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loveamongthesailors · 4 years

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Well, Pathologic 2, you’re One years old! It’s as good a moment as any to reflect upon and shatter the time-lines you’ve drawn out for us. OR; Reading His-Story Against the Grain

i saw this post about pathologics incongruous timeline stuff the other day and i ended up Getting Into It.. this piece draws on stuff from patho classic but its focused on patho 2, especially on a comparison ov the Diurnal and Nocturnal “endings,” and contains spoilers for both games, probably, i guess, on varying levels ov abstraction and explicitness. i/m going to attempt to stand on a street corner and point towards Pathologic’s overall construction/presentation ov “time” as the Now-time, Exploded time, Messianic Time.

from dear daniil dankovsky, on Angels; “An angel is a nightmare. Their purpose is to instill primal, oppressive horror. I think if angels existed, they’d resemble a divine pillar of light---from the heavens to the earth. Devoid of anything remotely human.” We commend this Puppet for his drama but would like to take a slightly different approach. Even awful dreams are good dreams, if you’re doing it right.

“A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.“

on the content ov patho and in a real Life context, im also going to be discussing genocide ov Indigenous people, colonial Violence, police brutality, and anti-Black violence in this piece. i’ll also be contextualizing some views on History through the writing ov Walter Benjamin, a German born Jew living in the early 20th century, and friend ov Bertolt Brecht, who you may be familiar with if yr into patho. In 1940, shortly after writing On the Concept of History (referenced here),while fleeing persecution for neutral grounds, he was trapped in catalonia by a franco government cancellation ov travel vistas and,under threat ov repatriation to nazis by the spanish police, commited suicide on the night ov september 26. His theses were passed on by surviving members ov his group who were granted “safe” passage after his suicide, being later taken under the care ov Hannah Arendt and Theodor W. Adorno. His Grave reads -in German and in Catalan, reproduced here in english-

"There is no document of culture which is not at the same time a document of barbarism"

(from section 7 ov On the Concept of History)

i will also be using sections from baedan, which has been dear to me over the years, on Benjamin’s Concepts. some songs will be dispersed throughout (featuring Laurie Anderson, Owen Pallett, and some good ol tmg), with relevant links beneath. you’ve heard that old Brecht aphorism about dark times, singing, whatever? i’m nearly sick to death ov it. these stories, in addition, will be based on a few things i know Myself. follow the threads as you see fit <3

Because History is Stories...That we half-remember... And most of them never even get written down. And so when they say things like "We're gonna do this by the book," You have to ask "What book?," Because it would make a big difference if it was Dostoyevsky or just, You know... Ivanhoe.

xxx

“Read what was never written,” runs a line in Hofmannsthal. The reader one should think of here is the true historian. ~ Walter Benjamin, omitted notes to the theses on history

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Isidor Burakh: All I wanted was for you to understand, not to follow any particular fate.

...

Isidor Burakh: The Town needs to move forward, but it doesn’t insist. Facing the Future is the the way of Love. Facing the Past is the way of Love. But the two are incompatible, and it broke my heart. //// //// //// ////

so,,, depending on who you ask within Pathologics narrative, the history ov the Town-on-Gorkhon stretches back to Time Immemorial, constitutes a few hundred years ov settlement, or only goes back about as far as You have been playing the game. You’ll hear conflicting narratives around just about everything in this Town. Simon Kain, hundred something years old, mystic, spiritual founder ov a several hundred year old settlement. an executed general’s vengeful daughter, Artemy and Rubins foggy backstories ov military service, what military?, what war? Who sent in the Military and Inquisition, how can We get at the Powers that Be? looking outside ov the narrative and towards history for these sorts ov questions will give us All and None ov the answers.

The Termitary (internment/interment/intermediate/immediate/intermittent) looms over the Home ov Isidor Burakh, Menkhu and sole Medical Practitioner ov the town(excepting disciples. consider the spread ov knowledge, what different Knowledges are at hand and how they perpetuate...we can see how Isidor himself looms from his grave Quite well!), colleague ov radical intellectuals from the Capital and serving with Simon in tandem with the Mistresses to hold the Town together by force. Everything is Happening at Once.

Look at What/Who is Moving this Story Forward. Different ruling families will give you again, different Numbers, different Stories. One can’t trust the Numbers, we say! and One can hardly trust the Stories either, mind you. This engenders an approach based on following Patterns, exploring Roots, pulling back the curtain to ascertain the shape ov things, reading the lines so to speak. one Bull or Several bulls? silly question. again, we’re trying to looking beyond the Numbers. consider Time as a Multiplicity. consider Rhythmic and Linear time, Time Stratified, Unending Time, Plague Time and Empty Time, Lived Time and Time un-Lived, if one pleases!

XVII

“Historicism rightly culminates in universal history. Materialistic historiography differs from it as to method more clearly than from any other kind. Universal history has no theoretical armature. Its method is additive; it musters a mass of data to fill the homogoneous, empty time. Materialistic historiography, on the other hand, is based on a constructive principle. Thinking involves not only the flow of thoughts, but their arrest as well. Where thinking suddenly stops in a configuration pregnant with tensions, it gives that configuration a shock, by which it crystallizes into a monad. A historical materialist approaches a historical subject only where he encounters it as a monad. In this structure he recognizes the sign of a Messianic cessation of happening, or, put differently, a revolutionary chance in the fight for the oppressed past. He takes cognizance of it in order to blast a specific era out of the homogenous course of history—blasting a specific life out of the era or a specific work out of the lifework. As a result of this method the lifework is preserved in this work and at the same time canceled*; in the lifework, the era; and in the era, the entire course of history. The nourishing fruit of the historically understood contains time as a precious but tasteless seed.”

*The Hegelian term aufheben in its threefold meaning: to preserve, to elevate, to cancel.

Everything is happening at once, already, and, for the purposes ov Our story, A plague is on. (why is there a plague on? in this Specific Case, read: Specimen, there is a plague on because infection serves as a very useful allegorical device. haha. see also dominant theories ov infectivity in russian imperial medicine, policy, and social science) Crisis as Inflammation. Violence and Control intensified along multiple vectors. Mobs, Witch Burnings, The Quarantine, districts carved up and kept under surveillance, the Town Police, Arsonists, government or Otherwise, the Military, the Inquisition, Hangings in the square, tallies ov the Dead in the Termitary... Was any ov this new? did it Crystallize from thin air? here’s an aphorism: There’s Nothing New Under the Sun. what can we find beyond the Sun’s reaches? what has the Sun given us, and what has Earth? shall we keep them apart? whose bodies are restricted in their movement over the earth, and how severely are they restricted? who is targeted? who enforces the control? is this what Crisis looks like? when did the Crisis start?

“To articulate the past historically does not mean to recognize it ‘the way it really was’ (Ranke). It means to seize hold of a memory as it flashes up at a moment of danger. Historical materialism wishes to retain that image of the past which unexpectedly appears to man singled out by history at a moment of danger. The danger effects both the content of the tradition and its receivers. The same threat hangs over both: that of becoming a tool of the ruling classes. In every era the attempt must be made anew to wrest tradition away from a conformism that is about to overpower it. The Messiah comes not only as the redeemer, he comes as the subduer of Antichrist. Only that historian will have the gift of fanning the spark of hope in the past who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he wins. And this enemy has not ceased to be victorious.”

//// //// //// ////

But do not be scared Surely some disaster will descend and equalize us A crisis Will unify the godless and the fearless and the righteous

...

In a certain slant of light the feeling will hit me Like a man against the waves and a violent wind Waking up in a bloody morning With the warmth of his forgiveness around me The shared dream left me shaking The memory is threatening to capsize every ship upon the sea

xxx //// //// //// ////

Pathologic, having mapped out these lines, and being a concatenation ov narrative fiction that could not have existed without the precondition ov colonial expansion and the Extermination and Assimilation ov Indigenous populations and Life ways, can be can be unwound through a conventional historical approach by investigating various moments, epidemics, and movements in The Steppe (and all Land and Living Beings subsumed by Russia’s internal colonization) and looking for similarities, sources, influences, reflections, distortions... You’ll never find quite an exact parallel to the events ov pathologic, and you will find that the Trick that the devisers have given you in fact resides in laying out what can be gleaned from the Tangled view.

“…they make the work a process of learning or experimentation, but also something total every time, where the whole of chance is affirmed in each case, renewable every time,”

— Gilles Deleuze, Difference&Repetition

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“For Benjamin, the conclusion of the movement of history through time is not some inevitable utopia—capitalist, communist, or otherwise. Rather than viewing the progression of civilization as an accumulation of gains and reforms toward freedom and justice, history can be seen as the continuous defeat of the exploited by their oppressors; the intensifying alienation of beings and their re-construction into capital. History not only serves to justify today’s rulers, but also to encode our memory with a narrative that reads historical events as a necessary chain of events along the path toward some future revolution or techno-utopia. He describes this as “a view of history that puts its faith in the infinite extent of time and thus concerns itself only with the speed, or lack of it, with which people and epochs advance along the path of progress.”

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In your Twelve Days in the town as a Healer, what did you see? piles ov wreckage, debris, bodies stacked under streetlamps flickering in the night? a town spreading across a steppe? a Utopia growing through the Earth? do you think you saved any lives, and was any-body's life yours to save in the first place? a Plague moving through living organisms? a Plague moving through non-living organisms? did you observe any Organisms, living or otherwise, over the course ov the play? do you have Mirrors in your house? have you seen a still, clear, body ov water recently? what are the waterways where you live called, and have they been called anything else in the Past or Present? did you become the Haruspex, and following what paths does becoming-haruspex entail? are you winning, son?

When the hunger turns in on itself, it begins to devour its host Who do you turn to for help? Who do you love the most? When the word comes down the wire that they're looking To make an example of you Skin and bones around a campfire beneath the stars No good end in view I dance with the ones that brought me I dance with the ones that brought me here

xxx

did you observe a Fever? can you feel a Fever? can you Imagine a great crack ov lightning striking across the Steppe, illuminating in raw detail the beauty and horror ov all that you have experienced? how would it smell afterwards? can you smell the Twyre on the air? is Twyre even a real thing? what may influence your imaginary ov its scent? Feel small, dirty hands reaching out for beetles, marbles, raisins, souls within nuts and names without people. Living on pemmican, Living on military rations. razors, fish-hooks, scalpels and syringes passing through the hands ov children as well. noticing the flows present in everything, spots where they are arrested, and the intensities they assume. we could run through the Game and Count up the Number ov Clocks present, and we could also look at how many hours we have Clocked in our Playtime, and the date ov this Play’s Production. did the Kains succeed in their mission to Produce Time? was this the Kain’s mission Alone? how is your mental Clock? We got the Body Count at the end of the day, and commentary too. cant beat that courtesy, *hem hem* but again, looking beyond the Numbers. how many Bulls did you see? when is a question also a trap?

XVIII

“‘In relation to the history of organic life on earth,’ writes a modern biologist, ‘the paltry fifty millennia of homo sapiens constitute something like two seconds at the close of a twenty-four-hour day. On this scale, the history of civilized mankind would fill one-fifth of the last second of the last hour.’ The present, which, as a model of Messianic time, comprises the entire history of mankind in an enormous abridgment, coincides exactly with the stature which the history of mankind has in the universe.”

what are the Consequences ov inserting Living Beings into a Linear Framework? where did Architecture come from? how was this Story constructed? What do you remember about the Town?

