#archivist writes

This blog will frequently discuss my poor mental health and suicidal ideation. This is a preemptive warning.

[Was Here: an open invitation to vent. That is no longer the case, I am firmly stepped back from many of my prior "therapist"-esque roles, but I can give tolerable life advice (what to do for school, etc) if it's wanted.]

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Hi!

My pronouns are she/her, void/voids/voidself. fog/fogs/fogself, death/deaths/deathself, loss/losses/lossself, lie/lies/lieself, rage/rages/rageself, math/maths/mathself, skull/skulls/skulself, bone/bones/boneself.

We're. Um. Plural, apparently. Just use plural terms for us please. I'm not editing the rest of this fucking intro about it.

To refer to us in the collective, please call us Archivist or The Archivist.

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Alters list + simple intro:

- Jack. he/him. child. #🟠

- Blaze. she/he. (older) teenager. #🔥

- Pleasant. he/him. 450 years old. #💀

- Rhea. she/her. 27 years old. introject of an OC. #🎤

- Derek. he/him. 26 years old. introject of Derek from SFAWTDE. #⛏️

- Ezra. he/him. (older) teenager. #🫂

- Jiji. she/her. teenager. #🕉️

- Jon. he/him. 34. introject of Jonathan Sims from TMA. #👁️

- Jonny. he/him. millenia old. introject of Jonny D'Ville from The Mechanisms. #🔫

Cassian has a lot of names:

Cassian/Raj/Rajshree/Maximilien/Max/Edmond/Benedick/Cesario/Odysseus/Gavroche/Zaphod/Amir/Jay/James/Eclipse/Cosmos/Celeste/Hades/Pluto/Penelope/Diomedes/Patroclus/Shikhandi/Lakshman/Gandhari/Maitreyi/Ahalya/lla/Karna/Ekalavya/Kartikeya/Drake/Drakkon/Toy Soldier/Marius/Lancelot/Galahad/Alastor/Nico/Aeolus/Jonathan/Albert/Franz/Haymitch/Hyacinthus/Cecil/Laurie/Christopher/Rue/Colin/Dickon/Ben/Morrel/Evan/Oscar/Basil/Algernon/Lear/Antonio/Mycroft/Gerry/Agnes/Agni/Dhua/Sebastian/Vi/Vio/Arson/Rhea/Thanatos/Vulcan/Vesta/Ember/Inferno/Phoenix/Griffin/Ignatius/Azrael/Kali/Yama/Crow/Abaddon/Charon/Tamesis/Dahak/Duhka/Rath/Mrityu/Nastya/Tauriel/Noitier/Busoni/Vampa/Wilmore/Faria/Eugenie/Blackburn/Akhlys/Mito/Jupiter/Lucifer/Solomon/Polaris/Eury/Ryland

Name count: 107

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My asks are open, and I welcome asks, but PLEASE keep them non-NSFW.

I can give you names! If you send me an ask I can pick out a name for you that's rife with symbolism!

We do quite a bit of writing. You can find our Ao3 here.

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A (non-exhaustive) list of our interests:

- BEING FLIRTED WITH

- mythology of all sorts, specifically Greek and Hindu mythology

- The Magnus Archives (I haven't listened past S1 of TMAGP)

- The Mechanisms

- Sherlock Holmes (the novels)

- Classic literature (My current fixations: The Count Of Monte Cristo, Jane Eyre, The Little Princess)

- The Hunger Games

- The Martian

- Project Hail Mary (book + movie)

- The Mistborn Series

- Nevermoor

- Skulduggery Pleasant

- The Kingkiller Chronicles

- SFAWTDE/DAWTDE

- Dominus

- Hadestown

- Hamilton (not so much but still a thing)

- H.I.V.E

Fandoms we're aware of by association:

- BSD (thanks to @starlydarling)

- TWST (as above)

- UT/DR (as above)

Media we are currently in the process of consuming (do not fucking spoil them for us or I will hunt you):

- Malevolent [Episode 41]

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We run quite a lot of RP blogs, so here they are:

