#I spent MONTHS deciphering the code in this

[knight-in-skunks-armour]

DND PEOPLES

This is a Google sheets based DND character sheet. I found it a couple of months ago and whenever I was bored in school I would just make character sheets and then add features that seemed helpful.

Its very useful for making relatively simple homebrew Races, Classes, Weapons, and Other Misc equipment

I am very proud of what I added, especially the spell list and other QOL shtuff, so pls use!!! I will be very happy

[camille-aurelie-deveraux]

Hiii, beauty!

Could I please request some George content. His girlfriend is the secretary from Toto, so the two get to spend a lot of time together. Them being like Kimis parents and stuff.

Thank you so much and may God bless you!

Love is in the air

The hum of engines and the rhythmic chatter of paddock life was a comfort to Yn now. Years ago, when she’d first taken the job as Toto’s secretary, the sounds had been overwhelming—a tangle of chaos she hadn’t yet learned to decipher. Now, it was just background music to her world, the soundtrack to mornings spent typing schedules, coordinating interviews, and weaving through engineers with a clipboard in hand.

And then, of course, there was George.

She had been sixteen, a little more reserved, a little more unsure of herself when they met. He was seventeen, all bright smiles and boundless energy, already halfway in love with the world and very quickly, with her. Now, years later, as she passed through the garage clutching a coffee and a schedule, she felt the familiar tug on her waist.

"Gotcha," George whispered, his arm slipping around her and his hand shamelessly finding its way into her back pocket.

Yn didn’t stop walking. "George," she warned, though her voice betrayed her with the hint of a smile.

He matched her stride, completely unfazed. "What? Can’t I say hi to my girlfriend? In my defense, you walked right past me. That’s cruel, you know."

She raised a brow. "I have twenty minutes to organize Toto’s meeting with the FIA and get two media slots confirmed."

"Exactly twenty minutes to walk with me first." He leaned in to press a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then finally landed one on her lips mid-step. It was a kiss that still made her heart skip despite knowing this boy—now man—for so many years.

"George," she warned again, although this time it was breathier. "I will spill this coffee."

"Risk I’m willing to take."

---

When Kimi joined Mercedes, it wasn’t a surprise. The whispers had been swirling for months—how the prodigious young talent would step up in 2025, the way he’d dominated F2, the way Toto’s eyes would light up every time someone brought up the name "Antonelli."

What was a surprise, though, was how quickly he became their kid.

"So...what do I even do at media day?" Kimi asked, nervously tugging at the collar of his team shirt. Yn was typing something out on her tablet while George leaned lazily against the garage wall, sipping his protein shake.

"You stand there, smile, say things like 'we’re looking forward to a good weekend,' and resist the urge to call the media stupid even when they ask stupid questions," Yn replied without missing a beat.

Kimi blinked. "What if they ask me about George’s skincare routine?"

George looked deeply offended. "That’s a very important question."

"Tell them," Yn added dryly, "that he uses my expensive serums without asking."

"They make me glow," George said, grinning.

Kimi looked between the two of them, exasperated. "You two are...weird."

"That’s code for adorable," George said smugly, bumping shoulders with Yn.

Yn gave Kimi a sympathetic pat on the back. "You’ll get used to us."

---

The dynamic settled fast. Kimi, just eighteen and still finding his voice, fell into the rhythm of the team under their watchful eyes. George, despite his teasing and golden retriever exuberance, took his role seriously. He shared tips, coached him through awkward media moments, and more than once lent him a pair of sunglasses and told him it was fine to cry after a bad race.

Yn, in her quieter way, always made sure Kimi had what he needed—snuck him snacks between briefings, reminded him to rest, and once, after a particularly rough qualifying, sat beside him in the hospitality unit and just...let him sit.

"It’s okay to not smile all the time," she said then, voice soft. "You don’t have to fake it."

Kimi hadn’t said anything, but later that night, he sent her a text: Thanks.

George saw the message flash on her phone. He didn't ask, just leaned over and kissed her shoulder. "You’re really good at that, you know."

"At what?"

"Loving people. Quietly."

She smiled, her black cat aura softening under his gaze. "One of us has to be subtle."

---

Their coupledom had become legend by now. Everyone on the grid knew about George and Yn—how she calmed his chaos, how he dragged her into it anyway, how they somehow balanced each other in a way that just made sense.

"Look at them," Pierre said one afternoon, nodding toward the pair walking through the paddock. George had his hand in her back pocket again, and Yn was reading something on her phone, completely used to his clinginess.

"One day she’s just gonna throw him over her shoulder and carry him out of here," Lando muttered.

"She could. She has that scary strength."

"And George would thank her."

Even Max, who rarely commented on anything remotely sentimental, had once said, "If they don’t get married, love is fake."

---

They didn’t talk about marriage much—not because it wasn’t on the table, but because it was just...a given.

"Do you ever think about the wedding?" George asked one night as they lay curled on the small sofa in their shared hotel room, post-race adrenaline finally wearing off.

"Sometimes," Yn admitted, her fingers combing through his hair. "Not in detail. Just...you. Me. Maybe Kimi giving a very awkward speech."

George chuckled. "He’d read it off his phone and accidentally open his Spotify."

"And then cry when he hears our first dance song."

"What is our first dance song?"

"I’m not telling you yet."

He pouted. "Tease."

"You’ll live."

He kissed her, gentle and slow. "Yeah. Especially with you."

🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦🥰👨‍👩‍👦

Hello my lovely reader! I hope you had a lot of fun reading this little piece of art. I'm always so happy to receive some requests, so don't hesitate to send some!

Cami🥰👨‍👩‍👦

[fleurstruck]

there wasn't a lot of things that stumped vernon when it comes to the things he enjoys, or things that left him confuddled in the middle of his apartment when it came to you. but this was a whole new level. earlier today when the two of you met up for your weekly hangout, you seemed extremely happy, giddy almost, to see him. he was excited to see you too, but this seemed new?

you even got him a gift, which wasn't really out of nowhere. the two of you liked to exchange trinkets from time to time. but he's currently looking at, and listening to, the current gift you gave him. a mixtape. like, an actual, physical mixtape. you spent time to burn a whole playlist into a cd for him to play…

and what was even more confusing is that the first song was 'kiss me' by sixpence none the richer? was there something he missed? the more he listened to it… the more vernon realized that the whole thing was specific love songs. the last song fades out just as he hears you walk through the door, food and cola in your hands. you two stare at each other for a moment, before you realize he has his headphones on.

"did you listen to it?" you ask, voice shy. if vernon looked closer, he could see the tint of pink on your cheeks that he's certain is not from the cold.

he nods in response. "why start it with 'kiss me', though? like isn't that a bit… romantic?"

you stare at him, mirroring his confused expression. "yeah? i thought it suited us?" he gave you no response this time, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he tried to decipher this not-so-secret code in front of him. you decide to make it easier for him— "have we… not… been dating for a month now?"

oh.

oh.

things finally click into place for him, heat rushing up and painting his whole face and neck red as he recounted the amount of hangouts— which he's pretty sure now were actually dates— that you guys went on, the more romantic gifts and the shy touches and hand-holding. "i guess we were but— when did you even confess?" he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks you in the eye.

"last month? i said i love you— i did a whole long speech— you took that as platonic?" to both of your surprise, you start laughing. "what part of 'i want to love you and call you my greatest friend even when the sun will swallow the earth and leave us as nothing' sounded platonic?"

"i don't know! i thought you were being just really elaborate and poetic at the time!" you laugh even harder and the sound reverberates in his soul. you were so bright, so loving, so patient when it came to him. it clicks in his head.

you were so breathtaking.

he's always known that, and this isn't the first time he appreciates that face, either. vernon takes the first step towards you, gauging the sudden surprise that flashes across your face. he tries to stop his grin but the hint of recognition in your eyes tells him he definitely failed. you always told him that he reminded you of cats. oddly endearing and strangely familiar all the same.

"to be fair," he starts, a rush of confidence and fondness flooding his senses as he looks at you. a light chuckle echoes in the room, food and cola in your hands long forgotten. "you did say 'greatest friend'. i don't know how else i could've interpreted that."

"that is true," you squeak out, throat running dry as your eyes meet. the atmosphere is a little tenser than before and you hope to whatever power is above you that he can't hear how fast your heart is beating in it's cage right now. you watch his expressions carefully, studying his face with a practiced experience he's never realized before.

your eyes flick down to his lips, then to his eyes. his touch gentle as a hand reaches up to cup your face. "can i kiss you then? like the song?"

breathless, your eyes sparkle like the stars in the milky twilight. "yes, please."

[heliosunny]

Can you write for fyodor like with a reader that’s been working besides him with his plans because her ability is useful,however the reader is really caring for him and stuff like that🧍🏽‍♀️ fyodor starts falling for her and starts thinking to himself that he shouldn’t fall for an ability user yet he can’t help it🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

The candlelight flickered weakly against the cold, damp walls of the underground hideout, casting long shadows that swayed like ghosts. Fyodor Dostoevsky sat at his desk, fingers idly twirling a fountain pen as his violet eyes skimmed the reports before him. A city in chaos. A government on its knees. Everything was unfolding precisely as he had calculated.

And yet, his focus was not on the grand orchestration of destruction he had set in motion.

It was on you.

You sat across from him, your brows furrowed in concentration, scanning through intercepted messages and decrypting them with practiced ease. You had been by his side for months, your ability proving itself indispensable in untangling the coded language of government agencies and rival organizations alike.

That was why he had recruited you. That was why you remained here.

And yet, that was not why he could not tear his gaze away from you.

The way you tilted your head slightly as you deciphered a particularly difficult line, the way your fingers tapped rhythmically against the table in thought, the way your lips parted in the faintest sign of victory when you finally cracked a code, these were details he should not care about. Yet, he did.

“Your hands are cold.”

Your voice broke the silence, gentle and full of quiet understanding. Before he could react, you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his hand, rubbing warmth into his skin.

Fyodor stiffened. He should have pulled away, should have sneered at your misplaced tenderness. He was no fragile creature in need of comfort. He was the mastermind of calamity, the shepherd guiding the world toward judgment.

“You always work too hard” you murmured, your thumbs tracing small circles against the back of his hand. “You don’t eat properly, and you barely rest. Do you really think you’re above basic human needs?”

He let out a soft, breathy chuckle, though there was no real amusement in it. “And you believe that’s your responsibility?”

