#worms mention | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ollieofthebeholder · 11 months

Text

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] || Also on AO3

Chapter 18: July 2016

Gerard stares up at the lighted window of the house across the street, hugging his shoulders.

Somebody is there, at any rate. She isn’t the sort to just leave lights on if she isn’t going to be home, or if she’s gone to bed. And it’s a bit early for that, really. Theoretically, he guesses it could be one of her housemates, but somehow, he doesn’t think so.

Gerard takes a deep breath to steady his sudden nerves. Relaxing his grip on his shoulders, he looks down at his hands. They’re rock-steady and pain-free. He feels solid, energized…healthy.

He also feels more than a little guilty. He knows he did what he had to—and he’s been in this life long enough to know that people like, well, like him are somewhat limited in their choices. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t choices. He just isn’t sure what there might be outside of “feed or starve,” and since he doesn’t want his family to worry about him on sight, he chose the former. There has to be a third option. One that won’t hurt…well, anybody.

He just needs to talk it over with them to figure out what it is.

Another deep breath, and Gerard crosses the street, slipping from shadow to shadow out of habit. The door needs a fresh coat of paint, and the knocker could do with a polish, but it’s the same familiar door, with—crucially—the same familiar knob and keyhole. He stoops down and examines the cluster of smooth, fist-sized river rocks next to the stoop, then plucks up one with a thin band of ocher across the center and turns it over. The key is still there, tucked behind a false panel. Gerard unlocks the door, replaces the key, and slips inside, taking care to lock the door behind him.

“Who’s there?” Melanie’s voice from the living room—just a couple of meters away—wavers between angry challenge and wobbly fear.

Instead of answering, Gerard moves forward slowly and steps into the room.

It isn’t just Melanie—he expected that. Martin stands in front of her, the same expression and posture he always gets when he put himself between them and danger, be it something called up by or in relation to whatever they’d hunted down or the women who controlled their lives for so long. He expected that, too. What he didn’t expect was Martin to be covered with bandages, encircling both arms and plastered to his neck and face, his left hand nearly immobilized, his shirt likely indelibly stained with blood and viscera. Or for there to be other people in the room.

He barely notices them, hardly spares them a glance. His eyes are fixed on Martin and Melanie, on the shock and fear and, yes, suspicion on both their faces. All the words he hoped, planned, to say stick in his throat. He simply stares.

Slowly, Martin reaches up with one trembling hand and pulls his glasses down—not all the way off, just past the end of his nose. His eyes go unfocused, and the familiar soft static-y sound fills the room. The pain that accompanies it is much duller than usual; Gerard doesn’t know if it’s because he belongs less to the Beholding than before or if it’s just that he’s used to it now.

After a moment, the static fades. Martin slides his glasses back onto his face and says in a small, pained, regret-laden voice, “Oh, Gerry.”

Gerard isn’t conscious of his decision to move. One minute he’s by the door, the next he’s across the room, arms outstretched, and both Martin and Melanie are hugging him. They’re warm and solid, so warm it almost burns, but it feels right, too, and oh, he’s missed them both so much. He doesn’t bother to try and fight back the tears pricking at his eyes. For long moments, they just stand there like that, clinging to one another. Martin trembles slightly, which isn’t a surprise, he always feels things more deeply than the others do.

Then Melanie pulls back from the hug, hauls back her arm, and punches Gerard in the shoulder. Hard.

“Ow!”

“‘Mother, may I?’” Melanie hisses at him, voice dripping with anger and dismay. “You fucking idiot.”

“Look,” Gerard starts defensively, pulling back as well. Then his brain catches up with what Melanie just said. “Wait, how did you…”

He trails off as he finally registers the three people sitting on Melanie’s sofa, staring up at him with varying degrees of shock and confusion. Two of them are men Gerard has never seen before, one also bandaged and with a jumper Gerard recognizes as Martin’s draped over his shoulders like a blanket. The other is the woman who claimed to work in the Archives, the one who was almost taken by the thing that wasn’t the Corruption.

“Oh,” he says, a bit stupidly.

“I take it that it, in fact, can be?” the woman says with a lifted eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah.” Martin sighs and waves a hand at the other three. “Sasha James, Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims…this is Gerard Keay. Somehow.”

“It’s not what you think,” Gerard says. Anxiety curls at his stomach as he realizes that Martin and Melanie were probably informed of his death, at least in some part. They have to be thinking…

Melanie snorts at him. “It’s not what we think? So you did fake your death and waste a year and a half avoiding your promises instead of somehow making a deal with one of Them that got you brought back to life at a terrible cost?”

Gerard pauses. “Okay, so maybe it is what you think.”

“Sit down, you moron.” Melanie points at Martin. “You, too. How long has it been? I’m guessing him digging his hands into your back didn’t help matters.”

What of Martin’s cheeks are visible under the bandages turn pink, and Gerard realizes with horror that emotion probably wasn’t the source of his shaking moments ago. He wasn’t careful with the hug. “Not long enough for more, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Still.” Melanie waves for him to sit down and points a threatening finger at Gerard, then disappears in the direction of the kitchen.

Gerard takes a seat, slowly, and looks at the woman introduced—finally—as Sasha. “I guess you played your tape for them.”