Ariana (OC, no fandom): @ariana-nyx

Sazed (Mistborn): @sazed-rp-blog

Sherlock (BBC): @asktheconsultingdetective

Mycroft (BBC): @ask-thebritishgovernment

Jon (TMA): @ask-the-head-archivist

Ash (My TMA OC): @ashes-the-lonely

Michael Shelley (ex-distortion, see blog for details) (TMA): @once-the-distortion

Anansi Bhramari (TMA OC): @child-of-the-web

The Toy Soldier (The Mechanisms): @a-good-toy-soldier

Duryo (another OC, no fandom): @duryo-the-deity

Tamika (WTNV); @tamika-flynn

Elias (TMA): @headofthemagnusinstitute

Spade (A HH OC): @spade-the-sinner

The Count Of Monte Cristo (TCOMC): @the-count-of-monte-cristo

Haymitch Abernathy (THG): @haymitch-goddamn-abernathy

Ignacia Barnett (TMA OC): @dear-ignacia

Penumbra Mirage (SP OC): @ask-penumbra

Eva Stratt (PHM): @the-eva-stratt

Derek (SFAWTDE): @der3lord3

Rhea de Wilde (TMA OC + introject): @therealwilde

Maximilian Nero (H.I.V.E): @ask-maximilian-nero

I also run an Offical blog:

@hinduism-offical

And a tma gimmick blog:

@thisisawebreference

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We have a varied and eclectic music taste, so here's some songs I really like:

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Whilst I'm aware that DNI's don't work, use this as information for your own. If you hate in any way, shape or form, get off my blog. If you want to discourse about anything that isn't having a real life effect (shipping/fandom discourse, etc) then fuck off, please and thank you. I don't need that in my life. Ship and let ship, fic and let fic and so on. Specifically DNI if:

- you're anti-endo

- you're anti-proship

- you're a gender exclusionist

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My tags:

#cas' house hell -- for vents about the hellscape I happen to live in.

#cas' trauma hell -- for vents about our assortment of trauma.

#cas' sui ratings -- a scale out of ten for how suicidal I feel. This is not a measure of how much risk I am at.

#anon hate -- for bitch ass anons.

#archivist's ocs -- general oc tag.

#ashes alexandria -- about my oc Ash

#spade barnett -- about my oc Spade

#anansi brahmari -- about my oc Anansi

#ariana nyx -- about my oc Ariana

#duryo khauf -- about my oc Duryo

#penumbra mirage -- about my oc Pen

#ignacia barnett -- about my oc Ignacia

#rhea de wilde -- about my oc Rhea

#karna sutaputri -- about my oc Karna

#archivist rambles -- for long ass posts I make about anything

#archivist reads -- for when I talk about something I'm reading (or basically any other media form I consume actually)

#archivist writes -- for our writing

#archivist² -- OUR VENT TAG. BE AWARE.

#archivist eats -- our tag for when we talk about food. TW FOOD.

The following are not very used:

#🟠 - jack posting!

#🔥 - blaze posting!

#💀 - pleasant posting!

#🫂 - ezra posting!

#🎤 - rhea posting!

#⛏️ - derek posting!

#🕉️ - jiji posting!

#👁️ - jon posting!

#🔫 - jonny posting!

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(the above designs are by @valentine-villefort)

deathbed flag

"a flag for people who feel as if they are rotting in bed along with being miserable, depressive, or pathetic. it is also made for people who struggle with getting out of bed (disorders/disabilites) and doing tasks, taking care of themselves, etc..."

ooooh! thank you for the interesting request :)

------

DAY 2

It was by the second day that Solomon woke up in the same place, doing the same things, that he knew something was truly, truly wrong.

It was also when he realised that he was trapped in this day.

300 goddamn years ago.

The day the Temple took Nefarian Serpine into their protection.

The day Mevolent's forces had stormed anyway.

Worst of all, the day he'd kissed the goddamn skeleton.

He groaned and considered, absently, if shoving a shadow through his heart would end the timeloop. He doubted it. He tried anyway.

----

DAY 9

No matter what he did, Tenebrae seemed hellbent on letting Serpine into the Temple.