“Someone has to do it” you said simply, squeezing his hand lightly before letting go. “And since you won’t… it might as well be me.”

The absence of your touch left a strange emptiness in its wake, a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

This was dangerous. You were dangerous.

Your unwavering kindness, your effortless compassion, the way you looked at him as though he was someone worth caring for.

He had manipulated countless people, bending them to his will with ease. Yet here you were, slipping through his grasp, forcing him to acknowledge the one thing he had sworn to forsake, his own humanity.

“I could kill you, you know.” His voice was smooth, almost teasing, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. A warning.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you met his gaze steadily, as if searching for something deeper within him. “You won’t.”

His fingers twitched. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I just know you.”

He had spent years studying the weaknesses of others, exploiting them to his advantage. But when you looked at him like this—like you truly saw him, it made him feel vulnerable in a way that no enemy ever had.

He should end this now. He should remind you that he was not a man to be loved. That his purpose was greater than you, greater than himself. But instead, he simply watched as you turned back to your work.

His hand remained on the table, fingers curled slightly as if still trying to grasp the warmth you had left behind.

The candle had nearly burned out, its wax pooling at the base, but neither of you moved to replace it. The dim light cast a warm glow on your face, illuminating the quiet determination in your eyes as you continued your work.

Fyodor should have returned to his own tasks. The world would not crumble without his immediate attention, but there was always something to be done, another piece to shift on the chessboard, another move to bring his vision to fruition.

His fingers tapped lightly against the wood of his desk as he studied you. Not the way he studied his enemies, seeking their flaws, their inevitable breaking points. No, this was different. It was a curiosity laced with something dangerously close to fascination.

You were an ability user. A tool, a means to an end. And yet, time and time again, you refused to act like one.

“You’ve been staring at me for a while” you murmured, not looking up from your papers.

Fyodor raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a ghost of a smirk. “Is that so?”

You hummed in confirmation, scribbling something down before finally glancing up at him. “You do that sometimes. Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit.”

He tilted his head slightly, feigning amusement. “And if I were?”

You leaned back in your chair, stretching slightly before folding your hands in your lap. “Then I’d tell you there’s nothing to solve. I’m not hiding anything from you, Fyodor.”

How naïve.

You trusted him. More than you should.

How utterly foolish.

“I wonder” he mused, voice soft as he rested his chin against his palm. “Is it truly wise to be so open with someone like me?”

You considered his question carefully, not with fear, but with the same patience you always offered him. “I don’t think you’re as heartless as you want to be.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him, and he shook his head. “You overestimate me.”

“And you underestimate yourself.”

That was it. That was the problem. You spoke of him as if he was something more than what he was. As if he was a man capable of being good. Silence stretched between you, heavy and uncertain. For the first time in years, Fyodor did not know what to say.

Then, you sighed, shaking your head as you reached for a small package you had placed beside your documents earlier. You slid it toward him.

He eyed it warily. “What is this?”

“Food.” You smiled slightly. “You skipped dinner again.”

Fyodor blinked, the smallest hint of surprise flickering across his face.

Again.

You had been paying attention. You always did.

He picked up the package, carefully unwrapping it. A simple sandwich, nothing extravagant, but the gesture carried more weight than it should have. He took a slow, deliberate bite. It was nothing remarkable, but the warmth of it spread through him in a way he was not prepared for.

You watched him closely, waiting for his reaction. “Is it okay?”

He swallowed, setting the sandwich down with an unreadable expression. “…It’s acceptable.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

The hideout was eerily silent.

Fyodor sat in his usual chair, but something was different tonight. His posture was stiff, his fingers curled tightly against the armrests. The air around him was suffocating, heavy with an emotion that even he himself refused to name.

You could feel it the moment you walked in.

His coat was discarded carelessly over the desk, an unusual sight for someone as meticulous as Fyodor. His long fingers, which usually held his pen with the precision of a master strategist, now dug into the wood of the chair, tension rippling through his entire frame.

Something had gone wrong.

You stepped forward carefully. “Fyodor?”

No response.

His head was slightly tilted downward, his dark hair casting a shadow over his face. He looked like a man on the verge of something dangerous.

You hesitated for only a second before stepping closer. “Did something happen?”

Finally, he moved- slowly, deliberately, as if dragging himself out of a dark abyss. When he looked at you, his violet eyes were sharp, glinting with something colder than you had ever seen before.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was quiet, controlled, but it lacked its usual smoothness.

You ignored the warning, closing the distance between you. “I’m always here.”

A sharp chuckle escaped him, but it was devoid of humor. “Yes… And that is your greatest mistake.”

His words were venomous, meant to wound. But you had long since learned how to see past his barbs.

You crossed your arms, unwavering. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or are you just going to sit there and try to push me away?”

Something in his gaze flickered, just for a moment. Then, just as quickly, it hardened again.

“You are an ability user” he said, voice low and quiet. “You understand what that means, don’t you?”

You frowned slightly. “Of course I do.”

“Then you must know how foolish it is to trust me.”

“I don’t think it’s foolish” you said simply.

Fyodor let out a slow, breathy exhale, as if willing himself to be patient. He stood suddenly, the motion abrupt, his height imposing as he loomed over you.

“I don’t need your pity.” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “Do not think for a second that your kindness means anything. I will use you. I am using you.”

You held your ground, even as the air around you grew colder. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be trying this hard to make me leave.”

His jaw tensed.

“Something happened tonight, didn’t it?” you continued, searching his face for answers. “A plan went wrong?”

He turned away from you, his hand twitching at his side, fingers curling as if trying to restrain himself.

You took a step closer. “Fyodor.”

“Enough.” His voice was sharp now, his control slipping. “You don’t belong in this world.”

You swallowed but didn’t retreat.

In an instant, he moved, grabbing your wrist. His grip was tight, shaking slightly. Not out of anger at you, but at himself. His other hand came up, his fingers ghosting over your jaw before stopping just short of actually touching you.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice hoarse, strained.

Why did you stay? Why did you look at him like he was worth saving? Why did you not recoil from him, even now, when he had made himself into a monster?

Your free hand lifted, cupping his own where it still held your wrist. Slowly, you pried his fingers apart and held them in your own, gentle and steady.

“Because I see you” you whispered back. “And I know you don’t want to be alone.”

His body trembled just slightly, as if teetering between pushing you away and pulling you closer.

For a long, stretched moment, neither of you moved. The candle flickered weakly between you, the only sound in the room the quiet, unsteady rhythm of his breathing.

----

The air was damp and heavy, thick with the scent of rust and decay. The underground hideout was gone, burned, abandoned, nothing but ashes left behind.

Now, you were kneeling on the cracked stone floor of a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, hands bound behind your back, a deep wound bleeding sluggishly from your side. Pain throbbed in your ribs, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest.

You had been betrayed.

Not by Fyodor. No, he hadn’t set this trap. But he had let it happen.

His men had carried out the plan like clockwork, delivering you to the enemy as if you were just another pawn to be sacrificed. You had barely seen it coming, one moment, you had been by his side, just as always, and the next, you were surrounded, outnumbered, defenseless.

And he had done nothing to stop it.

Now, you knelt in the center of the dimly lit space, blood pooling beneath you, as a man you didn’t recognize paced back and forth, a pistol hanging loosely from his grip.

"She’s the one who worked with Dostoevsky?" the man scoffed, tilting his head. "Tch. Doesn’t look like much to me."

You didn’t react. You barely had the strength to hold yourself upright.

The warehouse doors creaked open.

A slow, deliberate set of footsteps echoed across the floor, cold and calculating.

You didn’t have to look up. You knew who it was.

Fyodor.

His violet eyes swept over the scene without emotion, as if merely observing a mild inconvenience rather than a life-or-death situation. His coat trailed behind him as he approached, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

“Ah” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “So, this is how you’ve chosen to handle things.”

The man holding the gun smirked. “Nothing personal. You knew this was part of the deal.”

Then, the faintest smile curled at Fyodor’s lips. “Of course.”

Of course. This had been part of the plan.

From the very beginning, you had been disposable.

Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to look up, to meet his gaze. He barely acknowledged you, his expression unreadable.

A quiet breath escaped you. "Was it always meant to end like this?"

For the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable, something human. Then it was gone.

"You were useful" he said simply. "For a time."

The words struck deeper than any bullet could.

A sharp laugh from your captor. "Damn, Dostoevsky. You really don’t give a damn about anyone, huh?"

Fyodor smiled, a ghost of amusement in his expression. “What use is sentimentality in a game like this?”

The man nodded approvingly and raised his gun, aiming it directly at your head. "Fair enough."

You closed your eyes.

A single gunshot. Bang

Slowly, you opened your eyes—just in time to see your captor’s body slump to the ground, blood splattered across the floor.

Your gaze snapped back to Fyodor. His pistol was still raised, the barrel still smoking. His face was impassive, but his fingers were trembling.

He had changed his mind.

At the last moment, at the very brink of your death, he had changed his mind. He lowered the gun, his violet eyes meeting yours. And for the first time, he looked unsettled.

As if he himself did not understand why he had done it.

You should have hated him.

You should have cursed his name.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you let out a weak, breathless laugh. “Took you long enough.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something—an excuse, a justification, anything that could explain away what he had done.

But nothing came.

Because there was no reason.

The silence after the gunshot stretched between you, thick with unspoken truths and shattered illusions. The body at Fyodor’s feet was already cooling, but neither of you looked at it.

You only looked at each other.

Blood loss made your vision swim, but you forced yourself to stay upright. You wanted needed to see his face.

Fyodor, the man who orchestrated destruction like a symphony. Fyodor, who saw humans as tools, who believed in the righteousness of his own cause, who claimed he was untouchable.

Fyodor, who had just proven himself wrong.

Slowly, he knelt beside you, reaching for your bindings. His fingers, usually so precise and unwavering, fumbled for a brief moment before undoing the knots.

As soon as your hands were free, your body sagged forward, he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you instinctively, one hand pressing against the wound in your side, the other supporting your back. You felt the tremor in his grip, the same one he was trying so hard to suppress.

For a moment, you just let yourself rest against him.

“…You were going to let me die” you whispered, your breath ghosting against the fabric of his coat.

His fingers curled into your shirt, tightening as if he could tether you to him, keep you from slipping away. His voice was barely audible.

“I know.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly. “And yet, here we are.”

He had chosen you. Too late, too recklessly, but he had chosen you.