“I mean, that was the whole point,” Sasha says with a shrug. “So Jon would have a record of what happened.”

“I thought you were recording for the Archivist,” Gerard says, puzzled. “You says it was for your boss.”

“I am the Head Archivist.” The bandaged man, presumably Jonathan Sims, speaks softly.

Dread runs through Gerard’s body. “What happened to Gertrude?”

Both Jonathan—Jon—and Tim open their mouths to answer, but Martin beats them to it, his voice rising in volume and pitch. “You were working with Gertrude Robinson?”

“Who’s Gertrude Robinson?” Melanie calls from the direction of the kitchen.

“She was the Archivist before Jon,” Martin calls back without taking his eyes off of Gerard.

Melanie appears in the doorway, holding the weirdly abstract mug that she always uses as a passive-aggressive capstone to punishment for a transgression or fuck-up, which, honestly, fair. “So let me get this straight. You went haring off around the world at the drop of a hat to help out someone working for the Magnus Institute, in the Archives no less—without an employment contract to protect you—got yourself killed in the process, made a deal with the devil to get brought back, turned up at the Institute in the middle of a crisis, and deliberately put yourself in a position to piss off your new patron so bad he reminded you what killed you in the first place in a very physical manner. Now you’ve turned up here to, what, spook at us?”

“Well, when you put it that way. Christ.” Gerard reaches for the mug. “How much lemon did you put in this?”

“I’m not that mad at you. Yet.” Melanie hands him the tea and sits down with a huff. “I make no promises about the milk.”

“Tell me you’re siblings without telling me you’re siblings,” Tim says, not quite under his breath. Sasha snorts at him.

Jon rubs at his forehead. “Right. I…” He looks up at Martin with an extremely vulnerable expression. “Are we—is this place safe?”

“Should be, unless Andy took something important with him when he left.” Martin directs the last part of this sentence at Melanie.

She shakes her head. “Knocked a couple points out of alignment, but it’s nothing I haven’t fixed before.”

“Points? Like a pentagram?” Tim is the only one of the three people sitting opposite Gerard and his siblings who seems like he knows anything about…well, anything. “You’re not a witch, are you?”

“Nah. And technically it’s a—what’s the shape called?”

“Tetradecagram,” Martin says automatically. Gerard can’t help the proud grin that splits his face.

Melanie nods. “Okay, so we sort of cobbled it together from a couple different sources, but it’s kept us safe thus far.”

Tim frowns at Martin. “So why didn’t you have one at your place?”

“I did. That’s the only reason she didn’t manage to get at me,” Martin says quietly. “A couple tried squeezing in through the gaps and fried almost instantly. She probably would’ve broken it sooner or later if she’d really wanted to, though.”

“Okay, more important question. If you know how to set these things—”

“Why didn’t I set one at the Institute?” Martin completes. Tim nods. “First of all, the candles are kind of a key component of it, and I wasn’t about to risk actually setting the Archives on fire if—”

“Wait, you work in the Archives?” Gerard blurts out, staring at Martin in horror.

“I didn’t get a choice,” Martin snaps back. “Elias appointed me to the Archives, God only knows why, since he sure as hell didn’t want Jon knowing what’s really going on. Maybe he just knew I’d eventually try to get away if I was anywhere fucking else in the Institute and he wanted to keep me trapped. Either way, it wasn’t a yes or no question, it was a ‘pack your shit and get it downstairs so everything is in place before your new boss shows up’ and putting a really sharp desk ornament in my way so I cut my hand open and bled on the dotted line before I could tell him where to shove it, although knowing Elias he would’ve had to pull out his head and the stick first and probably still use a hammer. And, again, you have officially lost the right to lecture me about my job, because at least the Institute’s employment contracts have guarantees.”

From the shocked and slightly awed expressions on the faces of the people on the sofa, Gerard guesses they’ve never seen Martin lose his temper, let alone in full combat mode. Gerard has, however, and while Martin might be right, that doesn’t mean he has to let him know that. He folds his arms over his chest. “Uh-huh. And it’s going to benefit you in the long run…how, exactly?”

Martin sucks in a deep breath, but Melanie opens her mouth before he can, leaning around him and hitting Gerard with a glare hot enough to melt glass. “You lost the right to make that argument when you told us you backed your mum and Lily about Martin Looking for books, even though you knew where it would lead too.”

Guilt stabs Gerard in the gut and deflates him instantly. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s just…God, the Archives?”

“Again, I didn’t get a choice.” Martin sighs, also deflating. “Besides. I’d probably have ended up down there eventually, let’s be realistic. It’s just a damn good thing Elias didn’t decide to appoint me Archivist.”

Gerard shivers. “Let’s not think about that. Uh, no offense,” he adds, looking over at Jon.

“None taken?” Jon doesn’t sound too sure of himself. He looks up at Martin. “Ah…second of all?”

“Huh? Oh.” Martin takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly for a moment. Gerard notices he keeps them closed until he’s slid the frames back into place. “It’s designed very specifically to keep out the Fourteen. And one of them…is the Institute, kind of. At any rate, it belongs there. Can’t keep it out if it’s part of the very stones of the place.”