And fucking Pleasant seemed hellbent on seeing him. He hadn't kissed him again, though.

What fucking joy.

He dragged himself up to face another of these days.

Maybe he'd change it this time.

----

DAY 14

He couldn't believe it hadn't occured to him before to just kill Serpine. That would probably achieve whatever the timeloop wanted.

He briefly pictured the look of shock on Pleasant's face. His lips curled in amusement that was just slightly too tender.

He needed to remember that this wasn't the skeleton who knew him. It was a much younger him. And he wanted nothing to do with Solomon.

Whatever. He'd kill Serpine.

----

DAY 27

13 goddamn days, it had taken him to kill the bastard. How the hell had Skulduggery done it before? That hand of his hurt like hell.

And still, it hadn't broken him out of the loop.

He gave into his frustration and punched the wall of his room, muffling a scream of anger.

Fine. It would take something else.

----

DAY 32

Maybe he'd just have to kiss Skulduggery again. He'd been religiously avoiding that entire encounter with the skeleton - this wasn't the man he remembered, and he couldn't bring himself to deal with the dismissiveness of him all over again - but.. needs must.

He replicated their original interaction to a tee, complete with the kiss. He grit his teeth against the insults hurled at his back as he walked away, but he felt it settle in his gut that this wasn't the way out.

Damn.

----

Day 37

Maybe he could give Serpine over to Pleasant? That might achieve what he needed to do.

God, that would be infuriating to do.

Still. Worth a try.

----

Day 43

Six hours, it had taken to sedate and sneak Serpine out of the Temple. He kept his hand clamped firmly over the bastard's mouth as he dragged him out to Pleasant's camp. He didn't bother with politeness.

"Pleasant. Skeleton Detective. I've a gift for you."

As expected, the skeleton seemed to appear almost immediately, and Solomon relished the sheer shock on his skull at the sight of Serpine. He tossed him at the other man's feet with a scowl.

"He's all yours. Have fun."

He turned to walk away and was stopped by the hand that grabbed his wrist.

"What."

"You.. brought him to me."

"Clearly."

"Why?"

Well, shit. What did he say to that?

"I had my reasons."

"Wreath, you bast-"

"Shut up, you bag of fucking bones."

"Oh, I'll show you-"

"Will you now-?"

And then Pleasant's lips were on his and for a single moment he let himself pretend it was his skeleton. And then he pulled back, sneered, and the moment shattered.

"That meant noth-"

Solomon was done. He drew back his fist and slammed it as hard as he could into Pleasant's jaw.

"Shut up. Just.. shut up."

He was shaking, he dimly registered.

"You have Serpine. Happy now?"

He didn't wait for an answer; he turned and returned to the Temple. He felt, within him, something spark.

The timeloop was over, he could feel it.

He could go home.

----

AFTER

He returned to a world in which nobody knew he was alive. Especially not Skulduggery.

He hated it. But it was better than before.

And then his skeleton broke down his door, and he knew that this was inevitable.

In every universe, they'd find each other.

----

Anything fluffy between Val and Skul (platonic or not)✨️

No pressure though!!

ooooh oki ummmmm

hmm.

valdug listening to music (feat. a song I like)

-----

her playlist was on shuffle. that was her first mistake.

her and skul had been quite peacefully coexisting; her with her legs tossed over his lap while she scrolled through Instagram and he read.

she had music playing out loud. her second mistake.

i had a name but they took it from me.

she watched skul's head raise slightly from what he was reading to listen to the song.

i had a life and a place in the world, i had a sweet-talking wife and a beautiful girl.

she saw his fingers tighten on his book slightly, and she rested her hand over his.

im the world ender baby and im back from the dead.

she arched an eyebrow at him at that, quelling his ego without saying a word

ive seen the other side of living, i know heaven's a lie.

her hand tightened over his, their fingers interlacing.

im the world ender and im coming for ya.

as the final notes of the song faded out, val finally grinned at him.

"so. do we think that applies more to me as darquesse or you as vile?"

he took a sharp breath before launching into an argument about how he was the world ender, thank you very much.

the two of them would never quite change their ways, after all.

