outside’s gone to hell. Why should we expect any different here? [...] He said it as if they’d been friends for years” (ch. 14).   An interesting note here is that Thomas doesn’t bother to correct him or stifle the moment by feeling that all this information was too much, he genuinely wanted to hear Newt out and is fine with seeing this side of him; if not slightly taken aback by how natural it is that they can converse about such aspects of their lives. In fact, Newt makes such an impact on Thomas that Thomas ends up that same night dreaming of him: “Throughout his shortened night, he dreamed of Newt and Sonya. Of Newt and Lizzy“(Ch. 14). The thing with Thomas though is that the idea of comfort and connection is very foreign to him as he’s been basically isolated all his life with only the adults like Ava to talk to and the one exception being Teresa as his only kid companion. So Thomas didn’t even think he could make others like him for being himself unless they were vital to the overall production of WCKD. Seeing this portion right before the end of chapter 14: “Alby, Minho, Newt, Teresa. Thomas had friends.” shows that Thomas really had to deep dive to see how he deals with personal connections and why he was excited about the notion of friendship. He could’ve been happy with just Teresa, but only fully cemented her bond to him as “friend” when his circle grew and these kids he got to hang with taught him he can be himself, a concept he didn’t realize was possible when all his life was dictated on what he was supposed to learn or do. It becomes especially clear just how controlled his life is with the aspect of sentiment when later on Teresa’s mental communication evokes physcial pain and fear in Thomas. I’ll get back to that later as its more of a small tid bit of Thomas’ view on his forced love interest, Teresa. And yes, I say forced because multiple sentences with Thomas have him even wish he could cease all communication with her. Moving on, let’s talk about mimicking for a second. As humans, we mimic as a behavioral response to become closer to the person we care about. It’s the reason why yawning or laughter is contagious and or why we copy the posture of the person we converse with face to face. Thomas is seen to do this the most with Newt’s quirks. I’ll give the example in chapter 15: “Newt has been promising them that he was saving something special, and he did that annoying zipped-lipped sign every time [...] the little light in his eyes showed he enjoyed every second of their torture” versus Thomas: “Thomas did Newt’s zipped-lipped gesture, and that got him a sharp poke in the ribs”. So, we know enough that Thomas’ mannerisms are developing as a sign that he wants to be closer to Newt and to continue this sense of playfulness they both enjoy from the other. This is the start of their budding bond and a clear indication that they hold each other at greater fondness than the rest through this unconscious copying. Through this copying, they also pick up on emotional cues the other lets up on. Newt is especially good at noticing small things like when Thomas is anxious or overthinking: “He was just shocked that with all their exploring, the others hadn’t already discovered it on their own. And there were supposed to be TWO mazes. How had Newt and his friends not stumbled upon either one of them? ‘Tommy?’ Thomas realized Newt was staring straight at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Sorry,’ he said embarrassed, ‘wandered off for a second there what did you say?’ Newt shook his head in admonishment. ‘Try to keep up, Tommy Are you ready to see the grat outdoors?” (ch. 15). Also in chapter 23: “Tommy?’ It was Newt, breaking him out of his thoughts. ‘I can see your wheels spinnin’ up there.’ He tapped the side of his head”. This furthers Newts perceptiveness on his friend and Thomas’ ability to pick out when he is being looked after. And they bounce off each other really well in that aspect. To the point that Newt can crack a joke he knows will land right on Thomas’ sense of humor: “Newt waggled his fingers in front of Thomas’ face [...] A laugh exploded out of Thomas’ mouth that sent a spray everywhere. ‘Sorry’ he said, wiping his lips on his sleeve” (ch.15). It’s enjoyable to know that at least at a surface level, they have fun together and can cheer the other up if needed or know when to ground the other to reality. It is also through these instances that as a reader I pick up that Thomas’ nervous ticks perhaps allude to an anxiety disorder he has; of which Newt is aware of and never puts Thomas down on for exhibiting. He in fact understands it and deals with it accordingly as he himself has a similar circumstance. SO, what does all this paying attention lead to? Thomas’ devotion to protect Newt. Yeah, thats right I said devotion. Thomas’ actions are influenced by his developed instinct to protect Newt at all costs. Here is the biggest example that comes to mind: “What in the world happened to Newt? -- Less then two hours later, Thomas had spliced together a series of camera clips [...] Thomas turned off the feed. He couldn’t take it anymore...Newt, Newt, Newt, Thomas thought, feeling as if the very air around him were turning black.”(ch.52). Essentially, Thomas seeing Newt plummet to his near death by falling from the maze wall as a result of Newt’s ongoing depressive state, this is the moment that makes Thomas realize WICKD isn’t as good as they seem and that he is going into the maze to save Newt. Its admirable how much self sacrifice Thomas does for someone he cares so much about, to the point that their name is like a mantra. Thats a sensible area of passion and fighting spirit for someone who is “just a friend”.    Oh and, the feeling of fondness is mutual mind you if I haven’t been clear. After experiencing the horrors of cranks for the first time, realizing Newt was not immune, and watching Newt until they entered the pits it has been months since they last interacted; this is their first reunion: “What’s up Tommy?’ Newt exclaimed, his face filled with genuine happiness at the pleasant surprise that’s been sprung on him. Thomas couldn’t remember exactly how long it’d been since he’d seen Newt. ‘You look bloody fantastic for three in the morning” (ch. 23). I need to preface this that Newt DOES NOT mean that sarcastically and that out of all the people in the room (Minho, Chuck and Teresa are there in this scene), Thomas only reacts this way specifically toward seeing Newt is okay and back.   The characters are also not afraid of being physically close. “Well, look who the bloody copper dragged in,’ Newt said, pulling Thomas into a big hug” (ch.31), “They shook hands, and then the two of them set off...” (ch. 31), and my favorite: “Thomas jumped at the sound, then stumbled. Newt tripped over him, and then they were both laughing, legs and arms tangled in a pile on the ground”(ch.32). I don’t think this far in the novel, Thomas has been AS (emphasis on as) comfortable with touch  with anyone else other than Newt. And thats a big step forward on the aspect of trust in a relationship, being able to be comfortable with the presence of another person enough to be as intimate with them as shown here.  And all this, is just fever code itself. Mind you this is not the MEAT of the novels as it came out later. But even without it, lets look at Thomas in Maze now, I’ll try to keep this segment a lot more brief. Here’s Thomas looking respectively at boys his age: “A tall kid with blond hair and a square jaw...a thick, heavy muscled Asian kid folded his arms as he studied Thomas, his tight shirtsleeves rolled up to show off his biceps [...] Newt was taller than Alby too, but looked to be a year or so younger, His hair was blond and cut long, cascading over his T-shirt. Veins stuck out of his muscled arms”(ch. 2). Thomas’ initial reaction to being surrounded by boys is to deeply analyze their rugged good looks and heavily emphasize their best physical traits. When reading this the first time, my mind immediately thought this boy at the very least is supposed to be portrayed as bi, especially when later down the line Teresa gets a similar descriptor: “...despite her paleness, she was really pretty...silky hair, flawless skin, perfect lips, long legs.” So right off the bat, we know that be it boy or girl, Thomas emphasizes how attractive someone looks in his eyes when he truly does have a sense of attraction to them. Case closed. Within the same chapter we get Thomas also immediately clinging onto Newt for a sense of grounding, it is now ingrained in him at this point that the boy is his lifeline, a person to rely on. “Thomas looked over at Newt, hoping for help.” And help he does, Newt in this chapter helps ease his worries, explain a general idea of what the glade is and even pats him on the shoulder a bit to ease tension. And Thomas doesn’t bat an eye in the same way he’s weary of literally everyone else. In fact, he’s eager to stay put with him as shown with; “If Newt went up there, then I wanna talk to him.” And if none of that seals the deal, we got early bird Newt being so touch starved he flattens himself next to Thomas to wake him up at the crack of Dawn in chapter 6: “Someone shook Thomas awake. His eyes snapped open to see a too-close face staring down at him, everything around them still shadowed by the darkness of early morning...’Shh, Greenie. Don’t wanna be waking up Chuckie, now, do we?’ It was Newt --the guy who seemed second in command; the air reeked of his morning breath. Though Thomas was surprised, any alarm melted away immediately”. This whole scene follows firstly by Thomas once again impressed by how strong Newt is and then Newt giving him a rundown of what everyone else was too afraid to show Thomas, the grievers. And you know, this scene could’ve ended well and everything as totally platonic, but then we have “Newt turned to look at him dead in the eye. The first traces of dawn had crept up on them, and Thomas could see EVERY DETAIL OF NEWT’S FACE, HIS SKIN TIGHT, HIS BROW CREASED.” Now, look me in the eye and tell me there is a hetero explanation on looking at your best bro like they are the sun reincarnated themselves. But let’s not hog all the homosexual undertones with Thomas here. Wanna know what Newt’s initial reaction to having a girl in the glade was? “It’s a girl,’ he said [...] Newt shushed them again. ‘That’s not bloody half of it,’ he said, then pointed down into the box. ‘I think she’s dead” (ch.8). It’s actually a stark contrast to the other gladers eagerly wanting to know her age, how pretty she looked, and calling dibs to date her; Newt isn’t interested in any of that, he’s more perplexed on her status and not even bothering to remark on her looks, he was the only one not to and even remarks a few other instances that girls are more Thomas’ domain. For instance, he makes a joke in fever code when Thomas remarks that the girls in the institution were going to tackle him down, Newt proceeds to point out sarcastically something along the lines of “wait, isn’t that YOUR dream though?” So Newt is pretty out spoken of his disinterest in girls, and his full admiration and attention on Thomas. Oh, and yes, Newt immediately switches over to “Tommy” the moment Thomas mentions he hates being called greenie, and once again it just becomes a thing between only the two of them. Newt is also the one to be straight forward about the whole Runners business. He warns Thomas about the dangers and doesn’t necessarily turn him down on his desire to be one, he in fact encouraged him to just wait until the right moment. “No one said you couldn’t, but give it a rest for now”(ch. 15). So once again, Newt is the voice of confidence and reason for Thomas to prosper. In turn, this time around Thomas is the one to catch when something is bothering Newt. For instance, “Newt chewed his fingernails, something he hadn’t seen the older boy do before...he was genuinely concerned -- Newt was one of the few people in the Glade he actually liked ”(ch.16). Interesting how we went from fever code “friend” to “like”. And also, when Newt explains his concern about the runners not coming back yet, Thomas pieces together how scared Newt is of the Maze without being told and goes to stand next to him as a physical presence to ground Newt as they wait near the entrance. In fact, this piece is trivial to understand why Thomas does what he does next. When everyone else had given up on the Runners still outside with 2 minutes left til closing, and Newt was escorted away from the entrance, Thomas waited. And when Thomas saw them, he yells to Newt, realizes he’s too far to do anything, and makes a decision himself. He KNEW how much Newt cared about his fellow Gladers, they were like family or “kin” as its said in the book, so what does he do? “Don’t do it Tommy! Don’t you bloody do it!’ ... Thomas knew he had no choice. He moved. Forward. He squeezed past the connecting rods at the last second and stepped into the maze”(ch.16). Yes, Thomas does this because of his empathy for the Gladers, but the chain reaction of Newt’s concern is what sets his decision in stone. And yet again, Thomas enters the maze for Newt.  And that’s pretty much the constant for the rest of Maze Runner the book, Newt just sticking up for Thomas and Thomas in turn just being happy that: “He was at least relieved that Newt was there” (ch.17). And thats basically their entire dynamic. Newt just going: “If you really did help design the maze Tommy, it’s not your fault. You‘re a kid -- you can’t help what they forced you to do” to ease the survivor’s trauma Thomas has, as well as saying “I actually believe you. You just don’t have an ounce of lying in those eyes of yours. And I can’t bloody believe I’m about to say this...but I’m going back in there to convince those shanks we should go through the griever hole, just like you said”(ch.51); and I think thats the most romantic thing to hear from him. Just right out being all for supporting Thomas no matter what happens as long as he stays alive and continues to fight, he doesn’t care about what happened before. And Thomas eats that up because it fuels him even more to seek out a means to escape for the people (Newt) that deserve a life outside of running from monsters forever. So essentially, I’ll state again, it’s always been Newt the catalyst for Thomas to run head first into the Maze and seek freedom. And with all this I can clear that these two are shown to if not be romantically involved, at least have unconditional love for the other that transcends the author’s original intention.  And with that in mind, here’s the thing with Teresa as a love interest. I can list here quotes of every time she mind speaks to Thomas and how that affects him, but then this would be too long. And this is a newtmas post gosh darn it. Teresa is gleeful to humiliate, control, hurt, and force Thomas to believe they’re in love. In multiple instances we get her barging into his mind unwarranted making him understand that she has full access to his inner most thoughts. Theres nothing romantic about that, and I think its why Thomas ends up being so perceptive to the smallest of gestures that allow him to think on his own and feel like his own person. Something I’ve seen Brenda do later in scorch, and something I’ve seen Newt do since the very beginning is that they allow Thomas to come to his own conclusions in order to create his own opinions on the matters at hand. Thomas’ love language revolves around words of affirmation. He likes it when people confirm his thoughts are valid and that remind him that WICKD can’t hurt him anymore now that he has the power to be his own person. This is where Newt comes in very handy. He allows Thomas to grow in ways his female love interests have yet to show, sorry Brenda but I’ve heard you were trying to unite all immunes together to the safe haven by the end and in a sense still only using Thomas to get by; I still think she was the better call than teresa of course and I have no remorse for Teresa getting smushed by a boulder. But essentially my point here is that, how do you fail to make your initial love interests clash so badly where one has no real care about the others well being so long as everything goes according to WCKD by using a form of gaslighting and manipulation? AND THOMAS HAS STATED HIS DISCOMFORT ON THIS MULTIPLE TIMES, but the narrative always erases these instances from his mind in place of pity for Teresa’s well being (as you can tell, Teresa through this becomes my least favorite character, I can rant about her some othe time though with proper backing). The narrative in turn treats it all like a joke. I understand there are scenes where Thomas is worried about her and looks out to make sure shes ok, but even then he doesn’t know how to react with mental images of her kissing his cheek or when she screams the next minute that she doesn’t know who he is or how hes speaking into her mind. And thats because they can’t properly communicate their emotions to the other, not even in fever code could Thomas give a forward answer if he loved Teresa or not, she just assumed. Come to think of it, Thomas really doesn’t show much affection to Teresa of his own accord. So then, how DOES Thomas show his affection? Thomas provides acts of service as his love language, if he cares about you enough he will risk his life for you. Why? Because Thomas values putting the people he loves foremost knowing full well they are what help him have purpose and succeed in continuing on. In a way, Newt and Thomas’ dynamic works in this instance because they balance the other out and because they have seen each other at their worst and at their best. In a way, that's why knowing the ending of the books makes it harder to accept that Thomas would just easily take the shot...when all his life clung to Newt’s survival. But that’s a story for another time where I compare the movies (of which let me make that clear, yes I prefer) over the books. For now just know that the book may have done this by accident, maybe not, but at the end of the day theres solid proof that Thomas and Newt care about each other in a way that is separately portrayed from their connection to the other glade members, and have this consistency of soft moments running through the entirety of the series. In conclusion; newtmas. Newtmas. NEWTMAS, etc.

#Newtmas #long post #Skquill #ask #The ending gets a bit ranty with Teresa I must admit #but for the most part its just me recalling the best newtmas moments from the novels I've currently read #Please add on more newtmas proof to the thread

[commander-diomika]

Pspsps come get your angst and inevitable betrayals. (Part One) (Part Two) Part 3 - Fandom: Rusty Quill Gaming Pairing: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde Rating: Upped to Mature for graphic depiction of blood/injuries Word Count: ~2200 Additional Tags: Slow Burn, 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Rating Will Change to Explicit in Later Parts, Opposites Attract, Blood and Injury, Angst

Summary: "The longer they stayed, the more it delayed real progress on the mission. Hope had borne them this long, but Zolf knew by the heaviness in his heart, it was time to consider saying goodbye. In more ways than one.

He didn’t want to have this conversation. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Wilde that it was time to stop gambling on the chance that they might see the party again. There was a tragedy in the shape of an executioner’s axe hanging over them both, and Zolf was about to give the nod to drop it."

It's all fun and games until someone loses their smile.

Six days after Bosie’s arrival.

Zolf was walking back to the safe house from the temple of Hephaestus. It had been locked up tight, and there was no response to his hammering on the door.

I think it might be time to move on from this city, he thought. The ringing of his unanswered knocks at the temple had rung with a kind of finality. Both he and Wilde had held on here longer than they should, making any excuse they could to stay put in their current safehouse. Hoping to hear from Hamid and Sasha. Zolf and Wilde clung to Damascus, praying that any day word would come through. If they just stayed in the last place the other party members had been seen, it might make them easier to find. Hoping, hoping, hoping.