And for a man like Fyodor Dostoevsky, that was the greatest sin of all. The moment he spared you, he had sealed his fate. Because you were no longer just a pawn. No longer just another piece in his grand scheme. You were his weakness.

And Fyodor knew better than anyone—weakness was fatal.

[hyperactively-me]

ask from @redzscare

(king!ghost x princess!reader au) -- anger

i just wanna say oh my god, thank you for your inbox message with those two amazing and well thought out ideas!!!! i would also love to know your other ideas if you still have any :) and i know its been over a month since you requested, but i wanted to do your ideas justice! i decided to split them up into two separate pieces so that it can flow better in the story, but i have your first request in my "to be written" notes, and it will be posted in the future!!!! i hope you like it! the angst is immaculate and heart-wrenching. anyway, here is #2!!!

word count: ~3.6k

warnings: fighting/yelling, angst lots of angst/hurt (like A LOT, A TON, he's so mean, you've been warned), hurt/comfort, happy ending!!!

The past few weeks have been nothing but stressful for Kastron. A southern kingdom, for no clear reason, has been trying to infiltrate the borders of Kastron. As the tension between the two realms escalated, King Simon found himself ensnared in the web of political turmoil and military strategies, his every waking moment consumed by the threat looming at the kingdom's doorstep.

As the southern kingdom persisted in its attempts to breach Kastron’s defenses, Simon’s frustration grew. Kastron’s forces have been able to hold off the enemy for the past few weeks, but the battle was proving to get more difficult by the day. His days were spent in council meetings, devising counterstrategies, and restless nights plagued by the knowledge of impending conflict.

Throughout the past few weeks as Simon was extremely busy, you had taken to caring for more things around the castle. By no means was it an easy task. Your already busy schedules were now packed with more mundane, tedious tasks. You had to step into a few roles that Simon usually took care of, thrown into uncharted territory that you now had to know like the back of your hand. 

To say you were stressed was an understatement. To say that you felt secure in this new position would be a lie. Hell, even with your lessons, you were still slightly insecure about helping run a whole kingdom. The lessons were truly helpful, and you really were learning useful information, but to actually put this knowledge into practice proved to be more difficult than you thought; a learning curve, if you will. 

Every evening before you went to bed, you watched Simon with a heavy heart. Stress etched lines on his face, and the once affectionate bond between you strained under the weight of your responsibilities. 

The command room now had countless maps, scrolls, and military reports scattered across the tables, and you found yourself poring over them, trying to decipher strategies that seemed more like cryptic codes than plans for defense. The language of war was harsh, and its intricacies were not easily grasped. You also had to take care of more civilian matters, tending to disputes and other technicalities that arose when handling such matters. Managing the palace as well proved to be more difficult, although it was not as prioritized as other duties you had to upkeep. 

Simon, in his stress and preoccupation, had not noticed the added weight on your shoulders. The castle, usually filled with warmth, now echoed with the sounds of strategizing military personnel and the tension that gripped every corner.

One day, as you were immersed in the endless paperwork, a knock on the chamber door interrupted your thoughts. Simon, looking more fatigued than ever, stood at the threshold.

“I need these reports on the southern borders done by tomorrow morning. Make sure they’re accurate,” he said, his voice clipped and devoid of the usual tenderness. It echoed the commanding voice he reserved for his soldiers.

You take a breath. “I’m not sure I can have those ready for you by tomorrow Simon. Can’t you ask someone else to do them for me? I’m sure Price can—”

“Price is extremely busy devising strategies. He doesn’t have time for paperwork.” 

Simon's curt response echoed through the room, leaving you with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. The weight of the responsibilities, the unrelenting pressure, and now Simon's growing impatience were pushing you to the brink.

“Simon, I'm doing my best,” you pleaded, looking up from the parchment strewn across the table. “I'm still learning, and there's just so much to handle.”

Simon's eyes flashed with frustration. “We don't have the luxury of time for you to ‘learn.’ We need results, and we need them now.”

The exhaustion etched on his face mirrored your own weariness. The kingdom's issues had taken its toll on both of you, driving a wedge between you.

“I’m just asking for your patience,” you implored, hoping for a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

His gaze remained unyielding. “I ask you to take care of things in my absence, to support me. And it seems even that is too much.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm trying my best,” you scoff.

Simon scoffs back, his expression a stern resolve. 

“I don't have time for apologies. I need solutions. Figure it out,” he said, turning on his heel and leaving the room without a backward glance.

Left alone, burdened by the weight of your responsibilities, an angry tear escapes the corner of your eye. The castle walls seem to close in on you, and with a swift motion, you brush the tear away, forcing your attention back to the task at hand.

. . .

It was an innocent mistake, a forgotten task that finally ignited Simon's brewing anger like a firecracker on the brink of explosion. 

As you stood before him, explaining the oversight, his eyes darkened with frustration.

“Are you even paying attention?" Simon's voice rose with frustration.

The storm within him erupted, and hurtful words spilled from his lips like daggers. "How could you be so careless?" he bellowed. "This is important, and you can't even handle the simplest tasks!"

"I'm sorry, Simon. I’ve been busy, but I'll fix it," you pleaded, trying to diffuse the growing storm.

"Fix it?" Simon scoffed, his anger unabated. "You're always making mistakes, aren't you? I don't know why I expected anything different from you. You’re just a fuckin’ spoiled little princess, just complaining about all the work she has to do. You’ve never seen a day of real work in your whole life, and the moment you have to do anything remotely helpful, you become useless.” 

You’re stunned into silence. It feels like your heart has fallen out of your chest, your throat constricting with anxiety. This isn’t the Simon you knew. 

"You can't possibly understand the pressure I'm under!” Simon's voice carried a harsh edge as he spoke, the strain evident in every word.

"I tried my best, Simon. I'm not used to this," you replied, hurt laced through your voice. The word useless echoes through your mind. How could he? 

"Your best isn't good enough. We can't afford mistakes," he snapped.

“We’re supposed to be a team," you responded gently, trying to bridge the growing chasm between you.

But Simon's patience had worn thin. “You can't even manage the affairs within the castle! How am I supposed to rely on you when you can't even handle the simplest tasks?”

"I'm sorry, Simon. I never wanted to let you down," you whispered, your voice barely audible amidst the tension.

"Let me down?" Simon laughed bitterly. "You were never lifting me up in the first place. Just a burden I have to carry alongside everythin’ else I have to worry about."

His words pierced through you like a million iron swords. The once warm and loving connection between you and Simon now felt frayed, hanging by the thinnest of threads. Your attempts to support him had become ammunition for his anger.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this,” you admitted shortly, your shoulders slumping under the weight of defeat.

Simon's expression twisted with a mixture of frustration and exasperation. “That's the first sensible thing you've said.”

His cruel words struck a nerve, tearing down the foundations of trust and understanding that had defined your relationship. His words hung in the air like a bitter aftertaste. Hurt and frustration welled up within you, but you swallowed them and bottled them up, unwilling to add to Simon's burden.

The pain in your eyes did not escape Simon, but his frustration blinded him to the depth of his own words. In that moment, the man you loved seemed like a stranger, his anger, frustrations, and impatience casting a shadow over you.

With a heavy heart, you walk away, desperately holding back tears. It took everything within you to not let out an audible sob, clasping your hand over your mouth. You push open the door hastily, stumbling out into the hallway. You wipe your now falling tears off your cheeks with the back of your hand as you make your way to your old bedroom. 

The echoes of Simon's bitter words lingered in the corridor as you escaped into the dimly lit hallway. Desperation clawed at your chest, and with each step, the weight of his accusations pressed harder. Holding back sobs, you fumbled your way to the shared bedroom, seeking solace in the sanctuary you once knew.

Once inside, the room felt emptier than before, its warmth replaced by an icy chill. Closing the door behind you, you allowed a few silent tears to fall, the pain of Simon's harsh words cutting deep. As you glanced around the room, the memories of happier times haunted the corners. A sense of isolation settled in, and you felt like a stranger in the very place that used to bring comfort. Swallowing hard, you allow yourself to let it all out, crying into the empty bedroom. The resilient facade you had built over the weeks seemed to crumble in the face of his words.

The weight of the crown, both figuratively and literally, felt heavier than ever. With a shudder, you begin to remove the regalia that symbolized your responsibility as queen, a responsibility that had become increasingly difficult.

The empty now seemed like a cold, unwelcoming space. You curled up, hugging a pillow close to your chest, seeking any source of comfort. The room held a somber silence, a silence you haven’t heard since you were last in this room, before you had fallen in love with Simon. 

As sleep finally overcame you, the hope for a better tomorrow mingled with the ache of your strained relationship. 

. . .

Sleep had been elusive, and the echoes of Simon's bitter words reverberated in your mind. With a sigh, you rose from the solitude of your old bedroom, still haunted by the sense of isolation that clung to you.

He hadn’t even come looking for you. 

You had called a maid to help you get dressed in your room, but made her swear to not say anything about you being back in this room to the rest of the staff. You purposefully waited until after your usual breakfast time with Simon to get something to eat, strolling into the kitchen to request a small breakfast. 

After breakfast, you read through your schedule for the day. Today you were supposed to have defense lessons with Simon. Not going to happen. Taking a pen, you scratch it off your to-do list. 

With a sigh, you run through the rest of your plan for the day, mostly consisting of busy work and advising. 

The day unfolded in a haze of responsibilities, each task demanding your focus. Advising on matters of governance and managing the affairs of the kingdom became a refuge, a temporary escape from the emotional turmoil that threatened to swallow you whole.

Dinner that night came and went, and again you had refused to sit at the table with him. Instead, you chose to wait until after he was gone to eat. Sitting at the expansive table, you picked around at your food, taking small bites before you became nauseous with unease. 

This was the longest you’ve gone without Simon the whole time you’ve proclaimed your love for him, and it’s only been a day. After finishing your solitary meal, you made your way to your old bedroom yet again. The night pressed on, silent and unwavering, wrapping the castle in a cocoon of quiet melancholy. And so, you retired to your old bedroom, bracing yourself for another night of sleepless contemplation in the face of a relationship that seemed to be slipping through your fingers.

. . . 

Another agonizingly painful day had gone by of you avoiding Simon. The same evening, he had come to knock on your door.

He called your name from behind the door. His voice sounded gentle, yet strained. 

You stayed silent, unmoving from your curled up position on the bed. 

He persisted, knocking louder this time. 