We can take the Diurnal “ending” as a fairly straightforward allegorical Byway for the Forces ov Progress. Boundaries are set, You are not the Town, the Town is your Soul-and-a-half.( wikihow to not be a cartesian dualist, consider also Spinoza if laying bare the path ov immanence was ov interest to you) What lays beneath the Sunlight? what still lays beneath the Earth? What time is it? things are weirdly cozy, in some ways. mimesis, echoes, ghosts. Are their voices still heard? grace tallies up the bodies. are You ready to Leave Artemy here? is this a comfortable future for you to imagine? how are you with uncertainty? Does the costume itch? do you ache at the seams, or are your joints sore from all the strings pulling at them? got arthritis? i’ve used stinging nettle. can a Story devour a human being? why would something with that power stop at One?

What Do You Think Will Happen Now?

One can also make the Choice to step into the Darkness. One with many names has returned to the Earth,(”One” ov many False Deaths and Smart Tricks too. love ya girl <3)... taya as mistress-ov-bulls, grace as mistress-ov-dead, changeling as mistress-ov-absolutley-whatever. Mistresses, Mist, Tresses, Bulls, Brides, Worms, Plague...the Theme/s to note here is/are Multiplicity. Is there a difference between imagining the future and the past? Where are you? Where did You come from? the Nocturnal ending already asks enough questions to make me quite happy. sitting next to the Girls now, looking out at the New Sky. same as the old sky, Full ov Magic. if we take Death ov the Author into account, we could say that the Polyhedron belongs to the Dead in more ways than one. We can see your house from here! i wouldn’t say we’ve even gotten to the Prophet yet. When did our Hero leave us? did We have any use for Heroism? the Steppe is in the Stone Yard now. The World is returning to Life. what does it mean for me?

how many angels can dance on the head ov a pin?

how many worm brides can dance in the cathedral?

....“The way in which the dead are present is as the “caress” of a “breath of… air,” as an “echo,” or as a sister who one no longer recognizes. In other words, the past is present and everywhere, touching us every moment and “in the voices we hear,” but only suggestively, in and in spite of our own inability to recognize it. But the possibility for redemption, the weak messianic power, lies in the chance that we might.

In the intimate, ever-present opportunity he describes there is a tremendous deal at stake. For, he writes in the fourth thesis, the “refined and spiritual things” that live in the class struggle “as confidence, courage, humor, cunning, and fortitude, and have effects that reach far back into the past… constantly call into question every victory, past and present, of the rulers.”

Later, turning to the historians he criticizes as tools of the ruling classes, Benjamin makes it clear in his seventh thesis that their resurrection of the past is an entirely different kind. The nature of the sadness—rooted in an indolence of heart—that Flaubert described feeling in his historical study of Carthage is clearer, Benjamin says, when we remember that the historian’s empathy is always with the victor, and thus with the present rulers. It is the kind of sadness, then, that gathers to the loyal servant or minion in knowing that it is being used for its ruler’s purposes”

“Figured another way, the task of interruption requires us to locate the clocktower that we could fire upon to stop the day. Homogenous time no longer flows through the monolithic machines in the city centers. Now, a range of technological advancements have diffused and integrated the machinery of time into our very thoughts and rhythms. Everywhere we go, we are surrounded by and permeated with devices which serve to manage the regime of time. Where once a singular apparatus mediated our relationship to time, its dictatorship is now imposed by an innumerable array. A desire for interruption must now reckon with the countless apparatuses that segment our memory and integrate our very being into capitalist time. But rather than waste time lashing out against all these clocks one after another, let us cut through to what underlies them.

History’s servants promise us a shining future. Whether by means of technological innovation, hard work and sacrifice, or the Revolution, we are assured of a heaven-on-earth of light and crystal. But all of these glimmering apparatuses can only serve to adorn the monumental pile of wreckage in which we live. All around us, the carnage and corpses of our ancestors form the architecture of our daily existence. Not only the walls and freeways and shopping centers, but the smart phones, pornography, surveillance and entertainment systems—all monuments to the same enemy that has never ceased to be victorious. Capital, Leviathan, civilization, society: so many names for the process which turns life into an assemblage of death, which would integrate us as machines into a grander machinery. Futurity is the logic that drives this regime of subjection and assimilation, but is also the science which desecrates our memory of those who also struggled; the treachery which turns their struggles into so many more ideological cadavers. Where living beings once struggled to be free from futurity’s domination of their lives, we are told that they dutifully sacrificed themselves for society’s future. We too are called upon to procreate and raise up children who might one day live better lives than we. But just as we were born into the halls of the dead, so too would our children be the stillborn janitors of these halls, breathing circuits embedded in a massive cybernetic cadaver. Ghosts call out to us: they ask that we tear apart the sutures of this Frankenstein’s monster which they’ve come to constitute. They call on us to cremate their remains and bury the ashes, to end the reign of the dead over the living.”

//// //// //// ////

"I am not afraid," ze said "Of the non-believer within me Nor delight at the pain of my enemies Nor tears for any friends I have lost" ...

I’ll never have any children I’d bear them and eat them, my children

I’m gonna change my body In the light and the shadow of suspicion I am no longer afraid The truth doesn’t terrify us, terrify us My salvation is found in discipline, in discipline

xxxx

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“It is apparent from the foregoing that all accumulation is cruel; all renunciation of the present for the sake of the future is cruel.”

— Georges Bataille, The Accursed Share, Volume III

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“The Haruspex is blood and organs... ...The Haruspex’s overarching idea is the interconnectedness of everything and restoring the connections... ...The Haruspex hears (rhythms)... ...The Haruspex: water + forward vector. „ — [from the game’s design documents]

“ The Haruspex, a butcher, a killer, one could even say a murderous psychopath, gets the warmest character arc. It’s about love. „ — [from the game’s design documents]

//// //// //// ////

Infinity Mirrored Room—All the Eternal Love I Have for the Pumpkins -

Yayoi Kusama, 2016

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A long “personal” anecdote: there’s music on the air and i hear a familiar buzzing. it isn’t twyre growing, nor it is the hum ov flies. we Keep bees here, to get honey. I should try to remember to bring some to my wife tomorrow, though making the journey on its own is a bit daunting these days. 1 hive, 2 hives, the bees build and swarm and our Keeper rearranges the frames, adds in new boxes, tries to give them enough space that they'll stay within our domain. I think about the complex roles being fulfilled within the hive, and how any egg can grow into a so called “Queen” if need be. These Hives haven’t always held the same populations, sometimes a swarm will depart and won’t be Recovered. Look around the neighborhood, find the buzzing tree, you may be able to get them back yet but... have you tried getting a swarm ov bees into a box before? good luck finding the queen! (hoping i don’t have to do this but a bit excited by the prospect at the same time.)

Our honey bees didn't originate from this region, i see them in the “yard” alongside native bees (one tries to plant for Everybody) but obviously, Our Hives are here so i’ll always see more ov the honeybees as long as they’re occupying them. Native bees to our Bioregion are leading very different lifestyles. Different threats, dynamics, and places in the ecosystem as well. Bumblebees are the most Beloved. Native Bees here- vital pollinators, ground and stem burrowers, more solitary souls than most, but are any ov us really alone? what are their favorite flowers?

I think about Bees a lot now. I’m standing here thinking about Bees, and where I’m standing is in between the entrance ov the Hive and their favorite Ceanothus (see also soap brush, red root, buckbrush, see medicinal uses...). Very precious grounds to these Bees, not somewhere where I’m welcome. I Haven’t always known as much about bees. I get stung right inbetween my pinky and index fingers, on the palm ov my hand. yeowch! Bad luck, but i could still use a shovel the next day. This was an anecdote about Paying Attention to Your Surroundings.

The Ceanothus isn’t flowering anymore, and hasn't been for a few “weeks” (i think?) The Bees have other concerns now. In fact, it was heavily damaged in a snow storm a couple years back, and half ov its branches collapsed under the weight ov the ice. Its a bit ov a twisted thing now, what remains still flowers but what remains is not so much. At some point in the future upon yr reading ov this, it will have been cut down and possibly dug out ov the earth. I wouldn't be surprised if a few more, smaller, iterations made their way to this space in remembrance/ tribute. The branches lost in it’s first wounding are still stacked up nearby, all sorts ov creatures love that stuff. Dead trees in the back that Birds still frequent stay for the birds. We never get that many plums because we’re not smart or quick enough, or as willing to take one great bite ov a fruit and let the rest fall to the soil. I didn’t really get stung by a Bee in a situation exactly like what i described up there, it’s drawing on a few different times that sort ov thing happened. I hope you’ll forgive me for my obscurantist tendencies.

Looking past the Hives and onto the Streets, I am a White Settler(family fled the reach ov the Soviet Union to integrate into America, family fled family to a different part ov land under the Reaches ov said “America”,cave fled family but stuck with the Land, recurring patterns, what would my views be if i had grown up in Czechoslovakia? geography, chronology, trick questions) living in a segment ov Town that, until 1968, was a legally a Sundown Town, see Racial Restrictive Covenants. I still don’t see than many Black ppl around my neighborhood. I do see grocery store parking lots swarming with cop cars, more cops than i can Count, at least two k9 units, all to pursue One Black Body through the rainy night, My own Body lets me move through the world without these Forces being brought upon me in this intensity, lets me Watch.

Certain alignments ov directions ov Struggle have brought me into the position ov the Other at the end ov the cudgel, a body in a crowd under the looming eye and long barrel ov the sniper, the surveillance camera. Visibility is a Trap. Any ability i have to Get Off The Hook is based not on Luck or Fate, but due to the way the color ov my skin is reflected in the eyes ov Those in Power. what can i do from inside This Skin, and what can i do with the veil ov a mask obliterating my “selfhood”? How are we to heal? If you didnt read this into my Musical choices already- im a bit ov a flaming/smoldering queer. sitting in the planned parenthood lobby, one among many, gripped by recollections ov the devastating history ov HIV/AIDS and a cluster ov other Crises, memories ov beloved souls lost to policies and hegemony ov extermination and neglect. blood in vials, piss in jars. how does the time spent waiting for results feel?(how long? weeks months?)

I have more free condoms on hand than i’ll ever get through. A veritable theoretical eternity ov Safer Sex. There are Reasons why Queer Institutions give access to free condoms. But i’ve gotten them from some delightful Quakers as well. on another squeamish, libidinal subject, administering self injections isnt so daunting when you’ve seen it done a Million times before. It’s like watching somebody sneeze, or pinching yourself. HRT as potions, mechanical intrusion to will a slow transformation. getting into the fat is easy, some other avenues less so. “This requires the Gentle Hand of a Surgeon, step aside!” i know a lot about what Doctors Don’t Know. (veins and arteries as streets- easy. nerves as streets - you hear this a bit less. streets as eyes, the opening ov your mouth with a railroad track running down it, eyes as streets, whose streets? fuck streets! tear up the concrete)

The aforementioned streets are closed to Traffic due to the Quarantine, and i hear folks and families from the neighborhood walking/hoverboarding/skateboarding/biking down the street,(mostly the new work from home yuppie class and their spawn respectively, but there's some real ones around here too. all ages. have yet to live anywhere that people don't ask me for cigarettes) chattering away, masks or no masks. If i take a long walk down past the cemetery, I’ll find myself passing by a Native American Youth Home, created to provide support for a population that is currently disproportionately represented in this Town’s already Massive Homeless population. (their covid19 resources and donation info) Even with the Plague on, New Condos are built and Old Condos stay empty. Who do the bones in the soil beneath my feet belong to? When did all ov this Start, and how Long will it go on? why does the Map look the way it does? I would rather listen carefully than dig. This Story is not the only Story, nor should any be.

do i remember how the damp asphalt smells Here after Lightning Strikes? do i remember the feeling ov my body thrown to the concrete and the chaos and disorientation ov Crowds mobbing over me, slick with rain and sweat? who saw, and how many hands reached out to lift me up, who saved who? is that my blood trickling down the sidewalk? Flashbangs and Flashes ov Lightning, take yr pick. you can get similar experiential learning in the moshpit. this is an anecdote about Paying Attention to Your Surroundings.

i’ll try to bring us nearer to the point with baedan’s conclusion, a reflection on the First thesis from On the Concept of History. I will leave it up to You to investigate the original text if you are so Inclined.