---

*Friday, June 2, 2005, 5:29pm*

Greg stared at the clock mounted on the wall as the seconds ticked by. Mycroft had texted him, saying that he’d send a car ‘round for him at 5:30, so Greg grabbed his stuff and got ready to go. He’d dressed up a bit, seeing as Mycroft seemed like the sort of person who came out of the womb in a three-piece suit.

He dithered on the pavement outside until a black car pulled up to the curb and a woman got out and beckoned him into the car.

“I’m sorry? I don’t even know who you are, I’m not getting into a random car.” Greg’s confusion grew when the woman just looked frustratedly at a nearby security camera.

Then his phone buzzed.

[5:31, June 2] Get in the car, Gregory. I apologise for the roundabout manner in which I must do this. The woman is my PA. - MH

Greg sighed and typed back a reply.

[5:32, June 2] Fine. Next time, warn me beforehand, Mycroft. - GL

He got in the car, noting with satisfaction that the driver had put up a privacy screen, before turning to the woman sitting by his side.

“So, you’re his PA? Surprised he’s got you doing this stuff, I’d have thought he was too busy running the country. What’s your name, anyway?”

The woman smirked slightly. “My name’s Anthea.”

Greg grinned. “That your real name?”

She didn’t even look sheepish. “Maybe.” Then she went back to tapping at her blackberry and ignored him.

A few minutes later, the car pulled up to an incredibly posh-looking club. Greg turned to Anthea.

“Where are we?” He asked, looking nervous.

She looked slightly smug. “This is the Diogenes Club. Please be warned, Inspector, that the club has a rule of silence. Please do not speak until you have been escorted to Mr Holmes’ office.”

Greg blinked. What sort of a place was this? Realizing that Anthea was looking for a response, he nodded. “Yep- yeah, ok.”

Greg let the security guard escort him to Mycroft’s office, waiting until he was inside to exhale sharply. “Jesus, Mycroft, we could have just gone to a cafe.”

Mycroft looked up from the paperwork he was poring over. “Ah, Gregory. Good afternoon. I apologize for the inconvenience in your coming here. I have arranged for tea to be brought up, if that will suffice?”

Greg sat down and slumped slightly, as if the wind had been taken out of his sails. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, in shock, and Greg realized with a jolt that Mycroft wasn’t expecting the apology. Before he could process this properly, a knock on the door announcing tea jerked him out of the train of thought. Mycroft accepted the tea and biscuits, and turned to Greg.

“Shall we, Gregory?” He asked, a slightly smug look on his face.

Greg sighed, and took the cup of tea Mycroft handed to him. He took a sip - splash of milk, two sugars, just as he liked it. Bloody Holmeses, deducing people to the tee.

“So. Sherlock. What did you want to say about him?”

Mycroft looked weary. “I know you have been letting him onto some of your crime scenes, and it seemed to be doing wonders to keep him clean. And I was hoping you would consider continuing to do so.”

Greg nodded. “Yes, for sure. I was planning to do that anyways, but make him take regular drug tests, and only let him onto scenes if he’s clean. If that seems like a good plan?”

Mycroft looked… impressed. “Very well. That is an exceptionally good idea, Gregory. Thank you, for putting in the effort. Sherlock can be.. difficult at times.”

“Of course. He’s an abrasive little shite, but I’ve grown to care for him somehow, y’know?”

The rest of their conversation flowed smoothly over tea, both of them exchanging polite conversation about the other’s day (though Mycroft’s was obviously cloaked in more NDA’s than most governments.)

Greg found himself almost.. reluctant to take his leave, when his phone buzzed with Sally telling him there’d been a particularly vicious triple murder. He groaned, and bid Mycroft goodbye.

“I’m so sorry, Mycroft, but I’m going to have to cut this short. Work emergency, you know how it is.”

“I do understand. Perhaps we should make this a weekly fixture so I may be updated on Sherlock’s situation more extensively?”

“Of course. About Sherlock.” Because the great Mycroft Holmes would never entertain the thought of a friendship with a plebeian, poor police officer like him.