“Go away,” you yell, fighting back more tears as your heartstrings were being tugged with every time he called your name. 

“‘M not going away until you come out,” his muffled voice filtered through from under the door.

“Yeah, well, I may as well rot away in here. Leave me alone, Ghost.” 

That shut him up immediately. You could hear his footsteps fade away in the distance. 

You sob into your pillow, burying your face in the fabric to muffle your cries. 

. . .

The next morning was rough. You were groggy, two nights of restless sleep taking a toll on you. Right before you entered the kitchen for breakfast you were stopped by Ghost. He had jumped in front of you out of nowhere, blocking you from entering the kitchen. 

“Dove, please—” he began. 

“Don’t call me that, get away from me–”

You try to sidestep him, looking at the ground as you attempt to move past him. 

“Just listen to me–” he grabs your shoulders firmly, forcing you to stay in place.

“Let go of me–” you shrug his hands off, yanking his wrists off your shoulders with a vice grip. He lets you shake him off you, but still moves to block you from entering the kitchen.

You sigh angrily, finally looking up at him with a death glare. 

“Oh, you finally need me for something, right? Is this what this is all about?” 

Simon's eyes held a mixture of concern and frustration. “I need to talk to you. Please, just listen to me.”

The coldness in your expression didn't waver. “Talk? Is this about another mistake I made, or perhaps you've found another fault in your ‘spoiled princess’?”

Simon winced at the reference to his hurtful words. “No, it's not about that. It's about us. I... I overreacted, and I said things I shouldn't have. I need you to understand the pressure I'm under.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “Pressure? Yes, I understand. I've been picking up work and dealing with responsibilities I’m not prepared for. I understand pressure very well.”

Simon's jaw tightened, regret flashing in his eyes. "I know I've been distant, and I've let this problem consume me for the past few weeks. But, dove, we can work through this. I need you.”

Your anger flared. “Now you need me? When everything is falling apart? What about when I needed you? You were too busy berating me.” 

The word berating came out stressed, and a flare of emotions bubbled in your chest. You fought against tears threatening to spring from your eyes. 

Simon's expression softened, nothing but remorse in his eyes. "I fucked up. I should’ve never said those things to you. I was wrong, and I’m sorry. Please, let me make it right.”

You shake your head, taking a step back. 

“You can't just apologize and expect everything to go back to normal. Words have consequences.” A fat tear rolls down your cheek. “I’m not one of your soldiers you can order around.” 

The moment Simon sees the tear, knowing that he’s the cause of it, he comes crashing down. 

He drops to his knees in front of you, his eyes pleading with a desperate intensity. “I never meant to hurt you. I can't bear to see you cry, especially because of me. Please, give me a chance to make things right.”

You sniffle, wiping the tear away quickly. The raw vulnerability in his voice tugged at your heart, but you held onto the shards of your wounded pride. 

He reaches for you, holding your hips tightly in his grasp as he looks up at you from the floor. His hands on your hips sought reassurance, his eyes pleading for a chance at redemption. You fold your arms over your chest, hugging yourself tightly. 

“Please, love, please, I will do anything, I’ll prove to you every single day for the rest of my life that I can treat you the way you deserve. I don’t want to turn into my father.” 

His thumbs press into the flesh of your hips, his usual stoic demeanor crumbles, and in this moment of vulnerability, he’s laying bare his regrets. 

His father. His terrible, disgusting, abusive father. 

"You’re not turning into your father, Simon," you whispered, your voice carrying reassurance. "But you also can't treat me like that ever again. We're a team. But it's also not just about the words. It's about trust and understanding.”

He nods, swallowing thickly. 

"Please, dove," he implored, his voice choking with emotion. “I never meant to hurt you like this. I'm begging you, give me a chance to make things right. I can't stand to see you in pain.”

“I miss you,” he whispers, and you spot a few tears in the corners of his eyes. You’ve never seen him cry before. “I miss you, and I don’t deserve you. Not after what I did to you.” 

Your heart wavered, torn between the hurt he caused and the raw vulnerability he now displayed. The sight of Simon, a powerful and composed ruler, reduced to tears, spoke volumes about the depth of his regret.

As you looked down at him, a swirl of conflicting emotions clouded you. Part of you wanted to pull him into an embrace, to reassure him that things could get better. Yet, the wounds were still fresh, and trust can’t be easily mended. You swipe his tears away with the pad of your thumb. 

“Simon,” you began, your voice gentle but firm, "this isn't something that can be fixed overnight. It's going to take time."

He nodded vigorously, his tear-streaked face desperate for any glimmer of hope. "I'll do anything, dove. Anything to make it right.”

The sincerity in his voice resonated, and for a moment, you softened. “Simon, I need you to understand that we're in this together. We need to communicate and support each other.”

Simon nodded, a genuine determination in his eyes. "I promise you, I'll be there for you. No more takin’ out my frustrations on you, it will never happen again, so long as I live.” 

You sighed, the weight of the situation still heavy on your shoulders. “Actions speak louder than words.”

He nodded again, his gaze unwavering. "I'll prove it to you, every day."

Releasing your hips, Simon stood up, his eyes never leaving yours. The air between you held a mix of tension and tentative hope. 

“I love you, dove. I love you.”

He wipes his face clear of the tears, and you stand there, twisting your hands together. His hands brush over your upper arms, causing you to shiver slightly, but this time you don’t back away. You let him ever so slowly pull you in for a hug, and you reluctantly grasp on to his tunic. His arms pull you in tighter now, and he strokes your hair in reassurance. 

You breathe out the quietest, “I love you.”

. . .

A few weeks passed, and the castle, once shrouded in tension, began to regain its warmth. The scars of those horrendous three days were healing, and your relationship with Simon has strengthened more than ever. The air was lighter and you felt like a significant change had occurred between you and Simon. 

Simon had indeed lived up to his promise. He consistently showed effort in rebuilding trust. Small, thoughtful gestures became the norm—unexpected flowers, shared quiet moments, and the tenderness in his voice returned. The voice he has reserved only for you. You had moved back into his room after a while, sharing a bed again has never felt so good for you. Honestly, you were relieved. You didn’t have any doubt that Simon wouldn’t live up to his promises. 

The castle had transformed back into a sanctuary. The sounds of strategizing military personnel were replaced with the hum of everyday life. The warmth returned, and the tension that once gripped every corner dissipated like a distant memory.

The conflict in the south had been resolved after Kastron’s forces were successfully able to defend the border. Their motives were still unclear, but Simon had put it behind him. 

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you found yourself in the garden. The air was crisp, and the fragrance of blooming flowers filled the space. Simon joined you, and together you strolled through the gardens, hand in hand.

“I missed this,” you smile, leaning into Simon’s side. 

Simon tightened his grip around you, his eyes softening as he looked at the vibrant hues of the sunset. "I missed this too."

The weight that once burdened your relationship had lifted, replaced by a renewed sense of connection and trust. The garden echoed with the shared laughter and whispered promises of your love, and it always will. 

Simon glanced down at you, a hint of playfulness in his eyes. “Do you remember the first time we walked through these gardens together?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You giggled, the memory surfacing in your mind. "How could I forget? You were trying to plant the most random assortment of seeds during the off-season.”

Simon laughed, a genuine sound that warmed your heart. “I was nervous. I wanted everything to be perfect.”

“And look at us now,” you said, gazing up at him. “Perfectly imperfect.”

He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. “I love you, darlin.’”

The sincerity in his words made your heart flutter. “I promise to always be with you.”

The sun dipped lower, casting a warm glow over the castle and the garden. As you continued your leisurely stroll, the castle loomed in the distance, its turrets illuminated by the fading sunlight. 

The stars began to twinkle in the evening sky, and Simon pulled you closer. “Let's stay out a bit longer, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you nod, nuzzling against him. 

You take a beat.

“I love you, too,” you whisper. 

He strokes your waist, squeezing your flesh in his grip.

“I love you.”

- - - - -

(masterlist)

[bookloover35]

Silent Shadows- Mark Hoffman x fem reader.

Mark Hoffman kept to the shadows as he always did, his expression carved from stone. The precinct buzzed with the usual chaos—officers scrambling to answer calls, detectives hunched over their desks deciphering cases. But his eyes were locked on one figure.

You.

It wasn't just your sharp mind or your unshakable confidence that had drawn him in. It was the flicker of darkness in your gaze, the barely concealed edge that told him you weren't like the others. You weren't bound by the same moral code. You understood him.

And now, you carried his child.

The first time you and Hoffman crossed paths, it was during a case that left your entire department on edge. A series of gruesome murders had rocked the city, the work of an unrelenting mastermind. You had watched Hoffman as he worked, the way his jaw clenched when someone got too close to the truth, the subtle smirk when they didn't.

It wasn't long before you began piecing things together. Hoffman wasn't just hunting Jigsaw. He was Jigsaw—or at least, his protégé. You could've turned him in. But you didn't.

Because deep down, you knew the law wasn't enough.

"You're not like the others," he'd said to you one night after everyone else had gone home, his voice low, eyes searching yours.

"Neither are you," you'd replied, your lips curving into a smile that matched his.

Now, months later, your secret relationship was a web of lies and stolen moments. The knowledge of your shared insanity bound you together in a way nothing else could. You worked cases during the day, keeping up the façade of dutiful cops, only to retreat into the darkness at night.

But the pregnancy had changed things.

You hadn't planned for this—neither of you had. Yet, when you told him, his reaction had surprised you. Hoffman wasn't a man who wore his emotions openly, but in that moment, you saw something flicker in his eyes: possessiveness.

"Nobody can know," he'd said, his hand resting on your stomach protectively. "They'd tear us apart. They'd never understand."

You had agreed. After all, wasn't that the truth? No one would understand the twisted bond you shared, the lengths you'd both go to protect each other.

Your relationship grew even more dangerous as your pregnancy progressed. Late nights spent planning how to cover your tracks, crafting alibis, and ensuring that your coworkers remained oblivious. The tension only fueled the fire between you, every glance across the precinct charged with an electricity that only you two could feel.

And then came the moment you couldn't avoid.

A lead in one of your cases—a murder that Hoffman himself had orchestrated—brought the precinct uncomfortably close to the truth. You found yourself paired with another detective, a rookie too eager for his own good, as you combed through evidence that you knew would implicate Hoffman if you weren't careful.

"What do you think of Hoffman?" the rookie asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

You froze for half a second before forcing a smirk. "He's a good cop. Knows his stuff. Why?"