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Okay, we…I think there are a lot of questions that need to be answered here. I just…need to figure out where to start.”

Gerard holds up a finger. “Can I start? Nobody ever answered my first question. What happened to Gertrude Robinson?”

“She’s dead,” Jon says. “Or…at least that’s what I was told. That she had ‘unexpectedly passed away’ last year.”

“Has…I hate to ask this, but I know the old bat. Has anyone seen her body?” Gerard asks hesitantly. He wants to believe she’s still alive…somehow…but he’s also terrified that she died at the hands of those two Hunters and her corpse is rotting somewhere in America.

Tim slowly raises his hand. “I…found her. Tonight. In those tunnels under the Institute. The, um, the police are looking for her body now. It’s a maze down there, I think it’s the remains of the old Millbank Prison, and I just—I was panicking and scared and I can’t remember where I found her.”

“And she’s still recognizable after being dead for more than a year?” Melanie frowns. “I mean, he is, but I think we can all agree he’s not a normal case. The air must be pretty good down there if you could still make out it was her.”

Tim barks out a surprised-sounding laugh. “It’s cold and dry, that’s for sure. And I think there might be limestone in there, maybe. Either way, yeah, she was, um, pretty well preserved. Actually, I’m surprised I recognized her. I only saw her like twice, and always from a distance.”

“How did she die?” Jon asks. He pulls Martin’s jumper more tightly around his shoulders, not seeming to realize he’s doing it. “Could you tell?”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Tim takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t natural, Jon. She was shot.”

“Shot?” Gerard repeats. Oh, God, it was the Hunters, that’s why they were in America, they shot Gertrude and fled the country…hang on, though, that doesn’t make sense. He turns to Martin, forgetting for a moment that he doesn’t know what happened to him. “Wouldn’t that sort of thing have been talked about? If a couple of Hunters took out the Archivist?”

“Probably. But it wasn’t a Hunter that did it,” Martin replies.

“It wasn’t?” Gerard blinks, confused. Wait, how the hell does Martin know that?

Something flashes in Jon’s eyes, a look of pure devastation, there and gone in a second. Gerard almost asks about it, but Sasha speaks up first. “How do you know?”

Martin stares into his mug of tea. “Because he showed me. Put the memory in my head as a warning.” He gives a bitter laugh. “Not really something I can go to the police with, and he’s not stupid, there won’t be any evidence. He just wanted me to live with the knowledge that he did it, and could do it again, and there’s not a whole lot I can do about it, is there?”

Gerard’s stomach lurches. Melanie’s frown deepens. “Put the memory in your head? That sounds like a…wait, who did kill Gertrude Robinson?”

“Martin?” Jon’s voice is slightly plaintive. There’s a lot of nuance and emotion packed into the two syllables of the name.

Martin doesn’t answer right away. After a second, however, he says softly, “Elias.”

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #gerard keay #melanie king #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #sasha james #tim stoker #death mention #worms mention #slight misuse of beholding powers #swearing

9 notes · View notes

bird-of-the-day · 2 years

Text

BOTD: Redwing

^image credit: Marko Hankkila, Unsplash

Redwing (Turdus iliacus)

The Redwing is a bird that winters in the United Kingdom, often joining feeding flocks with the similar-looking Fieldfare, as well as Common Blackbirds, Starlings, and sometimes other birds. They eat insects and earthworms all year, but are primarily sustained by berries, particularly rowan and hawthorn, in the winter.

24 notes · View notes

nitro-devil · 1 year

Text

I honestly thought I'd be taking care of Scorpions or Tarantulas this far in to my life

Not worms to make fresh compost for my plants next years

I've been researching on how to do that in a small apartment with a small porch and found these

Worm Cafe is what I have my eye on atm lol

If anyone knows about worm ranching, please tell me things! Even though they are worms they are in my care and they will have the most lavish living experiences possible!

#gardening #garden #worms #compost #tw worm #worms mention #advice

4 notes · View notes

kedreeva · 3 months

Text

There's some dude (derogatory) on FB who is PISSED people are pricing their farm fresh eggs at $2 and $3 a dozen instead of $4+, saying it's "disrespectful" and "undignified" and "I'm trying to feed my kids" like Sir, you are on a Facebook group page bitching about your neighbors egg prices because your pet chickens aren't earning you a living wage and you think it's your neighbors' fault, you do not have a leg to stand on here wrt dignity.

Also half the answers are like "I give them to friends and family free" or "I donate them to food banks" or "I'm making them affordable to folks who might not otherwise be able to get them now that they're so expensive in the store" and "if you think you're going to turn a profit keeping backyard chickens you have been wildly misled" and so on, and so forth, and I'm so living for it.

and I can tell you right now, he did NOT like my answer of "if you're trying to feed your kids, I hear eggs are edible."