But the longer they stayed, the more it delayed real progress on the mission. Hope had borne them this long, but Zolf knew by the heaviness in his heart, it was time to consider saying goodbye. In more ways than one.

He didn’t want to have this conversation. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Wilde that it was time to stop gambling on the chance that they might see the party again. There was a tragedy in the shape of an executioner’s axe hanging over them both, and Zolf was about to give the nod to drop it.

“Ho, Wilde!” Zolf called, coming through the door. He sighed as he unslung his pack from his shoulders, thinking about how best to broach it.

When a few silent moments passed, Zolf surfaced from the depths of his thoughts, noticing that there was no response from within the townhouse. “Douglas?” he added uncertainly.

There was every chance the two of them were cozied up in Wilde’s room again. Zolf had seen a lot less of Wilde this week than usual, and he wasn’t looking forward to prying Wilde out of his torrid nest to have a hard conversation. Whilst it wasn’t any of Zolf’s business who Wilde took to bed, it was Zolf’s business that Wilde was... distracted. And if Wilde was planning on keeping Bosie around...

Depressed about the notion of so many hard conversations threatening, Zolf clanged his glaive into the weapons rack in the entry hall and threw down his bag, heading to the sitting room.

Shock has a way of warping perception, of making a mind skitter when it should seize. For instance, as he reached the door, the first thing that Zolf noticed was that the settee was the wrong colour, instead of Wilde’s bloodied body atop it.

Zolf swore, feeling like his legs wouldn’t respond, like everything moved slowly as the view properly hit him.

It felt like an age before he could move. Wilde’s upper half was drenched in blood, the couch dark and dripping with it.

“Wilde?” Zolf asked, almost inanely, as if expecting a response. Wilde had fallen back as if pushed, limbs splayed. The blood was leaking from multiple messy slices across his torso, darkening the soft turquoise shirt to a purple-black. That was shocking enough, but the real horror was Wilde’s cheek, sliced from temple to lips in a vicious, loose flap. Already Zolf was pulsating with healing light as he ran over, years of combat experience overriding the dumb shock. He nearly slipped in the growing pool of blood.

The wave of power emanating from Zolf slid like oil around Wilde’s body, none of it sinking it.

The cuffs! Zolf could have screamed. He yanked up the hems of Wilde’s pants. He snapped the cuffs off with strangely steady hands and blasted the man with magic.

“Don’t move!” Zolf cried. Can he move? Will he move? Zolf’s hands were slick within moments of touching Wilde’s face, the blood still oozing from the wound. Zolf’s stomach lurched, but he remained focused. He drew the two loose parts of Wilde’s cheek together before slamming more magic through it, his mind a horrified buzz. The point of a safehouse was that it was safe!

Wilde was trying to speak.

“Don’t! Just let me- don’t talk, Wilde, just wait.” There was so much blood- this kind of precision surgical work was better done by, well, surgeons, not hackneyed ex clerics who weren’t even sure why their magic still worked.

Zolf felt the loose pieces of skin begin to knit themselves back together beneath his hands, and no more blood flowed from the chest wounds. Zolf had a brief and horrifying flashback to Sasha, in pieces, her organs floating like a halo around her lifeless body. He didn’t want to keep getting his friends' blood on his hands, even if it was in the service of saving them.

Wilde weakly tried to push Zolf’s hands away and went to speak again through the ruin of his face.

“Don’t worry about me,” he managed this time. “Go after Bosie!”

“Stop! Talking!” Zolf replied, besides himself with anger, incredibly relieved that Wilde was conscious. “Wait- Bosie did this?”

Wilde was awake enough to hold a hand over his cheek and sit up. His face was painted stark red from the bridge of the nose down. His head had slumped to one side, wound facing up, blood flowing down; the effect was like he was wearing a shiny maroon bandana over nose and mouth. But his eyes were remarkably clear and angry.

“Yes. I don’t know- he turned, it wasn’t him anymore, or something took over him. He tried to take me with him and I- I fought back and-” Wilde went to stand, hand still clasped over his face. “I think he heard you- shit, Zolf.” Wilde’s eyes flicked around frantically, looking for the man who attacked him.

“Easy, easy.” Zolf stopped Wilde from rising and as he did, Wilde’s fire seemed to go out. Zolf kept talking. “It’s alright. It’s not important right now.” Zolf’s gut swooped with guilt as he looked at the wound. He’d gotten here just in time, but Wilde wasn’t walking away from this without scarring. “Just let me take care of it, ok?”

Zolf reached and cupped Wilde’s bloody cheek in one hand. Wilde half-closed his eyes and leant into the touch, breathing shakily. Zolf had been about to push more healing magic through the cheek, but he froze at the sensation of Wilde’s lips and breath against his blood-slick hand. Alive. Zolf had gotten here in time and his droll, irritating, shallow co-conspirator was alive.

Suddenly Wilde’s eyes flew open. “No!” he shouted and leapt to his feet, knocking Zolf’s hand aside. He looked completely deranged. “Get away!” Zolf backed up a few steps, hands outstretched as if he were taming a wild animal.

“I- Argh! He was infected!” Wilde clenched the tattered shirt to his chest, as though trying to hold his whole self together. “We spent this whole week together, in bed, fucking, kissing! You need to stay away!”

The wind went completely out of Zolf’s sails, his breath leaving him in an instant. Wilde was only semi-conscious and still reeling. Zolf would be impressed at Wilde’s acumen whilst distressed, if the point he had made wasn’t completely terrifying. Zolf took a few steps backward without realising.

“Wait, Wilde, just wait.” Zolf was still catching up. “You said, he tried to take you away. If you were already infected all he had to do was wait, righ’? A week, Curie said, all of her double agents lasted less than a week before they turned on people.”

“We can’t know that! Maybe he was just getting a head start! Fuck!” Wilde’s cheek started to bleed again with the strength of his swear.

Zolf had backed all the way to the other side of the room, only noticing when his arse gently bumped the wall. “The cuffs, Wilde.” He was grasping, but he desperately needed to find the right words to say to take that hellish look off Wilde’s face. “If it’s at all magical in nature, maybe the cuffs protected you.”

Wilde’s head snapped around frantically. In the carnage, he hadn’t realised they’d been taken off. He spotted them, discarded by the low table and moved to them.

“Wait, at least let me-” Unwilling to come closer, Zolf simply radiated as much healing as he could muster. Wilde, eyes unfathomably dark, nodded his thanks as he snapped the cuffs back on. He’d been on the brink for a moment there, terror threatening to snap him, but Zolf’s words, and the Stockholm-syndrome familiarity of the weight around his ankles had brought him back from whatever edge he’d been teetering on.

Wilde’s mouth twisted. He’d taken as much healing as Zolf could jam into him, but the scar was there to stay. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Zolf, you’re going to go up to my room and bar the window. I don’t care how you do it, move a wardrobe over it, stone shape it, whatever, but make it tight. Then I am going to go into that room, shut the door-” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “-and wait for seven days.”

Zolf gulped. “Righ-…. Right. That’s a good idea. I can bring you food and-”

“No. No food.” Wilde snapped. “No opening the door. Not if I beg, not if I scream. Not for anything.”

Zolf’s mouth was agape, trying desperately to catch up to Wilde, to meet him wherever he had gone. “No food? Don’t be daft, you’ll die.”

Wilde’s head snapped to the side, then to the other. It was unclear if he was shaking his head or simply processing with his whole skull. “No, I won’t. I’ll need water but I can live without food, or whatever we’ve got in the house. What are you waiting for? Do it now!” His demeanor had snapped from terror to fury. “Every second we waste dithering about it makes it more likely that this could take you too!”

Zolf obeyed. His hands had started to shake as the crest of the crisis passed, and he stilled them by taking action. He washed the blood off himself and dutifully collected all the vases from about the place to fill with water, grabbing any food in the kitchen that wasn’t raw ingredients. It amounted to some bread and dried fruit, but Zolf was still obscenely grateful there was any ready-to-eat food in there at all. The horror inherent to spending seven days alone in a single room was starting to spread like a dark inkblot in his mind. He kept moving, as if he could outrun a stain.

It was trivial to stone shape the window closed; the townhouse wasn’t particularly big or lavish. When he stepped out of the room, Zolf was met with the ghoulish sight that was Wilde waiting for him down the corridor. He had put a jacket over his slashed shirt but hadn’t even tried to clean the blood off his face.

Zolf paused in the door, looking Wilde over. “Curie said something about- about blue veins?” he said softly. He didn’t want to ask. The last thing he wanted to say was I told you so.

“What? Everyone’s veins are blue.” Wilde’s voice was flat, emotionless. Shock was setting in properly, Zolf diagnosed.

“I dunno. It weren’t clear, but… did you notice anything? On Bosie.” It felt horrible pushing Wilde right now, but knowledge was power. Wilde in his right mind would understand.

Wilde’s eyes shifted in either shock or deception. “No. I didn’t. But we spent a lot of time with the lights off.” Wilde gave his head a little shake, as if to dislodge a memory... or stop one from surfacing.

More than the blood, it was the blankness on Wilde’s face that was most unsettling. Zolf couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Wilde without a smirk or an arched brow or, more frequently these days, a soft little smile, usually when he thought Zolf wasn’t paying attention.

“What’s done is done. Worry about the “how” if I come out the other side of this.” Wilde took a step forward, waiting for Zolf to back off. “Go to the end of the corridor. Once I’m inside, I’ll shut the door. Bar it from the outside.” Metres between them, they performed a grotesque mockery of a tango step, Zolf stepping back, Wilde stepping forward. When Wilde reached the door, he stared into his room.

“And Zolf?” Wilde didn't look over at him, considering the darkness inside as though it held a secret. Perhaps pondering the poetic implications that his love den of the last week was to be his prison for the next.

“Yeh?” Zolf knew this had to happen. Knew it was a good idea. But gods, he wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy. Wilde had just been betrayed in the most vile way, and now he had to sit in the dark with that for a week. Zolf hadn’t wanted Douglas around, but he certainly hadn’t wanted this.

“At the end of these seven days... if it’s not me in there-” Wilde finally tore his eyes away from the room and turned his gaze to Zolf’s. “-if I’m, monstrous or sick, if I try to hurt you...” He didn’t finish the thought.

“I won’t let you.” Zolf whispered through dry lips. Wilde didn’t have spell it out; they understood each other well enough by now.

Wilde nodded once, satisfied, and stepped into the dark.

#hank writes #zoscar #zolf smith #rqg oscar wilde #rusty quill gaming #rqg #rqg fic #zolfwilde #just angst this installment sorry not sorry pals #i'm sitting here with my tropes bingo and you know this one was on it

[iceshard1011]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Unrequited Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders Characters: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Orange Side (Sanders Sides) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Human, Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders And Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Angst, Car Accidents, Precognition, Abusive Parents, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Background Orange Side (Sanders Sides), Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Needs a Hug, Logic | Logan Sanders Is A Good (Boy)Friend, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders is So Done, Sympathetic Sides (Sanders Sides), Mentions of various mental illnesses, (none of which any of the characters have) Summary:

"You know when people say your life flashes before your eyes? Well, it doesn’t. You don’t have time."

---

In which anyone who has ever hurt Remus immediately pays for it thanks to his menace of a brother.

4k word fic is below :)

Remus had always had rotten luck. Wherever he dared to have the audacity to step, utter chaos followed. Whether it was a punch to the nose from an asshole trying to mug him or a woman ranting at an accidental spill of coffee on her new shirt. Whether someone walked away with a soured attitude or broken leg, anyone who came in contact with Remus had their entire day — and sometimes their entire life — ruined, simply for looking at him the wrong way. Remus figured this recurring curse nipping at his heels was the reason he had no connections with his family, the reason no co-workers wanted to be around him, why no one in his classes stuck around long enough to know more than his name.

Oh, also, he was crazy.

If everything aforementioned wasn’t enough to push someone away, announcing that he had a voice that told him This person talks behind your back was a sure-fire way to send anyone scrambling.

At first, Remus thought it was normal. For a thirteen-year-old boy growing and changing and dealing with significantly more stress and grief than other people his age, hearing things like Your friends are toxic and This teacher sucks and You don’t need school didn’t seem so crazy.

Besides, he’d approached his parents exactly once about leaving school, and got his answer swiftly and harshly. He’d never asked again, too distracted with trying to help Mum when she came down with a sick spell for the next week and the way Dad’s car kept breaking down.

The thoughts didn’t cease.

It’s not wrong to like boys.

You’re not in love with your girlfriend.

You could anonymously key your English teacher’s car after school. The bitch deserves it.

Sometimes, Remus did stupid things like listen to the ridiculous thoughts that hummed in the back of his mind.

When he fled from the car, stuck in the middle of congested traffic just before a truck ploughed through the vein of vehicles and landed his father in hospital for days, his mother had slapped him upside the head and grounded him for far longer. Remus still wasn’t entirely sure why. He wondered if she blamed him for not warning them. He wasn’t sure if that was justified, as he hadn’t been thinking much else other than the GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT that had been ringing in his ears.

When the thoughts had mused, seemingly half-heartedly, that his father was going to trip down the flight of stairs if he went without his crutches, Remus’ attempt at a warning had earned him two weeks of dabbing foundation over the bridge of his cheek so no one at school would ask questions.

“Stop acting out!” his mum had screamed once as she pinned him to the wall, her nails digging into his throat and her expression blurry from his stinging eyes. “It won’t change anything!”

His parents’ breaking point was when Remus freaked out the entirety of his chemistry class when his mind insisted that the method the professor was teaching them was going to cause fire to catch on the hair of the girl at the far end of the classroom. He was called into the principal’s office during that class (escaped the smoke alarm going off and the screaming from someone who was going to have an unexpected style change, which was good) and then again at the end of school, with the addition of his parents, neither who were very happy about it.

It was then that he revealed, in a humiliated mumble, about the odd thoughts that continued to prove to have some truth.

The money for a doctor got on his parents’ nerves. He stopped visiting the therapist before any diagnosis could be determined.

Remus did his own research. Schizophrenia, bipolar, DID, OSDD, OCD, every relevant acronym and mental illness under the sun, yet nothing answered all of his questions. There weren’t any odd dreams, multiple voices weren’t clogging his mind, he didn’t feel out of place in his own body, he never saw anything that wasn’t really there.

Nothing explained the odd precognitions the voice gave him, the strange accusatory claims made of the people around Remus who he personally thought he was quite fond of, the baffling times where the voice tried to talk to him like it was any other casual conversation. Even things like how Remus was told not to cross that section of the road, or was mentioned a pretty-looking butterfly behind Remus that he hadn’t even seen yet.

Nothing ticked all the boxes. Nothing gave him all the answers.

Remus was in college, low grades, a shitty apartment, few friends who hated his boyfriend and a boyfriend who hated his few friends, when he reached his own breaking point with himself.

His boyfriend walked into the apartment, expression bored and eyes uninterested. Remus smirked over at him.

“You get my deodorant?” he asked, standing from the couch.

He didn’t, the voice said.

“No,” said Neroli. Remus wasn’t disappointed.

“I guess you’ll have to deal with the consequences of not entertaining me, then,” he said with a sharp grin, gripping Neroli’s shirt and tugging him down for a kiss. His boyfriend responded, suitably fervently. Remus was just getting to the point of reaching for his boyfriend’s belt when the voice growled, quietly, as if it hadn’t meant for Remus to hear, Cheating bastard.

It startled Remus so badly he yanked back from Neroli like he’d been scalded. He earned a bemused look from his boyfriend.

“Why, uh— why didn’t you drop by the shops?” Remus asked, hating himself for considering listening to the menace inside his head. Neroli shrugged dully, moving into the kitchen. He peered into the fridge.

“Got caught up.”

“With what?” Remus blurted, then screamed at himself for opening his mouth. Neroli shot him a dirty look.

“What, do you expect me to explain every second of my day to you?” he asked irritably.

“Only the fun parts.” Remus shot him another suggestive, toothy grin. It was ignored.

Don’t listen to it, whispered Remus to himself. Don’t listen to it.

Ask him where he was on the night you were studying with Logan, the voice said in reply. Remus growled and shook his head. The voice persisted; Ask.

“You look distracted,” Neroli noted, but he sounded detached.

“Maybe I’m thinking about you under the sheets,” Remus said.

Neroli didn’t entertain him.

“Maybe you’re cheating on me,” said Remus with another grin, waiting for Neroli to give him a reaction. His boyfriend merely glanced over at him with a considering look.

“Actually,” he said, and Remus’ heart dropped against his will, “I’m going to my friend’s place. I made plans with her instead of getting groceries.” He walked past Remus and took his car keys from the entry table.

Remus still remembered the way he had felt nauseous, and the ferocious feeling that had washed over him that somehow felt like the voice sounded when Neroli had said, “By the way, I’m breaking up with you,” without so much as a glance over his shoulder. “And I want you gone from the apartment by the time I come back.”