The rookie shrugged. "Just seems... I don't know. Like there's more to him than he lets on."

Your grip tightened on your pen. "You should focus on what's in front of you, not conspiracy theories."

That night, you told Hoffman about the rookie, your voice low but urgent.

"He's sniffing around," you said. "If he gets too close..."

Hoffman didn't hesitate. "I'll handle it."

There was no question about what that meant.

The rookie's disappearance was chalked up to bad luck, another casualty of the city's rising crime rate. You couldn't deny the thrill it gave you, knowing you were part of something so powerful, so untouchable.

But as your due date approached, you began to wonder how long you could keep this up. How long before someone put the pieces together? How long before the life you were building came crashing down?

Hoffman seemed to sense your unease. One night, as you lay tangled together in the dim light of his apartment, he pressed a hand to your stomach and said, "We'll protect them. No matter what."

You believed him.

The birth of your child was both a moment of pure joy and a reminder of the stakes. A boy, with his father's sharp features and your defiant spirit. You and Hoffman took turns staying home with him, crafting excuses for your absences at work, weaving your double lives even tighter.

The darkness in both of you hadn't dimmed—it had only grown. Now, it wasn't just about survival. It was about creating a world where your son could thrive, free from the constraints of laws and systems that had failed you both.

Together, you and Hoffman were unstoppable. Partners in crime. Lovers. Parents.

And no one would ever tear that apart.

[ckret2]

So, it took Stan thirty years to get his brother back, but that's because he didn't have all the journals. How long do you think it would have taken Stan to get Ford back if he'd had all three journals to begin with? I think it would be a couple of years minimum, because Stan was never as smart as Ford in terms of science.

The moment he got the other two journals back, he turned the portal on. It seems to me like the other two journals weren't necessary to fix the portal; Stan just needed them for some kind of activation code.

And it doesn't look like the portal was damaged when Ford fell through it, it was just out of fuel.

So it's entirely possible Stan could've spent the vast majority of the last 30 years just trying to figure out the password to operate the machine or the instructions for the program or whatever, and therefore if he'd had all three journals he could've brought Ford back as soon as he stole some fuel.

So, multiple possibilities:

The portal didn't need extensive repairs, so if he'd had all three journals, he could have immediately turned the portal back on (once he had fuel)

The portal didn't need extensive repairs, but if he'd had all three journals, it still would have taken him months/years because he had to take that time to figure out how to understand the science and codes in the journals (and he was only able to utilize J2 and J3 so quickly because he'd already had practice deciphering J1 and knew what to look for)

The portal actually did need to be repaired, but if he'd had all three journals it would have gone faster because he'd have had a full set of blueprints.

The portal did need to be repaired, but having all three journals wouldn't have sped it up because the journals only explained the fancy interdimensional quantum physics and not which wires attach where and what parts need to be welded securely, so Stan still would've had to figure that out himself.

The portal did need to be repaired, but having all three journals wouldn't have sped it up because either the repairs were time-consuming or Stan needed to learn some science to make sense of the blueprints.

Hard to say without knowing what condition the portal was in and how the info to deal with it was spread across the journals. (Heck, we don't even know what information the maze blueprints actually conveyed about the portal construction.)

If the portal needed significant repairs (rather than less-significant "replace that bulb that's obviously burnt out" "fix that rivet that was blown out" mechanical repairs that don't need PhD level science knowledge), then yeah I figure it still would've taken Stan a few years to make enough sense of Ford's journals to do repairs. But we don't know if it did.

[clownjail]

I havent logged in this app for literal months but I’ve recently been playing Tears of Themis and I needed somewhere to rant and scream at the void without a 100 character limitations in my way sjjsjs

So I’ve been playing one of the older ToT events, A Love Poem to Skadi (a very good event btw!) and there’s just one thing that the game mentions that I can’t for the life of me get out of my head, and it’s the fact that Artem Wing somehow knows Akkadian.

Okay so walk with me here, when you go in the mansion to explore, each character has their own set of expertise and knowledge that can help you find clues, and for the most part those expertise make sense! Vyn is a doctor so he knows about doctor things, Luke is a detective so he knows detective things, Marius is an artist so he knows artist things, and Artem is a lawyer so he knows…. Akkadian?? It’s just so random and out of the blue because it’s never explained why he knows that (or at least not that I know of),, other than “I study the Code of Hammurabi so that’s why I know Akkadian” and it’s like sir why were you studying the Code of Hammurabi 😭😭

like I know the real reason for that is because of plot convenience and they needed a character that spoke another language to decipher the clues (plus unlike all the other characters they couldn’t center the clues around his job profession because mc is also a lawyer and it wouldn’t make sense for mc to rely on artem in regards to a law related clue because she’s a really good lawyer) and all the other characters quotas were already filled so they threw that skillset onto Artem (along with the fact that Artem having random hobbies that are never mentioned past the first introduction is kind of his shtick and a running gag in the game but I digress-) but that’s not nearly as fun as saying Artem is a secret history nerd, who has a vast knowledge of world history because he spent so much of his free time during his youth reading and studying about other cultures and histories, now is it?

ANYWAYS that’s all to say, artem the historian agenda pass it on!

[scalamore]

(Thoughts) Ch 115 - The Diary

I was always amused by a lot of overseas commenters saying how Lari was so stupid for not destroying the diary, for burying it and allowing Tori/Rupert to read it. Because I think the storytelling is phenomenal :). A novel detail is the diary was written in some code. A normal person or noble wouldn't be able to decipher it - except that Tori is able to without issue due to her job as an assassin/spy, and Rupert is so good at code-cracking it's like his hobby ^^;. But otherwise Lari wrote it in such a way that if it was ever found and deciphered, and somehow traced to her, she can say it was because of her being a delusional teenager (^^;;;)

As we know, in Ch 88 Tori had dug it up and given it to Rupert, but he didn't read it because he felt bad if he did so (like Lari buried it for a reason, he didn't want to read it not because he would be reading it without her permission, but simply because he just felt bad if he read it (^^;;;; I can't say no to this plot point that Rupert is so considerate towards her boundaries... it's so easy.. but it works)

Anyways yes Tori reads it first and re-buried it. Even though Rupert spent a few months trying to reconstruct it, Tori never told him the contents.

The manhwa expanded on the novel content: He was able to read more of the diary, including words of [It’s horrible] [I don’t want to beg to stay alive like this]

[I won’t die ignorant like that again]

[I returned from death]

With the realization that Rupert’s loved her this whole time, his shock and despair is 10x worse (for me too!). Even though Rupert never grew up with any love or affection, he really did try his best to cherish Lari and treat her well. It took him some time + adventures, but after he became Crown Prince he stopped involving Lari in anything that could be potentially dangerous - she’s too important to him, she’s absolutely irreplaceable.

Even in the palace, he made sure all her needs were met, he promoted her to a suitable position where few would look down on her, he silenced Laura who framed her, he got rid of the annoying knight who bothered her, and it’s implied he told Tori to stay away, or at least back off from bothering Lari. He even made sure to make her debutante the best one because she deserved the best. And considering he’s always looking around for her, and checking up on her, and hiring the very nice Elaine to help her with ANYTHING, Rupert went above and beyond to make sure Lari was safe and happy while in the palace.

But for him to read those words in the diary? They’re devastating.

The irony that Rupert woudn’t know, is that this diary was written when Lari was 12-14, and she stopped when he became crown prince. She stopped hating him by then, but Rupert wouldn’t know that. What if these were Lari’s thoughts, even now?

It’s clear how despite few words, Lari’s suffering oozed through the ink: “Living at the palace and being beside Rupert is horrible”

”Lari felt as she was begging him for permission to live another day’ “She’s died before, and she doesn’t want to die again” “She’s died before.”

“She died because of me. I was the cause of her death. Me.”

This exponentionally adds to Rupert’s suffering because while he knew she hated/feared him, he thought it got better, and maybe there was a chance he could persuade her to come back, if they were to ever meet again? But with this knowledge that he killed her before, how on earth could she ever forgive him??? And if those worse were her current words, how much did she suffer this whole time she was with him? Was she hiding everything under a smile, but hated and struggled every day? It’s another hit to realize she was just trying her best to live a day at a time, while he was the only one happy.

His conclusion: he was the cause of her suffering, and that’s why she left, because she couldn’t handle it anymore. Because he wanted to keep her here, he ruined her own happiness.

:(((((

[xasha777]

In the heart of Baltimore, amidst the historical halls and cutting-edge research facilities of Johns Hopkins University, a remarkable young woman named Elara Bloom was about to embark on an adventure that would transcend the boundaries of science and imagination.

Elara, with her vibrant red hair, piercing green eyes, and a constellation of freckles adorning her face, was known as a brilliant student in the field of astrobiology. She was passionate about the search for extraterrestrial life and spent countless hours in the lab, analyzing data from deep-space probes and radio telescopes.

One crisp autumn morning, as she walked through the university’s verdant campus wearing her favorite flower-patterned hoodie, Elara received an urgent message from her mentor, Dr. Lucius Hawke. He was an enigmatic figure, a renowned astrophysicist with a keen interest in the unexplained phenomena of the cosmos.

“Elara, I need you in my office immediately. We’ve discovered something extraordinary,” the message read.

Curiosity piqued, Elara hurried to the towering Physics Building. Dr. Hawke’s office was cluttered with stacks of research papers, models of celestial bodies, and advanced computing equipment. He looked up as she entered, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Elara, we’ve intercepted a signal from Proxima Centauri b,” he announced. “But it’s unlike anything we’ve seen before. It appears to be a mathematical code.”

Elara’s heart raced. Proxima Centauri b, an exoplanet in the habitable zone of its star, had always been a prime candidate in the search for life beyond Earth. Deciphering a message from an alien civilization could change humanity’s understanding of the universe.

Dr. Hawke continued, “I’ve only managed to decode part of it, but I believe it’s a request for knowledge exchange. They seem to be particularly interested in our advancements in medicine and technology.”

Over the next few days, Elara and Dr. Hawke worked tirelessly to decode the signal. The mathematical patterns were intricate, revealing a level of intelligence far surpassing anything humans had encountered. They soon realized the signal contained blueprints for an advanced device capable of instantaneous communication across light-years.

Using the resources at Johns Hopkins University, Elara and her team constructed the device, a sleek, crystalline apparatus that hummed with a faint, otherworldly energy. Once activated, it projected a holographic interface, displaying a series of symbols and equations.