#chickens #like buddy you are never going to actually make a profit #and if by some miracle you do #it's going to be VERY SMALL #Considering the money you put into building or buying a coop #plus feed and bedding and equipment (waterers feeders perches etc) costs #egg cartons and enrichment and gas to go get the feed #the cost you (personally) probably put into building the egg stand you mentioned #a 50lbs bag of feed will feed 12 adult chickens for 8 days #12 chickens generally lay 6-12 eggs per day #usually less in the fall and may even stop in winter #a 50lb bag of feed is usually $12-15 #and you wasted the first 6 months going eggless until they were old enough to lay #and that doesn't factor in oyster shell or anything else you may need to do for them #like worming or treating for coccidia or anything #and doesn't take into account your time #like asjh;dsfkgdh you really thought you were gonna make a buck doing this???#wank for ts

14K notes · View notes

aesrot · 1 year

Text

watched suspiria (1977) and finished tma season 1, all within a week. good timing ig? those were uh. a lot of worms for a short period of time

#lua talks #tma spoilers #worms mention

0 notes

snowe-zolynn-rogers · 1 month

Text

Also, totally not me grieving, but what if Ruin fucked up and just managed to turn several trillion people and animatronics into cats instead of collapsing their dimensions.

So, then, after Solar 'dies' Moon is just standing screaming meanwhile newly kitten Solar is pressing his face against Moons legs in confusion because he's tiny and cold on the floor and doesn't know how to move besides wriggling like a worm.

#sun and moon show #sams #five nights at freddy's #fnaf #kitten solar au #fnaf ruin eclipse #fnaf moon #fnaf solar #ruin: *fucks up so bad he turns solar into a newborn kitten*#moon: bestie are you a furry worm?#sun: moon he's just a kitten like...newborn kitten. newborn kittens need warmth hold him idiot!#snoweytrashposts #snoweytalks #snoweyrambles #snoweyrants #tw cursing #tw death mention

522 notes · View notes

casual-socks · 5 months

Text

yes those worms on the ground are a tma reference. yes i will be elaborating. get ready for the worst fucking hour of your life

#tma #the magnus archives #jane prentiss #the corruption #sorry to anyone who mentions worms to me #or beetles #or ants #or any bugs tbh #i really like the corruption

791 notes · View notes

one-time-i-dreamt · 1 year

Text

My teeth began elongating and becoming flaccid until they turned into foot-long bony worms, and then one of the worms said to me, “The one standing in infinite glory is you; the one fallen from grace is also you. What matters is ‘you’ and not the state of you.”

#dream #text #body horror tw #teeth #teeth tw #teeth mention #worm #worms #worms tw #queueueueueueueueueueueueueue

2K notes · View notes

dollsuguru · 3 months

Note

Request: Getou feels bad for secretly liking Gojo’s gf and making excuses to touch her.

the enormity of my desire disgusts me.

contents: f!reader, one-sided love, obsession, cursing, touching (not unwanted but the intention is unbeknownst to reader as geto makes it a point to always want physical contact w them), mentions of self-destructive behaviors, guilt, & delusions. w.c: ~ 2.3k

a/n: hi! tysm for requesting :’) this is my first ever request/first time writing so please bear w me & i hope you enjoy! constructive criticism is totally welcome! <3

guilt creeps up suguru’s throat like a slithering serpent.

it crawls around the base of his tongue, writhing farther down, embedding its fangs into the flesh of his throat. a raw, mangled, bloody mess left in its wake.

remorse, witnessing the disarray that guilt’s plight leaves, frantically tries to discern where a home can be made. perhaps it can dance along his ribcage. pirouetting across his bones until it reaches a bloody cavern where it can dwell within a hole burrowed deep inside suguru’s heart.

maybe all of this despair can be washed away… a desire to cleanse his palate & purge his feelings away persists, yet he doesn’t allow himself the reprieve.

instead, he decides to swallow his shame down like a bitter whiskey, relishing in the thorn-like pin prickles. the harsh amber reflecting in his fatigued, glassy eyes.

the ache serves as a reminder.

suguru figures that the sharp gnawing pain that spikes his heart & torments his throat is the very least he deserves.

his therapist did say he had a tendency to wallow in his self-destructive thoughts. delude himself & cyclically make bad choices which turned into bad habits. but what’s another bad decision to him? a pyromaniac to his very core; suguru would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t enjoy playing with fire.

allowing himself a moment of respite, he fishes out a cigarette he stole out of shoko’s purse from the left pocket of his leather jacket. a silver heart-shaped vivienne westwood lighter in the right. he takes it out, rolling it softly in his warm palm, lackadaisically playing with the switch. imagining the cold metal were your cold hands instead, his own seeking to offer up warmth for your comfort. he gazes softly at the flame; flickering on and off. on and off. on and off. a burning fire reflected in his eyes. a burning desire razing his heart.

the whole world in the palm of his hands — the heart you presented to him.