Remus had found himself with his head in his hands on the couch for the next few hours, going through the motions. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried for a long time. He had felt numb, even as the voice had murmured apology after apology.

Eventually, Remus had got himself and his things together and moved from the place, a worn backpack all to show for his possessions. He had ignored the voice ordering him to find somewhere to eat, some shelter to sleep, the demands to call his friends and ask for help.

Remus had spent the night of Christmas Eve shivering on a park bench, bag for a pillow and his own arms as a blanket.

(He couldn’t deny that it was his fault when Neroli got into a car crash on his way back to his apartment that morning.)

Over the following years, with more scenarios such as that, Remus learned that it was best if people knew he was insane. If they knew that, if they knew he heard things, and caused horror everywhere he went, they would stay away. If people stayed away, they saved themselves from a bad time and Remus from having to watch anyone he’d gotten attached to leave.

He was sick of people leaving.

Somehow, amongst this mindset, he hadn’t quite managed to shake a scattered few of his old college friends.

Logan, a nerd with a prime attitude and punchable face and also the least emotionally available person Remus had encountered, was somehow one of Remus’ main sources of support. He had taken up tutoring Remus, against Remus’ better judgement, and he had constantly offered his own house as a place for Remus whenever he needed it. Not that Remus ever accepted any of this, mind you.

The only problem was — Logan was feisty. Almost as feisty as Janus, and just as feisty as Roman. His stubbornness matched Remus’ and it was near impossible to shake the guy from an idea once he was fixed on it.

It was kind of endearing.

(It was also very difficult, given Remus’ goal in life had become to stop hurting people he cared about.)

Logan also rambled a whole lot, which Remus liked. It drowned out the voice, still present after all these years. It had quietened considerably, if Remus thought about it. It seemed to have a strange opinion on Logan. Remus ignored it, nonetheless.

This particular afternoon, Remus found that he couldn’t keep ignoring the cursed phenomenon following him.

“Are you paying attention?” Logan asked.

Remus smirked, keeping his eyes on the path in front of him. He kicked the stone again, and it skittered up the pathway then waited like a faithful dog for Remus to catch up. “More or less. Meteorology, right?”

He could tell Logan was looking at him. He probably looked outwardly annoyed, but there would be an amused spark behind the rim of his glances that never escaped Remus. “More or less.”

Remus bobbed his head. “Then yeah, I was listening.”

Logan hummed in agreement but didn’t resume the conversation. They walked in companionable silence along the street path, accompanied merely by the padding of their shoes and the tap-tap-tap of Remus’ stone. The road beside them was quiet.

“Remus?” asked Logan.

“Hm?” Remus said.

Tap-tap.

“Why don’t you come to my house tonight?” Logan asked. “It is New Year’s Eve. The others will be there. I would like for you to have some company.”

Oh, I have company, grumbled Remus. And it won’t shut up.

The voice, as if to solely prove him wrong, remained silent. Remus may have felt some indignation on its behalf, however.

Tap-tap-tap.

“Maybe,” said Remus, which meant No.

“Please,” Logan said, because he knew.

“Logan,” sighed Remus, “you know how I—”

“Yes,” Logan interjected. “I know it distresses you to have companionship, but truly, it is not such the awful venture that you have convinced yourself it is.”

Remus sighed again, his shoulders sagging. He stopped walking and edged away from Logan, no longer happy to be alone with him. He didn’t know what to say.

He was too busy formulating some semblance of a reply to pay attention to the rising anxiety in the back of his mind and the distantly increasing screeching sound.

By the time the speeding car spun around the corner across the road, he was too slow to react.

MOVE, the voice screamed.

Remus couldn’t.

Logan might have shouted, but he sounded like he’d moved — further away from where he had been standing. Probably to somewhere safe. That was good, at least. Logan had something to offer the world, with that big brain of his.

The car skidded across the road, moving too fast to regain control. It sped forward, wheels rolling along the path, barreling towards the spot Remus was standing.

MOVE, his voice was shrieking. Crying. Begging.

Remus didn’t.

The car, by some logic, didn’t hit Remus.

The car didn’t hit Remus, because it hit something — Remus didn’t see what, and later Logan would agree — first, and flipped like a goddamn pencil being flung across a bored classroom. The hunk of metal flew into the air, the bottom turning to the sky and the roof glinting down at Remus beneath it—

And crashed to the asphalt metres away from where Remus was standing, completely unharmed.

He and Logan stood there, speechless, for a very long time.

The police, once having caught up to the hit-and-run escapee, deemed it an accident on the driver’s behalf. Remus and Logan were dismissed from the scene without being asked any questions. Remus hadn’t spoken a word since it had happened, anyway. Logan had been the one to text their friends and talk to the officers. He had then guided Remus back to his apartment, where the others were already hanging out. They greeted Remus at first but left him alone once being waved away by Logan. He was brought into Logan’s bedroom and set on the bed.

“Now,” Logan said without wasting a beat. “What. Was. That.”

Remus blinked up at him. He worked his jaw. Nothing came out.

Some expositional bullshit? he mentally asked hopefully. The only answer he got was what vaguely felt like the embodiment of a winded wheeze of an exhausted runner. Fantastic help.

“I would like some answers, Remus,” Logan said, and he looked almost angry. “Odd things have happened in your presence before but nothing like this. I watched a car run into nothing and flip as if it had crashed into a row of bollards. You otherwise would have been flattened. You should be dead, or at least in the hospital.” Cool hands cupped Remus’ cheeks, and steel blue eyes bored into him. “I am eternally grateful that that is  not  what has happened, but I need answers.”

Remus tried to talk but didn’t. Logan pulled back and began to pace.

“We already checked the surrounding area,” he began to mutter. “There was no lip on the pavement, nothing to cause such a graphic result. The car’s wheels aside from being burned from skidding were not damaged. I don’t understand what—”

“I’m cursed,” Remus finally croaked. Logan paused to look at him. “It’s me, I—”

“No,” Logan said. “You have tried to tell me this nonsense before, I will not—”

“It’s true,” Remus said vigorously. “It has happened for years, Logan. Every time something mildly inconveniences me, everything goes to shit. Someone on the other end of the street could look at me the wrong way and suddenly they’re tripping over their untied shoelaces and dropping their groceries into the road. My boss doesn’t give me enough hours and suddenly she’s firing the co-worker I hate and giving me their pay. I don’t understand it, Logan, but you can’t keep denying it.”

“Remus—”

“There’s a voice,” he blurted, because he never had much of a filter. “There’s this voice, too. It’s the same one, but I can’t really hear it, you know? Imagine a single intrusive thought, but it’s always saying different things and some of them aren’t even bad.”

Logan now looked concerned. “Remus—”

“It acts like it’s my friend. Like we’re old pals looking out of each other. I hate it, Logan! It’s the reason no one wants to be around me! It’s the reason I can’t trust anyone I meet, because either they’re going to find about me and leave or the voice will tell me something about them that I don’t want to know but it’ll end up being true—”

“Remus.” Logan was crouched in front of him, his hands squeezing his shoulders. “Please breathe. We will work this out.”

“You can’t,” Remus told him. “I have already gone to every doctor, every psychiatrist. The moment I was free of my parents I went to every damn qualified person in this place, for years, and none of them know what it is.

“I went to a goddamn psychic, Logan.” Remus laughed wetly, shaking his head. “That’s how desperate I was. Dumb, right?”

“You are not dumb,” Logan said, and he said it with so much ferocity that it took Remus a moment to realise the voice had said the same thing, much quieter. “You’re troubled. You’re— you just need to find the right answers.”

“I don’t even know what questions I’m asking, anymore,” Remus said, and hated how broken he sounded. He pressed his forehead to Logan’s chest when he stood. “So I don’t know what answers we’re talking about.”

“We’ll figure out something,” promised Logan. “I promise.”

Remus closed his eyes, so tears wouldn’t get past. They stayed like that until Patton tentatively knocked on the door to ask them if they wanted to count down for the new year.

They did. They counted down, and cheered, and danced and sang and Remus drank until he passed out on the couch, snuggled between Janus and Logan. He didn’t even mind waking up the next morning with a throbbing headache.

Virgil referred Remus to his therapist, a cheery moron with an obsession with pink and cartoons. He seemed less focused on diagnosing Remus and simply talking. He referenced a lot of things Remus didn’t know. The voice seemed to like him — not that Remus cared about its opinions. Remus thought that maybe he liked talking to him.

Somewhere along the line, Remus and Logan started dating. Remus wasn’t sure how it had happened, either. He was fairly sure they had been reading on the carpet, and then the next moment they were pressed against the wall, down each other’s throats, so… Remus wasn’t exactly  complaining.

There were bad days, where the voice hadn’t even done anything wrong and yet Remus clawed at his skull. Bad days, where he and Logan fought for real, which scared Remus (he wasn’t easy to scare, either.) At one point, Janus had picked a fight with the wrong group of people and got himself a concussion, which he recovered from fine, but sent Remus to bed with nightmares of blank eyes and bloodied skin for weeks after.

Eventually the dreams stopped, but Remus knew he hadn’t completely recovered when he found himself in the bathroom of an empty apartment, watching white porcelain run red.

Stop it. Remus still had little to no clue how so much as a voice could sound as if it was an aggravated wolf pacing in a tiny metal cage. You need to stop.

Don’t tell me what to do, Remus thought.

Don’t make me stop you myself.

Yeah, Remus thought with a scoff to himself. Good luck with that.

Remus. Please.

Remus shook himself, as if he could physically shake the voice from his head and continued. The voice went quiet.

Time passed, peacefully, blissfully quiet. The sink was stained further.

Remus was almost letting himself relax, but then the door slammed open, somehow, in the middle of the empty apartment, and Logan was standing in the doorway, looking furious, in the empty apartment.

“You said you were fine,” said Logan. Remus felt like a child caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. Crusty, bloody cookies. “You. Said—” Logan crossed the room and gripped Remus’s slick wrist in his— “that you were fine.”

“I am!” Remus protested. “I’m just—”

“You are NOT!” Logan roared. Remus flinched back. Logan stilled, then paled. Remus squinted at his far away gaze and wondered in horror why Logan looked as if he was listening to something. “I’m sorry for yelling,” he said quietly, “but you are not okay.”

Remus scowled and looked down at the sink he had ruined.

Logan hummed softly. “I’m going to call your therapist.” Remus whirled on him. “Just to book an earlier appointment, okay? I know you don’t like anyone helping you clean up.”

Remus scowled again. Logan brushed a cool hand across his chin and kissed his cheek. He pulled the medical kit from the cupboard and unpacked the bandages and antiseptic. He instructed Remus he was going to leave the door open. Remus silently got to work cleaning himself up.

Once Logan was out of sight (though Remus could hear him in the kitchen), Remus thought accusatorily, What did you do?

The voice said, without an ounce of regret or pride, I stopped you.

Stop interfering with my life. Whatever-the-fuck you are.

Somewhere, you’ve confused ‘protecting’ with ‘interfering.’

Remus threw the bottle of antiseptic across the room. It smashed against the wall and spilled across the bathtub. “SHUT UP,” he roared.

“Remus?” Logan called.

Get the fuck away from me, Remus growled before Logan hurried into the room.

“What is it?”

Remus shook his head. He couldn’t answer. He never did.

One night, Remus sat on the edge of his bed, staring across the room. The wall was bare. It let him concentrate on what he was thinking. For once, he started talking first.

You’re not a guardian angel.

No.

You’re not a demon, unfortunately.

Certainly not.

Then what the hell are you?

As usual every time Remus asked, the voice did not give him an answer. Remus ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

If there was one thing Remus had been certain of in the duration of his entire life thus far, it was that the voice in his head was nothing but trouble. Irritating, infuriating, no-good trouble. It only ever ruined his relationships, got him into sticky situations, told him things that he didn’t  want  to hear, even if it seemed to think it would help.

The first time the voice was helpful, Remus also felt like his entire mindset had been flipped.

Remus and Logan had been fighting. Worse than usual. Logan was blinking faster than he normally would. Remus was chewing his lip to bloody tatters. He wasn’t sure who had yelled, or what had been yelled, but suddenly it was silent. Logan and Remus stared at each other. Then Logan inhaled shakily and turned.

Remus’ arm shot out and gripped Logan’s wrist. Logan shot him a dark look, but Remus couldn’t explain himself. His voice had completely abandoned him. He worked his jaw. Logan’s eyebrows drew further together.

Remus, for the love of the clovers we picked and weaved as children, kiss him dizzy before I send you both through the window in a fit of pent up frustration-driven rage.

Their lips clashed and locked in a startling display of star-danced vision and warm hands linked at the fingers.

Remus forgot about the voice, about the curse. He forgot about every time he had let someone in only to be hurt, every boyfriend who had taken his heart in their hands and clenched their fists. He forgot every time he and Logan had fought; every time Remus had told himself that it was all a mistake. He even forgot about the constant buzz in the back of his head.

For once in Remus’ life, his mind was quiet.

It was that night, with Logan’s body pressed against his side, staring up at the ceiling, that Remus wordlessly reached for the voice in his head. Somehow, even though he felt nothing and heard no voice, it seemed as if his hand had been grasped.

Remus lay there and maybe for the first time, wasn’t entirely sure he hated the voice in his head.

The voice didn’t remain silent after that night, but it did quieten slightly. Remus made no move to communicate with it.

One day, though, when it was storming outside and Remus needed a distraction because his wrists were itching and his eyes were seeing blood every time he blinked, he spoke.

“You picked clovers.”

We did.

“You did,” Remus corrected, not quite ready to have it spelled out for him.

Yes, said the voice quietly after a moment.

“You’re a voice.”

I have a voice, yes.

“In my head.”

Well, technically—

Remus clenched his fists, frustrated. It seemed to get his point across.

Yes. I suppose.

For a moment, they were both silent. Remus didn’t outright state what he was thinking, but he wondered if something with connections to his mind could work it out.

I can try and prove it, the voice said dubiously. Remus didn’t reply. Lightning flashed outside, accompanied by a low rumble that ratted the house.

Then, from within the bedroom, a low creeeeeak.

Remus looked around dully, too apathetic to be disturbed. His eyes widened, however, when he watched the bedside table’s top drawer sliding open.

“That was locked,” he said. He stood up, his heart beginning to lodge itself in his throat. He staggered around the bed towards the drawer. “No, wait— Not even Logan can get in there— Stop it!”

Something, somehow, slipped from the drawer. Remus practically dove for it before it could crack against the floor and shatter irreparably.

“What do you think you’re—” Remus’ voice swallowed itself back into his chest when he made the mistake of looking down at the picture frame. He snarled against his lumpy throat and tore his eyes from the pair of younger, happier, brighter twins printed on paper. He shoved it back in its drawer and slammed it closed. He pulled himself up to lean against it.

The thunder rumbled again. Remus needed something to ground himself.

“You never told me who you were.” His voice cracked.

A pause.

You never asked, the voice said weakly. Remus felt something inside him erupt.

“What sort of BULLSHIT REASON—”

There was a knock at the bedroom door. “Rem?” called Janus’ voice.

Remus shook his head. “Just— give me a second. I need to uh—” he laughed nonchalantly, “yell at my thoughts for a bit.”

Janus sounded hesitant when he slowly said, “Okay,” but he didn’t press anything.

Remus listened to his fading footsteps and muffled conversation before whirling around as if he were actually facing someone and hissing venomously, “You are very lucky you’re incorporeal otherwise I’d— I’d—”

Kill me over again? the voice supplied.

Remus broke down. Completely against his will, if he had been able to add his own input between the sobs tearing from his throat.

I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, bad wording, horrible word choice, I—

“Why didn’t you SAY ANYTHING?” Remus roared.

What would you have liked me to say? That apparently one accident is enough for a spirit to form and develop a connection with their only blood relative?

“Better that than all this— this— mysterious bullshit my entire life!”

You already thought you were crazy! Roman yelled, a little hysterically. How do you think that would have helped? ‘Oh hello, don’t mind me, just your dead brother’s ghost haunting you through your grief.’

Remus wasn't sure how he’d never noticed it before — maybe he wasn’t paying enough attention, maybe now that he knew he was actively listening for it, or maybe he had even subconsciously suppressed thoughts like the one he was about to admit to himself — but now if he listened, really listened, he could hear Roman in the voice. The way his voice would get higher when upset, and the baritones of his indignation.

Remus didn’t realise he was sobbing harder until he heard both Logan and Roman’s voices overlapping, concern and worry swimming in his head.

Please breathe, Remus, you’re working yourself into a panic attack.

Like you would know anything about that, Remus said.

I would, retorted Roman’s voice, without fire.

“What is it, dear?” Logan was asking, his cool hands tracing Remus’ face. “What’s happened?”