“Elara, this is it,” Dr. Hawke said, his voice filled with awe. “We are about to make contact.”

With trembling hands, Elara initiated the communication sequence. The device emitted a soft, resonant tone, and a holographic image flickered into existence. It was a humanoid figure, with translucent skin that shimmered with bioluminescent patterns, resembling a living nebula.

The being introduced itself as Zathara, an emissary from the Centauri Alliance. Zathara spoke of their civilization’s quest for knowledge and their desire to share wisdom with humanity. In exchange, they sought to learn about Earth’s advancements in medicine to combat a pandemic plaguing their world.

Over the following months, Elara became the primary liaison between Earth and the Centauri Alliance. Through this unprecedented collaboration, humanity gained insights into advanced technologies and medical practices, while also sharing their own breakthroughs. This exchange led to rapid advancements in both civilizations, fostering a new era of interstellar cooperation.

Elara’s journey, which began with a simple signal, had transformed her into a key figure in the cosmic dialogue. Her passion for discovery and her unwavering curiosity had bridged the gap between worlds, proving that even amidst the vastness of the universe, the desire for knowledge and understanding could unite us all.

As she stood on the campus of Johns Hopkins University, looking up at the stars, Elara knew that this was only the beginning. The universe was vast, and there were countless mysteries yet to be uncovered. And with the Centauri Alliance as allies, humanity’s future among the stars seemed brighter than ever.

[sparkly-key]

Saudade

Crowley is back on Earth after being tortured in Hell for years, only to discover things have changed in his absence.

Written for Whumptober 2023 Day 24 - “I’ve got a head full of chemicals, mouth full of ridicule.” | Goodbye note | Neglect | “I thought they were with you.”

London, 1862

Crowley waited at St. James Park for hours, glaring at the ducks as they swam in circles, occasionally disappearing below the surface with a small splash.

The urchin they’d given the note to had sworn he’d delivered it to the shopkeep of A.Z. Fell and Co., saying the woman in white had given him a puzzled look before she read it.

Now, the comment about the woman filled Crowley with a sense of unease.

In their centuries on Earth, Aziraphale rarely changed their form – like so many other elements of the angel’s corporation, they were comfortable in the body, loathe to give it up. But it wouldn’t be unreasonable for them to change, especially if the bibliophile got some notion that the humans were suspicious that the proprietor of the bookshop never seemed to age.

With a growl, Crowley stalked out of the park, leaning on their cane more than they’d like as they walked. It would be months before the last of Hell’s scars wore off and if Aziraphale noticed, they’d smother the demon with infernal sympathy and tittering about how the arrangement was too risky.

Crowley had spent decades soothing the angel’s ruffled feathers that they were in no danger because of their agreement, boasting that they were too smart and their respective head offices weren’t interested in who was doing the deed, so long as it was done. And if one incident like this derailed the years of hard work they’d put in …

The demon turned down Whickber Street, at least a little relieved to see the cherry wood façade and smart gold letters proclaiming the bookshop. The snakehead cane topper dug into their palm as they leaned heavily on the stick, resting to better hide the limp when they saw Aziraphale.

Crowley inhaled and moved forward and then froze when the door opened and a customer emerged with a brown-wrapped parcel. The human was followed by an angel – undoubtedly celestial but not Aziraphale.

“Fuck,” Crowley swore as they darted around the corner and leaned forward to peer at the angel – Michael.

What the deuce was an Archangel doing manning the shop?

Frantically, Crowley tried to recall the note and if there were any specifics that could get them in trouble.

No, it’d used the simple code Aziraphale had insisted they use, hiding the sender’s identity and their rendezvous location in a cipher the bookkeep had created.

“Excuse me!” somebody called behind them.

Crowley’s lips curled as they turned, glaring at the man who was darting between carriages and horses to cross the street.

“What?” the demon asked crossly.

“Are you Crowley?” he asked, holding up a page neatly torn from a sketchbook. A pencil drawing of the demon filled the page, an incredible likeness to how they’d looked in 1827 – down to the small snake sigil that peeked out through Crowley’s muttonchops.

At the demon’s nod, the man offered a primly folded note, sealed with gold lion stamp.

“We’ve been holding this for about a decade – My boss had almost given up hope of solving that particular mystery,” he said congenially, an affable smile on his face. “We’ve been curious as to what it said.”

Crowley took the note. “Well, it seems like the mystery will have to remain intact,” they replied, tucking it into their pocket.

The man looked disappointed for a second before the weight of Crowley’s gaze settled and then he dashed off, back to the tailor shop so he could peer at the demon through the window.

As the pedestrians of Soho parted around the demon, Crowley unfolded the note.

It took a minute to decipher code, after years of not using it. But when the meaning came to them, Crowley’s fingers tightened on the fine, cream paper.

“C. Unfortunately, I must end our arrangement – not only because I fear the repercussions on you if discovered, but also because Gabriel has informed me I’ve been promoted. I wish you could have been there to help me think of a clever story, but I cannot, and must obey. Watch out for Michael. I doubt they’ll be so easily wooed as I was. Goodbye, my dear. A.”

The paper they’d hastily jotted their request on this morning burned in their coat pocket.

No angel.

Aziraphale was gone. Because Heaven had no need of them on Earth with Crowley’s absence. Because Aziraphale had needed them and Crowley hadn’t - couldn’t, the demon reminded themself sharply – help.

With a snarl, Crowley strode down the street.

[flameleads]

When they met in the cadet mess hall, they were separate songs. Different melodies, chords, and tempos, and Roy scoffed at the idea of harmony. He was too naive to realize the two of them sounded better together. How well their minds worked when they bounced ideas off one another, talking far too quickly for others to keep tempo. How they fought side-by-side, perfectly in-sync with respective weapons raised. How they continued to challenge each other, their songs changing without either one realizing it. They harmonized.

They were beautiful.

Years later, Roy shuddered to think what he was like without this man, and he found out in the cruelest of ways. The music stopped the day Hughes died. Not a single note. Roy carried on in Central in silence.

But now? Was this fast rhythm in his heart the same song their harmony? He couldn't recall. Roy tried not to stare up at Maes with trepidation, masking it with familiar bravado. He knew that score: the eye contact, a firm--but not too firm--hold, a light tone, and the smirk helped. Plenty of practice over the years made for near perfection, even in an imperfect setting such as his living room with papers strewn everywhere, the two of them in their pajamas, and him with at least a glass of whiskey in his system.

As the two of them maneuvered through the living room, formality nowhere to be found, Maes' words repeated in Roy's mind. The first time, he heard the playful notes in the melody. Their back and forth banter had a similar cadence. He knew this, and he knew how to harmonize. However, he listened again. The second time the words repeated, certain notes stuck out: not opposed, love, just me. They differed from the standard melody, but they blended in perfectly. What else differed? The third time Roy heard those words repeat, particularly with how they sounded together, his cheeks became more scarlet.

Was he... was he flirting back?

Maes didn't issue him a standard challenge. That wasn't his usual "I know you can do better, Roy." They weren't two sweaty cadets running laps ahead of everyone else, nor were they Lieutenant Colonel and Colonel speaking in code over the phone. No, this was one man smirking at him, telling him he loved seeing him step out of his comfort zone, especially around just him.

If Maes asked, he'd blame the whiskey for his blush. No other reason.

His gaze remained steady, honing in on hazel eyes. Could he dare to flirt again? Risk a more brazen melody? They were in sync now, but, if he said the wrong thing, their harmony that he spent months longing to hear would become dissonant. Or, worse: silence. He didn't--no, he couldn't--endure that again. He just got Hughes back. To lose him again--

But, he flirted. Maes did it back, which meant... well, he had to see if it actually was flirting, or if it truly was their typical banter, and his alcohol-riddled, sleep-deprived mind couldn't decipher the difference. He had to know.

Well, he wouldn't be Roy Mustang if he wasn't running headlong into danger with Maes Hughes. With a shaky smile, he squeezed Maes' hand back.

"It is. Though, I have to ask how you're about to make me." His grin stayed as he spoke, the fingers on Maes' shoulder flexing again in time to the music. "We alchemists like to have proof of concept. So, I need you to back this claim up. Otherwise, I'm going to start leading here in three, two..."

He did love keeping Maes on his toes--figuratively and literally.

Times like this were so special to Maes. He always enjoyed these moments with Roy. They were light hearted, something to take off the tension for a little while, and something the two definitely needed after everything that they had been through prior to their reunion.

He felt relief that the other had been alive after the battle with Lust. Roy had killed her, but also got stabbed on his left side. He didn't have the philosophers stone on him to heal like Hughes was able to due to the homunculi and the doctor that came to heal Hughes when he was underground after the night he almost died in the phone booth.

He had did his best to prove himself that it was actually him by saying something that Envy didn't know about from their past. It was easier that way and it helped too that he knew those words by heart because he never forgot the memories of their first encounter with each other.

When he says the question, he notices the others face darkening and Maes couldn't help but find it absolutely cute. He hardly had a chance to see Roy blush and the way it did just from one question he asked made it all the more enjoyable in his opinion.

That's when he saw the confident smirk biting back at him, and asking him if he would make him follow him. That got a chuckle out of Maes as he returns said smirk with one of his own. It was just so fun to banter at each other like this, and Hughes could never get enough of it.

It was always subtle when they did banter, but Hughes had always been trying to flirt with him ever since he starting living with him. Roy hadn't seemed to notice the subtleness of it all because that's what Hughes was aiming for. He wanted to do things without getting caught with these feelings he felt.

"I mean I am not opposed in making ya follow me. I kind of like that idea, actually. I love seeing ya do things ya don't normally do. Especially around just me."

He smirks as he dances with him, moving their bodies around the area they were dancing at. This was a way to get him to follow the steps that he was taking, luckily Roy didn't have bad feet while dancing so there was no tripping. He can't help but chuckle again softly, squeezing the hand he held softly.

"It's a good thing we're both good on our feet, huh?"

Maes grins the usual grin he has when he looks into this man's dark eyes that he can't help but drown in. He wants to completely lose himself in Roy and their little bubble they share together now. His heart races anytime Roy smiled at him. He couldn't help but love all that he was as a person. This man meant the whole damn world to him, and he wanted to help him achieve his goals, his dreams, everything.