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“For every pretty theory that presents itself, study it only in the way that a cat studies its prey: for the enjoyment of the hunt, to be sure, but also so as to seize upon whatever unique revolutionary chance may appear as in a flash of lightning. So that when that narrow gate opens, you pounce without a moment’s hesitation. In the meantime, by all means, enjoy the diversion of the theory’s lines and moves, but if you are to avoid becoming its tool you must ever have in mind to shatter the system of mirrors and confront the dwarf that has been pulling the strings all along. Faced with this ugly little creature behind all the lines of play you’ve enjoyed and suffered, able at last to read the lines of its face and the dark of its eyes, as time stands still and the entirety of the past falls to you, you will have to make a deeply ethical decision that nothing in all the games before could prepare you for. The only decision that truly matters.”

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Artemy Burakh: Any Choice is Right as long as it’s Willed.

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Hansel and Gretel are alive and well And they're living in Berlin She is a cocktail waitress He had a part in a Fassbinder film And they sit around at night now Drinking schnapps and gin And she says: Hansel, you're really bringing me down And he says: Gretel, you can really be a bitch He says: I've wasted my life on our stupid legend When my one and only love Was the wicked witch

She said: what is history? And he said: history is an angel being blown backwards into the future He said: history is a pile of debris And the angel wants to go back and fix things To repair the things that have been broken But there is a storm blowing from paradise And the storm keeps blowing the angel backwards into the future And this storm, this storm is called progress

xxx

TLDR; pathologics shitty timeline is cool because it fosters a metagame where the imperative is to make history explode in real life.

specific thanx to: every1 included above, my local subversive lit dealers, Whoever gave the talk last ABF about Queer Wanderings in the anti-nazi Underworld, have not stopped carrying those stories with me since. thanks to the Dear Listener, thanks 2 my wife for pragmatic and personal encouragements <3

a personal acknowledgement to the lives and legacies ov the dxʷdəwʔabš (Duwamish) people, past and present, First People ov the Land i currently Occupy, alongside the entire City ov so-called “Seattle.”

#pathologic #pathologic 2 #pathologic 2 spoilers #long post /#patho tag

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swordbreakerz · 4 years

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✨ for all of them, 🎥 for treasure planet and guardians of gahoole, 🍀 for 9-1-1 and penumbra, 📃 for unicorn chronicles, 🏳️‍🌈 for howls, treasure planet and legend of zelda, and 💎 for any ones you have facts for lol

you spoil me uwu

🎥 - ok for treasure planet, gotta be the 12 years later scene in the beginning and the zoom in to the spaceport, the way it transitions from jim reading under the blankets to him flying on his solar surfer is so chefs kiss, and just like. everything about to the spaceport lmao, fr guardians definitely the scene where soren flies through the fire and then blows up the pulley system to get rid of the flecks energy, bro when hes flying above it all holding the lantern before he dives down to save them? chills

🍀 - you know im on that projection shit w/ juno steel, ive truly never like connected with a character like that before and he’s really really helped me thru my recovery and transition lol, fr 911 uhhh ig buck or eddie? i havent Thought About It or like consumed it enough times yet to rly settle on someone but fr now,,, they

🏳️‍🌈 - ok for howls, Everyone Is Bi/Pan, howl is trans and autistic and i will die on that hill, fr treasure planet jim and cpt amelia are both trans and both of them + doppler are autistic, fr loz link is trans, autistic and semi nonverbal and communicates primarily with asl, post twilight princess zelda says fuck it and finds a way back into the twilight realm and she midna and link hang out, most of these boil down to everyone i love is trans gay and autistic because i say so lmaooo

📃 - OK SO. without like, spoiling too many plot points, our main character is cara and she lives with her grandmother. her mom is dead and dad is out of the picture. one day theyre getting chased by these people that her grandma knows and cara gets thrown into an alternate realm full of fantasy creatures using her grandmothers amulet. she meets a unicorn named lightfoot and a bunch of other rad people and basically, starts a journey to save that world from the Hunters. the Hunters are an organisation who specifically hate unicorns and want them all dead, led by Beloved, and cara and her friends have to try and stop them from entering the world and wiping them out. its sooo so so good and i highly recommend it cause i have no one to talk to about it please god

✨ - oh boy uh, well. im just gonna like list them out lmao

unicorn chronicles: i loved unicorns as a kid and read it when i was in elementary school, and over the years its remained just as compelling and well written as i remember and like. god the whole concept is so godamn cool and all the subplots that get introduced are fuckign fantastic and like all the different creatures are amazing i literally cant sing its praises enough

howls moving castle: must i have a logical reason? is it not to vicariously live my fantasy of running away to the countryside with a wizard boyfriend, his demon and his apprentice?? for real though, its such a fantastic story with beautiful visuals in the movie and wonderfully compelling prose in the book, and esp in the movie the whole time travel subplot with sophie seeing howl and calcifer in the past and then howl finding her in the future makes me go feral

penumbra: gays in space. need i say more? im a huge slut for gay found family and especially in futuristic space, and im a huge big fan of the lgbt utopia its created. like yeah capitalism sucks but at least im not gonne get misgendered in space starbucks, u kno? all the writing and dialogue is so incredible and the SOUND DESIGN GOD, alex i know u specifically can relate when i say i would kill a man for sophie and her incredible sound design skills, like dude the dance scene in man in glass p2 you can hear every single individual step they take and every swish of junos dress and i jusT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! god its so good, plus the whole the characters help me work through my trauma and repressed anger haha

911: this one is entirely your fault. so obligatory horny on main everyone on that show is so hot i want oliver stark to cradle me gently in his beefy arms oh my god. other than Men, the way it drives home the whole ‘you can’t save everyone, and it will kill you to try, so just focus on what you can do and keep living’ makes me so emo. the way it tackles big bureaucratic issues as well as closer to home interpersonal ones is amazing and i love how it shows people going through and dealing realistically with trauma.

treasure planet: again, who doesnt want to live in Cool Steampunk Space Travel Future? i really really love jims story and his arc, the way he deals with his trauma is uhh very familiar lol and his relationship with silver is like the ideal. the story is just the coolest concept and i love all the wonderful character design and animation, plus the soundtrack SLAPS and everything is beautiful

legend of zelda: ive been associated with this series from a very young age due to my name and as soon as i gave into my fate and looked it up for real i just kinda fell into it lol. i cant really tell you exactly what draws me to it besides ‘wow fun game!’ and ‘god i wish that were me,’ but like the absurd amount of detail thats put into each installment and the creative ways they retell essentially the same/similar story over and over is incredible

guardians of gahoole: so i had the same experience with this and treasure planet which is i remembered ‘oh hey this is a movie that exists and i cant clearly remember watching it, ill look it up :)’ and then it consumed my life for a solid 3 months. firstly this movie is absolutely gorgeous, the animation and framing is fucking stunning and the way they handled owls talking like people as far as the movement of their very inflexible beaks was amazing. it sort of has the same draw for me as warrior cats? secret animal society ft incredibly traumatic experiences and the characters dealing with it. like, the whole concept is just so fuckign wild and it works so well, i rly enjoy this niche genre.

💎 - alright trivia time, so guardians of gahoole is based on a book series and the movie only covers part of the first arc i think idk, BUT theres another series set in the same universe called wolves of the beyond that i devoured when i was younger! i didnt know they were connected for the longest time and when i found out i was :000, i still rly love wolves of the beyond and wanna reread it, as well as read the actual gahoole books. in the howls books, sophie is a redhead! also, markl is named michael and like a fully functioning young adult who ends up marrying one of sophies sisters. treasure planet is, obviously, based off treasure island but its so much better than the book dont bother reading it lol i tried and it was boring. there was plans for a treasure planet sequel that was fully scripted and cast but it was cancelled cause disney sabotaged treasure planet from the start with the shitty release and advertising and tldr we were ROBBED, also amelias concept was much more octopus like and while that wldve been rad im p glad she was switched to a cat for. several reasons lol. uhh i dont have a lot of Fun Facts abt the unicorn chronicles but for the longest time i thought there were only 3 books and then last year i found the fourth book by chance in a kitsch store and nearly had a breakdown i was so happy, like full on i started shaking and crying cause there was so much joy in my body i cldnt contain it.

thats all i can think of tysm ily, to anyone who read all of this bless u please watch guardians of gahoole and read the unicorn chronicles i will love u forever

#IM LOVE U #friendos #alex #and z answers #astrallouis

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mllersjoel · 5 years

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Dark bellamy long fics? dark clarke? any farely unknown fae/faerie, mob/gangs? some good enemies to lovers? strangers meet cutes? Fairytales? anything i haven't read but is worth a good read? 😭

BITCH IM SO HERE FOR U GET READY.

(i kinda went overboard but i regret nothing)

Dark!Bellamy

Wrecked - 91k

She looked out into the water, wondering where Wells’ lifeboat was, and if everyone else had gotten to safety in time. She wondered if the crew radioed for help before they jumped onto the lifeboat.

And she wondered if she was going to die on this lifeboat.

Deserted Island AU where deadly storms and dangerous wildlife were the least of their problems.

I either wanted to kill Bellamy or kiss him. It’s good, trust me.

Fae/Faerie

With a Mouthful of Thorns - 26k

They all know Bellamy Blake is something else, or part something else, even if no one ever says it. It's in the way his eyes are just a little too deep, his cheekbones a little too sharp, everything about him a little bit too perfect. Everyone growing up in Arkadia knows about the Folk. They're used to recognizing them, even in their glamours, and steering clear. Bellamy isn't one. But he's half, and it's enough to make people equal parts fascinated and wary. It's enough make him something of a spectacle.

Of course, for most of Clarke's life, he's been the sort of spectacle that involves people daring each other to try to get him to tell lies (Clarke doesn't know if, like the full blooded fae, he can't or if he just likes to keep people guessing) or do small magic (he never does) when they've had a little too much to drink at parties. Most of the time, the people of Arkadia forget that Bellamy's any different from the rest of them. Until something goes wrong, and then he draws everyone's suspicious gaze. It's the way of the world, to look to place the blame in someone who is other in some way. Bellamy Blake, with his eyes that look right into you, that know you, he's other in a way that scares people.

@grumpybell IS SUCH A GREAT AUTHOR AND THEY WROTE THIS SO ITS GONNA BE GOOD.

MORE UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE THIS IS GONNA GET LONG

Want a bellarke fic rec? Drop an ask!

Enemies To Lovers

i'm still growing up (into the one you can call your love) - 2.7k (yes this is a shameless self plug)

"'Oh shit. He is hot.' Dark, messy curls adorn his head, almost calling Clarke to run her hands through them. The opening chords play out, and a husky, smooth voice fills the room. It’s intoxicating, the way he sings, moving his hips in time with the beat.

His eyes search the crowd and find hers. Dark eyeliner frames them, winged out in a sharp line. He smirks at her, winking once before looking away and belting out a note. The crowd goes wild, and he visibly soaks it in, smiling wide at their energy."

Or: The punk rock/soulmate AU, where touching your soulmate for the first time makes tattoos appear.

This is my fav fic I’ve written out of the two fics I have posted. Give it a chance.

The House Guest - 93k

Clarke loves her best friend, so when Octavia's brother needs a place to stay, Clarke doesn't think twice about offering up her loft. It's no trouble at all, that is until Clarke realizes what a surly, arrogant prick he is. When a few days turns into a few weeks it's too late to back out, and now she finds herself stuck with an unwelcome roommate.

PART 2 (Ch. 20-27): The second half of this story deals with some darker content. Someone from Clarke's past comes back to haunt her, and neither she nor Bellamy realize that there's something more sinister standing between them and their possible reconciliation than either of them could have predicted.