Remus looked up at him, tears rolling down his cheeks, and said with a wet laugh, “I’ve worked out what the asshole voice is all about.”

Logan had led Remus into the kitchen and pressed a warm mug into his hands. Remus had absentmindedly wiggled the cup, watching the dark liquid inside ripple. After making sure Remus was recovering, Logan had ducked from the room to talk to Janus.

“Tell me,” Remus growled quietly. He didn’t elaborate. He knew that he was understood. Still, everything was quiet.

You know when people say your life flashes before your eyes?

Remus did. He didn’t say as much, but he did.

Well, it doesn’t. You don’t have time.

Remus tried not to think about how little time there would have been. How scary it could have looked, could have felt. His clasped hands turned white at the knuckles. “What did you think about?”

A sizable pause, but not one without the comforting ever-constant buzzing hum of the voice’s presence.

You, was the final admission, with no preamble. Logan, too, I think. Our family must have a thing for hot nerds, eh?

“You had a crush on Logan,” Remus said hollowly.

Only a little one.

“That’s… That doesn’t help.”

Sorry. He sounded genuinely apologetic.

“You’ve been fucking with me for years and you don’t seem to have much to apologise for it,” Remus mused.

Sorry, Roman said again, sounding even more like a remorseful kicked puppy.

Remus sighed long and low. His mug tapped roughly against the table as he shoved it away from him to bury his face in his hands. “I can’t believe any of this.”

He wasn’t sure that thinking the weird phantom warmth was  ghosting  over his shoulders was going to do anything good for his deteriorating sense of control over his emotions.

Tell me what to do, said Roman. Please.

Remus squeezed his eyes shut. He swallowed.

“Stay,” was all he could say. “Just. For a while.”

Unfortunately or not, you’re going to be stuck with me for quite a while.

Remus sniffed.

Very unfortunate, he agreed with a hint of a smile.

#sanders sides #remus sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #creativitwins #intrulogical #background virgil sanders #background patton sanders #background janus sanders #tw car accident #tw self harm #tw mention of mental illness #ghost fic #fanfic #long post #cross posted on ao3 #mentioned one-sided logince #tw language

[schmokschmok]

a series of events

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Mikaele Salesa, Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley, Tim Stoker & Sasha James

Characters: Mikaele Salesa, Getrude Robinson, Michael Shelley, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Wordcount: 5,314

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Missing Scene

Canon Compliant

Vignettes

Summary:

It's not a tragedy. It's not a comedy either. It's a series of unfortunate events and their rather anticlimactic end.

aka What do Mikaele, Gertrude and Tim have in common? A gun!

Contains spoilers up until MAG 115

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205352

CN: Guns (discussed), Murder (mentioned & idiomatic) Entities alluded to: Buried, Corruption, Flesh, Slaughter, Stranger

Exposition

It starts with a plain looking flintlock pistol and a few percussion weapons. After he had copied Jürgen’s client list, he had studied every last name on it relentlessly until he found one that he was sure enough he could sell to without having Jürgen with him. Then he tracked down a lass in Sunderland who liquidated a relatively sumptuous collection of antique weapons.

Now he’s standing in front of a door belonging to a block of flats which doesn’t look in the slightest like a home for antiques. Mikaele’s used to much too big houses, creaking with old age and looming over him like the head of a giant monster sleeping underneath the earth. He knows brass doorknockers and intercommunication systems at iron gates separating the wide-spreading garden area from the street. A simple intercom at the door and several flights of stairs towards one of half a dozen identical looking doors is unfamiliar territory and sends a rush of adrenaline through his whole body.

After drawing a final breath to brace himself, he rings the bell and waits for the steady thrum of the buzzer inviting him into the whitewashed house with its light grey louvred blinds. His feet hit tiles and then stair after stair until he’s in front of a door with inlaid glass. The sight through is blocked by what seems to be a curtain made from Nottingham lace.

Drawing another breath, he raps his knuckles curtly against the wood of the door and takes a step back. While he listens to shuffling footsteps coming closer, he swallows drily and plasters a sly grin on his face, even though he doesn’t feel like it. He has seen Jürgen interact with dozens of people over the years and had a fair share of interactions with tedious clients himself, so he knows that confidence is the first step to success. If he thinks he can make a deal, then he can make a deal. It’s easy, he tells himself.

The door swings open and a woman in her thirties studies him with tired eyes. She says: “Mr Salesa, I suppose?”

He nods, accompanied by verbal confirmation and greeting, and extends his hand for her to shake, and it only takes an imploring look upon his hand until she grabs hold of it and welcomes him into her small flat.

“It’s in the backroom,” she says as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. “Found them while cleaning out my Da’s cellar but hadn’t had the chance to get them looked at. What with all the funeral preparations, you know?”

Mikaele doesn’t because he never had to take care of such thing, but he makes a non-committal sound at the back of his throat and offers his condolences because it’s the polite thing to do. She thanks him in a detached voice, as one does faced with superficial, sympathetic words.

“It’s a whole chest of them,” she continues while opening the door to a small pantry which is filled to the brim with shelves displaying tinned and pickled food. The floor area is covered with cardboard boxes, two wooden chests and a few rolled up carpets. She gestures towards the chest on the left and steps back to make room for him. He thanks her.

“I don’t know if they’re worth anything at all,” she says, leaning against the doorframe and watching him step closer until the fingers of his outstretched hand touch the copper key of the chest, and sink to his knees. A part of him wants to explain to her that she’s setting herself up to get stitched up like a kipper. But it’s not his problem, is it? Actually, it’s rather his fortune.

Mikaele opens the lid and takes a look at the percussion weapons, eight of them in total. Six percussion rifles and two guns. And right on top of them lies a flintlock gun with a wooden handle. He’s not interested in that, so he takes it out and lays it down next to him on the floor with great caution.

“So, you’re taking them?” She asks and he can hear her shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I’ve got two other potential buyers. But if you want them, you can have them.”

He doesn’t know why she’s so eager to get rid of them and uneasiness settles into his midriff, constricting his breathing in an almost imperceptible way. So, he tells her that he can’t decide without taking a proper look at them. And then he asks her about deeds of ownership.

“Everything I’ve got is in that chest. If they don’t have a deed of ownership, then I haven’t either,” she replies while he takes one percussion gun out of the chest, examining the caplock mechanism and pulling back the hammer, only to be greeted by the strenuous sound of a screw being used for the first time after a long period of inactivity.

Cautiously taking out one musket after the other, splayed around him like sunbeams, the bottom of the chest reveals nine deeds of ownership and even a documentation of the last purchase agreement.

This is too good to be true, Mikaele thinks. But what he says is that he is going to buy them and that he can guarantee her an adequate payment, he can’t, however, say anything about the price just now. He must test if they work, he apologises, then he promises that if they’re usable he’s going to pay her even more. Even though it doesn’t make a difference for his potential buyer. Mikaele will get the same amount either way. But she seems like she could use the money, and this is his first buy all on his own. He can be a little generous, he can be a little accommodating.

“I don’t care,” she says, levity coming back to her and lifting her shoulders as if up until now she had been pressed down by a weight he hadn’t noticed. “I just want them gone. So, if you could take them with you today, that would be appreciated.”

After taking out the documents, he nods absent-mindedly and places the weapons back inside the chest. When he turns towards the flintlock pistol, he asks where he should put it.

“You can have it,” she rushes to say, involuntarily taking a step back and raising her hands in a display of defensiveness, palms spread wide open. He tells her that he doesn’t necessarily want it, but she dismisses his objections. “I don’t want it.” He opens his mouth again. “Look, take it as an eight plus one deal, okay? I don’t want them. Not any of them.”

He nods as if he understands what she’s trying to say. He doesn’t, but does it make any difference?

Together they lift the now locked chest after and they carry it down the stairs, through the small front yard and into Mikaele’s waiting car. As she steps back from the boot, he thanks her for her generosity and extends once again his hand to meet hers.

“Thank you,” she says as if she hadn’t singlehandedly conferred the possibility for his career beyond horror and threats on his life bound in leather. So, he thanks her, too, and as he drives away, he can feel the uneasiness melt from his ribcage into a small puddle of contentment right above his abdomen.

This is the start of something new.

 Rising Action

It hadn’t been the start of something new, Mikaele realises when he sees the now familiar chest again. It had been a continuation of misfortune and horrible, sleepless nights. At least until Jürgen’s list began to seek him out to sell him the objects Jürgen wouldn’t take.

It’s a mule chest made of oak, a warm reddish colour and with a beautiful patina spread over the copper of the escutcheon, handles and applications that speaks of a long history of utilisation. Nice to look at with its octagon panelling and its visible age rings and veins of the wood.

But Mikaele knows there’s something inside besides the eighteenth century’s weaponry he held for the first time over twenty years ago. Something that, if it would live in a book, would be in Jürgen’s métier.

Despite his knowledge of the danger that lurks inside this chest, Mikaele had sold it multiple times to all kinds of different people. He thought, a meat grinder, an antique syringe, a wooden crate, a wooden chest – when it comes down to it, it’s all the same.

Slowly, word spreads. Especially in a social circle as small as the one Mikaele operates in. People talk and its hard to bring something to a market that has learned by now that the thing will get them killed. (Of course, there are always the outliers, the unpredictable variables of heedless rich men who think they can withstand temptation, only to fail. Mikaele, however, is not a heedless man and if he knows one thing, it’s that dead men can’t spend money anymore.)

So, he almost got restless at the prospect of owning a chest filled with death impossible to market again, when he remembers the small business card in his middle desk drawer that reads in small capital letters The Magnus Institute.

He calls.

Mr Bouchard welcomes his offer with the generosity of a Lukas and asks him to drop off the chest as quickly as convenient. So, he gets into his car roughly two days later and takes the trip to the institute himself as the loss of Cook is still somewhat thrumming beneath his skin. (He gives the others a few days off, tells Leigh to stock up on supplies, so they can set sails as soon as he gets back.)

When he gets out of the car in the parking lot of the institute, he realises belatedly that he has no chance of transporting the chest all on his own, so he locks up the door and heads up to the institute, a certain spring in his step and something akin to giddiness in his soul.

“Rosie,” he greets the woman sitting at the desk in front of Mr Bouchard’s office and she offers him salutations with a smile as wide as the Thames. “Mr Bouchard awaits me. A delivery for Artefacts that I could not possibly carry alone.”

She tells him that Mr Bouchard is in a meeting with a Lukas, and she says it with a wink and a smile, and even though Mikaele doesn’t quite make heads or tails of her words, he understands that she can’t ring him up until he gets out of his call, so he asks: “Would you mind calling Artefacts to send a helping hand?”

Telephone handset already in hand, her manicured fingers dial a three-digit number, and she waits patiently for the other person to pick up.

Meanwhile, Mikaele studies the stone tiles that could almost look like marble, and the dark, oiled wood that forms the intricate details of the desk she’s sitting at. The surface is covered in paper and sticky notes and handwritten reminders and dates, almost contrary to the planner lying next to her keyboard that is colour-coded and in a minimalistic beauty that Mikaele wants to envy but finds to be incredibly annoying.

Although Mikaele’s clearly occupied studying her surroundings like the engaged columns that bestow texture upon the too white walls, ending in abstract art nouveau capitals that could be worthy of note but only exert tristesse in their colourlessness. It’s a shame, Mikaele thinks, that this is what Jonah Magnus chose to express the prestigiousness of the institute with.

Suddenly, someone’s standing too close to him; entirely unexpected in his line of vision. He startles, ripping his gaze off the columns, and is met with an expressionless look of a woman. She narrows her eyes when he takes a step back to bring distance between them and apologises in a stern voice that doesn’t speak of remorse.

“Oh, don’t be,” he replies, interlacing his fingers behind his back.

From the other side of her desk, Rosie informs him that someone from Artefacts will soon be with them and if he would mind waiting for a bit. He shakes his head in answer, but his attention lays on the gaunt woman before him. She’s one part tenuous and two parts careworn wrapped in white hair and wrinkly skin only broken by thread veins and purposeful inexpressiveness.

She introduces herself as Gertrude Robinson, the head archivist of the Magnus Institute, and asks him for the cause of his visitation. So, without his own volition he tells of the chest and its malevolent contents. He tells of violence and strife and death. And when he’s done, all he can do is blink at her in owlish perturbation.

Adversatively, her gaze is unwavering, examining the parts of his being that he himself is not entirely aware of. With a blink of her eye, he feels like he can breathe again, but her carefully worded question, if he had anything else to say to her, tries to gently pry words from his mouth that he hadn’t previously known existed. He swallows them all down, phoneme for lexeme for root, almost choking on the pre- and inter- and suffixes.

He says: “Beware of the splinters. And always wear gloves.”

Though he thought she’d be displeased, her eyes glow in satisfaction and the smile tugging at the corner of her lips makes uneasiness rear its ugly head like he’s still a twenty-something in the middle of Jürgen’s library.

 Climax

Michael’s standing in the doorway even though she has told him a hundred times not to lurk. He’s crossing his arms in front of his chest and the look on his face can only be described as discontent.

“I told you,” she says, weariness settling into her bones, “that it’s an act of utmost discourtesy to earwig my recordings of a statement.”

He doesn’t say anything, just shifts his weight and leans against the doorframe like a scallywag assessing the possibilities to wreak havoc. With a sigh coming from the depths of her soul, she attempts to find chagrin between fatigue and impuissance, but she comes home empty handed.

“I know,” she concedes, “this is of personal interest to you. And I can assure you, I won’t keep you in the dark in regard to research. However, I find myself in the unfortunate position of putting the development of the case before your personal interest. Which, ultimately, should lead to your satisfaction, too.” She interrupts herself in hope that he says at least something. He doesn’t. “Emma is currently tracking down Mikaele Salesa and should return with him and his extensive knowledge of the artefact as soon as possible. A research assistant is accompanying her, for her own safety and the insurance that Mr Salesa will come back.”

Michael narrows his eyes, still rigid and tensed up, every fibre of his body tight-drawn.

She has never seen him like this, without his languid smile and crinkling eyes, without the casual ‘swagger’ of his step and his restless fingers in search of something to hold on to. This is the first time she has ever seen his face in severity and earnest, almost distorted in its unfamiliarity.

“Michael,” she says after a while and she can’t keep every notion of defeat out of her voice. Three words sit on her tongue, heavy and strange, a combination of egoistical self-sorrow and wrong-worded sentiment. An attempt of retaliation, of connecting broken pieces and lost connections.

But her mouth remains empty, her teeth blocking the path separating herself from vulnerability and violability.

It's nothing personal, she thinks to herself, Michael's as good as they come. But here inside the walls of the institute every word is a weapon shock-sensitive and ready to explode. (The shock comes in many forms, most prevalently and most dangerously in the shape of grey-green eyes and blasé smiles that turn benign concerns into malignant worries. The shock comes in bursts, circling into waves that drown out every other thought.)

So, she breathes around three words that Michael deserves and that she would willingly give if he were anyone else, anyone unknown.

Time goes by in little droplets of apprehensiveness, pulling together into a flow of disquietness. But Michael’s not moving, just staring at her demandingly, his jaw locked and his knuckles turning white.

For a moment, she must avert her eyes, cannot take his open display of discontent anymore, and her gaze falls upon the wooden chest, neatly tucked into the corner of her office. A feeling of I can’t believe an unimpressive thing like you could do such harm, but deep down in her core she knows it not to be true. She has had enough artefacts in her hands, only separated from her skin by a thin layer of latex, to know that nothing ever seems as ill-natured and pernicious as it truly is.

Her eyes snap back to him, and she needs him to break the silence. (Needs him to spare a smile to reinforce something resembling normalcy. Although she Knows it to be true that Michael can’t do anything about this situation. He’s bound to the laws of physic, too, and he can’t tilt the world back into its normal position. And Gertrude shouldn’t expect him to do it if she herself can’t do anything about the world.)

“Michael,” she says again, breath catching at the edges of a four-letter word still sitting discomfortably in her throat. “Sometimes the right thing to do and the easy thing to do are two different things.” He continues to stare, vulnerability brought by wholeheartedness. “And the right thing is concentrating on your work so that Emma can do hers.”

Softly, Michael says that they were his friends. His shoulders dropping, weighted down by the acknowledgement of defeat. The start of a sentence escapes his lips, but he struggles to force it out completely, and interrupts himself. He draws a shaky breath. Voice trembling, he tries again and states that one of them did this, and she feels like he should make an all-encompassing gesture, drawing in not only shaky breaths but all the weak-kneed wrongfulness of this place.

He doesn’t know, she thinks, he doesn’t know a thing.

“Sometimes,” she says and lays her hand flat atop the desk to stop them from pushing her upright, “bad things happen. And we must deal gently with them.”