They always got caught up with each other, always challenged each other, shared scary moments with each other, they did a lot together. This was no exception. Now they are dancing with each other in Roy's apartment that they both now share together. This was something so simple, and it meant so much to Maes.

The hand in his own, it felt amazing and the more he held onto it the more he didn't want to let go, so he wasn't planning on letting go until their dance together ended. He wanted as much time as he could get with this man, and if it meant dancing until they couldn't dance no more, so be it.

Any moment with Roy was a moment well treasured.

[ammi107]

The 2nd time Steve surprised you.

Fandom: Stranger Things

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader

Warnings: talk of family issues on Steve’s part.

“What do you think they’re talking about in there?” You asked Robin as you kept her company while she scooped ice cream. 

  After the chaos six months ago through which Dustin’s friend Eleven closed the gaping hole in the material of the universe, you and Steve Harrington actually managed to become friends. Through babysitting Dustin and his gang of troublemakers, you began to see a lot more of the guy. At school, it seemed he had lost his ‘King Steve’ title, as well as most of his friends after his break-up with Nancy. While you had a few friends at school due to band, you mostly kept to yourself during the day, but this changed as Steve (not wanting to remain seated next to Nancy in certain classes) moved next to you. According to the boy in question, he had just asked those teachers to move him and they had coincidentally placed him next to you in every. Single. Class. 

  Not that you were complaining. When he was away from his asshole friends, Steve Harrington was a decent guy and actually pretty funny. It came as a surprise to the both of you, but conversation became really easy, and time flew by when you were together. Eventually you developed a routine where the two of you would go get Benny’s Burgers whenever you’d had to drop the kiddies off somewhere. The tradition started during the Winter Ball when Dustin had insisted Steve tag along to drop him off for emotional support. The older boy had actually come early to help your brother with his hair and show him how to style it. The image of the two of them fussing over Dustin’s untameable curls definitely shouldn’t have made your heart melt the way it did. 

  After Dustin had clambered out Steve’s BMW, you and him had decided to stop by Benny’s to get dinner while you waited for the agreed-upon time at which you needed to pick Dustin up. It was the first time you were actually spending time alone with Steve since the demodogs, and it was… nice. 

  Then, summer had arrived. You and Steve were officially graduated. While you planned to use the summer holidays as a time to rest before you moved up to Indianapolis to work in a theatre orchestra for a year, Steve’s dad made him get a job. The boy had spent a good hour sitting in the car outside Benny’s, ranting to you about how much the man infuriated him. You sympathised, expressing your own disapproval of his father’s actions and attitude towards Steve. As far as you were concerned, the man clearly didn’t know his son very well, because if he could just see the wonderful man he was growing up to be, maybe he wouldn’t be so harsh on him. 

  One of the biggest shocks that came over the summer, was Steve working alongside Robin at Scoops Ahoy. When the boy had called you halfway through his first week on the job and begged you to come save him from his mean coworker, you had been delightfully surprised to find out that his ‘mean coworker’ was in fact your friend Robin Buckley from high school band. 

  To Steve’s dismay, he ended up having to share you with Robin, who he was liking less and less now that she had you on her side. 

  That’s why, when Dustin came home from camp, he jumped at the opportunity to help the kid translate a Russian code in the back room. 

  “From what I can hear,” said Robin, replying to your question, “they are trying to decipher a secret Russian communication your strange brother intercepted on his mega-radio.”

  You had literally left the store for twenty minutes to drive Max and Eleven to Starcourt mall after the two girls had called begging you to take them. Twenty minutes, and the two boys were already looking for trouble. 

   “Russian communication?!” 

  Your friend shrugged, holding up her hand and placing her forefinger and thumb half an inch apart, “Honestly, I’m this close to marching in there and insisting I help them just so Steve will come out and switch with me.”

  Your huffed a laugh, “If you do, I’ll come with you. I don’t need to witness another one of Steve’s failed attempts at flirting with the customers.”

  Robin groaned suddenly as Lucas’s sister and her group of My Little Pony fanatics entered the store. 

  “Not again,” she muttered. 

  You winced and gave her a pat on the shoulder, “Want me to hurl Steve up here so he can deal with it?”

  She shook her head, “Nah, I’ll push through. This is my last customer for the morning though. After, you and I are gonna go help your strange brother translate his Russian code and dumbass can sling ice cream.”

  With a grin, you hopped up onto the small surface behind the counter and leant back on your hands as Robin dealt with Erica’s relentless ‘tasting’. 

  After fifteen, excruciating minutes, the gaggle of girls finally left and you and Robin were free to go into the break room. 

  “Alright, babysitting time is over, you need to get in there,” Robin stated, pushing through the door, you trailing behind her with a smirk aimed at Steve that said ‘you’re in for it now, sucker’. 

  “Hey, my board! That was important data shitbirds!” the blonde yelled, whirling on the two boys. 

  You eyes snapped to the whiteboard hanging on the wall, and sure enough, instead of the usual shipment dates and stock numbers, the Russian alphabet was written out in bright red marker with its English counterparts labelled in black. Your smirk widened and you raised your brows at Steve who was halfway through popping a piece of banana in his mouth. His eyes widened innocently and you rolled yours. 

  “I can guarantee you, what we’re doing is way more important than your data,” Dustin replied. Honestly, you weren’t sure if you should be impressed or afraid for your little brother at his adamant cheek towards your significantly scary friend. 

  “Oh yeah?” Robin challenged, walking to stand opposite the table to Dustin and Steve. Ever the loyal friend, you moved to stand beside her, crossing your arms. 

  “Yeah,” Dustin said, keeping his ground. 

  You sighed, “And how do you know these Russians are up to no good anyway?”

  The boys froze — Steve still had a mouth full of banana when Dustin demanded in a lowered tone, “How do they know about the Russians?”

  “I don’ know!” the older boy protested around the banana.

  “Did you tell them about the Russians?”

  “It wasn’t me!”

  “Hello, we can hear you!” Robin exclaimed, clearly becoming pissed off. In all honesty, you were too. Sure, you’re brother was a little science genius, but you had taught him almost everything he knew — except for all of the stuff Mr Clark had taught him. He got his passion for science from the same gene pool you did. It was about time Dustin started acknowledging your superior level of intellect as the older sibling. 

  “Actually, we can hear everything you’re saying,” you added in, “You’re both extremely loud.”

  “You think you have evil Russians plotting against our country on tape and you’re trying to translate but you haven’t figured out a single word because you didn’t realise the Russians use an entirely different alphabet than we do,” Robin continued. 

  You both watched as they looked at each other in defeat, clearly beat. Steve was refusing to meet your eyes. 

  “Sound about right?” she finished. 

  Thinking on your feet, you lurched forward, making a grab for the tape lying on the table. Steve — realising your aim — was too fast for you and grabbed the tape out from under your fingertips. 

  “Woah, woah! What are you doing?” he yelled, hugging the tape to his chest. You glared at him, blowing a flyaway strand of hair from your eyes. 

  “We want to hear it.”

  “Why?” The boys asked in unison. 

  “Because maybe we can help,” Robin said, shrugging. 

  “She’s fluent in four languages,” you pointed out, pinning your brother and your best friend with a stare. 

  Dustin perked up, “Russian?” he asked.

  “Ouyay aryay umbraday,” Robin recited. You stifled a laugh, knowing she just called Dustin dumb in pig latin. 

  “Oh ho ho ho!” Steve exclaimed. 

  “Holy shit!” said Dustin. 

  “That was pig latin, dingus,” Robin told them. 

  Steve smacked Dustin’s arm, “Idiot.”

  You rolled you eyes again. 

  “But,” Robin continued, sliding into a seat, “I can speak Spanish, and French and Italian.”

  “And we’ve both been in band for twelve years,” you added.

  “Yeah, our ears are little geniuses, trust me,” Robin finished, “What do you say?”

  She directed the last question at Steve. He laughed dryly, beginning to shake his head. 

  “Come on! It’s your turn to sling ice cream, my turn to translate! I don’t even want credit I’m just bored!” she complained, torso resting on the table too dramatically. 

  You looked at Steve and found him watching you, an expression of defeat on his face. You grinned, knowing he was about to give in. 

  “Fine,” he said, “But only if Y/n comes with to keep me company.”

  “What? No! I want to help too!” you exclaimed. 

  “Deal,” Robin said, and Steve handed her the tape. 

  You whirled a betrayed expression on Robin, “Traitor!”

  She smiled apologetically, “Sorry, kid. It’s like I told them. I’m bored.”

  You sighed, and accepted Steve’s hand to drag you back out into the store. 

  “I don’t know why you’re complaining,” he whined, “You’re my best friend.”

  Deciding to just grin and bare it, you bumped your hip against his as he grabbed a scooper, “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

  He pouted, “I’ve barely seen you this summer even though you’ve been right in the store with me.”

  Your heart warmed at his words as you jumped back onto the counter again, “You been missing me, Harrington?”

  His cheeks flushed as he leant against the counter next to you, “I…” he sighed, taking off his sailor hat and running a hand through his hair, “Every night I go home to my jackass father telling me how disappointed he is in me and explaining why I’m a terrible son. It’s been like that for as long as I can remember, and until a few months ago I had nothing to help me cope. Then I met you, and we became friends, and suddenly I could look forward to seeing you everyday.”

  You weren’t sure you were breathing. 

  “I know I don’t say it enough, but I need you. And I miss you even if you’ve only been gone five minutes.”

  “Steve,” you breathed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

  He shrugged, finally meeting your gaze with a shaky smile, “It’s not your fault.”

  “You have to know I need you too, right?” You said, leaning against him and resting your head on his shoulder, “I’m generally someone who likes her own company, but with you I never feel like I have to back away for a moment and take a breather. Back in high school I was always a little tense in the mornings because I knew I would have to interact with people I’m not comfortable around, but then I’d get to my locker and see you standing there and suddenly I could relax.”

  Something in your chest was aching as you spoke, and the truth behind your words brought a surge of affection for the boy next to you that definitely exceeded the boundaries of friendship. 

  The two of you sat like that in comfortable silence for a moment. At some point during your confession, Steve had tilted his own head to rest on yours as his hands fiddled mindlessly with his scooper. 

  Then two familiar girls walked into the store, giggling like the children they were and you frowned.

  “Is El even allowed here? I didn’t check before I drove the two of them…” you mused.

  “Either way,” Steve said, pushing off the counter, “That’s my cue to do my job.”

