#anyway this has been my note form update on my life

[tenspontaneite]

will you put out any more of your Assembly fic ? i remember seeing you had some more chapters planned after 7 and it's my favourite rain world fanfic

Yes, I will. I have simply been Having A Time lately and writing basically fuck all 👌👌

Been doing more art than anything else honestly. On a related note, I recommend anyone who doesn't want to see art for unpublished assembly or post assembly stuff filter the tag 'assembly spoilers'. It'll be relevant. Honestly it's already relevant, I should probably tag a few things.

[euphorajeon]

the love upon your eyes | jjk

— pairing: jk x f. reader

— genre: fluff | college au

— word count: 0.9k

— warnings: soft jk, llike very soft, shirtless jk, that's it haha

— summary: when your mind is cloudy with sleep, jeongguk takes the opportunity to gaze at you, lovingly.

— author's note: broo did you all see how cool jeongguk was in golden live on stage... our best friend for real... also the gcf in budapest is really boxer!gguk coded hhh i got whiplash watching it. anyways. hope you enjoy this little bit of something from boxer!gguk !!! (ps. this is basically in the sheets but with the roles reversed :> )

masterlist | boxer!gguk masterlist

You’ve known Jeongguk for as long as you can remember. His annoying presence seemed to cement itself in your life, not allowing you to have a day without some memories of him. Jeongguk who always sang on the way home from school. Jeongguk who was there when you almost drowned when you were ten. Jeongguk who made fun of your hair in middle school. Jeongguk who had a colorful t-shirt phase in high school. Jeongguk who moved to another city for university.

It felt weird when he left, not having someone follow you around just to pester you, but eventually, it felt peaceful. You’re able to make new friends, study properly, and enjoy your time as a new university student. Jeongguk still texted you occasionally, giving you updates of his life and bantering with you whenever he wanted (when you protested, he said he’d only done that because he was bored. You’d given him the middle finger emoji which he laughed off.)

Jeongguk’s been annoying all of his life, so when he showed up at your doorstep two years after the last time you saw him, you expected nothing less. He truly didn’t change, still the same Jeongguk who brushed off your shocked concerns and responded with teasing remarks instead. So much teasing, so much tempting, until you lost it and kissed him right on his pierced lips.

All of that tells you that Jeongguk will always be annoying. Endearing, but annoying. Loving, but annoying.

So imagine how you feel when one morning, your whole world tilts on its axis when you open your eyes to Jeongguk gazing at you, lovingly. Most of his body is covered in his white blankets, only his shoulders and arms are visible, one of which is covering the bottom part of his face. You can only see his nose and eyes, again obstructed by the unruly strands of his hair, but those eyes tell everything. They tell you that Jeon Jeongguk is looking at you with all the love he has stored in his heart, without even a pinch of the annoying twinkle he usually has hidden somewhere in the flecks of his orbs.

Jeongguk lets out a chuckle through his nose when you groan.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says, words muffled by his arm still covering his mouth. “Did you sleep well?”

Your barely-open eyes narrow into slits, blurring his form in your vision into a mush of white, black, and skin color. Despite that, you know the sound he just let out is another chuckle through the nose, now even more endeared. “Who are you, and what have you done to my Jeongguk?”

It sounds sassy in your head, your usual tone when talking to your boyfriend, but you don’t know that it only sounds like a jumbled mess in Jeongguk’s ears. Your whole body is still heavy with sleep, the tiny functioning part of your brain only recognizing the love in Jeongguk’s eyes that is so peculiar until your brain fails to aid to your ability to speak clearly. You don’t have to worry, though, because the tiny laugh that rumbles through Jeongguk’s chest tells you that he understood your words perfectly.

“Why so cranky, babe?” Jeongguk reaches out a tattooed hand to pinch lightly at your cheek. “Was last night not enough?”

You’re in the middle of turning around, intending to ignore Jeongguk’s soft stare and confront it later when you’re more awake, but his question makes you pause. Focusing your crusty eyes on him, you just realize that he’s not wearing any shirt, his arms and shoulders bare for you to see. Oh, he must have been looking at you with so much love pouring out of his eyes for you to miss the tattooed bulging biceps on display. This is bad.

Okay, back to his question. Last night, he said?

Your hands automatically pat down your body, which, thankfully, is covered by a t-shirt. You even still have your pajama shorts on. What does he mean by last night?

Apparently you voiced that aloud, with confusion written all over your sleepy face.

“Alright, alright, we didn’t go all the way last night,” Jeongguk laughs—he’s really cheerful considering the time of day, you notice—while coaxing the crease between your eyebrows away with his fingers. “Made out for a while on the bed, but you kinda slipped away from the kiss in the middle of it. I guess you were too tired, so I let you sleep instead.”

You didn’t remember anything from last night. Maybe he’s right, exhaustion took over your entire body that your brain just didn’t store any memories for a few hours. So, you ask the one sensible thing your brain could conjure up right now: “Did I leave you with a hard-on?”

Your eyes are nearly closed again, so you don’t see the amused expression Jeongguk has on his face. “If I tell you yes, would you apologize for it?”

“Mhm, sorry,” you mumble non-commitally.

There’s a few seconds pause. Then, “That’s it? No snarky remarks about how you don’t have to apologize for my bodily function?” Jeongguk asks, still amused by your lack of bite.

