#so ill draw something else for it eventually maybe

[goomyloid]

Hey deltaruners and krisellers alike erm i wrote something else the other day and meant to draw something to promote it (a la chicken scratch) but ran outta time and i wont be able to for a week or so. So you can just read it now if you so desire

enjoy 👍🍎❄️

[voidimp]

ok well it looks like oli is dead asleep rn so maybe we can celebrate their birthday later instead. but anyway happy birthday oli

[nostalgebraist]

Imagine that you can still draw, or paint, if you feel like it, and have the tools. That hasn't changed.

And (no, this post isn't about AI, there we go, where was I) all the other newer tools still exist too: Wacom tablets exist, and Adobe Photoshop, and every sort of camera, and so forth. If you have these tools ready at hand, you can just pick them up, and make pictures with them.

And tumblr still exists, and all the rest of the internet with it. And so – if you like – you can use these venues to share the pictures you make with others, easily and immediately, for free.

However, there is also another venue, for sharing pictures.

That is the only thing that is different.

The other venue is... let's say it's a magazine that only prints visual art, and which has an extremely large number of subscribers.

Everyone knows about The Magazine. Most people you know are subscribers.

Before the internet, The Magazine was the main way that visual art got into people's homes (if it wasn't created there in the first place). Your parents speak of The Magazine as though it's just where art lives, as though the notion that there might be art somewhere else has never really crossed their minds.

Much of what appears in The Magazine is, in fact, pretty good. Conversely, much of the truly great art of the recent past made an appearance in The Magazine, at some point, before or after appearing in galleries and/or being reproduced in other ways.

But a lot of it is just... fine. Trendy, competent, workmanlike.

You flip through the pages and mostly you think, yeah, this sure is the sort of thing that gets printed in The Magazine, in the current year. Occasionally you're impressed by something you see there, and even more rarely something moves you, transfixes you.

Much the same could be said of your tumblr dash, of course.

It must be noted, however, that The Magazine has a higher quality floor than your tumblr dash. Everything that appears there looks polished, professional, carefully worked-over. This counts for less than one might think; that professional gloss can do nothing to elevate ill-conceived or simply dull work (and The Magazine does print such things fairly often).

In a gallery, you might encounter mere sketches, or blatantly unfinished paintings (Leonardo left behind plenty of both, after all). But you will never find such things in The Magazine.

The Magazine's cultural and psychological prestige is immense. It holds the popular conception of "art" in its tight, totalizing grip. If you ever pick up a pencil and draw, it will be assumed – by default – that you aspire to eventual publication in The Magazine. If you are not very good, people will tell you to keep at it; maybe someday you will make the grade. If you are good, people will tell you so, and ask you whether you've prepared anything for submission, whether you've sent it, whether you heard back.

It is tremendously inconvenient to appear in The Magazine.

After all, anyone can pick up paper and pencil, but The Magazine only has so many pages per month. So, The Magazine has standards. It is persnickety. It couldn't afford to behave differently.

But even if it could afford to behave differently, it would not want to. For it so happens that The Magazine prides itself on its active role in the production of "art" (meaning, "that which has appeared in The Magazine").

Even if you are one of the "lucky" few who does not receive a simple rejection letter from The Magazine, you will not simply be allowed to put your drawing or painting or what-have-you into The Magazine as it is.

Unmediated transmission of art, straight from artist to viewer, is for lower-class venues ("tumblr.com," "physical reality and its tendency to project images of nearby objects onto the retina," etc). The Magazine has standards, and they have a full staff of not-quite-artist, not-quite-art-critic people who are employed to impose them. If you do not get a rejection letter, what happens instead is that you begin a long and laborious transaction with one or more of these strange middlemen. They will tell you that your work is a good start, but that you really should have put this part over there, or made the symbolism more obvious or less obvious, or "applied your evident talent" to a more socially relevant choice of subject matter, or something of this nature.

Eventually, after a protracted interaction like this, you might succeed! A new, different, quite possibly worse picture – produced by laboriously adjusting your original one (which, being original/unmediated, is of course unprintable by definition) until The Magazine's staff feel satisfied in the relative scope of their role versus yours in the collaborative act that is "art" production – will end up on a page somewhere in the next issue of The Magazine.

And, finally: real art has been produced! You've made it!

You're in The Magazine. And your work ("your"? you don't feel so sure anymore) does look nice, sitting there on one of those oh-so-glossy pages.

It is nice enough that you spend nearly a minute lingering over it, before you go back to tumblr.com, where all the rest of the pictures are.

(And then, on the weekend, you go to a museum, and look at pictures which were being lauded as masterworks centuries before The Magazine was even founded. You could never produce anything like them, you know – and you feel envious of their creators, not so much because of their greater talents, but because no one ever praised them by saying, hey, this stuff is good enough to be in The Magazine!)

But at least your mom and dad will look at your drawings, now, and think: my child is an artist. You were an artist before, too, but it was just amateur stuff. Now it's for real. Professional. In The Magazine.

Professional? Well, The Magazine did pay you a little in the end, as a prize. And there are some people who make their livings this way. They have good, longstanding, hard-won relationships with The Magazine's staff of intermediaries. They are unusual; by sheer force of numbers, only a select few can make a decent and reliable living in this manner.

(Indeed, The Magazine's insistence on imposing its standards is essentially inimical to steady, reproducible money-making for individual artists. You shouldn't feel secure already that they'll print your next picture without delay, before you've even sent it in for assessment – that would mean they are not keeping standards at all, wouldn't it? And so, cultural forces within The Magazine conspire to degrade its value as a potential source of one's livelihood.)

Those who appear regularly in The Magazine have unparalleled reach. As a child, perhaps, they shaped your notion of what an "artist" was; as a child, maybe you wanted to be just like them, when you grew up.

But then you did grow up – and so, you realized that they were employing the tools at hand (pencil, paper) to a very unusual end. Anyone can pick up the tools and draw. But few can make it into The Magazine, and perhaps even fewer than that should want to appear there.

After all, there is something almost shameful about the exercise, isn't it?

The Magazine says: I am the means by art is produced and disseminated. And many people, passively following the ambient culture, unconsciously nod along.

But in fact, The Magazine has no potency in it whatsoever. It is you, and the viewer, who create the work of art and create the experience of experiencing art. You can just draw things. You can just show your drawings to people.

And The Magazine cannot turn an uninspired artist into a genius, or an unskilled artist into a master; it can only trim perceived fat, arrange perceived rough edges into a more agreeable shape, apply gloss and trendiness and "professionalism." But those were never what anyone liked about art to begin with. You don't need them – unless you do, for your own artistic reasons (and your viewers'), and in that case home-made versions will probably do the job well enough.

There is, in fact, not much reason at all to want to appear in The Magazine.

And that, in itself, is a strong argument against the idea.

You ought not to play along in the charade, pretending that the whole laborious exercise has a point after all, if you know that it is in fact pointless. This is a matter of integrity, if nothing else.

Anyway, that's how I feel whenever anyone's like, "so are you gonna try to get this stuff published or what"

[candidjellyfish]

Random thoughts on how I think a potential lover could change Chrollo:

🕷️I feel like Chrollo is the type of person who walks a fine line between craving connection and rejecting vulnerability. His emotional detachment doesn’t mean he’s indifferent to others. He expresses a clear sense of responsibility for the Troupe while simultaneously maintaining a certain distance. To me, this paradox reveals that he craves connection but cannot afford to be vulnerable without risking his authority and identity.

If he were fully detached, he wouldn’t care about Uvogin’s death or go as far as holding a requiem to honor him. But if he were fully vulnerable, he wouldn’t be able to maintain the ruthless control required to lead a group like the Troupe.

That said, how he would treat a potential love interest depends very much on who they are to him. For his potential s/o to move beyond mere curiosity and become someone he genuinely cherishes, they would need to be irreplaceable in his eyes—someone no one else could ever replicate or replace.

