I have some gay characters in Ene and Lulu's story and I honestly dunno how I want the world to react to them?
Currently the reaction depends on what's expected from them.
Reaction to Seraphim who came from a family with magic powers:
His Brother: "You're not inheriting the family, I am. I don't see why you'd need to help continue the bloodline when we have me. And our cousins.
Reaction to Boudicca, a normal girl:
Her schoolmate: Out of all the girls in this town, you fell in love with the one who everyone knows would never reciprocate your feelings. Really? She's not even pretty!
does anyone else have extremely complicated feelings about what "home" feels like?
is it just my derealization happening when i look around and feel like im in an unfamiliar place even though its where i live??? i guess maybe it is. derealization often makes the world look like plastic, or a toy replica. but i've always had these moments where im at home and am just like. where tf am i??? do i even belong here?? im in the wrong place! and then i have to remember this is literally my house where i live. wtf
Shadow has a potential to be a science nerd for me (like come on - he's been surrounded by the most brilliant minds of humanity on The Ark for a long-ass time). I want him to befriend Tails and nerd about shit together so HARD you don't understand.
cancer arc (Elegy) | MSR | 2.2k words | AO3 | tw for blood and talk of death and terminal illness | dedicated to @userdanascully bc this gifset is what inspired me to write this | @today-in-fic
Blood drips onto the paper and Scully tenses, her hand flying to her nose as she becomes acutely aware of the buzzing, throbbing pain behind her eyes.
"Oh, Scully..." Mulder's voice is painfully gentle, he's leaning over her shoulder to peer into her face and she wants to lean back, prop her shoulder against his side, but her heartrate has just picked up pace and that's not helping with the amount of blood pouring from her nose and she thinks her hands might start shaking if he touches her or if she dares to touch him. He'd briefly tucked her under his arm earlier to show her the words scratched in floor wax, she is me, and it had been too close for comfort.
"Yeah, it's- it's okay," she says quickly, swiping under her nose but unable to stop the terrible, terrifying flow of blood.
Mulder watches her with soft eyes, that look she knows is begging her to let him care for her. "You sure?" He asks, and she can feel how close he is to touching her, and she can feel herself panicking, and she can feel blood running the wrong way down the back of her throat, and she looks away before he can see all that.
"Yeah," she replies. "I'm fine. Um, I just need to find a washroom." She fumbles a little bit, trying to keep her nose covered, like by hiding the blood she can hide the fact that she's dying so they won't have to deal with it, and moves to stand.
She knows she'd seen a restroom somewhere down the hall, and all she needs is enough time for the bleeding to stop and her galloping heartrate to slow and to compose herself somewhere Mulder can't see her falling apart at the reminder of her own mortality. He's standing too close, too much concern and devastation written in his gaze, and the gentleness makes her feel irrationally lightheaded.
Or, as it turns out, she's just generally lightheaded. The room spins as soon as she raises herself to her full height and the only thing that keeps her from hitting the floor full-force is Mulder. Scully feels herself stumble into him, his hands instinctively raising to her shoulders to steady her, then her knees buckle and she fully passes out. Her last thought as her vision goes spotty and dark is some fuzzy, incorporeal idea that if she's dying anyway, it would be nice for her last sensation to be Mulder's arms around her.
She blinks back to consciousness, albeit foggy and painful, much the same as she'd exited it: dizzy, with Mulder supporting her. Her legs are folded awkwardly beneath her and she's leaning sideways against his torso. She still tastes blood.
"Mulder?" She mumbles, feeling foolish and still, somehow, a little scared. He has one arm behind her back and the other loosely wrapped around her waist, holding a bloodied tissue in his hand.
"The bleeding stopped," he says shakily. "You were out for," he pauses. "Just a couple minutes. Scully-" he breathes her name and she feels the movement against her hair, and the way his arms tighten around her.