(a gift from you to him — you begged him to quit smoking, it was bad for his health and you wanted him to be there in the future as best man at yours & satoru’s wedding. with a tight-lipped smile & crinkled eyes, he said he would.

always the deceiver.

you lit up, gaze softening while telling him to specifically use this lighter to light up the teakwood candle you bought him for his birthday. his smile turned fond, eyes crinkled softly with genuine mirth & adoration, he said he would. and he did.

always the sentimentalist.)

bringing the cigarette to his lips, he exhales a puff of smoke, allowing his low-lidded gaze to flit across the room. the warm lights illuminating the grungy bar, a favorite of nanami’s & shoko’s.

he reminisces on the days where both of you would talk for hours. from deep conversations about space, morality, your futures & pasts, to asking each other about what food you’d eat for eternity (cold zaru soba noodles for him, any form of potato for you), savory or sweet (both of you chose savory — suguru relishes in the fact that he has a connection with you on this), & if you two would still be best friends if the other one was a worm (both of you answered yes — you’d build a terrarium where wormguru could play & suguru would keep you in his pocket not caring if he’d be dubbed the weirdly hot worm-man.) from the serious to the silly, suguru felt his chest bloom with tender warmth. from the bottom of his heart, he knows that in this world and any others, he could truly be himself with you.

a soft sigh escapes him, a small smile gracing his face thinking about his memories with you. calling the bartender over for another drink after he downs his whiskey, he drawls out, “give me somethin’ sweet.”

he turns back around to the crowd of strangers, unintentionally smiling. he finds a few pretty boys & girls gawking at him, hyping themselves and each other up to go talk to him. he sees a few more pretty boys & girls looking away from his intense gaze, too shy to go up to him, praying instead that he’ll go to them.

the grin that previously took residence on his face falters. he finds himself upset that they’d think his smile was reserved for any one of them. none of them pique his interest per usual, & he hopes that the bags underneath his eyes, his myriad of piercings & tattoos, chipped black nail polish, and overall resting bitch face will stop anyone from coming near him.

(he knows it won’t. people often went after suguru and not satoru. he was always more caring, more in tune with his emotions with an air of magnetic mystique, unlike his brash, loud, & arrogant counterpart.)

suguru intakes a sharp breath, surprising himself with the haughty & bitter thought against his best friend, quickly washing it down with a sweet daiquiri hoping to honey the words in both his throat & mind, while simultaneously praying that it would soothe his heart.

slightly more alert, his gaze wanders around the room again. tired eyes widening slightly, lighting up greatly when he sees you.

there you were in all of your glory.

sitting leisurely, a leg swung upon the other, arm resting over the back of the tattered red vinyl couch, the very same one you both had countless conversations on. how were you so effortlessly cool? you could do anything and suguru would revel in it — drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

and like a moth, he found himself gliding across the bar towards you, his feet moving faster than his brain. his body demanding that it be near you, that it be graced with your presence. with a flick of his ring-clad fingers, his cigarette is crushed underneath his black boots. a piece of strawberry gum is popped inside his mouth along with another reapplication of vanilla lip balm to his lips to make sure that you knew they were soft to the touch.

with his heart beating ridiculously fast, he takes a deep breath before he stands in front of you, your perfume enveloping his senses making him slightly delirious from how delectable you smell. he prays that the blush dusting his cheeks fools you into thinking that he just drank too much; that it’s not because of you peering up at him through your lashes with your pretty eyes that are now affectionately directed towards his own.

“yo! suguru! long time no see!” you wave as you get up to greet him, a massive grin overtaking your face, eyes almost crinkled shut because you’re so excited to see one of your best friends.

without warning, suguru envelops you into a tight hug. his left hand placed against your lower back while his right hand cradles your head against his chest, your cheek pressing against his beating heart. suguru places his chin on the top of your head, craning his face slightly to get a whiff of your shampoo, ghosting a faint kiss on your hair that he knows you don’t feel, relishing in this moment with you. for a few seconds he can pretend… he deserves that much at least, he figures.

he could stay holding you in his arms forever, your body pressed up against his, protecting you from everything & everyone bad in this world, shielding you from predatory eyes around the bar. fucking wolves, the lot of them — suguru contemptuously thinks. it’s a good thing you’re here in his arms, suguru muses, confident in his ability to keep you safe.

as quickly as that thought dashes through his brain, you pull away. not wanting to alarm you with his panic that you’d leave him, a tight grip stays around your waist, forcing you to sit back down. he positions himself right next to you, his thighs touching your own, his right arm draped across your shoulder.

something that you can consider friendly.

something that he can consider more than that.

affectionate, no matter which way you take it.

“it’s been a while.” a fond smile beams across his face, bright amber eyes desperately glazing over your face. you’re so close to him and he’s so attentive to you, he imagines that the boy across the bar must think you both look like a couple. the pleasure suguru derives from that thought is second to none. you do look like you’d be his. he’s certain that he looks like he’d be yours, if his devoted nature is anything to go by.

he takes a a few strands of your hair, twirling them slightly around his fingers. “what are you doing here anyways? i wish i saw you before, we could’ve hung out!” suguru teasingly pouts, lips slightly jutted out, his eyes twinkling with playful mirth.

“tell me about it,” you playfully whine. “thankfully i just got here so we have plenty of time to hang out! don’t worry, i’ll make up for it so you can forgive me.”