This person would have to be able to pull him away from his habitual detachment, drawing him out of his constant way of analysing the people around him. They wouldn’t just capture his attention but anchor him in the present, making him live in the moment/lose himself in the emotion he’s feeling in the moment.

But it’s very likely that the same qualities that draw him in would also shake him. Someone with the power to make him lose himself in the moment also holds the power to change his worldview. For a man who survives by maintaining intellectual and emotional control, being vulnerable a would threaten the stability he’s built around himself and the Troupe.

At first, his instinct would likely be to push him away. I don’t think this would be due to indifference but because their influence on him represents a loss of control, something he cannot afford when his leadership hinges on his ability to stay emotionally untouchable. Letting someone see or discover his unfiltered core means risking the detachment that enables him to make the kind of ruthless decisions the Troupe’s survival demands.

Though I can definitely imagine how someone who makes him feel something beyond duty and cold calculation would eventually become a pull he cannot resist, no matter how much he tries to maintain his distance. 🤭

It’s likely that this relationship would redefine his existence. For once, he would have something outside the Troupe’s mission that holds genuine value. This could manifest in subtle ways like small acts of protectiveness or moments where his calm facade cracks, or even instances where he prioritizes their safety over the Troupe’s objectives. If that person were in the troupe themself, his actions would ultimately go against his motto that nobody is more important than the whole.

꧁༺ I can fix him he’s so majestic god help me I’m obsessed 😔 ༻꧂

(Maybe ill write HCs soon or oneshots)

[rgbstatic]

Rewatching Marble Hornets really has me questioning why Alex wasn't really included in Creepypasta media, at least alongside his peers with Masky and Hoodie.

This may be spoilers if you've never watched Marble Hornets before (its 15+ years old, but I digress).

First I do want to establish that in Marble Hornets.

Alex is the acting antagonist, Jay is our unreliable protagonist and narrator, Tim eventually becomes a side protagonist. Hoodie is a side character who often seems to help our protagonists. Every other character are side characters that help move things forward and intensify plot- when I go into detail on some characters, some of what I say can be applied to them too.

Next, the Operator's way of controlling it's "proxies".

The Operator has some sort of aura that, when exposed, causes some sort of illness. Coughing fits, seizures, and presumably more. It's presence also in turn causes paranoia, insomnia, memory loss, and a general loss of senses. This is what it seems to use to control others.

You see this with all characters in the series, how ill they get, how paranoid they get, how the worse these all are the more they do things for the Operator. You see this happen to nearly everyone.

For Tim, he is able to eventually curb this via medications, presumably seizure medications. It doesn't fully stop Tim from being controlled by the Operator and acting as Masky, but it does over time seem to make it happen less and less. You also see Masky act in later acts of the series against the Operator, or at least for Jay.

Hoodie is interesting, because you really don't see much from him, but most of his appearances is helping Jay, and you find his house full of medication bottles, presumably stolen from Tim or from some other means. The totheark videos have many purposes. They can threaten Jay, or they can warn him, they can help him. In some you see messages which echo and parrot the drawings Alex makes, in others you see him give Jay clues. He both works for the Operator, but against him and Alex at the same time.

Jay starts off as seemingly one of the only people on the cast/crew of Marble Hornets to not get involved when Alex first started his shenanigans. He remembers Marble Hornets and starts looking, immediately he gets sick and paranoid and starts encountering the Operator. He is tired and irritable, and towards the end you see him make more and more rash decisions, violent decisions. His path seems to mirror Alex, the only difference is that Jay wants to stop all of this.

Alex is the most interesting, because you almost never if at all see him ill. You can presume that maybe he saw the Operator as a kid, as one of the totheark videos show childhood home videos of him and mark him with the Operator's symbols and show's the being there, but you never see it. Alex acts under the operator seemingly at all times. He starts off paranoid, maybe even afraid, but very quickly he becomes numb to it. Seth and Sarah die very early on. He attacks Brian, Tim- all so early on, and he seems to feel no remorse for it. Eventually, it does seem like he falls away from the influence. He moves away, stops recording. This goes on for years, until his girlfriend finds his old camera. Almost instantly the Operator is there. She is missing, but he survives. Once again, the moment the Operator is involved he works under him without skipping a beat. He knows she's gone, he drags Jay into it to stop him from searching further, or perhaps to be a magnet to finish the job of those who escaped before. Alex doesn't have any sort of alter ego. He remembers, he remembers everything. Perhaps he acts out of self preservation, but something else is going on. Alex starts to corrupt the footage just like the Operator, he seems to be able to call it to him and he approaches it, stands in it's wake unaffected. He's too far gone, maybe he always was.

All of this is to say, he is the villain of this story. He may eventually be defeated, but you could argue Tim gets better and moves on and never is a proxy again.

Alex should have, and should be viewed as a more scary person, with the likes of other creepypastas, because for all intents and purposes he was the Operator's favorite, and the one to carry out it's wants and to carry out it's actions. Hoodie and Masky disobeyed time and time again, Alex continued without question or remorse. Killing people not even involved with the story.

Just in terms of story, for the longest time Masky and Hoodie were side characters that popped up once every several entries. It wasn't until over half way through that Tim becomes a central character. Alex is always there. It's his story, it's his tapes, it is him who brought the Operator to them all over and over and over again, he is the main character with Jay as a narrator of things he has done. It all leads back to him.

Something something, i think 15 years is long enough to give this evil guy a bit of spotlight in his own story.

[allykabbet]

Sneezing dynamics I like 5

"Excuse me, I have to sneeze so much."

"Ugh... That hurts" / "Ugh... That looks painful," says someone to another after a particularly strong sneeze that seems to tear at their throat.

Comfort gesture: someone putting a hand on the back of the neck of a person having a sneezing fit, gently stroking, perhaps with their nails, to provide a bit of comfort or relief.

"I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m sneezing so much."

"X pressed the handkerchief harder against their nose, feeling the warmth of his breath against the fabric."

The perspective of a subordinate/secretary/employee witnessing their boss sneeze for the first time, seeing this authority figure lose control. Can they do something as mundane as sneeze? They’re human, after all.

Someone who rarely sneezes is sneezing all day. Their roommate, initially unconcerned, begins to worry. "What’s going on? You’ve been sneezing all day." "I don’t know, it started this morning" / "I don’t know, I’m sneezy today." "Are you okay?" "I think so."

Someone has been sniffling for a while but can't sneeze, as if the sneeze is stuck. They clear their throat, scrunch their nose, release shaky breaths, or gently pinch their nose in frustration. Eventually, their roommate complains. "Could you just blow your nose already?" "Could you dust already?" "Is dust really the issue here? Just blow your damn nose!" "ItsxCshHUu!" "I guess that’s a no."

"ATTschu! Oh my g-ho…Tschu!" (A gasp interrupted by a short, unexpected sneeze that leaves them breathless.)

Groaning after a sneeze. How many times must you have sneezed to groan afterward? Or maybe it hurt from being stifled too hard?

After a particularly strong sneezing fit: "Bless you, darling, are you cold?"

A rapid stifled fit. Small, muffled sneezes that, due to their frequency, the person decides to stifle so as not to "bother" anyone. Their chest tightens with each sneeze, and as the fit continues, the sneezes grow a bit louder, harder to stifled, and more painful, until one or two finally escape uncontrollably.

"Oh dear, are you okay?" The person witnessing the fit puts a hand on their shoulder, worried, forgetting to bless them due to the impact.

A holding a handkerchief to the nose of a vulnerable B, completely overwhelmed by a sneezing fit. This situation is somewhat unrealistic for everyday circumstances, but who knows… Perhaps someone with their hands full? Someone unable to move for some reason? How vulnerable must you feel, at someone else's mercy, to help you cover a sneeze? Perhaps, when B slightly recovers, they could place their hand over A's, without them pulling away. A would feel the moisture and force of B's sneeze through the handkerchief, the way their nose contracts, their head shaking from the effort, the warm breath…

Sneezing on the subway/train/elevator, or in a crowded space where they can’t leave until it reaches its destination. Maybe they’re forced to stifle the sneeze, even if they usually don’t, or they sneeze into their shoulder or hand or inside their coat to avoid spraying anyone and trying to be as discreet as possible. Still, sneezes inevitably draw stares.