A broken-up sentence that he is just, that he is. But he can’t go on and he swallows the fire in his chest, chokes on the flames and sobs up a few sparks. He says that he’s so, so very angry. And the taste that his words leave in her mouth reminds Gertrude of bonfires and sun storms and the sound of cracking wood. (It reminds her of her adolescence, of nights spend only illuminated by the moon and the flames licking into the sky.)

She nods and presses the palms of her hands on the wooden surface with as much strength as she can conjure. She says: “Anger is a dangerous place. You must tread softly, or it swallows you whole.”

They fall back into silence, the quiet thrum of the air condition a white noise for his grief.

Then his arms fall down, and he tries to smile at her but it's a vain attempt at best. (She knows how his smile looks by heart. And this is only the caricature version of Michael himself.)

Michael's as good as they come, so she settles on: “Trust me, Michael.” And she can see that he does.

 Falling Action

In the end, Gertrude is alone in the Archives and she’s buried beneath statements and rituals and eyes that follow every step she takes. Maybe she’s growing paranoid in the wake of a catastrophe she can’t even fanthom the momentousness of. Maybe she’s in her right to collect explosives like wrinkles on her skin. However, she’s still in need of more, more, more. (More certitudes, more dependability, more apologia.)

So, she starts a little fire. Nothing major, just a small one. On the other side of a room that contains a wooden chest that has brought so much grief upon the institute.

Nobody’s in danger of getting hurt, she reasons, every artefact destroyed is a blessing bestowed upon humanity. She only needs them to clear the room, to lose sight of a few things like maybe a Gorilla Skin or a wooden chest full of weaponry.

And the impossible thing is that it worked. Or semi-worked at least because the Gorilla Skin is not in the institute, has never been, and Gertrude’s not any closer to finding it, but she’s got a hold onto the chest, offered by Sonja in an attempt to safe what can be saved.

Time runs out, the Unknowing comes closer, creeps into every waking thought and tries to strangle her into submission. But Gertrude’s not done. She’s almost entirely alone and her hands may be shaking like aspen leaf, but she’s not done.

Shoulders squared and cardigan wrapped around her thin frame, she walks into Research and politely requests help moving an artefact into the Archives. A young man she has seen a few times in the hallways offers his help and she assures him that there will be a sack barrow in Artefacts when he asks if she needs more than one pair of helping hands.

“That will do,” he says light-heartedly and opens the door for her to step through in front of him. It’s a nice gesture and Gertrude enjoys Tim’s joviality as long as it lasts.

They walk in silence for a moment, their footsteps being the only noise they produce. They echo inside Gertrude’s ribcage and for a moment she thinks fondly of Gerry who’s just waiting for her to get started on their trip to the other temples of the beholding. (She won’t think of it as a capital B, she’s been resisting for so long, she won’t cave now. The pressure to give in and paint her dreams with atrocity is big and strong and all-consuming. Just a flick of her tongue and an almost imperceptible strain on her queries and the knowledge of the world would lie at her feet, waiting for her to be crowned and bestowed a gift that she had always declined politely.)

“Tim Stoker.” The research assistant breaks their silence and her train of thought. Blinking through her dusty glasses, she turns towards him without a falter in his steps. “Pleasant to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Robinson.”

Meeting her stern gaze with a friendly one of his, he smiles at her with something more akin to geniality than politeness. (All of a sudden, she’s standing in front of Michael who laughs with an edge of nervousness shortly before she sends him off to find the door. Unexpectedly, she sees Emma in the way he drags his left foot a little more than his right. Without intention, she sees Eric and Fiona in the freckle-constellations on his bare arms.)

She must avert her eyes, forcibly shaking off the images of trust and anger and disappointment dressed in faces she had known so dearly. So, she attempts to focus on their differences, on his height and cadence and the way that he says her name with distant respect like she’s worthy of note.

“Originally, I applied for a position in the Archives,” Tim says at this moment and Gertrude is present again, emerging victorious from the fight with her demons. (Victorious for now.) “But there hasn’t been an opening in quite some time.”

Nodding in thought, she tells him that the Archives is crewed with only her since 2011 and that she doesn’t intend on changing the way that she works. (Gerry’s not employed by the institute, so it’s safe to be in his company for now.)

“Not going to lie, I’m a bit disappointed at that prospect,” Tim retorts without showing any sign of frustration or letdown. And this is the thing that tips Gertrude off, makes suspicion rise in her gut like the tide after moonrise. Tim Stoker is a strange man with unclear affiliations who explicitly applied to be part of the Archives, part of Gertrude’s team. And who, upon dismissal, took work up in the institute anyways. As if he’d like to keep close, take an eyeful of the progress she’s making.

She studies him again, out of the corner of her eye this time, and asks what persuaded him to apply to the Archives in the first place, carefully keeping the compulsion out of her voice, and he says: “I’ve been working in publishing for a long time but in college I used to work as a research assistant in an archive. I guess it’s work I liked doing.”

The lie slips from his skull directly into the hollowness of her chest, and she can feel the draw of the eye to dig deep into the hidden space behind his heart. But she swallows it down, like she always has, like she always will. Pushes it into a corner not to be touched ever again. (It’s going to rear its ugly head time and time again, but hope is a frail thing with sturdy bones and Gertrude is hell-bent on keeping it alive.)

She tells him that she thinks he would be perfectly suited for the Archives, and she apologises that she can’t offer him a position. But he waves his hand dismissively, laughter in his voice and a quick pip on his tongue: “There will be other times.” But she sure hopes there will not.

 Denouement

Upon entering the storage room, Tim tells her that he doesn’t believe her, that Sasha James is a liar, but he laughs right with her, holding the door open so she can come inside, too.

“I’m not lying,” she replies, breath still caught in her throat. “Jon really did! I saw it with my own two eyes!”

Tim, however, is not listening anymore. He’s mesmerized by an oak chest in the far corner of the room. A curse falls from his lips into the dusty air of the room and it only takes him a few bee-lining steps until he’s right in front of the thing.

“What’s that?” Sasha asks, following him until she’s standing right beside him. Shrugging his shoulders, he tells her that its from Artefacts and Gertrude Robinson asked him to bring it down here for a time being. (A time being that is long over since Artefacts has been renovated and Gertrude Robinson went missing.)

He kneels down to examine the chest because he distinctly remembers Gertrude telling him to not dwell on the contents for too long. Cautiously, he reaches for the escutcheon of the lid, tinged green and matted by disuse.

Sasha catches his hand mid-air. “Should you be touching it?” The levity of their prior conversation is forgotten, a tension hangs in the air between them, filled only by the muted footsteps of Martin and Jon in the hallways. “If it’s an artefact, it could be dangerous.”

Mischievously grinning, he asks her if she’s as thorough and careful in her daily life as she is with the looming possibility of spooky encounters.

Even though her aim is pretty good, he dodges the jab with a laugh he’s sure causes her to smile at least a little. He tells her to live a little, be great and beyond.

“If you had seen the artefacts we were dealing with,” she says, “you wouldn’t be as careless. You’ve read the statements. You’ve worked in Research.”

He sighs and a constricted look settles on his face, almost mirroring the flood of memories knocking him down, only simmered down to something he can actually display within the boundaries of his flesh. She’s right and he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to voice it out loud, so he settles on the one thing he always knew best: Deflection.

Making a pained sound at the back of his throat, he laments his choice of occupation without acknowledging the true intent of it. He tells her that, when Jon had asked him to move down into the Archives with him and Sasha, he hadn’t thought about it twice, had deemed working with his friends favourable to Research where Conrad works, of all people. He had thought, so he says, that working inside of an archive again would feel like home for an anthropology major like him. Field work may be wonderful, he continues, but he loved working nose burrowed in books.

More quietly, he admits that he misses publishing. Misses reading into the late hours of the night, entranced by academic works filled with hypotheses and argumentation. Misses tweaking phrases and correcting spelling, omitting thoughts only worthy of footnotes to force papers into their linear trickle of thoughts. Misses communicating with people beyond horrifying experiences and lived nightmares.

“This really is an awful lot like Research,” Sasha agrees, still eying the chest just like he is. “Artefacts is much the same, really. Just with the additional splash of weariness of life.”

In as much confidence as they can find in an open room, too close to their colleagues, Tim says that the Magnus Institute is the worst academic facility he has ever seen. That if he has to see Sasha staple documents together one more time, he’s going to pull his hair out and quit.

“I don’t understand your problem,” Sasha replies dismissively. “What the hell is wrong with stapling. It’s fun!”

He stares at her incredulously. Then he tries to explain to her why stapling sensitive documents that they are supposed to keep safe and away from harm is most decidedly the opposite of their job description.

“I think you’re overthinking this.”

Pointing at his face, still on his knees in front of her which means that he has to strain his neck to be able to look at her, he asks if he’s even apt to overthink. And once again she tries to shove at him. This time, though, she succeeds but she doesn’t reckon him trying to hold on to her legs to keep himself steady and upright, which only leads to them falling into a heap on the floor.

Laughing and a bit out of breath, she shoves at him again, trying to free herself to get standing again.

When she manages to upright herself again, she says: “You should stop being quite as overdramatic.” He points at his face once more and mouths Who? Me? at her, feigning a look of innocence. “And you should call Artefacts, so they can come and collect their cursed chest or whatever.” Still pointing at himself, he mouths again Who? Me? This time, however, with fake indignation plastered over his face.

“Yes you, yes you, yes you,” Sasha singsongs, shoving at him for the last time, pressing him into the floor, before she finally gets up and starts to head for the door. “And because of your blatant neglect of your duties,” she’s gesturing towards the chest over her shoulder which, admittedly, looks rather silly, “and your implication– no, your malicious defamation of one Sasha James, I’m going to leave you to rummage through these boxes all on your own.”

She leaves the storage room, and he can hear the echo of her footsteps, while he loudly mourns her absence and begs for her to come back. The laughter, however, that rings out of the hallway, makes it absolutely clear that he has no choice but to suffer on his own.

(If he’s nice enough, and Tim’s confident that he is, then Martin may have mercy with him and join him on their combined quest to conquer the Archives.)

#the magnus archives #tim stoker #gertrude robinson #mikaele salesa #michael shelley #sasha james #fanfiction #schmok writes #missing scene #never posted this here #time to AHHH about tma finale

[ethekitchenator]

You know, it's funny, even though I haven't watched the show since (the disaster) season 12, a part of me is still incredibly sad that Supernatural has ended.

When the show first came out, my best friend and I loved it. We would joke that Dean was hers and Sam was mine, and we would talk for ages over what was happening.

Due to the time it started airing around season 3, I had to stop watching it, and mostly got snippets from friends over what was happening. By the time I hit uni, there were even more fans there, who spoiled more than a few things for me, but I still wasn't overly worried, I just kept telling myself that I'd watch it one day.

Then a couple of my main friends started rewatching it, around season 8 or 9 I think, and all I was ever told was "You will love Crowley". All throughout high school I was known for writing horror/dark supernatural stories, so that was always the response I got along with other vague descriptions.

"You will love Crowley."

I believe it was another year or so that I finally sat down and decided to rewatch it.

Those early seasons reminded me of the discussions my then best friend and I had. Then, I got even more enraptured as Castiel was brought onto the scene, the angel lore was exactly what I had been craving in the show from when I first used to watch it.

Then came Crowley.

I never told any of them, bar maybe one, that I did indeed love Crowley. I began to look forward to his appearances more and more, and always found myself...disappointed when he wasn't. The show was about Sam and Dean after all, but I always felt like they were underutilizing both Crowley and Castiel.

As season 11 ticked over into season 12, I started to realise that the writing and story telling wasn't going how I felt it should. As a writer myself, it suddenly became hard for me to turn away from the bad writing, I couldn't get as easily lost in the show as I once used to.

So when the ending of season 12 happened, when there was absolutely zero respect shown for my favourite character, I stopped. I was upset and angry and more than a little frustrated that something like this had happened, that a character that had been with the show for so long, that I felt brought a whole new level to it, was gone.

A part of me is still upset about it today, and you know what? That's okay. Things aren't always going to go the way you want them to, in anything, and if you make a choice in the moment, you can choose how that will stick with you.

For me, I first started to turn to fanfiction. Those of you that know me and my writing, know that I have a lot of Crowley fanfiction on my writing blog, even today I'm still writing away many fics involving him. He's worked his way into my heart and is refusing to let go. It didn't mean I didn't write for anyone else in the show, they all have a place with me forever, but Crowley was the one that had the biggest impact on me.

As I continued to watch the fandom go through the remaining seasons, caught snippets of things here and there, I began to see less and less of it around. It was...odd, whether it was from the Tumbr purge or people just really wanted to avoid spoilers, I don't know, but not seeing as much of it as I used to, even through snippets, made me somewhat sad. I didn't watch show anymore, but that fandom space was still apart of me.

Now that the show has officially ended, I find myself still mourning with you.

My opinion on the ending is rather irrelevant, as I've only heard it through the long posts, the memes, and the tears that have been shared around. Have I been impressed with what I've heard? No, both as a fan and as a writer, but then I also wasn't surprised due to my own reasons of stopping. Does it make me want to suck it up and watch the last few seasons? Not in any sort of hurry, but maybe one day, a few years from now, the pain may finally fade enough that I can try and stomach it.

My point through all this though, is it's okay to feel what you're feeling. Make your long posts about it all, spew words forth until your head hurts and your fingers bleed. These are characters, people, that have been with you for a long time now. Psychologically speaking, they are as real to you as your friends and family. If you're like me, then they've helped you through difficult periods in your life, and that is something that's hard to get through.

So do your posts, make your voice heard, but just also take a moment to have consideration for others too. The creators and actors and all those involved in the show, this is an ending for them too. It's probably more real for them than it is for you, and many tears will most likely be shed.

Make your posts, but don't go after the actors and creators. If you really want to say something to them, use your words and feedback constructively. Going out of your way to make threats, to tell them you hate them, or go to any of the other extremes is just not fair on them after years of hard work.

You have a right to be angry, but don't take it out on them.

You have a right to be overjoyed, but don't start fandom wars over it.

That was never the point of the show.

For me, as I said, I turned to writing fanfiction, I was giving a voice to the character I loved, and you know what? It's helped me go back to my own writing, it's helped me start to create my own worlds and characters again and given me inspiration for new ones that I'd never considered it before. My negativity from what the show did, I managed to turn into a positivity for myself. I made my posts at the time, voiced my anger, but I didn't go after anyone directly. I called creatives out on their bullshit, but never directly. I knew it would be pointless to do so, and doing so in anger is never going to be constructive.

I'm now at a point where I've seen this happen in multiple fandom, the last couple of years for me in these fandom spaces has not not been a fun time. So many endings I've seen have just lacked so much creativity, have just been so lazy in writing and directing, that it's made me frustrated with the industry as a whole.

So I'm turning the negative into a positive.

As someone whose dream and passion it is to create these shows, to write these movies, to tell these stories, I've now made a promise to myself to be better. In fact, I am determined to be better, and there is no one but myself standing in the way of doing that.

To those of you who hated the ending, I'm sorry it didn't give you the closure you wanted. I'm sorry that the show didn't live up to your expectations, but just remember, that it's never going to be fully over, that world, those people will always stay with you in one way or another. If you can, turn the negative into a positive, do something that helps you remember the good times of the show, or create your own versions if thats your thing.

To those of you who loved the ending, I'm happy for you, I'm happy that you got the closure you wanted. I'm happy that you can still look back on all those adventures and smile at the wild ride that it was. Most of you are probably still grieving too, and that's okay. When you're ready, turn it into something new and brilliant and keep looking forward.

I get that this has probably been a rather long post, but if you've read all the way through, I just want to thank you. Thank you for being part of a fandom that has become a family. It's far from perfect, but in our times of need, it's there, as all family should be.

When you're ready, we can all smile again, and while we may move onto other things, we all know that this is something that will always be here if you need it.

#supernatural #long post #supernatural ending #writing #writing long post #semi fandom drama #semi advice post #keep writing #keep creative #keep going #sam #dean #castiel #crowley #they'll always be here #it's not the end #it's all okay #personal #determination

[tristancreed]

My Relationship With Tattoos

Art as we know it comes in any medium. It could be a portrait, a scuplture, a dish, a film or even a fighting style. The canvas and the medium may change, but one thing remains constant. It represents something. One's feelings, identity, code, maybe even culture. Tattoos are not far from this. They are pieces of art etched on a living canvas. Just like any piece of art can be viewed differently by the artist, the wearer as well as the mere spectator. The same perception could also be rooted from a personal interpretation/bias, cultural influence, and etc.