She shifts herself in his grip, not pulling away, just unfolding her legs so she can stop thinking about the way her foot is tingling as it falls asleep. Her head rests comfortably now in the crook of Mulder's neck. "Tell me you didn't call an ambulance," she says quietly. She can't stomach the idea of taking that ride, or maybe that's the cancer-borne migraine making her nauseous — sometimes she can't tell, these days.
"No," Mulder says. "I didn't call an ambulance. But I'm still taking you to the hospital," he adds quietly. He's scared. She's scared, too. She can't even argue at this point.
"Okay," she whispers. "But," she starts to try and untangle herself from him, "Let me..." she gestures at her face, indicating the drying blood on her upper lip. Mulder nods, then helps her up. He doesn't let go of her arms until she stops swaying on her feet, and even then, he keeps a warm hand on her back and guides her to the washroom she'd planned to escape to before.
"Has this happened before?" He asks from the doorway as Scully leans over the bathroom sink and scrubs at her face with a small wad of wet paper towels.
She looks at him out of the corner of her eye and regrets the action when it causes a spike of pain. "Passing out like that? No," she answers honestly — as long as they don't count the time she'd gotten so dizzy she had to sit down on her kitchen floor while doing dishes, or the near-debilitating migraine that had taken her by surprise in its intensity when it hit her last Saturday, she's telling the truth. She hasn't collapsed like this before; the fact that it's just happened is chilling.
She looks in the mirror again to check her face — she's smudged some of her makeup, but that's the least of her worries anymore — and chokes on a cry of shock. The words SHE IS ME, bold in the same color red she's just washed off herself, goad her from the glass of the mirror, and when she averts her gaze, she thinks she's going to pass out again.
There is no way to describe it but as a ghost, a spectre of life lost, or about to be lost, and a harbinger of her own doom. The bloodied young woman stares back at her and Scully stops breathing for a moment, her mind reaching out in a desperate plea: please, I don't want to die, God- before Mulder is in her field of vision again, leaning down and frantically asking what's wrong.
"Didn't you-" No, of course he wouldn't have, he's not the one dying. "It was one of the..." The only word she can come up with is elegy, some kind of sad, funerial poetry in the appearance of a dead woman to a dead woman walking. "What the bowling alley owner saw," she manages, and watches as understanding breaks across Mulder's face.
He's looking at her now with more desperation, his mouth formed into the shape of the word no, and he reaches up and just for a moment brushes his fingers against her cheek. "Oh, God," he breathes. If Scully didn't know him so well, she might think it was a prayer.
Scully does not believe in ghosts, she barely believes in premonitions of any sort. But she can't shake the feeling, now, and as she shuffles quietly and shakily to the car and sits in the passenger seat, that the death sentence she was given months ago has just been confirmed. Mulder believes that there's a way to save her, cure the cancer that's threading through her sinuses before it takes all of her. Much as she tries not to hold too tightly to that hope, much as she tries instead to hold onto realism, a part of Scully has believed it too. Maybe what she should be holding onto instead is Mulder.
If his theory is sound, if she concedes that these visions, hallucinations are truly warnings of death to come, she has to question: how long does she have? Will she appear to someone else and carry on the chain? She doesn't believe in these things, but in a way she thinks that when she dies, she'll haunt Mulder. She would rather believe that the visions, including what she'd just seen in the restroom, are the power of suggestion and of fear; she had seen what she had because she had been thinking about it, about the case and death and blood. There doesn't need to be anything paranormal about it; she isn't going to die yet.
She sits with her hands folded in her lap until they arrive at the hospital, and then she sits with her hands folded in her lap as she waits for the doctor to see her. She'd said yes, impulsively, when the nurse asked if Mulder was her significant other. He wore a look of shock after that, but went along with it; he wants to be with her as much as she wants him to be and this is the simplest way to make that happen. The case they're on has to do with ghosts — Scully can feel the ghost of where he had been holding her, and she wishes against her own will that she'd let him do it sooner.