Sneezing inside a coat is special. Simply.

Pre-sneeze face, so obvious and desperate.

"ATTSShiu!!" (A usually stifles) "Ow, that was strong. Are you okay?"

A person sneezes a fit of 5-6 times, and someone blesses them each time. "You don’t have to bless me each time; this might go on a while." "But I want to."

Sneezing into a mask, and the mask itself makes your nose itch even more, making you sneeze more.

Sneezing twice in a row and changing the way you cover up for each sneeze, perhaps realizing the first method wasn’t polite enough.

A habitual stifler lets a sneeze slip due to illness or fatigue (they’re too tired to contain it), and someone nearby who knows them well comments: "Oh, bless you! I’ve never heard you sneeze like that." "Thank you," they say, embarrassed.

Someone realizes unknown aspects of another person by analyzing how they sneeze, cover up, or apologize each time they sneeze.

"You’re more polite than I thought!"

Sneezing inside a high-neck sweater, pulling up the collar.

Someone with a generally extroverted personality, except in their sneezing. They usually stifle to avoid drawing attention, feeling weak or less funny/protective/caring than usual. The contrast of their generally loud personality with a soft sneeze stands out, despite their attempts to avoid it.

Sneezing when your throat hurts. The sneeze almost feels like it’s tearing at your throat, and you try to sneeze as softly as possible, making the sneeze almost unsatisfying. It may be accompanied by a groan and rubbing your neck with a grimace of pain.

Someone is about to sneeze into their hand, but midway through an inhale, they realize it’s impolite and pinch their nose with their fingers or cover their sneeze with their elbow.

Sneezes where the exhale is louder than the sneeze itself.

There’s something extremely charming about someone who apologizes after sneezing, even when their sneeze is entirely QUIET, discreet, and polite.

Sneezes that aren’t far apart but have two or three seconds between each sneeze. The people around bless each one, and the person doesn’t have time to thank them, being trapped in the next sneeze.

Sneezing on the phone. The person on the other side imagines the sneezing person’s expression and, lacking the visual cue, focuses on the strength of their inhale, the sound of the sigh, the pressure sound as they rub their nose, and the congestion in their voice. The person sneezing moves away from the phone, so the sneeze sounds more distant or softer than usual, and then they apologize for the interruption.

Sneezing differently when sick, due to allergies, or casually. For example, someone typically stifles their sneezes, but when they’re sick, the sneezes are much more unexpected, frequent, and barely stifled. Those who know them well recognize these as their “sick sneezes,” clearly seeing when they’re coming down with something. (Idea courtesy of @secret19stuff)

[silverskye13]

thinking about your hels!zedaph again. im the same one who asked for his name. i dont know why im so invested in this little side character, with his impact on the story being little more than his death. but i am.

so easily forgotten. a name never spoken, little more than a gust on the wind. nothing left but a fragile memory and whatever of him can be found in zedaph.

this little guy means a lot to me. as does knowing his name. zephyr. now i can remember him even when nobody else will. maybe ill write something for him, if thats okay. could i ask for some characterization? i do have to wonder what he was like when he lived. before he had to worry about fading.

Ah! I'm glad you're here to remember him! He would appreciate your gesture.

Hmm. Characterization. I don't have much, but I have the impressions of him I always thought of.

He was quiet and reserved, in a serious way. Small smiles instead of laughter. It wasn't that he didn't have a sense of humor, just that he parceled out those moments of brightness jealously, hoarding them for a special occasion. He liked to draw. It started as schematics for his redstone creatures [like EB's buzzers] but eventually turned into drawings of other things. He preferred animals. They're so scarce in hels, while still having uncharacteristic variety. A lot of sketches of birds. I imagine he had a way onto his roof, and fed the pigeons there often. He liked working in silence in his workshop, but not necessarily alone. EB was a good companion for him, when they spent their fleeting moments together. He did a remarkable impression of a statue at times, and knew when Zephyr wanted, or needed, silence. I don't think Zephyr was quiet constantly. He probably opened up about things he liked, things he felt proficient in. And I think he probably got really excited about the little redstone animals he could make. EB was his primary patron, and the reason he got to chase his dreams of making things that simulated life, for the short time he got to make them.

[grimmcheems]

More of my Crimson King AU🗣🩸👑

🗣Long hair Armin reigns supreme. Enjoy these disaster gays.🗿 I made a post months ago with this same concept but diff drawing (the Armin Zofia one). They hate each other (Reiner’s personalities fall in love with Armin and Armin eventually tries to make the best of the situation bc he has no other options= they have hate make out sessions and take care of four children but Dw guys THEY ARENT A THING (at least not to armin but they are to everyone else around them and Reiner’s delulu ass)) the girls are fightinggg in the lower corner lmao

Trust I will provide more context later with the more arts I make to cover this. I’ve been all over the place these past couple of months and this last month with finals.

This took me forever but was worth it. I rly had fun drawing Reiner but he was also a pain bc I had to keep reworking his face because of how complex it is, his facial structure is so out of my usual range. Also I haven’t forgotten about my dozen other AUs💀😭 Ill get to those when I get to those, I've just been overwhelmed d with how well received they are and its like…..people actually like my ideas?!?!🤨😭🗿💖✨so thanks to those who have been sticking around for that

Also like why was this just hard to draw overall?!? Like Armins hair had maybe four hours in total of me working on, I had to keep reshaping the top and planning out where different shades would go. This was in my drafts for maybe like two months (prolly longer) before I went back to it to actually try and finish it. Imma be real yall, a lot of my stuff ends up being unfinished so I’m happy I had enough will power to finish this one bc I actually love how it turned out. My art from now on may look a bit wierd bc I’m gonna start trying something new with coloring/rendering, but what’s new? A lot of my stuff isn’t cohesive to begin with.

[merbear25]

Could I request prompt 18 with Vash? Maybe something sweet and sappy and a little angsty <3

Hello, hello! I understand that this didn't make it on the 200 followers list, but I couldn't resist writing it for Vash! He needs to be shown so much more love. I hope you like it 💜💜

Collections of a lovesick man

CW: SFW, gn!reader, a tad angsty, fluff

There was barely anything worthwhile in your town; each day was relatively bleak and was refected in the people. So when a charismatic laugh echoed down the alley, you stopped in your tracks. Curiosity got the best of you as you went to locate such a memorable display of joy.

Laying eyes on him, the man you'd later learn to be Vash was exchanging laughs with the formly gloomy residents. Going up to him, you were eager to get to know the man who unabashedly welcomed others―such warmth was what separated him from anyone else you'd met before.

He seemed friendly enough, but the following day you saw the whole town turning on him, accusing him of being a devil. Based on the brief interactions you had, he came across as a genuine person. Doubts of whether or not you should go to him were ignored as you went against your better judgement to offer a place for this gentle stranger to reside in.

After some convincing, you eventually wore him down. The time spent together was short, yet he still managed to leave a significant impression on you. When it came to him leaving, every fiber of your being was calling out to you to go with him. You knew the risks, but you couldn't help wanting to keep his vision of peace afloat. You wanted to keep that hope alive.

Allowing you to go with him was something he couldn't even wrap his head around. That being said, seeing his passion for love and peace mirrored back in you gave him the sense of home.

The more time you spent together, the closer you became: sharing dreams for the future and stories from the past. He was quickly earning a special place in your heart, and unbeknownst to you, you in his. Despite his habit of keeping people at arms length, he still craved connection just like everyone else. When you began journaling, noting down each and every detail the two of you encountered, he became curious. Not wanting to invade your privacy, he left you to it, writing your little heart away.

There was a time when you tossed one of your notes out, though. Unable to fight off his inquisitiveness, he took it out of the waste basket and read it. You jotted down your thoughts on what you'd set out to do with him: your hopes for success and fears of failure. Being able to have more insight into your innermost personal views felt wrong, yet he thought they should be cherished, not thrown away.