HOHO THIS FIC,,,,, SO GOOD,,,,

You Look As Good As The Day I Met You - 10k

“It’s me, okay? Clarke Griffin?” Then, with a dramatic flourish of her fingers, “The kid who sat behind you in all your classes, the same one whose laces you tied together every other day for shit and giggles?”

“Holy shit,” he gapes, recognition dawning. “That’s— Princess?”

She shoots him a venomous glare. “Don’t call me that.”

Or: Clarke’s not quite sure how to deal when her ex-nemesis from elementary school shows up. His newfound attractiveness is definitely the most worrying part.

AHHHH THIS FIC MADE ME SO SOFT AND ITS HONESTLY SO GOOD @prosciuttoe IS AMAZING

Just as You Are Mine - 23k

Bellamy’s already there by the time she makes her way to the centre of the room.

She didn’t get a good look at him before, so Clarke takes the time to look at him now. He’s not all that much taller than she is, but the breadth of his shoulders feels worrying, somewhat. His skin is marked with a array of calluses and scars, white against his tanned skin, and the deft, sure movements he makes confirms that he’s every inch the warrior he’s promised to be.

Swallowing, she steps forward, meeting his gaze. His face remains carefully blank, same as before, when Kane had told her that they’d be married.

In hindsight, marrying a total stranger may not have been one of Clarke's brightest ideas.

(Or: Arranged Marriage AU. Clarke seals an alliance with the Broadleaf clan by marrying Bellamy Blake.)

HEHEHEHHE THIS IS BY @prosciuttoe AGAIN BECAUSE IM A SLUT FOR THEIR WORKS. READ. IM BEGGIN U.

Strangers Meet Cutes

Of Misunderstandings and New Beginnings - 3k

All Clarke wants after a hellish week is to go to her favourite coffee shop, sit at her favourite table, and get some sketching done. Unfortunately, someone's already sitting there and it doesn't seem like he's willing to give up his seat next to the power outlet. But the guy is stupidly attractive with his thick glasses and irritated scowl, and Clarke's so exhausted that she's willing to share if it means she gets to sketch for a few hours.

THIS. THIS IS GREAT. ITS FLUFFY AND CUTE AND UGH JUST TRUST ME.

live a little crazy - 2.5k

Bellamy Blake is a serious, real adult who almost definitely has his shit together. He sleeps before midnight, he manages a café, and although he does laugh at the occasional dick joke he would still consider himself mature. He does his fucking taxes, which is basically a certificate of adulthood. As a serious adult, he isn’t really concerned with the supernatural.

At least until Clarke showed up.

This is my second favourite fic out of the two fics I’ve written. Clarke is supernatural, basically.

Fairytales

Facing Tempests of Dust - 24k

Clarke Griffin has grown up in the perfectly controlled environment of the Ark dome, a city created to withstand the destruction of the world outside. Now, she's been sent out with 100 other delinquents to try to survive on their own, but she knows the truth. They weren't sent away for their crimes, but rather to buy time for others in Ark, as the city is failing. While Clarke struggles to lead her band of teenagers, she encounters a man with strange abilities and an offer she finds hard to refuse.

BELLAMY IS A GROUNDER AND HES PROTECTIVE AND ALSO SOMETIMES A DOG.

Oh Darling, Here’s Hoping - 10k

She's five, when she finds the wolf cub in the woods, bleeding and crying, black fur wet and sticky with his blood, leaving red smears on her fingers when she picks him up. He trembles against her, and he's almost too heavy for her small arms to carry, but she does so, determined, cradling him close to her chest, careful.

Her mother's lip curls when she sees the creature. “Leave it to die, Clarke. Or better yet, put it out of its misery. That's one less beast in these woods.”

Clarke juts out her jaw and shakes her head, holding the cub a little closer. She's not going to leave him; she's going to save him.

BELLAMY IS ALSO SOMETIMES A DOG IN THIS ONE

#bellarke fic recs #may speaks #I GOTCHU #bellarke #the 100 #fanfiction #wow i went FERAL with this one huh #Anonymous

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general-du-vallon · 7 years

Text

for @rhesascoffee and for the @muskiesrewatch week two: Sleight of Hand and d’Artagnan and the theme was... fuck knows but it’s relevant im sure. prompt was " put your arm around me - or just fall" if poss could this be a big brother little brother thing with D'art. I also thought with the Dartanian prompt, perhaps that could take place in series 1 canon. Perhaps it is the first time that Porthos and Dartanian have been sent on a mission together without the other two. And Porthos is injured. We didn't see a lot of those to building their relationship together in the first series, so perhaps Dartanian isn't too surehow to relate to Porthos at first, but this shared adventure brings them together.

“What do you mean, ‘take d’Artagnan’?” Porthos says, glowering bad temperdly at Athos. Athos ignores the tone and the expression.

“Aramis is busy, I’m busy,” Athos says.

“It’s just a routine reconnaissance of some rich noble’s household because the king has some paranoia about the poor guy’s loyalty,” Porthos says. “I’m gonna be sitting in the kitchens and chatting to the servants, not getting shot at.”

“He could use the training,” Athos says. Then he glares right back at Porthos. Porthos is sat on the table cleaning his guns and has been running his hands menacingly over their casings, Athos isn’t intimidated he’s known Porthos for years: if he decides to shoot Athos out of irritation it won’t be fatal and it won’t be over this. “You need backup, he’s backup, stop arguing.”

Porthos makes an unimpressed face and raises his hands, widening his eyes, utterly sarcastic. Athos waits. Porthos shrugs crossly and grabs his guns, fingers flicking over them putting them back together, getting to his feet to holster them.

“You like him, anyway, why are you making a fuss?” Athos asks, exasperated with the elaborate display happening in front of him, Porthos checking his weapons and his moustache.

“He’s scared of me,” Porthos grumbles, then glares at the ground between his feet, stilling.

“Bullshit,” Athos says.

“No, he is. Wary at least,” Porthos says, not looking up. Athos frowns, opens his mouth to refute that, decides he can’t and steps into Porthos’s space instead.

“I’m not scared of you,” Athos says. Porthos snorts. “Never was.”

“I was drunk when I met you, our introduction included me falling into the river while trying to fight you,” Porthos says. Athos’s lips twitch, remembering, and Porthos gives a reluctant, surprisingly shy smile. “Alright, you’re not scared.”

“He’s wary of all of us,” Athos says. Then hesitates. “You’re big.”

“Yeah, big. That’s the problem,” Porthos mutters, scratching the back of his neck. Athos puts a hand up to still that movement and drags Porthos into a kiss, absent and ungentle. Porthos laughs. “Fine, fine. I’ll take the puppy.”

“Good,” Athos says, stepping away and brushing his hands on his trousers, job done. “And Porthos? I would like nothing better in all this stinking world than to give you the luxery and privilege of being gentle.”

“What’d I do with that, eh?” Porthos says, bellowing out a laugh, worries cascading off him with a brisk shake. “I’m a soldier, I’d get bored doing anything else.”

“So you would,” Athos says, offering Porthos his arm and heading for the closest Inn. “I know what happens when you get bored, as well. We’re keeping the world safe by keeping you busy.”

“Is d’Artagnan at the inn?” Porthos asks.

“No,” Athos says. “But there is wine at the inn, you’re not leaving until tomorrow.”

“I’ll scrape you up later,” Porthos says, disengaging his arm, ignoring Athos’s pout. “I’m gonna go find him so I can fulfill your stupid orders.”

Athos shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets, sauntering off to get horribly drunk. Porthos shakes his head and goes the other way, toward the Bonacieuxs’ house.

***

Porthos rides in silence, d’Artagnan discovers. He’d been excited to be called on the previous evening and even more excited when it was Porthos at the door with a mission. He’s spent time with Aramis and Athos, Athos especially after the stuff with Vadim last week Athos hadn’t been so pleased with d’Artagnan’s performance and has been making him come do sword practise. It’s been great. Aramis likes to drag d’Artagnan around Paris, showing him the best places to meet people (women) and drink (and find women) and dragging d’Artagnan on guard duty with him (to point out women). Aramis seems a little single-minded but d’Artagnan’s almost sure it’s partly a show. Aramis just wants to be swept up in some great Romance, to be a dashing hero like in stories. Porthos has been… friendly and open and generous but d’Artagnan’s intimidated by him. He’s so nice, so together and collected and sure of his place in the world. Why would someone like that bother with someone like d’Artagnan? So d’Artagnan had been excited and flattered by last night’s call. Now they’ve been riding for half an hour though and there’s been no conversation.

“Ah, where are we going?” d’Artagnan asks. “Are we going to, um, fight bandits or something?”

“Nope,” Porthos says.

“Oh,” d’Artagnan says, when nothing else is forthcoming. “Ok.”

Porthos grins, he hadn’t meant to keep things from d’Artagnan per se it’s just turned out to be great fun. He starts humming to himself, some bawdy song Aramis has picked up from the taverns recently. d’Artagnan looks a bit gloomy riding over there just behind Porthos. Porthos sings loudly instead, joyous about being out of Paris. He hadn’t realised until he joined the army that there even was an out of Paris. He’d theoretically known the world was big but he hadn’t been able to imagine countryside like this, open spaces, trees, no houses for miles about. Paris is behind them now though and they’re out; they’ve escaped.

“You grew up in a place like this?” Porthos asks, breaking off his singing, curiosity winning out over his amusement at d’Artagnan’s dramatic disatisfaction at the silent riding.

“Not really,” d’Artagnan says, leaning forward in his saddle a little to look around. He shrugs. “It was more farmland where I lived.”

Porthos looks about and shrugs; he can’t tell the difference, it’s all nature-y. d’Artagnan waits to see if that conversation goes anywhere but Porthos is quiet again, contemplative. d’Artagnan sighs, then decides to be courageous. He’s going to be a musketeer, afterall, he better get used to being brave. He girds himself and catches up with Porthos, opens his mouth, then notices that his action has made Porthos’s lips twitch and quiver as if holding back laughter.

“You!” d’Artagnan exclaims, letting go his reins to point in indignation at Porthos. “You are winding me up!”

“Little bit,” Porthos says, grinning broadly, starting to sing again.

“Shut up!” d’Artagnan says, nudging his horse into Porthos, letting go his reins entirely and giving Porthos’s shoulder a push. “You find this funny, you’re making fun of me! All this silent brooding type, you’re nothing of the sort!”

“You’re a good rider,” Porthos says, ignoring the rest, giving d’Artagnan an assessing look. “You learn that on the farm?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan says, sniffing and putting his chin up. Porthos’s lips tremble and then he lets out a great bellow of laughter, full bodied, genuine.

“You’re so dramatic about it all,” Porthos says, pleased. “No wonder you get along so good with Aramis and Athos. Dramatizing everything like you’re in the theatres.”

“Whatever,” d’Artagnan says. “Did you grow up in Paris?”

“Yup,” Porthos says, not giving anything else. The rest is his business.

“Are you going to tell me about the mission?” d’Artagnan asks. “Or am I to guess?”

“If you like,” Porthos says, shrugging. “Not much to it really. We’re just going to do some info gathering for his majesty, he thinks one of the noble families is plotting. They’re not, the cardinal would know if they were, but we’re being indulgent. I’m going to go sit in the kitchen and gossip, you’re going to sit in a damp bit of woodland and wait. It’ll be wild.”

“No wonder you didn’t tell me before we set out, I can hardly say no now can I?” d’Artagnan asks. Then, a bit hopefully, “can I?”

“Nope,” Porthos says. “You want to be a musketeer, this is the job.”

“Are you going to pretend to be someone else?”