[zedaphofficial]

hey! i post fic here now too!

i come bearing: The Apocalypse AU! brought to you by @mothsaviary and i :)

summary: xb and hypno find themself in the midst of the apocalypse. also they’re fruity and they really don’t know much about each other.

warning ! this is hermitshipping content ! if you aren’t a fan of that, keep scrolling !

they’re sitting around a fire in the skeleton of a building, worn down to unrecognizability and hypno realises just how bad things have gotten— he’s learning things about xb. 

xb is talking about himself. there’s a barely-vacant look in his eyes, like he’s tabbed out but the game is still running; and hypno lingers in the blue of xb’s eyes for just a moment too long. 

hypno wasn't listening. it felt wrong almost— he’s reminiscing. he’s talking about the life he had before this, and hypno couldn’t get himself to listen. 

xb was a shadow of a man. he’s an eye for detail, an eye against a scope of a gun and he’s a door that’s beginning to creak open and hypnos not sure if he wants to step inside.

the sun creeped over the horizon. it painted the grey-blue night in shades of burnt orange and almost-green-yellow and it wasn’t the same as it used to be, green-brown clouds lazily floating across the sky.

Hypno stood up suddenly; kicking up dust behind him as he climbed to the roof of the building. He didn’t look behind him. he doesn’t want to know if xb stopped talking.

but he could hear xb stand up to follow him, almost like a shadow, the too-quiet pad of his sneakers against concrete.

xb stands for a moment longer, watching hypno sit down and tuck his knees tucked to his chest. only then does he approach. he sits down, leans his head against hypno’s shoulder, and they fall into silence.

the radioactive ball of light rises further into the sky, marking yet another day in the corpse of a world they once knew. it’ still jarring. it’s never coming back.

hypno stares at his hands sometimes, studying the creases in the skin and he just barely comprehends that these are the same hands that he’s always had.

and he finds himself looking at his hands again, looking at the barely visible lines in his gloved palms and then back at the greyish-orangish-brown morning sky and then he finds himself looking at xb. 

xb cannot be studied like the lines on hypno’s palms. he doesn’t know who the man beside him is, but he knows the things that keep him up at night and hypno thinks that he’ll never know xb. the man beside him is a book written in code, a language that hypno will never truly decipher.

but they’re stuck with each other, sharing warmth and life and maybe even company. xb closes his eyes and hypno finds himself closing his eyes too, cool air filling his lungs to the bursting point and then escaping in a sigh.

and if he pretended hard enough, he was sitting on the roof of his old house with someone he knew the last name of; and not a decrepit building with a man most comparable to a shadow.

so hypno opened his eyes, head lulling to the side to rest against xb’s.

the rest of their day was uneventful. hypno and xb spent their time ignoring large cities and places overrun, turning to small ghost towns for shelter and resources. it was easier this way, reducing the risk of injuries and saving xb’s ammo for more important situations.

xb pulls his hood up and turns on to his side with his arm as a pillow and hypno wonders. about a lot of things, like the lives of the people who once lived in this shoddy old house or the fact that this is the first time in months he’s laid on a mattress. 

he also wonders about xb.

but he seems to catch himself doing that a lot.

mainly; how is his arm not going so numb right now. but also the fact that the man sleeping next to him is so close but so far away. hypno could reach out and touch xb’s arm, but his hand would never truly make contact, he thinks. something about souls and barriers.

so hypno turns onto his back to stare at the water damaged ceiling. 

they hijacked a car maybe a few days ago, a pickup truck from the nineties that clunked and clanked on occasion but generally worked fine. their first road trip led them to a tiny town that was really nothing more than a couple houses and a grocery store. they explored each house, took what they needed, and then landed on the jackpot of a house with a non-collapsed second floor and a mattress. just one, devoid of blankets or pillows and they joked about the questionable stains on it, but a mattress is a mattress.

and by the time the moon has set and the sun is barely beginning to rise, they’re on the road again. hypno spends his time in the passenger seat fiddling with the radio knob, trying to pick up a station that isn’t static or news. he wanted music, something to fill the silence of travel. eventually he gives up and kicks his feet up onto the dashboard, laughing when xb scolds him for it.

[iliyad]

""Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly." – Mary Howitt, The Spider and the Fly

guess who’s back, back again. @fieriframes is back, tell a friend! just over a year after the guy fieri-inspired ARG took over my life, tumblr have brought us back to where it all began with a brand-new puzzle to solve.

our first puzzle was tagged with “et in arcadia ego”, which translates literally to “even in arcadia, there am i” and is mostly associated with the 1630s painting by nicolas poussin. our new tag, “i tego arcana dei” means “begone! i conceal the secrets of god” and just so happens to be an anagram of our beloved former tag. both phrases also were used initially in the maranatha puzzles, hence why i’ve taken to calling the ARG a “puzzle.”

last time, we took just over a month. we decoded, analysed, googled. we had to play a game to work out a key, we had to unlock different blogs with different passwords and we learned to recognise voynich manuscript text by sight. @significantfoliage, @puwumats and myself all created conspiracy theory boards. (it was a Choice)

and now, here we are again.

mars (@prettyokayray) was the first one of us to notice that a new gif, inscribed with voynich, had been posted yesterday. going back, we realised that the blog had been posting several other gifsets with the tag “i tego arcana dei” over the past week or so, each one containing a hidden tarot card illustrated by leonora carrington, who was an important person in last year’s puzzle. each post was also given a caption from a poem written by leonora titled “The Cave.” In order, earlier to latest, these were:

the lovers (VI) - "albino raven"

the high priestess (II) - "drink all darkness from heaven"

the lovers (VI) - "dark, dark buzzards"

the high priestess (II) - "sign to the mask that once belonged to life"

the emperor (IV) - "albino raven"

the chariot (VII) - "you are the antidote"

the empress (III) - "the hanged one"

the hierophant (V) - "pours images"

the magician (I) - "into saturated eyes"

the fool (X) - "two ink spies"

after checking through the cards and making sure all of our ducks were in order, mars and gabriel (@ijustwannabeavampire) worked out that what we had was a phone number.

so we called it.

at first, all we had was some spooky and atmospheric piano music. we knew it had to be something important, but we were stumped because we couldn’t identify it. signi eventually worked out that it was a piece called “Who Is The Dreamer?” by ‘Midnight Caller’, both of which sounded connected to the first ARG where we spent time talking to someone called the “Midnight Caller” while we tried to work out who the “dreamer” was (@amithedreamer​). obviously this was promising.

the song was from an album released 17 february 2022 called, get this, arcana, an album which also features bangers like “hořčický”, which just so happens to be the name of 17th century bohemian man who was rumoured to be connected with the voynich manuscript, the script from which being the cluemaster’s favourite cipher for us to decode. further, the composer for the songs as they were published to YouTube was listed as “oneiro grant alcorn”, and oneiro had once upon a time been a password we’d deciphered towards the end of the original flavortown ARG.

yes, you’ve heard that correct. tumblr created and published a fake music album. you’ve got to admire the dedication.

anyway, while we were trying to work out what to do with all of this information, signi realised that there was a portion of the album artwork (commissioned by an artist on behance) above the head of the left figure which looked like some form of code.

it clearly wasn’t morse (the dashes were just too long), and after ester cleaned up the code we were still confused, only this time because it looked familiar–almost like a QR code, except those usually have squares in the corners...

right?

yes, of course, we decided to put squares in the corners and see if that led us anywhere. and it did! reed got there quickest, and scanning the code led us to a blog with the url i tego arcana dei – clearly we’re getting somewhere now.

except the blog is password protected, and we’re still working on cracking it based on what little we have and what guesses we’re able to make. the background image for the blog appears to be from the voynich manuscript, but all of the voynich has been removed and so have the page numbers.

shortly after we worked out the album clue (sorta), we thought to check one of last time’s connected blogs, and worked out that the voynich previously on the page had changed. it now reads “the world has shifted.”

both myself and mars messaged the blog with the translation, but for now we’ve had no response. and thus, with most of us either needing to sleep (ignore the fact it’s currently around 3.30am for me) or fulfill real-world obligations, the curtains have fallen on what has arguably become day 1 of the flavortown ARG 2: electric boogaloo.

if you made it this far, congratulations! this post (and the subsequent ones) will mostly be for me to keep track of how we’re doing, but if it’s interested you in wanting to help us solve our latest puzzle, feel free to message me for a link to our Discord server, courtesy of ester!

[ryuki-draws]

Hi I wanna know more for the family disappointment that is Arman in the Ritual

PS: I'd love to read the book myself but I don't know a leak of Russian

The lack of English translation of this book is really unfortunate and it should be fixed so everyone can enjoy the absolute disaster Arman. It's been a while I've read the book so I don't remember the details properly anymore but I'll share my favourite bits I still remember :'D

So after he finally kidnaps the princess, after those 232 years he spent alone in his castle, of course he doesn't eat her. Instead, he locks her in the tower. But do you think this princess cares? Heck no. She manages to escape and every time he's away, she roams the castle. She learns everything about this man from the stuff in his house alone without him even knowing.

She may seem a little OP in the book but honestly, that's just because Arman is a drama queen drowning in depression and wine. Seriously, he opens a bottle at every inconvinience that happens to him and seems to have one or two at hand at all times. Princess Yuta finds ancient runes in his basement no dragon could even decipher and she cracks the code in like a month. It's a prophecy that says if Arman doesn't interfere with the sea monsters dragons were in conflict with for centuries, he'll live a happy life.

But WILL HE? Because when Yuta is about to be sacrificed to said sea monsters by her husband - the prince (an absolute ASSHOLE she married after Arman personally ridiculed the prince into saving her from his castle, it was hilarious), he flies to her rescue.

And the book literally ends with him bleeding on the beach after fighting the sea monster, looking up at Yuta on a cliff, thinking how beautiful she is. Did he just sacrifice his own happiness for her? Maybe. But damn, was it worth it.

But when it comes to romance, the book was a slow burn for sure, especially if one goes into it after seeing the film :'D These two didn't even kiss, they went for a flight after 160 pages that ended in them holding hands for 5 seconds while watching the stars together and for the rest of the book they had no more interaction because the next day Yuta was rescued by the prince.

In conclusion, this Arman is nothing like his film counterpart. He's depressed, lashing out and snappy at Yuta until he warms up to her but who can blame him? After 232 years of isolation drowning in shame and guilt his ancestors made him feel for not being a worthy dragon, for the love of god, get this man a therapist :'D