Whenever you threw out one of your notes, it was rescued by him, each one giving him a better understanding of where your head was. Spending time with you after reading these notes filled him with conflicting emotions: guilt and regret mixed with endearment and affection. With each passing day, the draw towards you had more of a pull, making it harder to hold off his rising interest in you.

Looking for something specific, you had a hunch it would be in Vash's room. Once opening a drawer, you saw a bunch of carefully folded paper that appeared to have once been wadded up. Thinking it strange to fold crinkled paper, you picked it up―then the others followed suit.

When you didn't return, Vash went to look for you, stumbling in on you discovering his little secret.

His apology for keeping such private thoughts of yours was caught in his throat, making you break the silence.

"You mean to tell me you've kept every single note?" Your tone showed no ill feelings, simply painting you in a light of bewilderment.

His heart was pounding, while he remained incapable of coming up with a proper excuse. "I did."

"Why?"

"I know you wanted to throw them away, but they seemed important. They are your feelings, after all." Looking down at the floor, shame crept in.

"Your hopes and dreams are just as important as your fears and woes." Still unable to meet your gaze, he assumed your eyes held betrayl and disgust. "I'm sorry."

Closing the gap between you, you placed a tender hand on his arm. Unsure what you could say to this, you motioned to embrace him, giving him space to refuse if he so wished.

When he finally brought his eyes to yours, the gentleness they held made him melt. In spite of his ever present fear of growing close to others, it wouldn't hurt to let you in, would it?

Opening his arms to welcome your solace lifted his spirits, set his busy mind to rest, and helped to bandage his lingering wounds.

Tightening your arms around him, you opened yourselves up to one another, allowing your vulnerabilities to be on full display. However frightening it felt, you were sure you were placing your heart in trustworthy hands.

[themetaphorgirl]

hey sorry i didn’t know if you were still doing request of PSOLC but i loveeeee the sickfic, especially the hotch ones. maybe something where he accidentally get sick from a food allergy thing and that’s how they all find out? or maybe something about him being autistic? spencer’s my favorite in the show, but hotch in PSOLC is BY FAR my favorite. love your work

this turned into more Wonder Twins nonsense, but in all fairness I LOVE them so very very much. and I'm glad you enjoy how I write Hotch!!!

(tw: vomiting)

----------

Hotch leaned back against the stall and groaned, thankful to be the only person in the bathroom in his time of need. He mentally ran through what he’d eaten so far, trying to figure out what the hell had gone so wrong that he found himself sitting on the gross tile floor puking his guts out.

At this point, now that he’d been properly tested and diagnosed and knew that he had a million food allergies instead of just sometimes I get violently ill for no reason, it’s cool, he was well aware of what he needed to avoid. The list was annoyingly long, but between staying aware and staying on medication he hadn’t had a little…situation like this in a long time. 

But now something unholy had leeched into whatever he’d eaten that day, and his body was completely rebelling on him. In the old days he would have just forced himself through- gotten himself back together and back out of the bathroom as quickly as possible, doing his best to pretend like everything was fine and fighting his internal demons while he waited for another safe moment to run to the nearest bathroom.

This wasn’t the old days, though. He fumbled in the pocket of his uniform khakis for his phone, typed out an SOS as he squinted with watery eyes at the screen, and dropped it just enough time for another wave of nausea to send him scrambling for the toilet.

Eventually he dropped back, wheezing, and tilted his head back to see Alex standing just outside the stall. “Fancy meeting you here,” he croaked.

“I’m just glad no one was using a urinal this time,” she said. She looked him up and down, her mouth drawing into a frown. “Jesus Christ, Aaron.”

“Could be worse,” he offered. 

“Not by much,” she said. She knelt down beside him and opened up her bag. “Water first. Little sips, see if you can keep them down.”

He knew the drill, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. The water felt heavenly on his raw throat but he winced as it hit his stomach. “Did anyone else-”

“Oh, yeah, everyone figured out immediately that you came running in here to puke,” Alex said. She pressed the back of her hand to his cheek and made a face. “No fever, but you’re clammy as hell. Definitely a reaction.”

“I don’t even know what I ate,” he said morosely. “I’ve been doing so well.”

“I know, I know, you have,” Alex said. She brushed his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. “Another sip, please.”

He obeyed even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “I know I didn’t have any gluten, I got the same bagel I usually get and it was definitely gluten free. Maybe they gave me real cream cheese instead of the vegan stuff-”

The thought of food made bile rise up in the back of his throat; thankfully Alex knew his tells well enough to lean back and close her eyes before he threw up again. Her phobia of vomiting had improved a little- which, between him and Spencer, was a very good thing- but still wasn’t great. “You’re okay, Aaron, just breathe,” she said when he came back up for air.

Her voice sounded far away and muffled; he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the bathroom stall with a thud. If this was a year ago- hell, if it was six months ago- he would already be back out of the bathroom, fending off the nausea and pretending like nothing was bothering him.

“Can you take me back to my room?” he mumbled, his eyes still closed.

“Course I can,” she said. She brushed her thumb lightly against his temple and he leaned into her cool gentle touch. “Do you have gatorade in your room?”

“Yeah. The blue kind.”

“I know, you have to have the blue kind.” She rubbed her thumb in small gentle circles. “Water first, then benadryl once you can keep it down. And then gatorade and a nap.”

“Yeah, you can’t throw up when you’re knocked unconscious,” he said. 

Alex laughed. “But hopefully you’ll wake up feeling better,” she said. He nodded, then immediately regretted it. Alex swore in exasperation as he threw up again, but she rested her hand on his back and the touch made him feel like he was human again.

[keigologies]

sick heart, sick body, s. spiegel

syn. you both got some healing to do.

gen. romance, sick fic.

warnings. canon typical spike banter.

word count. 2.1k.

note. this was posted on ao3 forever ago and i said it was cross-posted here, but i ... clearly never actually did that... until now... oops (?)

spike has known you for most of his bounty hunting career. you came on the team a year after he himself joined jet, proving yourself to be not some wayward hitchhiker they'd have to take care of on their own dime, but a genuine asset: budgeting skills like no other (which the bebop crew really needed help with, though they would object to if questioned), ways of drawing out bounty heads into false senses of security (without causing a fire fight, something spike could really learn from, according to jet), disciplined in all the ways that matter. you're a quick learner; given the time and patience, you'd been able to pick up on his fighting style and you'd learned enough about mechanical engineering to help him and jet in repairing things on the bebop and the other spaceships on board.

all that to say: you're strong and spike has never known you to be anything else. you're smart, quickwitted, a powerhouse bounty hunter with all the skills that matter. you may be a little quiet, a little meek at points, but you're strong, almost untouchable.

so it surprises him when you come down especially hard with a severe case of the flu. it sounds so... primitive, he thinks, just some stupid earth sickness that honestly can't compete with some of the (quite frankly) awesomely-titled sicknesses that have come to be since the colonization of other planets; really, he justifies to himself, venus sickness sucks, but it is a cool name.

he cringes when he hears you cough for what might seriously be the hundreth time tonight and then mentally punches himself for taking the piss out of what you're going through right now. jet had said you'd contracted it while you guys were hanging around in tijuana and spike had been off tracking bounties; it was just coughing and congestion at first, but apparently, it eventually morphed into something way more severe. you'd quarantined yourself immediately to keep them safe, which spike has respected since he got back earlier in the day, but he shares a bedroom wall with you and damn him if you think he's going to allow you to keep suffering like this without him interfering.

your next coughing fit sends him up and out of the comforting warmth of his bed. it's not like he's angry with you or anything - sure, the coughing is getting on his nerves, but he knows you can't help it and he's not that much of a heartless asshole to be mad at you for keeping him from sleeping specifically because you're ill. really, he finds himself wanting (needing, maybe) to check on you, to make sure you have everything you need so you can rest easy and recover faster.