“Mm, kind of. I’m a soldier going to visit my family, out from Paris on leave, looking for a place to stay. Familiar story not too many lies, I was a soldier for a long time, see?” Porthos says. “I’d bring you with, only Athos wants you as backup so you stay hid and if I don’t return go fetch him.”

“Wild,” d’Artagnan says. Then he realises he’s just had an entire conversation with Porthos in which he learnt something about Porthos. He perks up. “Is it far?”

“Few more miles,” Porthos says.

“Good. We can talk,” d’Artagnan says, pleased.

“Great,” Porthos says, less enthused, shifting in the saddle. There’s a long silence that stretches between them. Porthos’s lips twitch again, amusement getting the better of him. “Quite the conversationalist you are.”

“Right. If we’re not talking let’s race. I’m bored,” d’Artagnan says, clicking his tongue at his horse.

Porthos watches him galloping off along the road in a cloud of dust, already leaving Porthos behind. Well, they can’t have that. Porthos nudges his heels into Mercredi’s sides and takes off after the boy. He’s quick and he’s got a good horse but Porthos and Mercredi have been together for years, they’ve ridden into battle together; Porthos knows his horse. Mercredi loves galloping, loves a burst of speed that takes her across the land like a streak of lightning. Porthos whoops as they pass d’Artagnan, getting ahead and then drawing down a bit so they can keep up a good pace. Mercredi doesn’t need Porthos’s input; she speeds up whenever d’Artagnan tries to overtake, tosses her head and whinnies joyfully as she eats up the land beneath her. Porthos is just a passenger and he willingly gives himself up to her expertise letting his thoughts turn to where they might find some wine.

There’s a tavern on the road up ahead, Porthos reins Mercredi in gently as they approach, bending to talk to her. She’s cross about being slowed when she’s in her stride and tosses and kicks a bit but Porthos is used to that as well, his belligerent mount, he chose her for that spirit of rebellion. He lets her kick and snort and reins in far enough ahead that they comes to a giddy dusty stop just as the sign comes level with them. d’Artagnan dashes by shouting his victory so Porthos sits in the saddle, removing his hat, waiting for the boy to realise they’ve stopped and come back. He does, at a desultory trot. Both horses and d’Artagnan are giving Porthos grouchy looks. Porthos laughs and pulls the rein so Mercredi leads the way into the inn yard, jumping out of the saddle and passing her over to the boy waiting. He gets his bag off the saddle and his hat and bends to scratch his calf and get out his gold, tossing a coin to the boy.

“C’mon d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony, let me show you countryside wine,” Porthos says, jerking his head toward the doorway where the innkeeper is leaning, arms across his chest.

It may just be that Porthos has visited this house before. Porthos tries a broad, charming smile. The inn keeper’s mouth firms. Oh yeah, he’s been here before, and he’s been here with Athos. Porthos hands over a few coins for good-will and is grudgingly allowed inside. d’Artagnan follows eagerly on his heels and the innkeeper is definitely pleased that d’Artagnan isn’t Athos; he leaves his post by the door and goes to get wine. Porthos sits near a window where he can watch the yard and the door and rests his hat and gun on the table.

“Don’t sit with your back to the door, boy,” he snaps as d'Artagnan sits. d’Artagnan umps up as if his arse has been burnt. Porthos kicks out a stool where d’Artagnan’s back will be to the left of the window and d’Artagnan sits warily. Porthos laughs and gives his shoulder an encouraging thwack with his hat.

“Can I get a hat like that?” d’Artagnan asks, forgetting his wariness and scolding in his enthusiasm. Porthos likes that.

“Nah, gotta have been a musketeer a while before they let you have one of these,” Porthos invents, making it up as he goes. “Aramis only got his a year or so ago, you gotta be given it by, um,” Porthos frowns trying to think. “By a captain, yeah?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I mean you could just walk into a shop and buy one,” Porthos says, deciding to up the stakes and make sure this is a story that sticks. “But you would be looked at sideways for that and Treville mightn’t like it. You want to be a musketeer you gotta go by the rules.”

“I’ll earn it,” d’Artagnan says, lifting his chin and glaring at Porthos, setting his own pistol on the table and copying the way Porthos is sitting.

Porthos hadn’t even realised, until d’Artagnan copies him, that he’s artfully sprawled in his chair, projecting calm relaxation. He feel the ready thrill along his body, muscles flexing, prepared always for a fight. He sees it mirrored in d’Artagnan; he shifts a bit, planting his feet on the floor and resting a hand on his knee, messes with his moustache, makes a show of checking his gun over. d’Artagnan copies him. Porthos is grinning widely widely by the time the innkeeper returns with two bottles of wine and two glasses. Porthos reaches but the bottle is pulled back an inch. Porthos makes a face, but he came with Athos last time so the innkeeper may have a point; Porthos pays up front and tips generously.

“Thank you sir,” the innkeeper says. “You have a bill you owe.”

“Oh come on,” Porthos says, losing patience, catching the bottle out of the innkeeper’s hand and drinking directly from it, letting his attention pass on elsewhere.

So Athos got drunk and locked himself in the cellar and ate all the sausage and bread down there. That’s hardly Porthos’s fault, is it? This is Athos’s fault, Athos sent him this way on purpose hoping Porthos would pay up for peace and goodwill. He clearly doesn’t know Porthos, then. Porthos snatches the second bottle and growls until the innkeeper hurries away with the glasses. Porthos passes the bottle he’s drunk a lot of over to d’Artagnan.

“Hey!” d’Artagnan says.

“Drink up we’ll have company soon,” Porthos says, scanning the room, marking the innkeeper’s men as they come and seat themselves around the place. This is gonna be a good fight. Porthos shifts so he can access his sword and smiles widely, downing more of the wine.

They get ten minutes before the first man gets to his feet. Porthos waits, drinking, nudging d’Artagnan to watching behind Porthos. The man comes on, they wait. They wait. Porthos sticks out his leg and the man trips and they’re up and off. Porthos bellows and gets back to back with d’Artagnan, fighting first with his fists then with his blade, leaping up onto the tables and dancing across them for the fun of it, crying out and making himself big, a good moving target. d’Artagnan calls from the doorway, suggesting they get moving.

“Just getting my hat!” Porthos calls back, jumping from one table to the next, laughing as it collapses under him, scooping his hat up on the tip of his sword and flicking it up. It lands on his head, askew, and he runs for the door before touching the brim, spinning his pistol around his thumb and holstering it. “Thanks for your hospitality, I’m sure my friend will be back at some point to pay what he owes. And for the damage.”

He saunters to the stables and mounts Mercredi in the stall kicking her up to rear, his bag across in front of him. They canter out, clattering across the yard and out onto the road. There’s a shot but the innkeeper is way too late finding his piece, they’re gone. d’Artagnan’s breathless and excited behind him and Porthos, feeling a bit like showing off, draws in when they’re a good way away, opening his cloak to show d’Artagnan the bottle he’s still got. d’Artagnan laughs, looking across at Porthos with very pleasing adoration. Porthos takes a long swig before passing it across for the boy to finish.

“Why did they want to fight us?” d’Artagnan says, when he’s had the dregs and thrown the bottle into the ditch, wiping his mouth, eyes still bright with excitement.

“Ah, that’ll be Athos’s fault,” Porthos says, shrugging, nudging Mercredi into a walk. “Athos drunk is a tad paranoid. Also hungry.”

“You could tell me that story if you wanted to,” d’Artagnan says.

“Yep,” Porthos agrees, and doesn’t.

“Fine. You trusted me to have your back, there,” d’Artganan says, softly, head down, hair hiding his face.

Porthos is surprised. He hadn’t, not really, they were all farm hands, boys; Porthos is a soldier. The inn’s not near any problem spots with bandits and it’s close enough to Paris for soldiers to ride out if there are any real dangers, there hadn’t been much of a fight. d’Artagnan seems to be genuinely grateful, or pleased, or something, though, and he noticed Porthos putting him against his back. It had been the safest place for him. But… maybe there had been a little bit of trust.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Course.”

They ride quietly after that, Porthos dropping back when the road straightens to a single line winding through the woodlands and scrub and out into the farmed land, letting d’Artagnan take the lead, watching the boy. He’s an odd boy, Porthos decides, watching him ride quite content, whistling to himself, clucking and talking softly to his horse. He’s an excellent rider too, Porthos had been right about that. A real affinity between him and that horse even if they are still getting to know each other. Even Mercredi won’t be able to beat them much longer if they stay together: Porthos is no horseman, not really. d’Artagnan for his part has given up on squeezing conversation out of Porthos and given himself over the enjoyment of the ride, getting to know Lundi, the mare that captain Treville is letting him ride. The land lowers and becomes more worked and familiar, though this is not Gascony by any stretch, the weather’s all wrong for one thing. Having Porthos quiet at his back is actually reassuring, even if he is stubbornly silent a lot of the time, only calling forward if he wants d’Artagnan to do something. d’Artagnan did enjoy watching him fight, too.

d’Artagnan laughs thinking of it; imagine Porthos calling him dramatic and then putting on that show, and that bit at the end with the wine bottle in his cloak. d’Artagnan can’t help but admire that. Porthos had moved like he was conducting an orchestra or something and d’Artagnan hasn’t missed how he got pushed quickly to the doorway where he could easily escape if things went wrong, or how Porthos drew off most of the fight to keep d’Artagnan out of it. He had been surprised how quick Porthos moved when the fight started, how he went sharply from relaxed to up and whirling about. In hindsight he’d always been ready to fight. That thing about the door hadn’t been a game, he’d honestly been telling d’Artagnan something. d’Artagnan files is away carefully; don’t sit with your back to the door, defensible position, even when safe. Safe is relative.

“Hey, let’s settle to a walk, boy,” Porthos calls softly.

“Boy,” d’Artagnan mutters, pulling back to Porthos can see his glare. “I’m nineteen, hardly a child.”

“Oh well then, that’s me told. Nineteen, you’re an old man already,” Porthos says, lips twitching at corners, laugh lines wrinkling around his eyes. He puts a finger to his lips when d’Artagnan opens his mouth to hotly respond. “Shh, quiet down old man, we’re coming up on the Duke of Épernon’s lands we need to change. His lordship is not too fond of musketeers, us being loyal to the king and all.”

“Huh?”

“He helped Marie de Medici,” Porthos says, guiding Mercredi off the road into some trees and swinging out of the saddle, opening his bags. He has a soldier’s uniform for himself and a less conspicuous clothes for d’Artagnan. They get changed as they talk. “He’s loyal enough to Louis now but Louis makes us come and get the gossip every now and then, just in case he’s up to something.”

“Oh. Why isn’t he beheaded or something? Don’t you get beheaded if you’re a traitor?”

“Nah, not this kind of nobel, he’s old and boring,” Porthos says, then laughs, tugging his jacket together and tying it up the front. “Nah, I dunno. Politics. He’s good at politics, always involved in some intrigue or other. The Cardinal’s in a better position to spy on him really, he’s always up at court and around that way. We’re just here to assuage the king.”

“What if we find something,” d’Artagnan asks, looking at the trousers he’s supposed to be putting on in distaste. Porthos draws his knife and cuts d’Artagnan’s belt to get him moving. “Hey!”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Porthos says, shrugging.

“I liked that one,” d’Artagnan says, eyes all wide with shock.