The Philippines, while still attempting to develop have yet to change its view on tattooing. To some, it is in fact seen at an artistic light whereas most view them with negative connotations. Some even view tattooed individuals as nothing but bottom dwellers, drug addicts, criminals, anything synonymous with the word undesirable. We even have a senator that says exactly these words about tattooed individuals, as do most conservative folks. Which is ironic considering that tattoos once played a significant role in the pre-colonial history. It often dsiplayed one's role, accomplishments, clan, and even social status. One of our most well-reputed national artists happen to be Whang-Od. To the uninitiated, she is currently the last living traditional tattoo artist around these parts. She is well sought out by visitors both domestic and foreign. In all sincerity, I'd like to see that senator try and publicly call her a drug addict to her face. Like I said, The Philippines has yet to be anywhere near ready to adapt to a modern society. And with it, more progressive views.

(Image is courtesy of La Blouse Roumaine ©)

I for one had a neutral stance on them. I should know, I have four of them and have gone through five sessions all in all. But before that, I remember wanting to get one as far as when I was in college and even intending to get two particular pieces. One being WWE Superstar Edge's Rise Above wrist piece and Toryn Green's sinner and saint ambigram. This what happens when you grow up being a fan of hard rock music, professional wrestling and mixed martial arts. Although what kept me from getting tattooed was the fear of being an ineligible blood donor, as well as the fear of being unemployable in the future.

That however changed after I graduated. Turns out, most corporate environments won't even bat an eye at an upper management figure sporting full sleeves and stretched earlobes. Others may not be as lenient. But it hardly impacted how they're received in the company.  I even had a chance to get a session done in 2013 but it kept falling apart.

It didn't cross my mind until 2017 and that's that I finally decided to go for it. I remembered seeing a simple but perfectly symmetrical geometric arrow design. The design was perfect. I also happen to love archery. So I literally had no other issue with it. I later ended up getting referred by my cousin to her artist who did her wrist piece months prior. The three weeks leading up to that session, I let my folks know in advance that I am getting a tattoo. I didn't wait for their approval or anything. I made it clear that I’m getting inked. Furthermore, I’d like to point out that I am a regular subscriber to Aaron Marino’s YouTube Channel (you may know him as Alpha M). I then took some crucial tips regarding tattoos. I had the certainty down as long as I follow one crucial tip. You have a whole sea of skin all over you. So out of all that, just avoid having one on your hands, neck, and face. If you can hide it with a dress shirt, it’s completely fine. 

On the day of my appointment, I literally just slapped on a sleeveless Avenged Sevenfold cut-off top, some shorts, with only my phone and wallet in hand before heading out for my session. It happened in a small studio just next to a small school in Pacita. Fortunately, I got there in time and I happened to be his only scheduled client for the day. What happened next was pivotal. I literally watched as the needle first touched my skin and slowly covered my birthmark. The session itself took over five hours. And what turned out to be the final product was an entirely different design. One which was inspired by the concept I sent, but also deviated from it. My parents despite having already been warned in advance were still initially shocked by it. They didn’t think I was actually going ahead with it. So this is the part where I retroactively followed what Jaiden Dittfach (of Jaiden Animations) said when she got her bird Ari. If you want really want something and your parents said no, get it anyway and trick them into loving it. Now that it’s on my skin, there really wasn’t much they could do about it. But at least they know its meaning and that it isn’t anything negative. I did have some issues with the product though and it took three more years before I finally got it fixed. For good this time. At least before the pandemic happened and it was done by a trusted friend. In her defense, she made the best of what she could work with then and even remarked how deep the first needle went. Fortunately, she managed to even out some places that needed to be polished.

The intended design (Image is courtesy of The Style Up ©)

The (first) finished product.

Finally fixed. 

In between all of this, I also managed to get three more pieces. It was November 12, 2018, a news shocked Marvel fans the world over. Stan Lee tragically passed away just six weeks shy of what would have been his 96th birthday. It was such a devastating loss of a figure who helped mold the childhoods of many. I wrote about it and posted it here shortly after. During those events, I remembered having come across the Wakandan alphabet before it hit me. But first, I had to consult a few friends in order to make sure that I wouldn’t be committing any act of cultural appropriation. After finally clearing that up, I sent my own design to a friend of mine (Who went on to do all of my ink from that point on) and booked the session. Thanksgiving day later came and I realized that we had no work that day. So I later called her up to see if she was free. Fortunately, she was and I finally had it etched on my right forearm. It was the Latin word “Excelsior” that literally translates to ever upward. It was also Stan’s catchphrase. The feeling of getting that piece was a lot more different than the previous one. This came with a wave of emotion. Because the significance could even be traced from my childhood and I grew up around this fandom and it meant more to me than just entertainment. It helped shape part of my identity. It’s literally the one piece I wish I could have flashed on a camera next to Stan himself. One thing’s for sure both Stan Lee and Chadwick Boseman would have thought it was a wise choice for a piece of ink on one’s skin. 

“Excelsior”

- Stan Lee

Upon having gone through a tattoo session, you can only describe the feel of a needle as a sting. But you wouldn’t exactly call it pain. That isn’t an opinion, that is a fact. Another thing one must know upon getting a tattoo is that you will later want additional pieces. Your skin will want the feel of that needle again. And while my parents said that would be my last piece, I simply couldn’t promise that. This time around, I’ve been looking to get a Cthulhu tattoo since December 2018. Of course, being busy as always, I couldn’t find a time to arrange it. I would only do so once I’m sure I’m completely free for that day. I live two lives. Both as a corporate guy and a public figure. Spare time and sleep are luxuries I can’t always afford. And after all the planning, I finally booked it. I literally went to my friend’s place right away to have it done. The session was of reasonable length and it felt different. Both of my previous tattoos were done on my right forearm. Both of which had uplifting personal meanings. A darker piece like that would be completely out of place in that part of my body. So I opted for my left bicep. It was surreal. I’m a man invested into multiple fandoms and H.P. Lovecraft’s universe is definitely in that list. There’s just something about the occult and the unknown horrors of the cosmos that piqued my interest since my formative years. This was me finally marking that on my skin. If there’s one of Lovecraft’s most iconic creations that deserved that spot, it was the famed Dreamer of R’lyeh himself. If the excelsior tattoo gave a rush of innocence that I hadn’t felt in ages, this was different. It had that enigmatic aura around it which made it all the more perfect. The piece came together so well and it was on an arm that a needle had yet to kiss. After the session, you could say I probably found out how the Sam Raimi Peter Parker felt when he first put on the black symbiote suit. Minus the dance when he exited that tailor shop. I also ended up getting a freehand bonus on my right wrist again. Just something Roxy threw in. It was the Latin phrase “Sic Parvis Magna.” which literally translates to “Thus great things come from small things.” or better yet, greatness from small beginnings. Which is another phrase I hold dear considering my humble origins.

“Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn”

“In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.”

“Thus great things come from small things.”

That certainly wouldn’t be the end of it. Again, while my folks insisted that I got my last pieces, I still can’t promise that. One thing’s for sure, I wouldn’t get any piece that either stands for something that abridges the rights of another human being, nor would any of my upcoming pieces ever wrongly appropriate a culture. Ultimately, I would always advise everyone to at least take Aaron Marino’s advise to heart. Don’t get one that you wouldn’t want to show your folks. You also have a whole sea of skin around you, so avoid having one on your hands, neck and face. I’m definitely not done stepping next to a needle. I still have plans on some pieces. But I always see to their significance. It’s always wise to do exactly that. Getting a tattoo isn’t a joke. It’s a commitment. One that can even outlive a marriage. So it pays to take every choice into consideration. Some of us choose to wear our hearts on our sleeve and some do so literally.

#tattoos #tattoostories #excelsior #cthulhu #lovecraft #inkedlife

[digikate813]

Fanfiction Writer Appreciation Recs

I’ve seen a bunch of people doing these, and i really wanted to too. I may be late to the party here, but I hope I can point you towards some cool stuff to check out. Most of what I read in the fanfiction circle is Gravity Falls, so this post is mostly just multi chapter fics from the Gravity Falls fandom! I might do one for one-shots, and I’m sorry if I forget any major ones, but this is what immediately comes to mind that I highly recommend.

Stanswap by @orangeoctopi7

Reverse Portal AU at it’s best! The Reverse Portal AU was popular for a while (almost on par with Blind Faith) and a lot of people tried to grab onto the idea, but after all this time, it just seems to have left a lot of incomplete works in it’s wake. That is not the case here. It’s still going, but it shows no sign of stopping until it tells it’s entire story. And this story has been insanely detailed and well executed. Retelling almost the entire series as if Ford was the one taking care of the kids, and the dilemmas he faces with the fact that Stan is stuck on the other side of the portal. Not to mention most of the jokes are on point with something you’d hear in Gravity Falls. The author is someone I am proud to call my friend, and that all started when this fic was recommended to me.

30 Seconds Later by @invisibletinkerer

A pretty recent one that i really hope gets more attention. I’ve seen people do fanart and stuff of Ford being the same age as when he got sucked into the portal, while his home dimension and Stan aged, but I didn’t really see much potential for a full story in that idea. That changes with this fic, which again is still ongoing, but updates fairly regularly. The interactions between the Grunkle Stan we know and love and a Ford who is still fresh from his sleep deprived paranoia days, and still susceptible to Bill’s possession brings so much engaging conflict that i cannot get enough of!

My Demons by @kazriku

An oldie but a goodie. This one is basically a Mystery Trio story that focuses mostly on Stan and Ford, and the first chapter was written before A Tale of Two Stans came out. Adjustments were made after that episode came out, but this fic is very much telling it’s own story on how the Stans became so distant, and the incident that lead to Ford being trapped on the other side of the portal. Filled with mysterious suspense and some entertaining brotherly bonding, even if it hasn’t updated in a while, if we’re talking about fanfics I appreciate, there was no way i couldn’t include this one. It was the first major GF Fanfic I read from the person who would become my first mutual, and chances are this fic lead to me reading all the ones you see here!

By the skin of your teeth by @apathetic-revenant

I didn’t realize just how popular this one was until today, but it deserves it. It’s so good! When Stan gets into his argument with Ford after Ford calls him for the first time in 10 years, he realizes that something's wrong with Ford. He’s very sick and his house is a wreck. There is so much tension and angst in this one as Stan puts the pieces together about what’s been going on with his brother, and Ford continuing to fight what seems like a losing battle. There’s a happy ending, but it takes quite a bit to get there, and it is glorious!

And Then There Were Three by @kalajorn

I’m just going to say it. This is one of my favorite Mystery Trio stories. Ever! With an author who I think really is under the radar in the community. Mystery Trio is probably my favorite AU for Gravity Falls, but depending on who you ask, it either got stronger or weaker once A Tale of Two Stans came out. For me, it only got stronger, and this fic is an excellent example of why. I adore the scenario presented here of how Stan and Ford eventually reunite. How there is some spark of their connection as brothers still there, but there are still forces interfering with that, and using the material from canon to build some great tension. Updates take some time, but i promise you it’s worth it. This story only gets more engaging with each chapter and i’m hoping it’ll stay that way.

A Little Bit Lost by @impishnature

Impish is really a beacon of life for the GF fandom. Regularly producing high quality content of all kinds. I could have put any number of her stories on here. If you miss Gravity Falls, and you want to reminisce about it over a weekend, scroll through her AO3. You’ll find a lot to enjoy. But one of my personal favorites is this compilation of fics surrounding the Feral Ford AU. An AU that vanished as quickly as it arrived. I was even going to write something small on it, but i just never got to it. Anyway, these stories of a paranoid, almost animalistic Ford from what trauma he faced on the other side of the portal is just so powerful. Every idea has a new obstacle. Sometimes it’s comforting. Sometimes it’s heartbreaking. But there’s always something to grab your attention and not let go. I come back to these a lot, and they are always a great read.

I’d also recommend her Mystery Trio fic Phobos, but that one hasn’t updated for a while. But I still really like it so here ya go!

Maybe it’s Not Too Late by @rum-and-shattered-dreams

Why was this one so hard to find? It’s awesome! One of the reasons I’ve dived so deeply into Gravity Falls fanfiction more then any other fandom I’ve been in, is because even after the official shows credits rolled, it still left us with so much potential for what other adventures were out there. And this is one of the best examples of that. It’s a great, insanely engaging post series adventure involving pretty much the entire main cast and the return of the Shapeshifter, with Fiddleford and Ford as the main focus. Yes, it is partly a Ship Fic, which I’m not crazy about, but I don’t really find it distracting. There is so much in this story, and the shipping is just another element of it. And FiddAuthor is one of the ships I tolerate more, so I don’t really mind that much. The rest is just too dang good!!

Better Kept Secret by BadonKaDank

Another one that nearly alluded my radar until a friend mentioned it to me back when it had just completed, and I’m glad they did because this story is AMAZING! Having someone from one of the boys’ past come back for revenge is another premise that was circulating for a while that I freaking adored!! There were a few good pieces of writing out there on this (and even a comic currently going on), but this fic is at the top of the chart for me. Filled with drama, action, intense and suspenseful moments, it’s one that really stuck with me that i can’t believe I almost missed. 

Goodnight Stanley by Kitsunesocks

I haven’t seen many people mention this one, and while it may not be the most angst filled story involving the Stan Bros, it’s still a great one. Without giving too much away, while Stan and Ford are getting ready to head back to Gravity Falls, they discover that Bill might not be entirely gone, and that he may be plotting a way to come back right under their noses. Despite how common it is, this is a premise I’ve never been crazy about. I think @thesnadger Axolotl is the only story like this to engage me past the first chapter. Except this one. This is a great adventure of a story. The pacing is excellent and the characters are on point. Some of the most accurate I think I’ve seen in a Gravity Falls fic. I especially appreciate how proactive Dipper and Mabel are in this story. A lot of fics like this tend to push them to the side to make room for the Stans. But this story makes good use of everyone involved. It’s not the most emotionally driven story out there, but it’s one of the most well put together stories I’ve seen in a GF fic.

Blind Faith by @pinesinthewoods

Oh my God! This one! I originally wasn’t going to include this one because I know the author is no longer active in the fandom, but again, appreciation post. And this story deserves to be appreciated no matter what. You all know this AU, where Stan and Ford both wind up on the other side of the portal, and have to face the horrors on the other side together. Blind Faith was already fairly popular at this point, but this story propelled it to something else. Something stronger. Something with depth. Leaving you with chills as you finish every chapter. Aside from My Demons, this is probably the first fanfic I was checking for updates on, daily. This brought many new ideas to the AU that you still see in the occasional new content today, and that is something truly special. This is from yet another author who I am proud to call a friend, and it’s weird to think that back then, I was just a fan of something a lot of other people were. I’m sure most of you have read this one, but if you haven’t, go read it! It’s one of the best out there.

Stanley McGucket by @thelastspeecher

This is the sort of fic I don’t normally care for. Tons of original characters and a lot of shipping. That’s not a bad thing, it’s just not for me. But the premise was just too intriguing to resist. The idea of Stan being offered a job from Fiddleford’s parents and basically becoming an honorary member of the McGucket family is a really endearing premise. And when certain characters reunite or put the pieces together about who they are to each other, it really gets the ball rolling. You’re just waiting to see how everything will turn out, and it’s a pretty great ride. I followed this story and it’s expansions for a while. Then it branched into multiple AUs on it’s own and it just got way too confusing to keep up with the tag. But the main story is still a enjoyable ride from a type of fic that usually doesn’t grab me. But it had an interesting idea that pulled me in, and followed through on it. Welcome to the McGucket Family Tree Stanley

Amnesia by @ducksalive

Okay, yeah. This one isn’t technically a Gravity Falls fic. But I’m really into Ducktales right now and i was running out of Gravity Falls stories. So yeah, I’ve started diving into Ducktales fan fiction. Even wrote one of my own which you should definitely check out. Please? There’s not much out there that’s grabbed me as much as these other stories yet (if anybody knows any good Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera/Gizmoduck stuff out there, let me know), but something about this one had my attention. 

I’m one of those people who is immediately intrigued by amnesia stories but the reason most people aren’t is because of how often they can go wrong. So far, that’s not the case here. In this story, Donald is the one with amnesia, and Glomgold finds him and convinces him that he’s his uncle, and that Scrooge is the enemy. From there it’s a race to try and help rescue Donald from a trap he doesn’t even know he’s in. While Donald constantly suffers for it. If you’re the type of person who likes family angst (which chances are you do if you’re a fan of any of the above fics) then you’ll get a kick out of this. Every time you think the family is going to get Donald back, Glomgold manages to snatch him away. And realizing just how far he’s willing to go to keep Scrooge’s nephew on his side is just shocking. This is another story that’s still ongoing, so there’s no telling how this will conclude yet, but at the moment, I am very emotionally invested in this one.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve gotten way more into fanfiction then I ever would have imagined. I never looked twice at it before, but now I’ve been a spectator to many creative stories, the authors of some of my favorites have become some of my closest friends, and I’ve even written a couple myself. I may be late to the actual day, but I hope this shows my appreciation for all the fanfic writers above and a few dozen I’m probably forgetting at the moment. 