he realized a long time ago that he'd become jaded about the world. with everything that happened in the before the bebop era, it was clear why he'd become so disillusioned and nonchalant about things. with his past, things just didn't matter as much; he still had life to live, but he'd decided to be a little more reckless about things. he didn't want to waste time worrying about things that didn't concern him, now or ever: whatever happens, happens.

your being sick isn't really any of his business because outside of him having to listen to you cough all night for as long as you're ill, it doesn't concern him in the slightest. he means, it shouldn't concern him because it really shouldn't, but there's a part of him that's... open to the idea of being concerned for you and your wellbeing, which is strange to him because he shut himself off from ideas like that decades ago, it seems like. it's not that he's incapable of it, of caring for another person, but rather that he feels it's more of a betrayal. he'd given his heart to another and he'd never truly gotten it back.

though, in the five long strides it takes him to cross from his door to your own, he thinks that maybe he had gotten it back, years ago even, and he was too afraid to admit it to himself. so many things he'd held himself back from for years, all in the name of a woman who had disappeared into the ether without so much as a trace. she was gone; dead or alive, julia was gone and she had been for a long time. it's been time for him to douse that torch for a while now.

and when he comes to this conclusion in those five strides, he thinks that you getting sick might be a blessing in disguise, at least for him, because he's realizing now that he's been taken with you for quite some time. he's not sure when it first started, this infatuation with you, but it certainly isn't recent. he supposes it doesn't matter, however, because he's realizing it now, on his way to rescue you from an earth virus that definitely had a way lamer name than other sicknesses, which is a comment he's sure you'll laugh at and agree with him about if he brings it up.

once he finally raps his knuckles on the sliding metal door leading to your bedroom, he hears the beginning syllable of "come" before it's interrupted by a ragged cough. your voice, rough and almost whispered, struggles to say "come in," but you finally manage it and he opens the door just enough to slide in, ducking under the door frame.

"you feeling alright?" he asks, closing the door behind him. "you've been hacking up a lung all night."

you do your best to laugh, but it's a sad attempt, barely there and hoarse. a piece of him wilts at the sound, sad to hear you in such a bad condition. "better than i was yesterday."

"sure doesn't sound like it," he answers, turning towards you. he withers a little more.

you look so small in your bed, under what he can only guess to be every single available blanket on the bebop. you have dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks sunken and your skin pallid in accordance. you look like you have one foot in the grave.

"jesus," spike says, crossing the small room to your bedside and sitting on the edge. "you look awful. have you been eating?"

somehow, he's able to recognize your shrug under fifteen different blankets. "we're almost out of food. didn't wanna bother jet about it or throw the budget out of sorts."

"are you being serious right now? fuck the budget. you have to eat when you're sick like this." he genuinely frowns and presses the back of his hand to your forehead and then cheeks. "and you're burning up. did you just decide to forgo medicine in the name of the budget too?"

you shrug again.

"you're the worst." 

but you can tell he's joking because if he really thought that, he wouldn't be here at all. he stands and when he turns to look at you, you've got a questioning expression on your face.

"oh, don't look at me like that. i'm not just going to come in here, berate you for being stupid about being sick, and then leave. i'm going to go see if i can track down some medicine."

"it's not gonna be any of that weird shit you keep in the first aid kit, is it?" you ask, a grimace clear on your face.

"okay, first off, that weird shit is home remedies and they work just fine. second, no, i'm not stupid. that stuff isn't going to cure what you have, so don't worry your pretty little head, alright? the newt stays in the kit another day."

the last comment makes you laugh and this time, it's not as hoarse as it was a few minutes ago, which makes him smile to himself. with you being in the state you are, it's nice to hear a few seconds of your cool, clear laugh. something about it anchors him to this moment in time, reminds him that he's not as cold and as standoffish as he's always presented himself to be in this new life of his; no, he's capable of caring for people like this, of loving someone like this. he's got something good here with you and he's always had it, he's just never let himself think that it was his to actually indulge in.

"i'll see what i can find. in the meantime, start deconstructing that 'money is more important than my pressing health needs' mindset you apparently have going on, okay? i mean, really, you were worried about the budget? you know jet would agree with me here, as much as he complains about not having money. plus, shit that you can't account for happens."

"okay, okay, i get it." you accompany your words with an eye roll, but the smile is clear on your lips, which are cracked from dehydration. "can we save the lecture for when you get back? or just save it for jet altogether since i know you'll end up snitching to him about this eventually anyway?"

spike scowls, but it's obviously playful. "don't go catching an attitude with me. i'm generously playing nurse for you right now when i could very well just let you suffer here alone."

"oh, this is you playing nurse? then you really oughta work on your bedside manner, spiegel. it's atrocious."

he shakes his head and begins backing away from you, arms crossed over his chest. "keep acting like that and maybe i'll feed you that newt after all."

"yeah, yeah, yeah. i think jet's been hiding chamomile tea somewhere in the living room. make some for me, please?"

"you're real lucky i'm in the mood to be compassionate," he jokes, finally turning to open the door. "you want honey with it?"

"if we have any."

"you got it. don't fall asleep before i get back or i'm ratting you out to jet about this tea too."

he hears your hum of affirmation as he steps into the hallway and when he closes the door behind him, he allows himself to assess the whole interaction. if this had occurred at any point before now, he would have felt entirely disgusted with himself, but at present, he realizes he doesn't really mind. you've taken care of him an innumerable amount of times since joining him and jet, serving as the defacto nurse on the bebop, and this could easily be just him returning the favor, but it feels like so much more than that. 

because it is. if it was anyone else, if was any other time, he wouldn't be feeling this way: soft and warm on the inside like heat without his trusty cigarette. when he'd left the syndicate and faked his death, he'd sworn off love and adoration and affection. they had been his downfall once, they would not ruin him a second time. sure, he'd come to trust jet more than he'd trusted anyone before, but he kept even him at arm's length, afraid of what might happen if he let him come too close to orbit. 

and while it worked for the most part, spike has been learning (for what he assumes is quite a long time) that cutting those kinds of human connections of out of one's life isn't the way to go about healing, especially when the person one wants to love has proven time and time again that they're worthy of being trusted. there is no life without love because life without love and companionship is a sickness of the heart and he's let it fester for far too long.

so when he comes back to your room with a hot mug of chamomile tea with honey, a few pieces of hard tack he scrounged up, and some generic medicine, and he finds you asleep? he doesn't find himself all too annoyed with you like he threatened he'd be. no, instead, he feels a little bad when he has to wake you up to drink and eat and take the medicine he had to go digging through too many drawers for. and when you apologize for keeping him up with your coughing, he tells you you're the worst next door neighbor for it (a joke), but he's glad he can help you (not a joke).

and when you ask him if he'll stay for a while (just to make sure i'm not going to die in my sleep, you reason), he agrees and lays under your fifteen blankets with you until your breathing evens out and you're fast asleep, and even then, he stays just a little bit longer than he needs to, relishing in the feeling of sharing a bed with another person again.

he figures you've both got some healing to do, so you won't mind if he falls asleep with you. 

© keigologies 2023. do not translate, copy, or repost my work on any site.

[brightdarkness-2013]

Chapter 28: And Here It Comes!

Summary: The day of the attempted merge is drawing in.

Several days of what felt like wasted time. Several more days with Prowl making me learn his language rather than the other way around. Several days of Blaster laughing his ass off at me. I was about ready to throw in the towel. Sure I knew that I wouldn’t be gone for long if I did get frustrated enough to walk out, but it would be a great couple of days. I already knew how they would go. I would spend those days ignoring calls, listening to music, playing video games, and eating to my heart's content. Then I would come back and be back to this. But I wasn’t at that point yet. So here I was. Writing and rewriting symbol after symbol. Percy and Jack were having a field day with our notes on what these symbols translated to. I didn’t know exactly what they were doing with them, but I assumed they were trying to find a pattern or compare them to already know symbols and mer mythology or something. Whatever it was they were doing was going to be brought up to some serious big wig scientists and theorists at some point I was sure. Hopefully by then Prowl would be out of here and making a new home out in the ocean somewhere. I would miss him there was no doubt about that, but when it came around I didn’t want him being taken off somewhere and studied. He had already been through enough and he didn’t need anyone else poking and prodding at him.