Porthos shrugs again and puts his belt with his weapons back on, waiting pointedly until d’Artagnan gets into his trousers. He shoves their clothes into his saddlebag and secures it to his saddle again, mounting Mercredi and waiting impatiently for d’Artagnan to get himself onto Lundi. He’s been working with Athos and Aramis too often, they always know what he wants from them, none of this confusion and wide-eyed hurt. It was just a belt. Porthos sets off again, putting a bit of distance between himself and the boy.

d’Artagnan follows Porthos’s back, Porthos’s stiff shoulders and irritable countenance. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve Porthos’s ire and decides he has in fact done nothing. It was Porthos who cut his belt off. Suddenly he’d had a knife pointing at d’Artagnan, a sharp knife with an angry looking blade, held easily. d’Artagnan had been sharply struck with how little time he’d known Porthos, how little he knew the man. And then it was just his belt and he’d been angry with himself, frustrated with Porthos. Afraid. He’s still a little afraid, Porthos moves with such certainty and d’Artagnan feels like he’s struggling to keep up. Also like Porthos isn’t giving him much chance. He’s not telling d’Artagnan what he wants he’s expecting d’Artagnan to just know. Porthos whistles between his teeth from up ahead, pulling his horse back a bit. d’Artagnan remembers Porthos getting Aramis’s attention that way a few times so he draws level with Porthos.

“Sorry about your belt,” Porthos says, softly, grimacing. “Didn’t think it’d matter.”

“It doesn’t,” d’Artgnan says. “You drew a knife on me all of a sudden, I barely know you.”

Porthos blinks, head jerking so he’s not looking at d’Artagnan, and Mercredi pulls forward sharply catching some agitation off her master. d’Artagnan might not be able to read Porthos for shit but he can read the bloody horse. That makes him laugh which just makes Porthos stiffen more and more until Mercredi whinnies and dances, trying to take off like she wants to escape. Clearly that was the wrong thing to say.

“You should ride further back,” Porthos says. “I’ll whistle when you need to leave the road, I’ll go alone from there.”

“It’s getting dark, shouldn’t you wait for morning?” d’Artagnan asks.

“No. Why’d a soldier need food and rest at the start of a day, boy?” Porthos snaps, pulling ahead out of hearing.

d’Artagnan rides alone, dejected, listening out for Porthos’s whistle. It comes once they’re almost past a well-tended copse of trees and d’Artagnan clucks at Lundi to get them off the path. Porthos whistles again so d’Artagnan stops, turning back, hopeful. Porthos just throws a bag at his head. d’Artagnan catches it and watches Porthos ride off, on down the road. He opens the bag and finds food. He smiles, confused and a bit worried but glad to have something to eat, and heads into the trees. He finds a less well-tended area of trees and ties Lundi up, finds her water, and sets himself up for a long wait.

***

d’Artagnan wakes up in the dark and at first he thinks it’s the rain that’s woken him- beating on the cloak that’s spread over him and coming in at him where he’s wrapped up in blankets. Then he wakes up a bit more and Lundi’s nudging him, and then he wakes up enough to recognise that it’s not Lundi it’s Mercredi and it’s Mercredi without Porthos and he’s on his feet and in her saddle without a thought, forgetting his boots. She’s not got her saddle so that’s bad. d’Artagnan tells her to take him to Porthos and hopes against hope that’s where they’re going. She’s a good mount, quick paced but agile. He hasn’t got the kind of rapport he’s seen between her and Porthos but she trusts him well enough even if her master isn’t entirely certain yet. She takes him back to the road and then in a gallop down it to a set of gates, thrown open and unguarded. Mercredi is through before that really registers with d’Artagnan so that’s lucky. They break away from the path and then Mercredi stops.

“What is it?” d’Artagnan whispers, leaning forward to rub her flank, scritch at her neck, sooth her. She’s heaving with exertion. “Where’s Porthos, huh girl?”

The answer to that question comes not from the horse but from a figure coming out of the bushes cursing harshly, bearing a saddle and bags, the feather in his hat limp with wet. d’Artagnan grimaces and slides off Mercredi’s back, noticing his stockinged feet for the first time as he stands in a puddle.

“That bloody fucking horse,” Porthos says, catching her head and passing d’Artagnan the saddle and bags, getting the bit between her teeth. d’Artagnan saddles her. “What’d you go and bolt for? You’ve heard gunshots before you stupid animal.”

“Gunshots?” d’Artagnan says. “She came and got me.”

“Fine,” Porthos snaps. “Get up there, then. What are you waiting for, more shooting? Stupid boy.”

d’Artagnan opens his mouth to argue then just mounts. Porthos takes Mercredi’s reins and leads her off the road into the undergrowth.

“We could both ride, she can bear us as far as Lundi,” d’Artagnan suggests, tentative.

“Of course she can’t not after her headlong rush to fetch you,” Porthos snaps. “Anyway I’m not trying to mount the bloody thing.”

“Why not?”

“Where on earth are your boots?” Porthos says.

“I didn’t put them on,” d’Artagnan says.

“That’ll teach you to take them off to sleep,” Porthos says, sounding viciously pleased about that.

Up until now Porthos has seemed mostly kind and gentle but this trip seems to be proving him a bit of a bastard. d’Artagnan perches on Mercredi’s back feeling stupid the rest of the way to his makeshift camp. Then, though, Porthos makes a cut off sound and drops to his knees. d’Artagnan gets down from the horse and ties her with Lundi before dragging Porthos under the semi shelter of his cloak.

“Tell me what happened,” d’Artagnan says, trying to insert some of the steel he’s heard his father use into his voice. His father had been all steel and hard edges, sometimes. A soldier, a farmer on hard land, a good man. d’Artagnan bites his lip to keep himself from saying more.

“Fucker shot me,” Porthos says, raising his head wearily. “In my side. Bullet’s not in anymore it’s gone all the way through don’t worry, I’ll live.”

“Who shot you?” d’Artagnan asks, shocked and scared despite the grouchy assurance. “The duke of Épernon?!”

“Of course not,” Porthos says, huffing out a laugh and actually looking at d’Artagnan through the wet darkness. “Sorry I called you stupid before, I should’ve saved that one up for now.”

“Wow, what an apology,” d’Artagnan says. “Which side?”

“It’s fine,” Porthos says, tucking his elbows in defensively.

d’Artagnan jabs each arm in turn and decides the left, levering Porthos’s elbow away and yanking the jacket undone. He can’t see much but he can see enough to know that Porthos hasn’t bound it or stopped the bleeding or anything sensible. d’Artagnan gets out of the ugly shirt Porthos brought for him and joyfully uses it to staunch the bleeding and then as bandages.

“So,” he says, when he’s sure Porthos isn’t going to bleed to death. “Who shot you? Does this mean they’re traitors?”

“Sadly not, I never got that far. Stop fussing!” Porthos exclaims, shoving d’Artagnan’s hands away. He pulls his jacket shut again with a shiver. d’Artagnan slaps his hands away and tugs the jacket open all the way and then off, replacing it with the driest blanket and sitting close. “Fine. That is a little warmer.”

“Who shot you?” d’Artagnan asks.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I ran into a poacher,” Porthos says. “I was getting Mercredi settled and I heard a noise so I went to look. It was stupid.”

“Ah,” d’Artagnan says.

“Do shut up,” Porthos says, between his teeth, tipping forward against his knees, pressing his forehead there and shivering as if it’s his new occupation. d’Artagnan hesitates then puts another blanket over him. “That’s not going to help everything’s wet.”

“Why didn’t you go into the house?”

“I’m not exactly…” Porthos stops talking and sighs, giving in to this stupid happening. “I can’t. They’re not gonna wonder where I am I only got as far as the stable and no one was about, I couldn’t just show up at the kitchen door bleeding. I’m known there but I’m known as a lazy, indolent soldier who’s a coward. They like me for my charm. I’m not exactly good at being injured.”

“That I had noticed,” d’Artagnan says, dryly, and Porthos supposes there may have been one or two indications of that this evening. “Why’d it take you so long to get there, anyway?”

“I’ve got to need to stay, there’s no point in turning up when there’s enough light left to get to an inn. Soon as it started raining I went to the stables,” Porthos says. “Does it matter?”

“Not really,” d’Artagnan says. “You’re right.”

“About what?”

“It’s too wet. Let go of your knees and let me undress you.”

“Trying to get me into bed?” Porthos says, automatically.

d’Artagnan just snorts, which is not flattering. He tugs and yanks and isn’t as gentle as Porthos would have expected, getting Porthos naked to the waist but not bothering with his trousers. He does take Porthos’s boots, much to Porthos’s chagrin, and he ignores Porthos’s crossness over that. Eventually though Porthos is in his usual clothes, dry stockings, d’Artganan’s mostly dry boots (‘and that is why I don’t sleep in my boots, see how nice and dry they are? See that?’), in his jacket, a blanket around him, d’Artagnan pressed close. He has to admit that it’s warmer and feels a lot better than trudging through the rain.

“See? I’m not totally useless,” d’Artagnan says.

“Who called you useless?” Porthos grumbles.

“Stupid, then. And you.”

“I only said stupid, I never said useless,” Porthos says, then thinks for a bit and gives in a bit more, scrunching up his face and speaking with great dignity. “The rest was only implied.”

d’Artagnan laughs at that so Porthos does, too, trailing off tiredly and accidentally leaning into d’Artagnan. He sits up again and takes a deep breath.

“I don’t mind,” d’Artagnan says. “You leaning, not the rest of it. I mind being called stupid and useless. Alright alright! Implied to be useless. I mind you implying.”

“You’re afraid of me,” Porthos blurts out, hunching in on himself, wrapping his arms around himself, sitting up and away from d’Artagnan. He rests his forehead on his knees and hides just how much that hurts.

“Shouldn’t I be?” d’Artagnan says. “I’m afraid of Athos and Aramis too, are you not dangerous?”

“Bullshit,” Porthos says. “You’re scared of me.” Then, softer, “When’d I ever give you reason for that?”

d’Artagnan doesn’t answer right away, thinking about it, thinking back. He considers pointing out that Porthos had tried to kill him when they met and hadn’t known they weren’t going to until Athos told Constance but he’s pretty sure that Aramis and Porthos had been joking about that. He’s seen Porthos fight; Porthos would have had him on the ground in seconds if he’d wanted to. Since then Porthos hasn’t been anything except kind and supportive, it was him who put d’Artagnan’s name forward to do the thing with Vadim and it had been Porthos who’d taken him aside before the duel and told him quietly and seriously how to get himself out of a tight spot, what to do if he was taken down, how to get out of handcuffs. He’d looked out for d’Artagnan plenty. He’d even given d’Artagnan trust.

“You haven’t,” d’Artagnan says, feeling a flush of shame. “I don’t think I’m actually afraid of you.”

“We ain’t close,” Porthos says, voice raspy and harsh. He’s trying not to cry because he’s wet and cold and he hurts and he’s far from home with a man he’s not sure of right now. “You’re close to Athos and Aramis.”

“You mind that?” d’Artagnan asks, curious. Then he goes on quickly before Porthos can answer that. “Never mind, sorry, shouldn’t have asked. How’s your side?”

“Hurts. Fine. I’m not going to die so that’s an up side,” Porthos says.

“I could probably put some stitches in,” d’Artagnan says. “I’ve done it for the farm animals and for my father once, on his arm. He wasn’t impressed with the result but he didn’t bleed to death.”

d’Artagnan’s whole inside lurches and he goes suddenly hot all over while at the same time shivering violently, he thinks he’s going to be sick as he realises that actually yes his father had on a night like this in a puddle, he’d soaked d’Artagnan in blood bleeding to death.

“Hey,” Porthos says, close, body against d’Artagnan again, arm across d’Artagnan’s shoulders and hand in his hair, cradling his head. “Back with me, old man. I’m not letting you stitch me you’ve done good though.”

“I could stitch,” d’Artagnan says, voice coming out breathy.

“Bet you could,” Porthos says, lightly. “I wouldn’t like it much though, might punch you or headbutt you or scream or something. Aramis usually knocks me out. I’m not good at getting stitched up.”

“Oh.”

“Always says he doesn’t but I swear to his God that he punches me out,” Porthos mutters, scrubbing at d’Artagnan’s head in odd, rough affection.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan whispers, turning his head and swallowing hard, rubbing away the rain on his cheeks. Porthos politely ignores that. For all of ten seconds.