#fanfiction #reccomendations #gravity falls #ducktales #fanfic #fanfiction appreciation

[some-cookie-crumbz]

Honor Before Reason

Honor Before Reason Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Pairing: Kidge Summary: He had known that there would be consequences for his actions, but hadn’t cared much. It was a matter of honor and protection, as he saw it, and those things came first. Standard Disclaimer: If you read and enjoy this, please give it a like/ reblog so I know if I should write more. AN: There isn’t much of them being a couple in this, but I think it still counts as Kidge content. :3 

He growled lowly at the hands balled tightly along the back of his shirt, keeping him from getting too far away. He had known that there would be consequences for his actions, but hadn’t cared much. It was a matter of honor and protection, as he saw it, and those things came first. His captor gave him a shove between his shoulder blades, forcing him to look up again. “Which one is it, kid?” They growled at him angrily.

He glanced over at them, trying to glare in defiance but the task difficult with how his right eye hurt, before spitting a bit of blood on the ground beside him. The other gave him a rough shake and he winced. He lifted his head to figure out how to mislead him from his home but his heart leapt into his throat. “Mom,” He choked out, trying to run forward but being held up by the middle-aged man clutching at his shirt.

There, arms crossed and a look of pure murder on her face, stood his mother, on the sidewalk leading to their house. “Get your paws off my kid, bub, or we’re going to have ourselves a real issue,” She snapped, taking a step forward.

“Considering what your little brat did? Beating the tar out of my kid?” The man barked back.

Her steps were measured and controlled, her arms unfurling as she strode to them. “From what my other kids are telling me, it sounds more like you don’t know how to keep you’re too lazy to keep your aggressive little monster on his leash. Now let go of my kid before I bust your nose,” She snarled lowly.

The guy growled and shoved him away, letting him stumble to short distance into his mom. She wrapped her arms around him to help steady him, being careful with him. He glanced up and swallowed nervously. “Mom, listen,” He stared to say but she gave his shoulders a squeeze and nudged him to move past her.

“Kaden, go inside and wash your face. I’ll be in shortly to take care of you,” She said. Despite the calm quality of her tone, he knew it was a façade. She hadn’t turned her head to look at him, instead holding the other adult’s eye with a steely determination he typically only saw when she was developing new security technology or helping him build model planes.

He scowled before darting down past the neighbor’s house and to the front door. He could see his younger brother and sister, their faces pressed up against the glass of the front room window, watching the two adults with acute interest. He growled, walked inside, and slammed the door behind him. “I told you I could handle it, Newt!” He shouted at the two of them angrily.

Newt dropped from the windowsill to sit properly on the couch, eying his brother with a small scowl. “Uh, you’re welcome. That could have been a lot worse if me and Aria didn’t come back to tell Mom what happened! If he just showed up at the door and started yelling, she would never have believed the truth about what happened!” He barked back, using more logic than the average six year old tended to in an argument. Then again, he had inherited their mother’s keen intellect and their father’s poor timing on when to put his positive qualities to use.

“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to lead that guy back to our house?” He growled.

“Uh, considering you were willing to throw yourself at a guy two times bigger and dumber than you? Yes, I do! Mom said that if there were other kids bothering us to tell her or Dad and they’d deal with it. And where would you have led him to anyway?” Newt questioned, his own voice starting to rise in his frustration.

“I would have figured something out! That kid deserved what he got!” Kaden snapped back angrily.

“Your face is all bloody, though,” Aria chimed in, her bright green eyes wide in a mix of horror and guilt. She clutched her precious plush dinosaur, Muffin, tighter to herself as she curled further into the couch. “I’m sorry, Kaden. This is all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault another kid decided to be a jerk and needed to get his butt handed to him! He shouldn’t have shoved you off your bike in the first place!” He insisted, wiping at his nose and upper lip with one hand. It came back covered in a scarlet smear, come of it wet and some of it flaky and dried.

“If I hadn’t been so close to their house, though, they wouldn’t have gotten mad at me. And then you wouldn’t be all banged up,” She said meekly.

“Ari’s right. I mean, have you seen yourself? You look like they dragged you around by a rope on their bikes!” Newt chimed back in, indicating Kaden’s form with a flail of his arm.

“I may have gotten a couple of bumps and bruises of my own, but I messed them up even worse. That’s part of the reason their dad was so mad,” He scoffed back flatly.

The younger boy sighed and flopped back against the couch, throwing his arms out dramatically as he did. “Nice going, Kaden! You should have just gotten Mom, like I told you!”

Kaden growled, fists clenched at his side, then darted up the stairs. He slammed the bathroom door and clicked the lock into place before setting to the task of cleaning up his face. He grabbed one of the little wash clothes hanging from the towel rank next to the tub in a dark green color, simply so that he wouldn’t have to see how badly the rag would be stained. He then pulled a small step stool over so he could more easily reach the sink.

He glanced at himself in the mirror and froze up. There was a bump starting to appear on the left corner of his forehead, skirting along the edge of his hairline. There was a decently sized scrape between the developing bump and his left eyebrow; not deep enough to leak blood but enough so that the blood almost seemed to just hover over the damaged area  His right eye was already swelling up pretty bad and he expected he’d lose sight from it for a good couple of days. He knew that his bottom lip was split, was pretty sure his nose was bruised but not broken, and there were scrapes all along his cheeks and chins. He sighed and turned on the tap to hot, testing the water and mixing it with the cold water to make it lukewarm. Scrubbing his face with the wash cloth wasn’t completely miserable, but he ended up reopening a couple of the deeper scrapes and cuts as he did.

He had just set the wash cloth down on the edge of the counter when there was a knock on the door. “You still in there, hun?” His mother called.

He took a deep breath as he prepared himself to be read the riot act for his disobedience. He unlocked the door then went and sat down on the toilet while she let herself in. He glanced at her briefly, then scowled and glared down at the white bath mat beside the tub. She watched him for a moment before walking over to the sink and rummaging through the shelves behind the mirror.

She settled on the edge of the tub, a first aid kit in her lap, and motioned that he turn to face her. He lifted his head but kept his eyes anywhere but on her. “So,” She said, her tone much softer than it had been outside, “Newt and Aria already told me what happened. Anything you want to add?”

“I’m not saying I’m sorry to anyone. If Chad had just left Ari alone I wouldn’t have had to do anything,” He said, refusing to let his tone waver in front of her.

“Newt says you’ve had beef with this kid before,” His mother said, still calm, as she popped open the first aid kit and started looking through for whatever she needed. She pulled out a small bottle of peroxide and a few cotton swab.

“He’s a jerk with a big mouth but that doesn’t mean I wanted to fight him. Newt is a jerk with a big mouth and I don’t want to fight him. At least not on a regular basis, anyway,” He said, mumbling the last part a bit quieter.

She laughed as she carefully dampened the cotton swab with the peroxide, causing him to look at her for the first time in surprise. “Well, you aren’t wrong, but we’ll keep that to ourselves. Now, tell me the whole situation with this Chad kid? I want to make sure that telling off his dad was well warranted,” She said, reaching up and starting to lightly wipe at some of the smaller cuts on cheeks.

Chad was a bigger kid with a mouth to match. He was twelve years old but he acted more like Kaden’s bossy friend Raya, who was eight just like Kaden himself. Unlike Raya, who had the redeeming quality of being a good sport about teasing and genuinely caring about the others around her. Chad, however, seemed to only like having his friends around so he had someone to show off to. He’d tried picking fights with Kaden and his friends before, but he seemed to know not to push him too much.

While he wasn’t a thug by any stretch, Kaden knew how to defend himself. Both his parents had a lot of experience with hand-to-hand combat and knew that, sometimes, getting physical was the only way to get bullies to back off. As such, they had taught him some defensive moves and techniques. Newt had just started to learn himself, but Ari was too young at the age of four and also lacked any kind of interest in learning. The boys had been forced to transfer schools a few months prior due to Kaden breaking the nose of an older kid that was bullying Newt after the school staff refused to do anything to help the younger boy. The taunting had gone on for weeks and multiple incidents had occurred in front of playground monitors, but nothing had been done.

His parents had taught Kaden the moves with the point being made that he should only use those moves when absolutely necessary. He had gotten a playground monitor every time something happened between Newt and his bully, but they never listened. It was on that fateful day, when the bully had shoved Newt off of a swing and caused him to smack his head hard against the ground, that he had launched himself at the older boy for justice. The school had planned to suspend them and their father, furious when he found out what happened, had instead transferred them to a new school. Their mother, equally furious but wanting to make sure the school saw justice on a more social level, had given the full details of the story to a friend of hers who worked for a parenting blog.

Within one week, every parent in town was aware of the school’s negligence, through reading the blog themselves or simply word of mouth.

When they transferred schools, they ended up going to the same school as Raya. They had always known Raya and her family, as her dads were friends with their parents, and she decided to look out for them once they transferred in. She spread the rumor of Kaden’s actions, but had bolstered the story up to make him seem even more skilled and impressive. There were so many different versions of the story with so many different claims that he had no idea how to necessarily keep all the details straight himself.

Regardless, he had himself a reputation as being the Batman of eight year olds in their area.

Chad had wanted to test those claims multiple times. Up until that day, Kaden had resisted the urge to attack the other kid. The most he’d done was threatening to rough him up and sling insults back and forth. That day, however, as they were out riding their bikes, Chad had done too far. He saw Aria riding past, leading their little group with an excited smile on her face, and then shoved a decently sized stick into one of her wheels as she rode past. She’d been sent toppling over, her knees and hands scraped up from catching herself, and started crying immediately. Halfway back to their house, his anger had boiled over. He told Newt to take Aria home to their mom and then went back to deal with Chad himself.

The fight hadn’t lasted long; he pinned the other down and just kept wailing away on him until Chad’s dad had hoisted him off.

His mother hummed as he regaled her with the full history of what had been going on with he and Chad over the last couple weeks. “Any reason why this is the first I’m hearing about all of this?” She asked as she placed a bandage over the scrape above his eyebrow.

“I handled it myself so I didn’t see a point in worrying you about it. I mean, you worried all the time because of the bullying from Frankie before,” He said quietly.

“Sweetheart, I’m your mother; it’s my job to worry. And finding out about these things after they’ve escalated only makes me worry more, because that makes me think you don’t trust me with these things,” She said with a small sigh. She then started closing up the first aid kit.

His stomach dropped at her words and he looked down, staring at the toe of his sneakers as she returned the first aid kit to its shelf. He had been keeping this to himself because he didn’t want her to worry too much. “Do you hate me now?”

She looked at him in surprise before kneeling down to look at him, reaching up to push some of his wild dark tresses out of his face. ‘Why would you think that?” She asked gently.

“Because I made a bad choice. Because I got in a fight when I didn’t need to. Because I made you worry even more,” He mumbled, voice choked up and his eyes starting to water.

She smiled softly at him, reaching up to cup both sides of his face. “Kaden, baby, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” She said. He sniffled a little bit but met her gaze. “I may not always like the choice you make, but that doesn’t mean I like or love you any less. You are my son, my first baby, and I’ll always love you with my whole heart.”

“Really?” He sniffled.

“Cross my heart,” She said, moving one hand to make a small X over her heart for added emphasis.

“Even if I did something really bad? Like if I killed someone?” He asked, a small smile starting to turn up on his lips.

She laughed back, glad to see a bit more of his usual spark back. “If it was someone that I liked, I’d be a little upset, but I’d get over it. If it was someone I didn’t like, either, though… Well, I’d help you hide the body. And your dad would probably offer us an alibi if he didn’t like them either,” She teased, pulling him into her arms for a tight hug.

He giggled back, burrowing into her happily, and letting the tense leave his body.

#Voltron legendary defender #Keidge #Kidge #Peith #Kidgemas #keidgemonth2k18 #kidgemonth2k18 #Pidge Gunderson #Keith Kogane #my fics

[thisweekingundamwing]

TWIGW February 11 - 17th

Happy Sunday Gundam Wing Fandom!

We have some super awesome things for you to check out this week!  Many many thanks to those who submitted and tagged us in content - it makes our job so much easier! Especially with the archiving happening on AO3! If you’ve created something we missed, please feel free to let us know so we can feature you too!

Remember, if you find something you love, please please make sure you let the creator know how much you enjoyed it!  Every little comment/like/reblog goes a long way towards fueling their desire to do more!  

Thank you for all that you do, and keep submitting your great content to us!

-Mod CB

Fanfiction:

A Little Piece of Gundam Wing

The archive is being ported to AO3! Check it out!

@ahsimwithsake

Fickle Faithful

Heero-centric, implied future 1x5x3. This might grow into something more.

Late entry for @gwblockparty Rewrite the Romance

Rated T for swearing

Amberly

Knife in Hand

When Duo learns there's a hit out on him, he turns to the only person in Chicago he believes capable of helping him. But will the cost of the Broker's help be too high?

Pairings: 2x3, past (underage) 6x2, past 1x3

Warnings: Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Consent Issues, Organized Crime, Assassination, child trafficking, Past Abuse, Federal Agents, Abuse of Power, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Gender Issues

Amberly with @yourbloodlikewine​

In This Light

Duo spent the last semester working in his older brother's coffee shop. He's resigned himself to a boring spring when a stranger appears, shaking up his entire life. Eli left home last fall, choosing to spend the last six months living out of his van on his travels from the Midwest to the East Coast. By the time he arrives at Ink's, the novelty of traveling alone has started to wear off. Still, the last thing he's expecting is to meet someone who's going to change all that for him

Pairings: 2xOMC, 3xOMC, Solo x OMC, 

Warnings:  Rape/Noncon, Original Characters - Freeform, Alternate Universe, child abuse mention, Sexual Assault Mention, homophobic parents, Re-Written Characters, Drug Use, Violence, off screen murder, gratuitous author indulgence

@anaranesindanarie​

Cocktail Friday

Cocktail Friday drabbles.

Pairings: 2x3

Warnings: bar, diplomats, Russian accent

Death Unspeaking

What happens when a Gundam Pilot is mute? What happens when the other Pilots look down at him because of it? Will he overcome the odds or will the odds overcome him? For Manny who encouraged me to work on this.

Pairings: 2x3

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage

Designation01

War Tactics

Heero's perception leads to an interesting discovery: Duo Maxwell avoids mirrors. An introspective ficlet that aims to explore using BDSM and possible lack of body autocracy to overcome self-image issues.

Pairings: 1x2

Warnings: Mirrors, Body Image, Body Horror, Hand Jobs, NightmaresComfort, Emotional Discomfort, Control Issues, Complete

@duointherain​

To Be Human is to Love

Duo and Heero are working a damaged part of their new colony, things go wrong.

Pairings: 1x2

Warnings: Spaced

EclipseMage

Broken and Bloodthirsty

Duo is terrible-awful at coping. Quatre gets the brunt end of it after a reckless mission-gone-wrong.

Pairings: none

Warnings: Pilot angst, Physical fight ensues, Underage Drinking

flamingofics (hey @idkmybffflamingo​ is this you? let us know!)

Will You Have Me?

Duo returns from a Preventers mission on the fourteenth of February. Trowa takes the opportunity to attempt to confess his feelings for him.

Pairings: 2x3

Warnings: Fluff and Angst, Confessions, Misunderstandings, Gundam Wing Valentine's Day Fan Exchange

Gift fic for @claraxbarton​ from a GW Valentine’s Day exchange in 2016

Ginnybag

Past Tense

'Milliardo.... I'll be waiting on the other side....' A quarter of a century after the fight at MOII, the Epyon System follows the last command given by its maker, returning him to where he will, once again, be needed. But 25 years is a long time and the world he left behind is not the one he wakes in, and fighting to be more than the ghost that he has become to his friends and family may be one battle Treize Khushrenada really cannot win.

Pairings: 6x13, 3x11, 5xMariemaia, 4xR, 2xDorothy, 13,OMC

Warnings: Newtypes, POLITICS!, Sanc, Past Heero/Relena, Past Treize/OFC, Past Treize/OMC, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Parents & Children, Discussions of Politics/War/Abuse/Sex, References to Drugs, Romefeller Foundation, Mentions of Past Nastiness, ZERO System, Canon - to a point

Poison Seven - A Thousand Words

Part 7 of Poison

Pairings: 6x13

Warnings:  none listed

Wild Roses: Cold Comfort

December AC 191: Six months after creation, Treize's new Wing is rapidly gathering a reputation as the best of the best. A routine patrol in space cements Zechs's status as an Ace and leaves Treize injured, revealing the depths of his religious beliefs.  As the 10th Anniversary of the Fall of Sanc combines with the fallout, Leia begins to doubt her husband, Lady Une summons the Zodiac to form, and Noin earns her wings. On Christmas Eve, Treize marks his 21st with a mission he did not expect, culminating in professional triumph and personal revelation for both men.