“you never have to apologize for anything.” seriousness takes over his tone. suguru doesn’t want you to ever feel bad, even as a joke. not wanting to make you uncomfortable with his tense energy, he eases up his features and winks, “don’t worry your pretty little head about it, i’ll let you off the hook this time.”

you bark out a laugh which makes him elated, glad that he was able to make you smile. “sugu, you’re way too sweet! and ooh — you asked what i was doing here! toru wanted to chill out here for a bit, said if he didn’t get to drink a virgin piña colada right this second he’d faint.” you gaze around the bar, muttering under your breath, “he should be on his way here soon…”

right… satoru.

suguru feels his mouth get dry by the second, a venomous pang of guilt daggers his heart. his eye twitches along with his fingers, wondering if he should take his arm off of you.

if satoru saw this would he just consider it friendly touching? would he think that suguru was trying to make the moves on you? would he scream in his face about how can his best friend stab him in the back this way? the bitter taste of betrayal coats suguru’s tongue like a curse, and before he can do anything about it, a big SMACK! on his shoulder wakes him out of his trance.

“SUGUUUUUUUU! I MISSED YOUUUUUUU!” satoru bursts out onto the scene loudly, holding both your & suguru’s shoulders from behind the couch, bringing you two towards each other in a massive hug. with satoru’s face in the middle, smooshing both of your & suguru’s cheeks against his, suguru can’t help but feel a gnawing sense of shame.

satoru, affectionate as ever, kisses you both on the cheek. snowy hair ruffling with his actions, aquamarine eyes twinkling as bright as starlight, white eyelashes fluttering against the pink blush hued upon his soft cheeks. from here, suguru can see the light dusting of freckles on satoru’s nose, & the lightest sheen of gloss on his pink lips. no doubt from kissing you before he got here.

a twisted part of suguru is thankful for the kiss on the cheek, your glossy residue imprinted on his skin. an indirect kiss, he muses.

“sorry it took so long, i had to park so far away. hope you didn’t miss me too much, angel.” satoru pecks you on the cheek again, cheekily stealing an upside down kiss on the lips from you while he’s at it.

“no worries baby, i had sugu to keep me company.” you smile wide, eyes softening as satoru smoothes down your hair.

suguru forgot.

satoru trusts him with his entire life. with you.

the loud, brash, arrogant, self-centered boy suguru knew as a teen had grown up. cleaning up his act the moment he met you. enamored with your beauty, kindness, & personable nature — satoru fell deeply in love. he was still loud, but only to proclaim his love on the rooftops for you. he was brash at times but never with you. his arrogance was also truly never unfounded, he was just that confident in his own self and in the relationship he could have with you. suguru still thinks satoru can be self-centered at times, but never about you.

satoru puts you forward in every single aspect of his life — devoted. loyal. faithful. unbelievably constant with his love & adoration for you. your perfect other half.

your true soulmate.

you’re his one and only. and he’s yours.

“satoru! it’s been a while.” suguru prays the loud music can cover up the slight crack in his voice. he can feel his throat constricting like a python, he coughs to clear it, wanting to rid himself of the strangling feeling. he does what he does best in that moment: putting on a facade. a tight-lipped smile along with crinkled eyes graces his features, and he hopes that both you & satoru mistake it for pure happiness.

“you good, man?” satoru tilts his head like a puppy, looking at him questioningly. you do the same, concern clouding your beautiful eyes. he’s terrified that you both could see right through him.

“yeah.” suguru whispers quietly.

the ache that torments his throat & spikes his heart serves as a reminder.

he puts his warm hand over your cold ones in a comforting gesture. for who would it bring solace? he doesn’t know. at this point in time, he can’t bring himself to care. “just the summer heat.”

he brushes his thigh against yours once again, fiddling with your fingers softly. he figures he can allow himself this.

glancing into your eyes, his reflection stares back him.

he accepts that living with this ache of shame & this disgusting sense of desire is the very least someone like him deserves.

he figures he should allow it to devour him.

#geto suguru x reader #getou suguru x reader #geto x reader #<- not really that’s just in geto’s mind #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #wanted to make this a deep dive in his psyche but also wormguru came to me in a dream and i had to mention it or i’d die #toji’s worm took one look at suguru & called him mommy… it was onto something… suguru gives mean hot girlfriend energy 95% of the time #my writings #personal

387 notes · View notes

wolfythewitch · 2 months

Note

Hey! Did you discover tma because you knew about the mechanisms first?

So years ago I was into the podcast scene but never really got into tma

Then a few days ago I was watching some F1 movie with my brother and out of morbid curiosity I went to check the AO3 fics to see what kind of tags were in there. Then I was craving some hurt/comfort fics but well the Odyssey tag is a bit sparse. Then I was like hey isn't the tma fandom like rife with hurt/comfort and I was RIGHT. I binged a bit of the fics and then realized that maybe I should listen to the podcast first so now here I am

#teecuppity #wolfy tedtalks #me reading fics and finding many mentions of worms: hm. this seems to be a reoccuring theme

288 notes · View notes

wormspoodle · 1 year

Text

hc that he just blocked out the events of same as it never was idk

#i will never get over that episode sorry #this is me trying to rationalize #they just dropped that episode and never mentioned it again #ever #and leo got a whole emo arc #tmnt 2003 #tmnt #tmnt 2003 mikey #tmnt 2003 donatello #tmnt 2003 donnie #same as it never was #worms doodles

3K notes · View notes

ollieofthebeholder · 11 months

Text

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] || Also on AO3

Chapter 17: July 2016

Tim followed Martin’s quiet instructions without question. After everything they’d been through in the last few months, but especially tonight, he felt like Martin deserved that.