“You’re allowed to cry for your Dad,” Porthos says. “Or for anything really. Aramis laughs at me when I cry but you know. Fuck him, really. Even God cries, I mean look at this rain. Sobbing away over some woman up there in heaven, probably.”

“I think that might be blasphemy,” d’Artagnan says, not sure one way or another.

“Maybe,” Porthos says, shrugging one shoulder. “Are you better now?”

“Yeah. He did… you know.”

“Yes, he did. In your arms, with you, loved and cared for. I’ve seen a lot of death and believe me right now, don’t you doubt for one second that you did good by your father and gave him comfort and warmth and made his passing easy. You hear me? Don’t you doubt it. I’ve seen men… your father went peaceful, d’Artagnan, you did really good.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“So. Now we’ve had a heart to heart, and I’ve bled on you, you’ve patched me up, ridden my horse. You think maybe you could get over being scared?”

“I’m not scared of you,” d’Artagnan says, and it’s the truth now. “Wasn’t certain when you pulled that vicious knife on me earlier.”

“Vicious-” Porthos breaks off to laugh, a cracked croaking one that sounds genuine enough. “That was a kitchen knife, old man, I took it from Serge earlier for cutting up an apple. Athos has my knife, he keeps it for good luck when he’s off fighting without me.”

“He does?”

“Yeah. He’s sentimental, believe it or not. Oh thank fuck for that the rain’s letting up,” Porthos says.

He’s right, it’s slowing and in five minutes it’s stopped. Porthos relaxes against d’Artagnan, mutters something about being on guard, then starts snoring. d’Artagnan gazes down at him as the night passes, utterly bewildered by the strange intricacies of him. Asleep just like that, trusting in d’Artagnan now, somehow. Well, d’Artagnan gave his trust, didn’t he? He’s not afraid of Porthos. He’s not entirely sure he ever was. In awe, wary, a little uncertain perhaps, but not afraid. He’s too stubborn to be scared. He’s not sure he’s going to get along with being called ‘old man’ but it’s a sight better than ‘boy’. He watches over Porthos until the sun starts coming up, then he wakes Porthos and they curse and bellow and yell at each other until Porthos is mounted on Mercredi.

***

Porthos is tired by the time they reach Paris and by the time they make their way to the garrison his side hurts, he’s bleeding again, he’s hungry. He’s knackered. He keeps on listing complaints in his head as Mercredi comes to a placid stop. She’s cross with he, he can tell, she hasn’t got dancing at all today, not once has she skipped about joyfully. Just plodded, doing as she’s told in passive aggressive obedience. There’s a stable boy holding her head right now. Porthos squints at him and recognises him.

“Jacques. Give her plenty of apples, eh? She’s angry with me maybe apples will sweeten her up,” Porthos says.

“Yes sir,” Jacques says, pointedly not asking Porthos to get off so he can see to Mercredi.

“Fair enough, I’m getting gone,” Porthos says.

“Here, let me-” d’Artagnan says, coming over as Porthos slides sideways and down, hitting the cobbles and leaning into Mercredi who stands wonderfully still for him. “Ok. Put your arm around m- or just-”

Porthos topples against d’Artagnan, leaning into him.

“Or just fall on me,” d’Artagnan says. “That too.”

“He does that,” Aramis says.

“Hello,” Porthos mutters, face smushed against d’Artagnan’s neck.

“What happened?” Athos asks, from somewhere else.

“He got shot by a poacher, we didn’t fulfill the mission,” d’Artagnan says.

“Never mind,” Athos says. “The king’s forgotten about it anyway, he’s decided to give his attention to Ninon Larroque, she’s in great favour. He likes ‘listening to her pretty nonsense’.”

“What’ve you done to yourself now, hmm?” Aramis asks, close, warm. His hands are familiar fiddling with Porthos’s clothes. Porthos shoves him away.

“d’Artagnan did it, d’Artagnan did it,” Porthos says. “He saw to me. Come on, d’Artagnan. I’ll show you my bed, you can undress me again if you like.”

“It’s not- that’s not- I wasn’t,” d’Artagnan stutters.

Porthos straightens himself out and takes d’Artagnan’s elbow. He knows Athos and Aramis will follow which is probably a good thing, he probably needs stitches. He plans on passing out before that happens though and he wants to do it before Aramis manages to punch him. He mutters at d’Artagnan who obediently speeds up, supporting Porthos’s weight while he’s stiff from riding. Porthos’s rooms are nice and his bed is soft and d’Artagnan has his back, so Porthos falls blissfully asleep.

#General Porthos du Vallon #My fic #prompts #porthos and d'Artagnan #MuskiesReWatch

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the-plxce-to-be-archived-blog · 7 years

Text

I See The Light

John had been planning this date for months. Every day and night for months, he’d stay up late writing, text Frances throughout the day, fret and get nervous when talking to his boyfriends as they questioned why. He’d always stammer some response about work or art and drop the subject.

But really, he was terrified. He’d think about his plans for a week, two at most, then text Frances again, maybe I should change this? Maybe they’d like that instead? And she’d always tell him it was perfect, but let him think up some idea he’d figure would be better regardless.

It took so long for her to get him to settle on one firm idea. Plain and simple. A big, open park late at night when no one would be there. Star gazing. She’d come along to record it under the ruse that it was a double date with Aaron whom was in on it too.

[Text From; reina de la flor] u need to chill. they’ll love whatever you do jack, try and relax for once

[Text From; me but weaker] chill??? dont know her

[Text From; reina de la flor] just try and get some rest tonight for once. tomorrow’s the day. don’t pass out in the middle of it

[Text From; me but weaker] fuck u im gonna sleep til 5 pm, then chug ten five hour energys and never sleep again

In reality though, John was bouncing off the walls enough as it was due to anxiety and excitement. One am had John ready to climb into bed with his boyfriends, but he paused at the side of the bed, gazing nervously at them. What if they hated it? What if they didn’t want this like he did? What if it just wasn’t time?

He paced for another hour outside of the room before going and gently shaking Hercules’ shoulder. If he was gonna wake them up by climbing into bed, he may as well wake Hercules up and see if he could manage without waking Lafayette and Alexander. It wasn’t too difficult to silently crawl over Hercules and cuddle into his chest with a hand entwined with Alexander’s, and he felt like maybe he could get some rest as Hercules whispered, “love you,” before falling right back asleep.

John was still awake a bit longer. It was two thirty, he was tired, in so many ways. But maybe he could relax now. It’d be over soon. He’d have his answer. With that in mind, he let himself drift off.

The next day, Alexander, Lafayette and Hercules didn’t see him much. He’d awoken late just as he said he would, but he didn’t follow those silly plans. No, he went straight to the park to prepare. To have Frances’s help to make paper hearts of colorful paper all taped together, string them along some of the trees in the perfect spot, to ensure Frances had the three rings in their respective boxes, a letter written on each one in permanent marker; A, H, L, so as to not mix them up.

When it was finally time, they all went. It was wonderful. For a full hour, the six of them all laid out under the stars after admiring the hearts, pointing out constellations, finding new ones or making up their own, soft laughs and jokes among each other and John felt himself at ease as he laid between Alexander and Hercules.

Fran ran back to her car, came back and presented to them a picnic basket she’d packed with all sorts of food, laying out a blanket she had within the car and setting it up. They all ate, joked, laughed. A little food was thrown, teases to each other and food shared before they packed it up.

It was time. John’s heart was racing as the three sat down to watch the stars again. John didn’t. He almost lost his nerve until Frances was at one side with a hand on his shoulder, Aaron doing the same on his other. No words were said. The reassurance was enough. Aaron and Frances stood off to the side, starting to film with her phone as John loudly cleared his throat.

Alexander, Lafayette and Hercules gave him curious looks for standing there behind them, but he almost looked in tears and their curious expressions faded to concern as all three of them got up, ready to find out why their John was so ready to cry before he held a hand up, clearing his throat.

“Um... Sit. Please.” He said quietly, and hesitantly, they listened. Stayed silent as they all watched him. All eyes on him. You can do this, John.

“Words... Aren’t my forte like Alex... I-I can’t hand craft stuff like Herc or like, make you swoon and all like Laf. I’m not that romantic. I can’t cook. I... Some days, I can’t do much of anything.” Their mouths opened to protest, even Frances, but John held up both hands, palm up. A silent request to remain silent. They did.

“But... I-I can put ideas together. I can draw. I can talk. I can... I can sing. Sometimes I can find words and even if it’s not flowery like Alexander’s, it’s... It’s me. It’s all me.”

Then he hit one knee and their eyes collectively widened. But instead of speaking, John’s eyes slid shut and he began to sing so softly, a slight hint of his accent in his soothing tone. “All those days watching from the windows, all those years outside looking in. All that time, never even knowing just how blind I’ve been...”

Even Frances was tearing up, eyes wide as she watched her brother. She wasn’t warned he would do this. She had no idea. It almost seemed like improvisation. Even so, he got up as he sang, pacing a little as the words rolled off his tongue, “Now I’m here blinking in the starlight. Now I’m here, suddenly I see. Standing here, it’s all so clear, I’m where I’m meant to be...”

Then his gaze drew to them, and his breath caught in his throat to see those tears forming in Hercules and Lafayette’s eyes, the tears already pouring down Alexander’s cheeks as they stared at him, speechless. They couldn’t form their own words even if they wanted to. “And at last I see the light and it’s like the fog has lifted, and at last I see the light and it’s like the sky is new...” He stepped over slowly, crouching in front of the three and smiling oh so sweetly at them as tears rolled down his own cheeks to match his three boyfriends. “And it’s warm and real and bright and the world has somehow... Shifted... All at once, everything looks different now that I see you...”

Then he got up, hesitating to step away from them, but he walked over to Frances who fumbled before offering him her bag to pull out those three thin boxes. He held them up, watching the three men’s eyes follow the movement before a little sob escaped Alexander, caught in his throat as Lafayette and Hercules each wound an arm around him, kept their eyes on John.

“All those days chasing down a daydream, all those years living in a blur. All that time, never truly seeing things the way they were... Now they’re here, shining in the starlight. Now they’re here, suddenly I know. If they’re here, it’s crystal clear, I’m where I’m meant to go.”

He didn’t expect to be yanked down to them when he stepped over again, but it pulled a sob out of John’s chest as well as the three hung so tightly onto him, and with a cracking voice, John carried on, “And at last I see the light, and it’s like the fog is lifted and at last I see the light and it’s like the sky is new. And it’s warm and real and bright and the world has somehow shifted...”

it took ten minutes for the four of them to calm down enough to do anything other than cry and cling to each other. When they finally calm, John leans back enough to beam at them as tears drip down his freckled cheeks and Lafayette gently wipes some of them away, smiles on everyone’s faces. “All at once, everything looks different now that I see you. Now that I see you..” He finished the song quietly, hiccuping and shaking his head before holding up the three boxes with one hand.

“So... Will you three marry me?” He asked quietly, tried to keep in mind what he was there to do, and it certainly wasn’t to just sing and cry.

It felt so surreal as he watched each of them put their rings on, limp and crying harder as they pulled him tight in a hug, each of them pressing kisses to his face, hair, head, shoulders, neck, anywhere they could reach as he bawled, too happy and tired and full of so much emotion to contain it anymore. It was too much to hold onto, and he let it out then and there, aware he was being filmed, not caring one bit.

He was so out of it when he ran out of tears, Frances offered to drive him home, but they refused. “He’s coming home with us.” Hercules said gently, Laf smiling kindly at her. “Merci, but he must spend the night with us.” He agreed from Hercules’ words whereas Alexander simply wound his arms tight around John’s waist, held him close and refused to let go as the freckled man clung tightly right back.