As Greg got into the black sedan that Mycroft had insisted he take back to the Yard, he swore, realizing how furious Carol would be. She’d already texted him back with a four-paragraph rant about how he didn’t prioritize her, and that was for a coffee. He was probably better off just sleeping in the office tonight, and he dragged his hand down his face at the idea. But for now, he had to catch a killer. Poor Sally - he ought to give the poor girl a raise, he considered, as the car pulled up to the Yard.

As he got out, he had one fleeting thought - he was looking forward to seeing Mycroft next week. Then he shut that thought into a steel box and refused to consider it for the next couple of hours.

----

uhhhhhhhh ok im putting this into the world and going to sleep please don't shoot me about it I know it's bad

--------

*Thursday, 28 December, 2012, 6:02pm*

Greg and Mycroft’s meetings had become more casual - they went out for dinner, to the opera, once, and, very occasionally, out for a walk. Their meetings were no longer regularly scheduled - now, they were organized whenever possible. This, of course, did not help Greg’s crush on Mycroft to go away, but he did his best to ignore it.

They met at Greg’s house sometimes - after Anthea had vetted it for security purposes, anyway. Greg loved to cook, and being able to make Mycroft a meal made him oddly happy.

Greg was snapped out of his thoughts by the chime of his phone. Checking the text message, his eyes widened.

[6:05, December 28] If you are available, perhaps we could have dinner at my home tonight? - MH

Mycroft was inviting him over. To his house.

Greg scrabbled to type a response.

[6:08, December 28] That would be amazing! Would you like me to bring wine? - GL

He laughed at himself. As if any cheap bottle of wine he could afford would compare to the exquisite wine cellar Mycroft likely had.

[6:09, December 28] If you would. Be there at 7:00.- MH

Well, fuck. Now he had to pick wine that Mycroft bloody Holmes would approve of.

[6:11, December 28] I’ll be there. Red or white? - GL

The response came barely a minute later.

[6:11, December 28] Red, please. - MH

He left work a few minutes later. He'd already worked an hour overtime, the unnecessary bureaucracy of paperwork could wait until tomorrow.

Mycroft's house was a good 30 minute drive away from Scotland Yard, so Greg stopped at a Tesco's on the way. He spent 10 minutes agonising over what wine he should choose, before picking the one that looked most fancy and hoping that would do. Just in case, he also grabbed a cheap 8 quid bottle. If nothing else, he could drink it himself once he got home.

He reached Mycroft's at 6.50, and he hovered awkwardly on the front step for a few minutes before knocking. He didn't know why he was so nervous - it was just Mycroft, they'd been meeting regularly for years.

Mycroft opened the door with a smile, seeming entirely at ease, and Greg relaxed just a little.

“You made it, I see.” His voice held the softness it so rarely did, and Greg felt a slight blush rise to his cheeks. He cleared his throat sharply, holding out both bottles of wine.

“I did. I wasn't sure which you'd prefer so I grabbed two bottles, though I'm pretty sure they can't- are you cooking, Mycroft?”

He'd caught a glance past the door, and seen something on the stove. It was Mycroft's turn to look a little sheepish.

“Well.. yes. I just finished cooking, actually.”

Greg raised an eyebrow, years of horror stories about Mycroft's cooking flashing through his mind.

“And the house isn't on fire yet? I'm in shock.”

He grinned at the withering glare shot his way, walking in and setting the wine down on the counter. He whistled through his teeth as he took in the splendour of Mycroft's house.

“Goddamn, Mycroft, your house is…”

He couldn't find the words, settling instead for a broad hand gesture that he hoped conveyed what he was aiming for. If Mycroft's pleased smile was anything to go by, it was.

Out of curiosity, he looked into the pot on the stove.

“Soup?”

Mycroft shrugged.

“It is.. good for the cold weather. And easy to make.”

“That it is. I doubt even you could cock up soup.”

“I will have you know, Gregory, that I am more than capable of-”

“I'll judge that, yeah?”

“...very well.”