The car was otherwise silent. Tim found himself glancing at the rearview mirror periodically to check on Jon and Sasha, like they’d somehow disappear from the backseat if he didn’t keep looking. Like it would turn out one or both of them had actually died during the attack, hugs notwithstanding, and that if he didn’t keep watching them they would reach their destination and they’d be gone. It was stupid, and he knew that, but it still made him feel better every time he looked up and saw them still clutching their respective tape recorders and watching the other occupants of the car intently.

At last they pulled up to a house Martin seemed to think was their destination. It didn’t seem like there was anything special about it, but Martin dragged himself up the front walk and beckoned the others to follow. He looked down at the ground for a moment—Tim wasn’t sure why—then shook his head minutely and knocked on the door instead.

Tim didn’t know why he was surprised when the door opened and exposed Melanie King, looking a little annoyed until she saw Martin and the look shifted into one of mingled surprise and worry. She skimmed the other three, then shook her head and stepped back, opening the door wider. “Get in here.”

Martin led them in. As soon as the door closed behind them, Melanie hugged him tightly, then eased back when he gave a small groan of pain. “Come on. Make yourselves comfortable. I just put the kettle on a couple minutes ago.”

Tim trailed after the group until they reached a comfortable living room. Melanie waved at an arrangement of seats before disappearing through another door; Martin followed her, and the sounds of clinking and cabinets opening came to them faintly. Jon sank slowly onto the sofa, looking after Martin, and Sasha perched on the other end of it. Tim, though, had too much restless energy and couldn’t sit still, so he paced around the living room, taking it in.

There were blank spots on the walls and shelves, like someone else had been living there and had taken things with them and nobody had bothered to fill the spaces yet. The books on the shelves were a mix of nonfiction about the paranormal, most of which Tim had read in the last few years, and horror novels, with an unexpected detour into a handful of battered classics and a beautiful but well-loved book of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories. There were a couple of odd knickknacks, a few candles scattered about, a truly gorgeous painting of a sunset over a river, and a row of framed photographs.

Tim drifted over to look at them. At one end was a picture of a little girl, maybe seven or eight, in a purple helmet and elbow- and kneepads, laughing with delight as she tried to balance on a pair of hot pink roller skates, supported by a woman with matching eyes and a slouch hat pulled low over her ears. At the other end was Melanie King, sporting a grin identical to the first picture—save that her front teeth had grown back in—and the woman’s hat as she held up a clapperboard announcing the first take of the first shot of Ghost Hunt UK, surrounded by people he vaguely recognized as being the remainder of the show’s crew.

All of the other pictures had Martin in them, too.

It was like Tim hadn’t believed they really knew each other, let alone were stepsiblings, until he saw it. But no, here was visible, tangible proof. There was a picture of the two of them in formal wear, not more than ten years old, Melanie holding a basket full of rose petals and Martin carefully balancing a white satin pillow in his hands, both looking slightly uncomfortable but delighted nonetheless. Another showed them both astride a camel, Martin’s arms locked around Melanie’s waist and Melanie clinging to the pommel of the saddle in front of her for dear life. A third showed Melanie in what looked like a pastel Victorian-style gown, draped dramatically across the stern of a rowboat with her hand pressed to the back of her forehead, while Martin, wearing a white-and-red striped coat and a flat straw hat that somehow suited him (and certainly suited him better than Melanie’s gown suited her), pulled at the oars and laughed at her. Still another showed the pair of them beaming in triumph as they displayed what closer inspection proved to be acceptance letters into their chosen study programs.

Other pictures, about a dozen in all, also featured a third person. Taller than Melanie but not quite so tall as Martin, fair-skinned and with long hair dyed black—ruddy roots showed in a couple of the photos—he seemed like he would be out of place in his tattered jeans and black leather duster, but he just looked…natural with Melanie and Martin, even in pictures where Martin dressed like a middle-aged man and Melanie dressed like a stolen car. There was a picture of the three of them rollerskating, another of them crouched around a campfire, still another of them in a park of some kind, with Melanie sitting on a sort of perch formed by the other two’s outstretched arms, her own arms looped around their shoulders—they went on and on. In all the pictures, all three of them were smiling and laughing. It was clear they were close.

Tim turned around at the sound of footsteps and saw Melanie and Martin coming back in, Martin with a mug in each hand and Melanie carrying three. She handed one to Sasha, then held one out to Tim, who accepted it automatically, then hesitated before settling down in between Sasha and Jon. Martin sat opposite them on a loveseat; Melanie lit a candle on one shelf, then joined him. For a few moments, none of them spoke.

At last, Melanie set her mug down on the coffee table, rather heavily. “So where do we start? Or do you want me to bugger off?”

“No. No, Martin…implied you know what’s going on. Better than we do, at any rate.” Jon sighed heavily. “I—I have questions, but…we should start with a full picture of what happened tonight. Statements. I guess.”

Sasha held up her tape recorder. “I’ve got this. Elias suggested I turn it on, so we’d have a record, and…well, it at least will tell you what I was up to. Then you can fill in for me.”