Hours later, they were all cuddled up in bed, all close and clinging. Hercules and Lafayette laying so relaxed with Alex and John laying on them, fingers entwined.

John must have laid there for hours. No one said anything, they didn’t need to. Finally, John broke the silence and whispered, “If they’re here it’s crystal clear I’m where I’m meant to go.” He breathed. No more singing. The words held so much meaning for him. He felt Lafayette’s arms tighten around him. They didn’t speak, they didn’t need to. John felt that love and care in the way Lafayette’s grip tightened, Alexander’s hand squeezed his tight for a moment, Hercules’ lips pressed to his forehead for a minute.

That was all he’d ever need. All he ever wanted was them and for once, John got exactly what he both wanted and needed. Nothing could be better.

#have a fic where john proposes to the poly squad #via disney music #S a v e #My Stories #Poly Squad #they make me so happy

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aureate-priest-blog · 7 years

Text

Sandman’s Bio :0

I FINALLY FINISHED THIS STUPID THING;; im just gonna put this here because Google docs is messing up :(

Name: Tanz Nachtmann

Nickname: “Sandman”

Meaning of name: “Dance” (Tanz) “Night Man” (Nachtmann)

Origin of name: Germany

Age: 26

Sex: Male

Blood type: O+

Nationality: German

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Political Party: Independent

Socioeconomic level as a child: Working Poor

Socioeconomic level as an adult: Upper Middle

Birthdate: November 9th, 1990

Birthplace: Germany

Current residence: Soho, Lower Manhattan / NYC

Hobbies/Pastimes: Painting, Reading (Mostly about non-fictional events and history)

Talents/Skills: Singing, Painting

Birth order: Third, Middle Child

Family:

Therese Nachtmann (Mother, deceased)

Bruno Nachtmann (Father, alive, imprisoned)

Alvin Streisgund (Stepfather, deceased)

Lothar Nachtmann (Eldest brother, alive, imprisoned)

Alfons Nachtmann (Older brother, deceased)

Judith Nachtmann (Younger sister, deceased)

Erica Nachtmann (Youngest sister, deceased)

Hometown: Friedrichshain, Berlin, Germany

Most important childhood event that still affects him/her: The murder of his mother, stepfather, older brother, and younger sisters.

Favorite parent: His stepfather, Alvin

Why?: To him, Alvin was more than just his stepfather. He was his best friend, and if needed, his therapist. Alvin got him into exercising his anger into artistic forms of either drawing, painting, or singing, and almost always was able to convince Tanz to settle down before his temper erupted; thus, Alvin helped him avoid conflict with his mother whenever she was in an ill mood, or if she were drunk out of her mind.

Biggest role model: Jack the Ripper

Why?: While reading about psychology and the 19th century, Tanz happened across a name that caught his eye quicker than a flash. Tanz was infatuated with this infamous figure, for the fact that they were never caught for any of their murders, and avoided any contact with the public or the press. It, in a twisted sense, inspired Tanz’s art to span out in multiple directions, as well as push him to divert down craftier routes in skiving out of trouble, evolving his personality drastically.

Height: 6’6”

Weight: 195 lbs

Posture: Tanz keeps a very rigid and upright posture

Build: Little fat and muscle, round and narrow shoulders, slim neck and waist, long arms and legs

Skin: Smooth and fair colored

Hair: Dark brown, almost always slicked back

Ears: Small and round

Eyes: Amber, usually narrowed

Nose: Long and angled, slightly crooked

Mouth: Thin upper and bottom lips, easily curved into a smile

Face shape: Gaunt and elongated

Expressions: Either smug or blank

Describe their smile: His “people-person” smile has a softer tone to it and is quite natural, however his smile can stretch quite wide, making it look rather freakish in a trick of the light, and especially when he smiles with his teeth

Hands: Average sized hands with long, nimble fingers

Feet: Average sized feet

Left/Right handed?: Left

Distinguishing features: Mainly his bright eyes that compliment his often sly smile

Who does s/he take after: More of his mother’s sharp, angular sides than his father’s rounder features

How does s/he dress: His casual everyday fashion consists of either long sleeve sweaters or hoodies, and black skinny jeans or leggings. Shoe wise, he wears white Vans and occasionally mixes it up with some black high-tops. For different seasonal situations he wears bomber jackets and scarves, and perhaps some gloves depending on how cold it is out.

Weapons: They differ on the situation he’s in, but normally he carries around a knife hidden at his hip

Are they generally balanced or clumsy?: In his youth, he was perceived as awfully clumsy, however through dedication and interest in precision, he grew more balanced over time

Mannerisms/Poses/Movement: Tanz’s unruly upbringing in his ragtag apartment for six lead him to having absolutely no manners or common sense, and over time he started to realize that perhaps acting like a child wouldn’t get him anywhere. He learned different forms of etiquette for all sorts of events, and it slowly changed the way he held himself in front of any person of any socioeconomic class; be it the president or a stranger in a store.

Describe their walk: Tanz tends to have a constricted walk as rigid as his posture, as though he were marching in the army; although, when running, he breaks into a full, fluid sprinting motion as seamless as air.

Habits/OCDs/Obsessions: Tanz has a nasty habit of tearing the skin off his fingers with his teeth, though it isn’t due to anxiety, and more or less it’s something he finds himself doing without knowing.

Health: Quite deteriorated, not so good

Hygiene: Keeps himself spick and span all the time

Speech Patterns: Mostly speaks with loads of diction, and he tends to drag some words and sentences out when talking to people he has a disliking for

Voice: Tanz’s voice is slightly of higher pitch with a sense of mocking put subtlety in. His German accent is noticeable, but not thick enough to a point of obscurity.

Describe their laugh: Normally he tries to keep his composure so he won't laugh, because if he does it sounds like a rabid hyena

Style (Elegant, shabby, etc): More on the elegant side

Known Languages: German, English

Character's long-term goals/desires in life: Finding someone he can really connect with and settling down with them, and if that person turns up unhappy in the relationship, he would dispose them.

How self-confident is the character?: He has a jarring lack of self-confidence

How do they see him/herself?: Tanz sees himself as a normal human being, who can’t seem to understand why people think murder is so wrong when they deserve it

What is the character most proud of?: His success in getting massive amounts of money from his one-night stands’ bank accounts and using their emotional heartbreaks to his advantage

What does the character like least about themselves?: Tanz dislikes his physical features, and the way he does things, often cursing at himself in fits of blind rage that sometimes lead to unwarranted self harm

How do they express themselves?: FINGER PAINTING!!!! (Unfortunately, the red he finger paints with is not paint)

Patience level (on a level of 1 to 10?): Around a 7/10, depending on what he’s impatient for. If it’s something he deems “urgent” then it’s most likely a 2/10.

Does the character seem ruled by emotion or logic or some combination thereof?: He seems ruled by a combination of the two, but emotion plays a bigger part

Most at ease when: Any of his “friends” are done and dealt with, and when it rains

Ill at ease when: People begin to get a bit antsy and suspicious with him, and in crowds

Describe their sense of humor: Tanz’s humor is awfully dark, and most people tend to avoid discussing emotional or horrifying topics around him in fear they’ll be entreated to a joke about a dead loved one

If granted one wish, what would it be?: To be born and raised in a better family

Why?: Tanz has created a deep hatred for both his mother and father, as well as his siblings, for his crude childhood and half-assed education and meals. Sometimes he still wishes he got to live far away with his stepfather, though it was a dream crushed to bits as he watched his stepfather plead for his life as he was murdered before his eyes.

Character/Personality/Mental/Social: His strength lies in himself, and though he has such a lack of confidence, he only ever relies on what he does in that moment, and no one else. While good with influencing people and manipulating them, he often finds it difficult to connect with them on an empathetic level, with the way his mind is fractured into believing different ethical actions

If they could be described with one of the seven virtues, which would it be?: Diligence

If they could be described with one of the seven sins, which would it be?: Wrath

Biggest Vulnerability (non physical): Anything mentioning his parents in a negative way would set him off, or even praising his parents (i.e.: “Ah, I feel sorry for you mother, she must have been a great person.”)

Optimist or Pessimist: Optimistic

Introvert or extrovert: Despite his lack of empathy, Tanz is more on the extroverted spectrum due to him engaging with people often in order to befriend them and gain their trust

Favorite

Color: Red

Place: The Ocean

Room in the house and why: Bedroom, because there he feels like that it’s his own personal space and that no one else may break peace there

Food/drinks: Butter cookies, root beer

Music genre: 80s New Wave

Songs and Singers/Bands: The Cure, Depeche Mode, Rammstein, Megaherz

Movies/Tv Shows/Performances: Phantom of the Opera, any detective/homicide show

Books: Grimms’ Fairy Tales, Blood Meridian

Historical figure: Jack the Ripper

Subject in school: Art

Animal: Snake

Least Favorite

Place: City (Even though he lives there, he mainly fights against his dislike for the sake of what victims he pursues)

Food/drink: Steak, any meat in general really, and tea

Music genre: Country, and pop music

Subject in school: P.E. / Gym

Where does this character like to hang out?: Anywhere near large bodies of water

Where is this character's dream place to live?: On or near the beach

Mode of transportation: He regularly tends to walk everywhere, or hitch a ride from someone if he gets to know them

Girlfriend/Boyfriend(s): He never has had any, as he fears these would get in his way, and lead to some suspicion towards him if loved ones knew about the relationship after a murder

Marital status: Single

What kind of person would s/he consider to be the perfect partner?: Though hopping from one victim to another, Tanz does often think of settling down with someone, even if his intention is to murder them after a few months or so. The kind of person he’d consider to be perfect is someone who’s simple, and unnecessarily nice and loving. Perhaps he’d even want more of an obsessive partner that thought about him non-stop, so that killing them would make it easier.

Is the character judgmental of others and how so?: Tanz is extremely judgemental about others and chooses what he wants to “befriend” wisely. He detests those who drink abhorrent amounts of alcohol and have an annoyingly high sex drive. He judges how they walk, how they dress, how often they blink, and even the slight pauses in between their sentences to pick apart who they really are inside. When it comes to people he loathes, he tends to even degrade and belittle them for every miniscule thing, making him an overall petty person.

How do they treat members of the opposite sex?: He knows not at all women are bad based on the actions of just his mother and sisters, so he tries to treat them as respectfully as he would with any person. When it comes to romance however, he doesn’t find that much of an interest in them; although, he will choose them for a “one-night stand” just for the sole purpose of killing them, rather than men in which he’ll portray sexual interest in.

What do they consider to be a romantic setting/activity/date?: Tanz’s favorite romantic settings have everything to do with the lighting. Anything with a soft, warm hue in a place simply screams “romance” to him. Most activities he considers romantic are going out to dinner at nice places, or visiting museums or local parks. He’ll go anywhere for his date that he needs to in order to make them feel comfortable with him and their surroundings, so that a more trusting interaction takes place.

How does a normal date go for this character?: Dates usually go well and smooth for Tanz, and on the rare occasion, there’s always someone who doesn’t quite agree, and that ends up violent with a body in the back alley.

Virgin?: Nope

How often does this character have sex?: Not too often unless his “date” really thinks that would make their friendly interactions progress

How long can he/she go without sex?: For a long, long time

How does this character feel emotionally, after sex?: Bored, really. Tanz doesn’t find much pleasure in having intercourse with another person, so often times he would avoid sex as much as possible, as it’s a total buzzkill for him.

Usually on the top or bottom?: Top

Dominant or Submissive?: Dominant

What song best fits this character?: There are a few songs I had in mind!!! :D

Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes (Of course!)

Tanzdiktator by Nachtmahr

Disappoint by Assemblage 23

Politikil by ohGr

Why Can’t I Be You? by The Cure

#ocs #i cried a bit #there was too much information so some of it i had to cut out

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