The doctor draws her blood, a much more familiar, comforting version of the red she's been seeing so much lately, and when she returns to the room, Scully stops breathing for a moment. There's a look on the woman's face that she knows all too well — she's worn it, herself, plenty of times; it's the look of someone about to deliver bad news. Scully lifts her chin, like that little motion can give her more strength. The word metastasis hits like a blow. Her hands are still folded in her lap and her knuckles are white.
She's reaching for Mulder before she knows it, and he reaches back and she realizes now how cold her hands are compared to his. She's shaking; she can feel him shaking, too. There is no coming back from this, she thinks: she's dying, inevitably, yes — but also, she can't try anymore to hide it, can't keep Mulder at a distance any longer. She's terrified, and so is he, and maybe the only way to survive it leading up to her death is together.
"I'm not backing off this case," she says, in the passenger seat of his car again. "I want to finish this." This: the case, her life, as much work in it as she can before the end. She needs that purpose, that structure. She's not going to sit at home and rot at the first sounding of the words palliative care.
Mulder looks over at her. "Okay." He seems to understand, and Scully is grateful for that. "Scully?"
"Yes?"
He takes a breath. "You told them-" he breaks off, casting her a glance with a pained question carried in it. She told them that they were a couple.
Scully ducks her still-throbbing head. She has pain medication, the strong stuff, in her cabinet at home; maybe it's time to start packing it when they go out on cases. She starts to say, I wanted you with me, but all that comes out is, "I want-" and she can't finish it.
She wants. Wants the feeling of his arms around her. Wants the security she feels when she can hear his heart beating and feel the rise and fall of his breathing as a counterpoint to her own. Wants whatever they have between them; maybe the not-so-small lie of calling him something more to her carries more weight than she intended. She wants more time. She wants Mulder close.
When she'd been at the hospital in Pennsylvania, after Penny Northern died, the safest she felt before — or, if she's honest, since — was standing in that hallway with Mulder holding her. She'd almost expected him to kiss her, then, after his lips left her forehead, but he didn't. She wonders if they aren't both equally afraid.
Mulder doesn't press her to finish the sentence. He only reaches across to her, offering his hand, and Scully takes it in both of hers. It creates a somewhat awkward position for her, sitting diagonally across the seat so she can grip his hand that way, but she can't bring herself to mind. She twists their fingers together, absently rubbing at his palm with one thumb, and she doesn't even realize at first that she is more relaxed than she's been in a very long time.
Mulder walks her up when they finally reach her apartment complex. He stands, awkwardly, just outside her door, and doesn't seem able to take his eyes off her. Scully puts one hand on the doorframe and looks up at him expectantly. She half wants him to try and kiss her, half wants to do it herself in a moment of wild impulse born of grief; the other half knows that it would make the impact of her death so much worse. She doesn't want to destroy him.
"Are you-" Mulder clenches his jaw and looks away.
"I'm fine, Mulder," Scully says out of habit. It's not true, obviously, both because of what the doctor has just told them and by virtue of the migraine she's still trying to ignore. She sighs, steps closer, touches his arm to make him look at her again. Her pulse quickens again, this time more with nervousness than terror.
This is foreign to her, a new kind of openness that she doesn't have enough time to really learn. She just thinks of Mulder catching her when she collapsed, holding her and wiping blood from her face and whispering so she wouldn't hear his voice shaking. She thinks she'll have nightmares tonight, of blood on a mirror and a life lost too early. She doesn't want to be alone anymore.
it's never too late to make art on a particular game, show, stream ,etc., even outside dsmp :) if you really want to do it, then go for it :D we will all love it regardless of when its released
🥺 thank u anon, this does make me feel better <:)
im still anxious abt it but ure right!! its never too late!! i should not care bc i rly love that stream and ive always wanted to do smth abt it!
i do hope you'll all like it when im ready to post it but it still has a while to go,, i think i barely had like a third done,, everyone draws so quickly and does such amazing things and come up with incredible aus and fics and drawings and animatics i just got very overwhelmed and couldnt pick it up ^^;; but im gonna do my best!!