“We’ve got this one as well.” Jon slid his own recorder forward. “I rewound it in the car, but…”

“Oh. I didn’t think of that. You play yours first, then.”

Jon pressed PLAY. Tim listened, his heart in his throat, first to Jon’s agonized cries as Martin used a corkscrew to extract a worm, then to his friends’ panic over him. Martin’s confession to Jon caught him off-guard—not because he didn’t know most of it, but because he hadn’t expected Martin to admit it—and he guessed that was part of the reason for the look Melanie threw him. After all, she of all people had to know. He heard himself burst through the wall and lure Jon and Martin into the tunnels, and then he heard the conversation they’d had some time later—he hadn’t realized Jon had turned the recorder back on, and from the look on Jon’s face, neither had he. Mentally, he began ticking off all the questions they still needed answers for.

His breath caught when Martin and Jon emerged into the Archives to be confronted by Jane Prentiss. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or annoyed that the recording cut out immediately after that.

There was a split-second of silence before Melanie spoke in a carefully controlled voice. “Is that why you wanted me to meet you for lunch?”

“Well, ‘lunch.’ I didn’t figure we’d want to eat much,” Martin said softly. “But yeah.”

“Desolation?”

“Corruption.”

“Fuck.”

Tim looked back and forth between the two of them. “What are you talking about?”

Melanie rubbed a hand over her face. “My dad was a patient at Ivy Meadows. He…he was still there when it, um, burned down. They told me he died peacefully, but…” She looked at Martin.

“Tell you later,” Martin mumbled.

Sasha looked at the recorder, then at her own. “Well. This is ready.”

The first part of the tape was Jon recording that statement they’d been investigating about what the assistants had privately termed “the homophobic vase”. Melanie frowned at the recorder, then looked up at Martin and mouthed something Tim couldn’t quite catch; whatever it was, Martin simply nodded.

The others were all staring at the recorder, but Tim found himself watching Martin and Melanie. When Jon told Sasha he’d been trying to kill a spider and subsequently damaged the wall, Melanie’s nostrils flared and Martin’s lips pursed; Tim figured them both for spider-lovers. The scowl on Melanie’s face when Elias started talking wasn’t much of a surprise, after Martin’s revelation on the other tape that he’d threatened Jon the day she’d come to make her statement.

Tim was momentarily distracted by Sasha’s monologue about being in Artifact Storage, and he flinched when the other voice spoke. Martin and Melanie both sat bolt upright; when Tim looked up, he saw that Martin had gone pale behind the bandages and Melanie’s eyes were wide.

“Is that…?” she murmured.

“Can’t be,” Martin said, barely moving his lips. He neither looked nor sounded convinced.

They both seemed incredibly affected by what was on the tape, even more than the rest of them—and Tim was plenty affected by Sasha’s scream of fear—but neither spoke another word. Tim’s resolve to watch them faltered when Sasha and her mysterious benefactor ran into Elias, who seemed to believe—or pretended to believe, and Tim had good reason to suspect the latter—that Jon and Martin were both dead and tried to convince Sasha to leave them to be eaten by worms. The smack of fist on flesh was satisfying, although Elias’ roar of pain was disproportionately loud, and then Sasha and the mystery man were on their way. And then there was another spider, which even Tim could tell was stretching the bounds of credibility to call a coincidence, and then the voice spoke in a dark, cryptic tone. “Mother, may I?”

There was a thunk, a hiss, and a click as the recorder shut off, followed by a moment of silence.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear…” Melanie finally said.

“Yeah. Me, too.” Martin rubbed a hand over his face. Jon flinched at the rasp of bandage against bandage. “If it was, I might’ve had to kill him for that last bit.”

“Whoever it is, he’s an idiot.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath. “Who was that?”

It took Tim a second to realize that was directed at Sasha, and evidently it took her a second, too. “You know as much as I do. He appeared out of nowhere when I was in Artifact Storage, stopped me from getting killed by…something, I can’t describe it…gave Elias a black eye, and set off the CO2 system. He had another weird pain spell or seizure or…something before we went down to the Archives and went out to get fresh air.”

“So you have no way of getting a hold of him,” Jon said. “Or any way to…did he just disappear?”

“No. He was still there when I came out.” Sasha hit the rewind button on both recorders. “He was being all…mysterious and creepy, but he said none of you were dead, and he was right about that, at least. He said he’d be back to give you a statement.”

“Did he say when?”

“No, just that it wouldn’t be tonight. Something about keeping promises?” Sasha shrugged. “The way he was talking, though, I think he knew you.”

Jon shook his head slowly. “The voice didn’t sound familiar, I—”

Melanie held out a hand to stop him, her spine stiffening and her head tilting. Tim paused, and then he heard it, too—the sound of the front door shutting with a quiet snick. Someone had just come into the house.

Martin and Melanie both rose to their feet. Tim, looking up at Martin, saw the same expression he’d had on his face when Tim had burst through the wall of the document storage room—afraid, but determined—as he put himself between the door and the rest of them. He brushed his fingers quickly against Melanie’s; she stayed firmly behind him, but raised her voice. “Who’s there?”

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #tim stoker #martin blackwood #sasha james #jonathan sims #melanie king #worms mention #death mention #fire mention

5 notes · View notes