“Ok. Done. How about we have some fun now, huh? Puzzles are great. Lets put together some puzzles. Or we can eat some candy. I’ll go get one of those mixed packs with kitkats, m&ms, and snickers.”

“Yeah he’s not going for it.” Blaster responded as he just shoved another carved coral piece at me before pointing to the seashell.

“Come on, Prowls. Doesn’t it at least Sound fun?”

“Jazz, your education is far more important than some candy and puzzles.” Blaster scolded mockingly. “You know if you learn enough words or at least get enough of them written down then we could write him a message to get him to understand that we’re trying to teach him Our language. And the more you get down the quicker that’ll happen. So get writing.”

“How about You waste all day writing nonsense and then ya can try and say that again.”

“It’s not nonsense. This is a real language of the sea here. And you’re the first to learn it so you should feel privileged.”

“Oh whatever. Besides as excited as I am that we could eventually speak to Prowl I really don’t want him stuck being interrogated and gawked at by people. I know the media would eat this up as much as some serious people in the scientific and marine fields, but in turn so would the public and… Prowl doesn’t deserve that. He’s been through enough.”

“I wouldn’t worry. Ratchet will keep people away if we can’t.”

“Yeah I suppose you’re right on that.” I laughed softly.

“After all this is a sanctuary for injured and ill mers. This isn’t a zoo you know!” Blaster did his best impression of Ratchet and I had to admit that lifted my spirits quite a bit along with pushing away my worry.

The people here were good. They cared for the mers. No matter how they acted they were worth protecting. No matter how damaged they were worth saving. Even if they seemed like they wouldn’t make it no matter what they did they would at least try. They wouldn’t let anything happen to Prowl. They’d fight it if they pestered him or tried to take Prowl away. I suppose this was why I liked the people here so much. The people here put some of my faith back in humanity. The faith I had lost through the years. What was eighteen years with neglectful and controlling parents compared to what I could do with the rest of my life? Sure most of the friends I would make here would be fish- mammals, but what did that matter in the long run? Maybe one day I could be fluent in Prowls language. At least writing anyway. Being able to talk to mers whenever would be pretty neat.

“So the big days tomorrow.”

“Huh? Oh. Right. I hope Prowl doesn’t rip their heads off or something. He really doesn’t seem to like them from long distance. I can’t imagine how he’s going to like them close up.”

“Eh. Prowl’s pretty level headed. He won’t go and attack them. I really don’t think it will end in violence this time around. I think the odds are good.”

“With how things are going I don’t think they’d hurt him either, but that leaves things up to Prowl and ya know how stubborn Prowl can be. If he says no he Never changes his mind.”

“Bribe him with a few m&ms every once in awhile to be nice and see where it goes.”

“I don’t think that will work out. If anything he’d take them anyway and still say no. He’d think I owe him for putting him in that situation.”

“Oh yeah. Well prepare for the worst and hope for the best then. The sooner he makes nice with one of the other pods here the sooner he gets out. Well after he teaches you how to write.”

“I know how to write.”

“Well he doesn’t think so. And what I mean is if things go well then we might have some more time with him to teach you his language. He’s the only one that’s actually tried or at least been willing to try and teach the language. At least to our knowledge. Maybe there is someone out there speaking and living with the mers or whatever, but this will be the only time it’s documented.”

“Who would have thought my seeing Prowl on a rock back in highschool would lead to this?”

“I know. Life really is something else.”

“The funny thing is I really thought that Prowl was an annoyance back then. I was walking home and then I ended up feeding him because he was too injured to hunt. Now I can’t picture my life without him there.”

Next

First

Masterpost

[palletepanda]

I want to start this off by saying you can have your own gender headcanons for characters. I don’t really care what people want to believe when it comes to their favorite characters, this is just something that when I think about it makes me think… huh, weird.

Anyway what im writing about now is that sometimes… i dont understand certain trans headcanons. Not it terms of why they exist but in terms of i think you got the wrong gender.

This mostly comes from two characters I love, those being Noato from persona 4 and Firefly from honkai star rail.

Firefly is the less… i feel the word egregious is too strong but i cant think of anything else, of these two characters. She’s a lab grown soldier made to pilot a male presenting mech named SAM who due to being lab grown has an illness that is slowly killing her, which she can only really slow down by staying inside SAM.

Naoto on the other hand is a detective in p4 who is initially believed to be a boy who we eventually find out is a girl in boy’s clothing, and she eventually comes to accept the feminine side of herself through the games events.

Now the thing that makes me think “huh, weird” when it comes to these two characters is that ive seen trans men headcanons for these characters, when i personally see them both working better as trans women. I think what my differentiate me between the people who see trans male where i see trans female is that i focus more on what the stories are actually telling us (again this is not an attack on anyone just how im reading their stories through a transgender lens).

Like firefly is someone with a disease thats slowly killing her if she doesn’t stay inside sam, her more male presenting persona, but being firefly, her female presenting persona, is what she longs for. Its why she enjoys the dream world of penacony so much, its why she’s working with the stellaron hunters, being able to be firefly and not be shackled to sam is her primary motivation for everything she does.

And naoto to me at least always felt like a trans woman who was worried about the consequences of transitioning. To me it felt like naoto worried about how being a woman would negatively effect her dream of becoming a detective, and how people would see her, and maybe even if she’d have to give up on some of the thing she enjoys, like the clothes she wears or her preferences in media.

Like she reads to me as someone who is aware theyre trans, wants to transition, but is afraid of what that would do to her life, but through the acceptance of their friends comes to accept that, as naoto herself puts it, “I am a woman.”

And yeah I wouldn’t call p4 the most progressive game out there but i remember seeing some “disappointed on how naoto’s gender was handled” comments when i was more into the p4 fandom and couldn’t help but think “i think that’s maybe because you’re looking at it the wrong way, and if you look at it this way it actually works way better in the context of the story we were given.”

Anyway, why did i write this again…? Oh yeah, because these thoughts randomly popped into my head again and its late and maybe if i actually post them somewhere they won’t invade my mind again :p

(Or maybe its just cause of the p4 revival announcement (it should have been rerun, IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN RERUN))

And once again, this is not supposed to be an attack on anyone. If you like viewing these characters as trans male, cool. If you like viewing them as trans fem, also cool. If you like these characters, don’t like them, or don’t even know who tf im talking about, also cool. Idc you do you and have fun doing it.

Imma go back to drawing characters for the fighting game in my head now :D

[only-omo]

ok but something ive never heard anybody talk abt ever and they should

tourettes omo

or at least tics, i understand why it may be a touchy subject bc awareness and stuff but like as someone with tourettes can i just say

i get bladder tics

and theyre luckily on the rarer side but like, it is literally ill just be doing stuff and then essentially suddenly either actually just wetting myself, or so ungodly close to it as im fighting the waves of desperation accompanying the muscle spasms and its

actually crazy

but like could you imagine your fc who has ts or some other tic syndrome (ts au ? medication ? idk man) and theyre hanging out with friends just doing whatever or something like that, and basically they just start wetting themselves out of nowhere, leading to prying questions (good naturedly or not) about why they didnt go if they had to that badly

maybe theyre peeshy and this kind of thing is semi normal already; or they arent, and they then have to delve into explanations on the fact that either they didnt know/didnt have to go, met with varying degrees of belief, or that they did know, but they also were certain it wasnt near close to bad enough to have an accident yet, and maybe through rambling even admitting straight up that they literally just pissed themselves regardless of need.