Pairings: 6xOMC, 6xOtto, 13x11, 13xLeia Barton, 6xOttoxOMC, 13x6, 6x9

Warnings: Nuclear-powered suits, The Duchess of Richmond's Ball, Medical Euthanasia

JunaAzumi

Aún existen los príncipes azules

Trowa sabia que habia separado a los 5 pilotos pero no se arrepentia de nada.

4x5

Bailemos hasta que se acabe el mundo

Quién puede tener una cena en medio de una guerra? Quatre y Heero te darán la respuesta

1x4

Quatre vs Duo

Los chicos se van de vacaciones a Playa del Carmen, Quatre y Duo compiten por las atenciones de Heero ¿Quién ganara?

1x4

Quiero Acordarme de ti

Resumen: Quatre encontró a Trowa, estaba preparado para cualquier cosa menos menos para lo que encontró 04x03 escena perdida del capitulo 38

3x4

facetiousfutz

Short Oneshot Requests

Occasionally I open the floor to short fic and drabble requests on my personal Dreamwidth account (same username, if you want access), and these are the fills I've deemed worthy of lurking eyes. I have a ton of fandoms. This will focus heavily on humor pieces and M/M and F/F ships, with some exceptions. If any archive warnings ever apply, I will make a note of it in the beginning.

Multiple fandoms/pairings, please see chapter specific warnings

All characters underage in canon are aged up accordingly in smut fics

@kangofu-cb​

If You Let Me

If Trowa could give the new residents one rule for surviving the ICU, it would be ‘Don’t Touch Anything. (Especially The Patients.)’.  In reality, he’d actually give them a lot of rules, possibly with diagrams for clarity.  But his main rule essentially covered the bases. When you worked in one of the largest ICUs, in the biggest medical center in the country, at a hospital known for taking on unstable patients for the most complex and risky surgeries that were performed no-where else, new residents were a menace. Until he meets Dr. Maxwell, the newest anesthesia resident.

Pairings: 2x3, background HxD

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Medical, Doctor/Patient, Nurses & Nursing, Fluff and Smut, this is literally my feel good thing guys ok, I mean I'm not saying there won't be any angst, but basically this is all WAFF

@ladyjstruth-blog​

Going Home

Quatre has a secret that comes out unexpectedly and now everyone has to deal with the fallout. The news is hardest on Trowa, who still loves him, even after years of breaking up.

Pairings: 3x4

Warnings: Drama and Romance, Post-Canon

Lil_1337

2018 Comment Fic_Feburary

Drabbles and short fics written for the Live Journal community Comment Fics which can be found here: http://comment-fic.livejournal.com

Multiple fandoms/pairings, please see chapter specific warnings

Maldoror

The Source of All Things

Center, a planet where magic and technology blend. Or more accurately, fight tooth and nail. A planet of Sources, holes in our boring dimension letting through arcane power, chaos and pseudo-deities. In this hot-house of myths and very real dangers, Trowa and Quatre find a mysterious man at the end of a shamanic voyage. Portents suggest this Heero Yuy is crucial to Center’s survival. He’s important enough to have some interesting enemies after him, at any rate: a devious killer and thief called ‘Shinigami’, and a very irate Dragon. Beyond them looms an even greater threat. Indeed, the greatest of them all.

Pairings: 3x4, 2x5, eventual 1x2x5

Warnings:  alternative universe, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Plot Twists, fairly graphic depiction of sex, Mild description of self-harm, Mathematical Magic, weird science, crones - Freeform, Magic and Technology brawling and eventually screwing, Eventual Threesome, Kinda, Insanity of arcane origin, The universe is a pile of marbles and other dubious allegories

Two Halves

The two kingdoms of Sanq and Lin were at war for years; a conflagration involving magic, armies and political murder. The conflict left both nations devastated and strewn with refugees. The king of Sanq finds his infant son, lost at birth, among the death and the ruin, a miracle he barely dared to hope for. But there isn't just one boy, there are two, clinging together like two halves of a whole that cannot be separated. Decades later, the truth behind that second child’s existence will put a hole in the world, or possibly save it.

Pairings: 1x2

Warnings: Fantasy AU, medieval setting with magic, starts with our heroes as children, Cousin Incest, sort of, eventually, being royalty this is in fact the norm and rather expected of them, Canon-Typical Violence

Shinohoshi13

By Demons Be Driven

For years she struggled to live, burdened by a long-forgotten past, an unclear present, and a non-existent future. War consumes her life, forcing her to live as if every day is her last. Fate has seen fit to gift her with unnatural abilities far beyond the normal human capacity. With those abilities, she leads a daily game of tag, putting her life on the line over and over again. Will a chance meeting with a young man give this tired young woman the will to keep fighting? And with the war escalating higher and higher, will she have the time to find out who, and what, she really is?

Pairings: 5xOFC, background 1x2, 3x4, 6x13, unrequited Rx1

Warnings: Relena bashing, Adult Content, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Crude Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Strong Language, Torture, Violence, Psychological Horror, Magical Realism

Sol1056

Tetractys

In a reality where Kushrenada won, the five gundam pilots live a half-life, effectively prisoners. An unexpected chance at freedom may let them regain what they'd lost, but it also means a return to battle. Some things, once lost, cannot be regained. | Significant rewrite of original version.

Pairings: 4x5, 1xR

Warnings:  Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multiple Universes Colliding, Post-Canon, Mecha, Alternate Reality, War, Politics, Rebellion, Slow Burn, Accelerated humanity, Paranormal skills, Butchered scientific theory, Global warfare, Significant battle scenes, Mecha reduxes, Multiple Pairings, Female gundam pilots

Thai_Tea_Addict

Wolves and Lambs

On the cusp of war, Remus Lupin discovers he has a son. Facing a prejudiced wizarding world unwilling to believe Voldemort has returned, Remus must now navigate his duties as both a member of the Order and as a father to one Duo Maxwell. Duo doesn't know a lot about families, but he knows war. HP Fifth Year, Post-GW main series

Pairings: 1x2, 2xHP, 3x4, Romione

Warnings: Harry Potter crossover, Family Reconstruction Act, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Politics, Wizarding Politics, War, Disturbing Themes

@vegalume​

Ellion - Book 1

Set in a world where one mad man tries to rule all and destroy the last traces of magic, one young man must overcome a life filled with war and death in order to save those he holds dear.

1x2, 13x11

A/U, Fantasy, Angst, Mpreg, Character Death

Snippets:

@chronicwhimsy

WIP Wednesday - Post-canon 2xR snippet for @gwblockparty Rewrite the Romance

@kangofu-cb

We Won’t - AU RxH snippet for @gwblockparty Rewrite the Romance

@lifeaftermeteor​

LAM!verse snippet featuring Relena on the Warpath

@remsyk-blog

Thrill of the Chaste - AU 2x3, HxR Amish Romance for @gwblockparty Rewrite the Romance

@terrablaze514

Flu Aftermath Writing Prompt

@thefallenstar-treizekhushrenada

Valentine’s Day drabble about cake, 13x11

Photo Edits/Manipulations

@zechs

Incorrect Zechs Quote

Headcanons / Meta / Discussions:

Multiple Contributors

Self-Destruct suit discussion

@gundamwing-ellesmith

Otakon’s Gundam Wing Panel thoughts

Fanart:

@arubees

Heero and Duo

@cree8ions

Dorothy Catalonia

@hainekoken

Heero Yuy

@hasuyawwn

Duo Maxwell

@noelleian​

Quatre Raberba Winner

Trowa Barton

Sally Po

@outofworkshinigami

Duo twin commission for @anaranesindanarie

@oxymoronicidiosyncrasy

Heero Yuy

Duo Maxwell

@rockmandash2

Duo Maxwell

Duo Maxwell sketch

@vegalume​

Taste the Rainbow

@versari-arts

Hilde Schbeiker

@xan-drei

Heero and Duo  from LAM!verse, commission for @lifeaftermeteor

Cosplays:

@18thcenturylove​

Duo Maxwell 

Calendar Events:

Cocktail Friday

https://gwcocktailfriday.tumblr.com/

A new prompt every Monday!

Submissions should be posted Fridays between 3 and 5pm EST, and tagged with @gwcocktailfriday

Interview with a Creator by @remsyk-blog @interview-with-a-creator

Remsyk has created an online interview for fandom creators to fill out and then she features one each week so that everyone in the fandom can learn a bit about each other.

If you haven’t filled out her interview, go! do! now!

Honorable Mention:

@kangofu-cb​ was mentioned by AO3 Admin as a winner in the 2018 Feedback Fest Challenge, and won a prize!  Thanks to everyone who recc’d something on their post as part of the challenge! Over 500 fanworks (in total, not just Gundam Wing) were mentioned as part of the challenge! And special thanks to @terrablaze514​ for bringing this to the attention of the mods!

#twigw #this week in gundam wing #february 11th - 17th

[leesacrakon]

(Fic) Shadows

This is an entry for @cup-of-blue 's contest on this discord chat they have going on! 

Background Shadow!AU thing created by @cup-of-blue :  When Virgil's worries get too much, when he's curled up trembling and sobbing in his room, the shadows drop the playful demeanor. Jim will morph into a terrifying, snarling wolf, the birds will flock around Virgil and screech beyond comprehension, the spiders will scuttle all over him. The Fox will whisper manipulation into his ear, more intense than usual, and The Man will tell him to give up. Nobody would care if he disappeared. He only gave into the man once Luckily, he had mercy on Thomas. But before he was merely a shadow, it was worse You see, The Man and The Fox do not even bother with a charming, kind act. They're past that. They are the shadows true intentions, to break Virgil. Because Virgil is the only one in between them and Thomas. He encourages him to get up, make that video, do that, do it because you won't get another chance, and it works. So, they need to get rid of him. 

Tag List:  @romananalogicality @tiny-mudkip @lovely-chaotic-goddess @the-sun-shines-bright @pattonpending@edgeworthsnoodle @the-babysitter@sunnyside12pershon @aph-curls-n-dimples @cup-of-blue @xix-leiloves-xix  

Fandom: Sanders Sides, YouTube, Thomas Sanders

Warning: Violence, gore, blood, self-hatred, self-mutilation, and self/outside-deprecation

Ship(s): Platonic LAMP

Virgil screamed as another swarm of birds flew around his head, clawing at his hair and eyes. Scratches and deep cuts from their vicious talons oozed blood on his face, arms, and chest. Jim had torn his hoodie away with his claws long ago. Virgil could barely move and watched in terror as the birds stayed close by but parted ways for The Man and The Fox to trot up to him. 

“Look at you, so helpless and useless for us to play with,” The Fox hissed, his tail flitting as nuzzled up to Virgil in a sickeningly innocent and affectionate way. Virgil didn’t dare swat him away, noting his sharp claws. The Man smiled at him with razor sharp teeth, his warped and mangled face twisting as he did so. Virgil closed his eyes, biting his lip hard. The Man reached down and stroked Virgil’s cheek. Spiders poured from The Man’s sleeves and forced their way out of Virgil’s skin, crawling up his body and making him scream in both agony and fear as the open wounds the emerging spiders came from bled profusely. 

“So weak and small, just for us. Look at how useless you are, just lying there as we have our way with you,” the spiders said in a thousand raspy voices. The Man laughed a high-pitched, hyena sounding cackle that made Virgil sob. He watched as the shadowy figured beckoned Jim, the wolf shadow, forward with a claw-like finger. Virgil trembled as Jim snarled and gnashed his teeth, saliva dripping from his jaws. The worst was yet to come. 

“You’ve been a very bad boy, Virgil, failing Thomas and letting the others down. Do you know what happens to bad, pathetic little boys like you?” The Man hissed through his teeth, grinning widely as his pure white eyes flashed. Virgil slumped forward with defeat, his shoulders shaking as he slid down the wall, not noticing the streaks of blood he left behind. 

“They get punished,” Virgil whimpered. 

A bloodcurdling scream rang throughout the mindscape, startling Logan and making him spill his coffee all over the book he was reading. Growling complaints and threats under his breath he stormed out of his room, looking up and down the halls. Roman had staggered out of his room, looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and Patton bolted out and headed straight towards Virgil’s room, not even bothering to ask if it was any of the others that had screamed. 

“Ugh, he probably just had a nightmare or something,” Roman groaned, but Logan saw the flicker of worry in his eyes as he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, running after Patton where he was standing in front of Virgil’s open door, face paled with horror. Logan ran to catch up with them and flinched when Roman let out a high-pitched scream. He was seconds away from yelling at him when he saw the reason why. 

Virgil was lying in the middle of his bedroom, shivering and whimpering. Blood seeped from numerous wounds on his arms, legs, neck, bare chest, and face. One of his eyes was swollen and bleeding, a long, deep cut over it making it impossible to be opened again. Tears and blood caked his face and matted in his hair. Logan’s stomach churned when he noticed how much blood surrounded the immobilized man. Sick, twisted creatures that seemed to be made of pure darkness stood over him, some of them mocking him. The others, including a humanoid figure that seemed to be made of bones and a black fox with a twisted smile on its face, ignored the newcomers and kept their eyes on Virgil. The dark trait looked at the three, eyes wide in a silent plea for help as tears streaked his face. 

“How dare you hurt him!” Roman snarled, pulling out his sword and rushing at the nearest shadow. The Man laughed and swatted him aside like a fly before he could do anything, smirking in amusement. Roman growled and got back to his feet, Patton and Logan assisting him. 

“You think you can defeat us? Really? How sweet,” the fox cackled, lips curled back to show its teeth as it laughed. Roman lunged forward again, wielding his sword, but was once again stopped by The Man. Virgil held back sobs, ignoring the excruciating pain in his body and trying to inch himself forward. He had to stop this. 

Virgil curled up tighter on himself, squeezing his eyes shut. They were all going to die. They would get to Thomas. Then Thomas would die. This was all his fault, all his fault, all his fault-

And then there was a scream. Virgil’s eyes flew open and he looked around widely, tears falling freely as he thought the worst. One of them was dead or seriously hurt and it was all his fault but no...The Fox was gone. Patton held Roman’s sword triumphantly, which was dripping with a sticky black liquid. The birds and the spiders sunk back into The Man’s cape, fearful at the sudden violence from the usually compassionate and peaceful side. 

“What- No! Impossible!” The Man howled, clawing at his face in frustration, peeling away the skin. Virgil shuddered in disgust. Logan used The Man’s distraction against him and tackled him to the ground while Patton handed Roman back his sword helped him, grabbing him by the neck while Logan punched him multiple times as hard as he could. Virgil watched in amazement as Roman slew Jim with ease, who dissipated into darkness, before turning to where Logan and Patton had The Man pinned to the ground. 

“This isn’t the last you’ve seen of me! I will return!” The Man snarled, trying to free his arms from the strong grasps of Logic and Morality. Princey stared down at him with a cold smile, raising his sword above his head. 

“One problem at a time, yes?” Roman said coolly. The Man yowled as the sword was driven into his chest and burst into shreds of dark matter, which flew around the room and sunk into the walls, ceiling, and floor. Roman stood, panting, arms trembling slightly as he slowly turned to Virgil. 

“Are you alright?” Patton asked, helping Logan up and quickly moving to Virgil’s side, cupping the trait’s face in his hands and observing his many injuries. Virgil’s lip quivered and he nodded, extending his arms out to the others, shaking. Patton quickly scooped Virgil up into a hug, being careful not to disturb his injuries, and rocked him slightly back and forth and he sniffled into his shoulder. 

“Virgil...how long has this been going on?” Logan asked, sitting beside the two and placing a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. The younger trait held back tears and shook his head, letting out a shaky sigh. 

“Always. They’ve always been here. B-But...But this time they were going to kill me, they really were. If you hadn’t all come I-I’d be dead and...and-”

“Sh, don’t think about that right now,” Roman said soothingly, setting his sword on the ground before hugging both Patton and Virgil, rubbing Virgil’s back slightly. "They’re gone, you’re safe now, and that’s what matters. We won’t let any of the hurt you again,” Virgil whimpered softly and buried his face in Roman’s chest, shoulders jerking as he held back sobs. Logan hesitated before scooting closer and resting his head on Virgil’s shoulders and holding one of his hands. Virgil squeezed it and gave Logan a watery smile. 

“T-Thank you. Thank you all so much,” he whispered. They chuckled. 

“Ah, it was nothing, Emo Nightmare,” Roman said, rolling his eyes and trying to mask the affection in his tone. 

“Thomas needs you for reflexes. We need you,” Logan added, smiling widely for the first time in ages. 

“I’d miss you if you were gone!” Patton said, pouting and holding Virgil tighter. More tears made their way down Virgil’s cheeks, but this time, they were happy ones. He was safe. He was finally safe. 

#contest submission #cup-of-blue #discord server #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: self-hatred #tw: depressing stuff #tw: self deprecation #virgil sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #sanders sides #thomas sanders #angsty #shadow!au #tw: self mutilation