They chatted idly as they served dinner, the regular exchanges about Sherlock now simply pleasantries. By the time they sat down to eat, Greg was halfway through a long tirade about his supervisor, and Mycroft was halfway through a glass of wine.

“-and he knows, Myc, he knows full goddamn well that that's not how it wo-”

He stopped abruptly, tilting his head. Mycroft had gone completely still.

“Myc? You alright?”

“......Myc?”

Oh, hell. He'd been calling him that in his head for months now, he hadn't meant it to slip out like that.

“I-its a nickname. You know, like a shortening of-”

“I know what a nickname is, Gregory.”

Of course he did.

“I simply.. nicknames are meant to be conferred upon people you are.. close to, are they not?”

Greg couldn't even begin to process what Mycroft was saying, but he did his best.

“Well, yeah. Uh.. there's a level of friendship or closeness involved, I guess. And we're.. uh. I was under the impression we were rather close friends. Which was probably mistaken, clearly. Just.. forget I said anything-’

“No. No, we are close friends. I.. see you as such, anyway. I suppose I just didn't realise you.. also see me as a close friend, Grego-”

He paused for a moment.

“Greg.”

Greg's answering grin was bright, his voice teasing.

“Here I thought you were just incapable of such plebian things as nicknames.”

“And here I thought you might find yourself some new jokes.”

“Why, when these ones work so well?”

“...point taken.”

Greg picked up his spoon and, rather tentatively, tried a bite of the soup.

It was good. Very good.

“Holy shit, Myc, this is good.”

Mycroft's smug little smirk was enough to make a blush rise to his cheeks again, but this time he didn't try detract from it. He took another bite, eyes wide.

“Good isn't even enough. It's incredible. I could kiss you, oh my God-”

He realised what he'd said too late, jaw clicking together. He didn't look up at Mycroft, certain that if he did, he'd see his polite mask of confusion, or worse, of disdain. He didn't even know if Mycroft swung that way, for God's sake.

A choked sound interrupted his internal monologue, and he chanced a small glance up. Mycroft was frozen again, cheeks a bright red and eyes wide. He didn't look.. horrified. Far from it.

….fuck it.

“If you wanted me to kiss you, Myc, you could've just asked, you know. No need for the Soup Plot-”

He was graced by another choked sound. Mycroft exhaled slowly.

“You're.. teasing me.”

“A little, yeah.”

“To what end? I- why?”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Well, cus you're adorable when you blush. And cus I wanted to see if you'd do anything about it.”

“And if I were to ‘do anything about it’.. would it be welcome?”

His breath hitched at that. If Mycroft was implying what he thought…

“Very much so. So, will you-?”

He was cut off by Mycroft leaning across the table and kissing him. For a moment, the world stopped around them, everything narrowing to that one, single point of contact.

And then the moment was shattered by the trill of Mycroft's work phone, and Greg couldn't help but laugh.

“I am so sorry, Greg, I have to take-”

“Go help whichever government needs you, Myc. I'll be right here when you're done saving the world.”

The smile Mycroft shot him at that could have powered him for the rest of his life.

He'd wait as long as it took.

The immortal knows what he must do. He tells the story of his lost love. He keeps his love's story alive, throws himself into ensuring that his love is never forgotten.

And so time goes by, years, decades, longer, all ticking by, and eventually the immortal doesn't remember anything but the story of a person they loved, and so they keep telling that story. They have nothing else for them but that story. And so they keep telling it as the centuries and the millennia slip by, and when the earth is consumed by the sun and there is nothing for them but the black expanse of space, they do nothing but tell the story.

There is nobody left to tell it to, but they keep telling it anyway.

It seemed tentative, almost afraid, as it extricated itself from its mother's side and began to unfurl its wings. The wings themselves shone, the skin between the hollow bones gossamer-thin and just as beautiful. They reflected the full spectrum of colours, as though an oil slick had taken form into something even more radiant.

Its wings -- small, so very small for its size -- flapped gently at first. The limited motion was, however, not enough to budge it an inch, and it began to beat its wings more vigorously. As it did so, it felt itself rise from the ground and slowly began to take true flight.