or if they didnt even wet fully, anywhere from a rather messy leak that they cant hide, similar to above; to one thats smaller and less obvious, but maybe they freeze up in a really conspicuous way, still bringing attention to themselves, and maybe they suck at playing it off, or just have really pushy/concerned friends, or both, so they end up still having to admit to just having peed themselves a little, despite there being no immediately visble/no visible damage, and then try to explain that they arent in desperate need of a bathroom despite that

or maybe they are. maybe now their body is confused and theyre teetering on the edge of a full accident all of a sudden. and of course theres the constant worry nagging in the back of their head that theyll tic again and lose it the rest of the way, but also trying not to think about it for fear that focusing on it too much will make it happen, which is an entirely real possibility

not to mention any tics that arent actually their bladder, but help just as little, for instance, i get vocal tics but they arent often real words, so like,, invlountary whines and groans that have nothing to do with anything but sound so desperate, paired with jerky/restless movements that arent a real potty dance but at this point only the one ticking themselves can tell the difference; which doesnt matter much in the end anyway, as theres still a real chance theyll wet regardless

or someone who is actually rather desperate, and theyre trying to play it off for one reason or another, but despite their control in terms of potty dancing, they continually lose focus on their tics, which eventually simulate the same thing, and they keep drawing attention to themselves anyway

the absolute confusion and misdirection it causes for everyone else because no one can ever tell when they actually have to go, and eventually they learn that it doesnt really matter if their bladder isnt already completely empty (which only really lasts for like 5 min after using the bathroom if that, so)

[ratherembarrassing]

2025: weeks 1 + 2

starting the year off as we ended the last one: well behind on every measure!

right off the bat: the wee hours of new year's day. henny and fairy floss and chappell roan playing quietly in the background. a perfect start.

first brunch of the year: my kingdom for a horse (whitemore square, adelaide). it's gonna be the year of the waffle.

unicorn slime: the gift for a seven year old.

eight? hours in a steamy car: the fires in the grampians were forecast to kick off again, so my very brief jaunt to adelaide was over. it was hot. my stomach was angry. there was nothing but errands waiting for me. i think the eight hour drive ended up taking nine and a half.

purchases that will change your life: a new kitchen knife. the dulling of a knife is like slow boiling a frog, or whatever the saying is, but there are few things as satisfying in life as a perfectly halved sandwich.

nicole kidman, save me from the sun: i have been in the market for a rashie since about 2014, but the point is that despite being absolutely paranoid about getting sunburnt, last summer i got roasted in a 3" strip across my back and i have conceded defeat by my shoulders' inability to reach that far. anyway, there is a rashie version of nicole kidman's swimmers, and now i own it and it's great.

not that i needed it: first beach of the year was hot and entirely cloudy, which is perfect beach weather as far as i'm concerned. melbourne beaches can barely be called such a thing, but they are great for floating in the water while you have a gasbag with your pals before stuffing your faces with fish and chips.

songs i shazamed (mostly) in the car: this is an annual tradition at this point, but it's literally the reason i bought an apple watch a few years ago and i haven't shared it in a few years.

oh yeah, also tv: squid game (season 1, netflix). the next item will explain why, but i did finally watch the first season a couple of days after the second season dropped. surprised by how uninteresting i found it, which maybe tells on me more than on itself.

the blood is a metaphor: maccas was running an australian-only grown up happy meal to promo squid game season 2, which included a dalgona candy that got you a ticket in the draw for either a tracksuit or $10,000. there were four shapes, and only the golden arches were for the cash. after a couple of other shapes, one of which i got out successfully, i finally got a big M in my tin. and i was prepared. i had watched s1 now. i knew what to do: i was going to lick that sucker free. within five minutes and nowhere near to releasing the shape, my tongue was bleeding. did i stop? no. did i get the shape free? yes, but it broke. i carefully shoved the pieces back together so i could trick the scanned. it worked! "congrats, enter your details below." below: this competition is now over. motherfucker.

get that one in ya: is what i would have named the place, but fluffy torpedo is also a name for a weird flavour ice cream joint. buttermilk pancakes and maple syrup flavour was exactly as described, buttered baguette was... something else, though i couldn't say what.

also, uh: let (2024, dir. alyssa loh) sonoya mizuno in the short film version of that slightly off-putting bdsm fic that exists for every single ship.

cinema!: the brutalist (2024, dir. brady corbet). every year i manage to see the best movie of the past year right out the door of the new year. the length is daunting, but the intermission entirely mitigates it. i reviewed it on letterboxd like a wanker.

sportsball, as always: i hustled my ass out of the 3.5 hour movie to get down to some ill-planned impulse purchased tickets to day one of the ao to see my girl sabalenka have a stressful one. as circumstances have eventuated, i'm now very glad i went when i did.

[annafayeink]

Hope on a Bullet

summary: After assassinating a corrupt CEO, a man on the run turns to an unlikely ally—the girl who worked at the hostel he stayed at before the crime. She shouldn't let him in. He shouldn't trust her. In a world that's already taken too much from them both, how far can hope go when it’s built on the edge of a bullet?

warnings & tags: slow burn, eventual smut, multiple pov, hurt/comfort, chronic pain (and dealing with it)

Chapter Two

POV: Gabriella

The frosty windows keep out most of the street noise, leaving the faint hum of the TV to fill the room effortlessly. The news anchor's steady voice drones in the background, like a constant companion.

Gabriella isn't really listening. Balancing her phone between ear and shoulder, she shoves a pile of fresh laundry onto the dining table, careful not to lean too hard on its wobbly legs. The folded pieces of cardboard wedged underneath them shift slightly, threatening the precarious stack. Around her are ill-assorted chairs—a sturdy metal one, her favourite wooden seat with the yellow cushion, and one with a backrest so loose it sways with every move. None of it is worth fixing, even if she had the funds to do so.

"I’m telling you, Marcy, it’s a scam," Gabriella says, frustration bleeding into her tone. "They keep denying me for the dumbest reasons. Like, how is treatment not a medical necessity? I can barely function without it half the time!"

Marcy’s voice crackles through the speaker on the other end. "Ugh, I hate them. They just want you to give up. It's all designed to wear you down.”

“Well, it's working,” Gabriella tosses a folded sheet onto the growing pile with unnecessary force.

“Have you tried calling them again?"

"Three times this week," she replies. "They just put me on hold forever, and then each time it's a different excuse or some new form they conveniently forgot to mention before.”

“Typical,” Marcy murmurs.

“I don’t know what else to do. I can’t afford another appointment out of pocket, and I'm out of meds. Half a month's supply costs more than my rent. Who can even afford this?" Gabriella's voice falters, weariness creeping in.

Her friend's sympathy comes through loud and clear. “You shouldn't have to do this alone. Maybe we can—”

The TV interrupts her. The anchor’s tone shifts into something sharper, drawing Gabriella's attention. "Police are asking for the public’s help in identifying this man, believed to be connected to the shooting—"

Her hands freeze mid-fold, and the fabric slips through her fingers. She walks towards the screen in disbelief with a deep thudding in her chest.

The photo pulled from a security camera is grainy, but it doesn’t matter. A man with dark hair and sharp features, cotton mask bunched around his neck, flashes a lopsided grin like he doesn't have a care in the world. His expression is so familiar it knocks the air from her lungs.

It’s him. It's Mark.

Her throat goes dry. She stares, willing the screen on her secondhand TV to glitch and the image to morph into someone else entirely. But it doesn't. It stays Mark.

"Gab? You still there?"

Marcy's voice feels distant now, miles away. Gabriella swallows hard and forces herself to answer. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m here."

"What’s wrong?"

Her mouth opens to reply, but no sound comes out.

She lowers herself onto the couch, reality distorted and in slow motion. The faded upholstery sags slightly under her weight, while the news anchor continues. "This image was captured at a youth hostel on Amsterdam Avenue. He checked in with the name Mark Rosario and was last seen leaving during the early hours of the morning of the incident."

Gabriella's chest tightens. Mark Rosario. She wrote that name in the logbook. The guy who teased her about the hot chocolate in the vending machine and asked about her headaches is now the most wanted man in the city. How is she supposed to explain this?

"Gabby?"

"Sorry," she says quickly, her voice shaky. "I—I just saw something on the news."

"What is it?"

She hesitates. "Nothing. Just... nothing."

"Gab." Marcy’s voice is softer now. "You sure you’re okay?"

"Yeah," Gabriella lies, trying to sound normal despite the pounding in her temples. "I’m fine. Just—just distracted."

The conversation ends shortly after that, with some half-hearted excuse about needing to finish her laundry. But the laundry remains untouched. She sits, staring at the pile as her thoughts spiral. Mark's breathtaking grin on the screen weighs heavier than the mismatched socks ever could.

Surely they’re wrong. They got the wrong guy. He never struck her as the kind of person who would be capable of doing something like this — not just killing someone, but doing it in such a cold and ruthless manner as the cctv footage had made it seem.

Mark was kind. He listened. He noticed her pain when no one else did. How could someone like that be a murderer?

It makes no sense. But, then again, nothing about the system makes sense either.

Three hours later, the knock comes.

Gabriella tugs the hoodie sleeves over her knuckles, already knowing who it is before she opens the door. Her stomach sinks, regardless. The two officers standing on her doorstep don't smile. Their gazes carry a cutting chill, colder than the December air. One is older, his face lined with years of experience. The younger one's sharp eyes scan her like she’s a puzzle he’s already piecing together.

"Ms. Alvarez?" The older officer’s voice is calm and measured. He holds up a badge for her to see like a visual reminder of their authority.

"Yeah," she says in a guarded tone, feigning ignorance. "What’s this about?"

“I'm Detective Johnson. This is Detective Pratt.” He lowers the badge but keeps his gaze steady on her. The other one looks over her shoulder, searching the tiny apartment as if he expects to see the suspect's face poking out from behind the curtains.

"We’d like to ask you a few questions about a guest at the hostel, Mark Rosario. Do you remember him?"

Her pulse quickens, but she steps aside to allow them in. They were bound to show up eventually. The news had been nonstop about it, and the CCTV image of Mark's charming grin had been plastered across every screen she owns for the past few hours.

Detective Johnson sits across from her in the cramped living room, small notebook and pen in hand. Detective Pratt seems content to stand, gaze darting around as if cataloguing every imperfection in her life. The chipped ceramic mug sitting on the coffee table, and the TV remote beside it, held together with tape; the frayed blanket tossed over the armrest of the couch; the old rug she had brought from her childhood bedroom and its curling corners.

Maybe her insecurities are messing with her, but she could swear there's harsh judgment in his eyes when they meet hers.

The clicking of the pen in Detective Johnson's hand sounds louder than it should, nearly startling her. "You were working the night he checked in, correct?"

"Yeah," she answers, meeting his eyes steadily. She crosses her legs tightly, pretending the tremble in her knee isn’t there. "I checked him in around midnight, I think. Didn’t seem… weird or anything."

Out of the corner of her eyes, Gabriela notices the younger officer starting to wander around with small steps, turning to inspect the bookcase next to the TV.

"Did he mention why he was in town?” The older officer speaks again, holding her attention. “Plans, appointments, anything like that?"

Yeah, it's totally normal for someone checking in at a hostel to go, “Oh, by the way, I'm in town to kill a guy”. She bites her tongue to keep the sarcasm from spilling out. The last thing she needs is for police to think she was somehow involved in a high-profile murder because she overstepped some boundary. Instead, she just shakes her head, trying to keep her face carefully neutral. "No. He said he was just passing through, needed somewhere warm to sleep."

The words feel hollow in her mouth, almost as if they are too rehearsed, a very thin lie. She forces herself not to elaborate when the silence between them stretches.

The detective looks down to take notes. He's writing too much for the very few words she uttered and it makes her feel nauseated.

"Ms. Alvarez," Detective Johnson says in a softening tone, "this is a serious matter. We’re trying to prevent more harm. If you know anything about where he might’ve gone or what he might’ve been planning—"

"There's nothing else I can tell you," she interrupts. “I didn't know him and I still don't.”

Detective Johnson presses. “He's smiling at you in that footage. Can you tell us anything about that conversation?”

The memory of him saying her eyes were “too kind” for a place like that hostel still brings a strange warmth to her. He'd smiled like he wanted only good things for her. No one had ever made her feel so seen and understood.

She swallows hard. "He said I had nice eyes," she admits, voice barely above a whisper.

Detective Johnson's bushy brows furrow as he scribbles something. "So he flirted with you. That’s what the footage shows. You’re telling me he said nothing personal to you?"

Gabriella can tell where they're trying to go with this line of questioning and she’s feeling less and less inclined to answer with the truth.

“He said 'you have nice eyes’.” Her voice sharpens for the first time, and her fists clench on her lap without her noticing. “Then he showed me his ID and I said something about needing to see his face in order to confirm his identity, so he did. That was all.”

She replayed their conversations over and over since seeing the news, picking apart very detail. The way he noticed she wasn't okay even though they were strangers. How he listened to her vent about her migraines, looking into her eyes with genuine interest. The small smile he gave when she talked about how broken the system was.

In her mind, she can still picture him as clearly as if he's standing right in front of her—his easy, mischievous grin as he pulls the mask down, all dimples and crinkly eyes. He didn’t seem like a killer then. He didn’t even seem dangerous.

The scratching of pen on paper is unnerving.

From the corner of her eye she can see Detective Pratt move beside her. His gaze shifts to the dining table. With a flash of panic, she pinpoints the exact moment his eyes land on the folded laundry—and an old letter from United Healthcare, lying among the mess. The bold words Claim Denied scream in red at the top.

“You having insurance problems, Ms. Alvarez?” he asks, his tone casual but laced with something acidic.

Gabriella feels like her throat is closing up or maybe someone is stealing all the oxygen in the room. Either way, she can't breathe. Panic starts to bubble under her skin. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“People with grievances against the system might sympathize with someone like this criminal.”

“If you're going to use insurance problems as a motive to find an accomplice or something, then you'll have to question 99% of the population of this country.” Annoyance is finally getting the better of her, and she’s having trouble filtering it out.

The other detective doesn't miss a beat. “Someone like Mark Rosario might seem appealing to people who've been wronged by the system. If you're struggling to get the care you need… Well, he clearly has strong feelings about corporate greed. Seems like the kind of thing you two might have talked about. Or bonded over.”

The older man's voice sounds too gentle to be authentic, and Gabriella bristles, heat rising to her cheeks. “He was a guest,” she snaps. “Not a therapist. I didn't tell him anything about my insurance.”

She thinks about her dad’s overdue medical bills and how long her sister has been waiting for that much-needed hysterectomy to ease the symptoms of her endometriosis. Her own issues with debilitating chronic migraines and the empty container sitting on her nightstand, waiting to be filled with the only painkillers that seem to work on her. The system left her family with nothing but stress and heartache, and now they expect her to betray the only person brave enough to do something about it?

The detectives don’t find her outburst amusing. "Ms. Alvarez, if we find out you’re withholding information—"

"I’m not," she cuts in, trying to reign in her bad temper. "Look, I didn’t know him. He was just a guest who stayed a few nights and left early. That’s it. I see dozens of people like him every week and I'm not paid enough to care or memorize details about them just in case they turn out to be murderers."

At that, Johnson stands, signaling the end of the conversation. He pulls a business card from his front pocket, holding it out. "If you remember anything, contact us immediately."

Gabriella nods, taking the card in silence and avoiding their eyes. She stands as well but doesn’t move towards the door until they do. It's not until the door clicks shut that she lets out a shaky breath, leaning her forehead against the wood.

Her fingers tighten around the card, and she stares at it for a long moment like it’s something offensive. Guilt and defiance fight a fierce battle inside her.

A man is dead. A shady CEO is dead. But what does that mean to her? He was just a cog in a machine that continues to bleed her dry, that left her family drowning in debt and suffering.

She rips the card in half. In the quiet apartment, the sound feels sharp and satisfying. Then she drops it into the trash can without a second glance.

She does not regret lying, not for a single second.

---

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