“Mhm,” you hum again. “Wanna go back to sleep…” You’re interrupted by a big yawn, “if argument, no sleep…”

Jeongguk has to bite his lip to prevent himself from breaking into a huge grin as he reaches for you, tugging your form closer to his so you can place your head on his chest. He envelops you in his arms, completely engulfing your frame with his big build. You drape your arm lazily on his waist, let him tangle his legs with yours. Jeongguk then drops a kiss on your head, one you barely register because your brain starts succumbing back to sleep.

“Sleep tight, sleepyhead,” he whispers before smiling to himself. 

“I’ll still love you even if you gave me blue balls in the middle of the night.”

a/n: thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed this little ball of fluff hehe. help me improve by giving me feedback in my askbox or here! :D

[inkstainedchessboard-if]

There is an ichor creeping its way through Wonderland, devouring residents never to be seen again. That's how you got your "promotion" to the Role of the Cheshire Cat. You thought things would be okay until an Ink Well appeared right in the middle of the Red Queen's garden and took out half of the court gathered there. Now you're tasked with finding the source of the ichor and stopping it before it consumes all of Wonderland.

The Ink Stained Chessboard is a WIP and interactive CYOA novel. It is a fantasy adventure romance story with heavy focus on plot, romance, and stats. It is inspired by Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. It's being written in Twine.

So by popular vote, this is now my main focus! I'll try to keep it updated as much as possible!

Note: Because this is a WIP the name of some places or people may change between now and the final version.

Genre: Adventure, Fantasy, Romance

Rating: Not rated as of right now.

Tracked Tag: #ink stained chessboard

Demo || Romance Options || Side Characters || FAQ || Tag Navigation

In The Ink Stained Chessboard, you play as a Wonderland resident who's been "promoted" to the position of the Cheshire Cat. You were simply minding your own business one day when you were ripped from your original Role and put into the Role of the Cheshire Cat. You've been in the Role for a little bit now. As for who put you in the role? Wonderland, itself did that. A bit bizarre, but it does have a mind of its own.

Without the interference of an "Alice" figure, life is pretty normal. Odd but normal. It's not always wacky and nonsensical in Wonderland, believe it or not. When an "Alice" appears, Wonderland moves all of its pieces to tell the story again and again like a play. That's how its supposed to work anyways. But ever since this strange ink-like substance appeared the story hasn't been running smoothly like it should.

When an Ink Well appears during a tea party in the Red Queen's garden and consumes half of the court, you decide it's time to do something about this. With a group of pretty unlikely allies, you set off to find what's causing the ichor to appear and stop it.

Play as a male, female, or nonbinary Cheshire Cat

Customize the way you look, including your ears and tail and your cat form! Your normal form is humanoid with cat ears and a tail

Choose what your Role was before Wonderland made you the Cheshire Cat. Your previous Role will give you exclusive abilities not available to other roles

Choose to romance 1 of 5 options or none at all

Figure out what's going on with the ichor and why it's appearing and where do the residents it absorbs go

Make a decision with the fate of Wonderland in your hands

The Cheshire Cat - You (he/him), (she/her), or (they/them)

You play as the Cheshire Cat. You possess all the typical things associated with the cat, such as disappearing and reappearing and your iconic grin. Your previous Role will also give you specific abilities. Being put in a Main Role made you functionally immortal so you don't know how old you really are, but physically, you appear to be in your mid-twenties (24-26).

The people of Wonderland sometimes call you Chess/Chessie.

Appearance: Player Determined, although your base figure is humanoid with cat ears and a tail

The Alice - Alice/Alex Liddle (she/her) or (he/him)

A is the newest "Alice" to Wonderland. The 103rd "Alice" to be exact. Because of the ichor, their story broke apart pretty early on leaving them basically stranded in Wonderland with no direction. It's good that they're a precocious person and found their own way to the Red Queen's garden. They're a bit naive but are earnest and kind and was one of the first people to volunteer to go with you. Their only stipulation: to go home when it's done.

Appearance: A is on the shorter side of average in terms of height. Alice is 5'3 and Alex is 5'8. They both have fair skin with freckles and loosely curly blonde hair. Alice has long hair while Alex's is about medium-length. Their eyes are light blue and their frame is lithe and thin. They appear to be in their early twenties (20-23).

The Mad Hatter - Olivia/Oliver (she/her) or (he/him)

O is the Mad Hatter. They aren't the "original" Mad Hatter, but they've been in their Role longer than you've been the Cheshire Cat. They are eccentric and a bit unpredictable. That's probably why they were the second person to volunteer to go with you to figure out what's going on, after Alice/Alex. You two don't really get along, bickering often when not in your Roles, so you're surprised when they volunteered. Being a Main Role, like you, they also are functionally immortal, but appear to be in their mid-twenties (24-26), as well.

Appearance: O is pretty tall with Olivia being around 5'9 and Oliver being about 6'1. They both have clear tanned skin and orange-red hair. Their hair is mixed textures with some strands being straight and others wavy. They always keep their hair down, even if it's inconvenient. They have brown eyes and a lanky frame.

The Red Queen/The Queen of Hearts - Isabelle (she/her)

Isabelle is the Red Queen and the Queen of Hearts. You find her Role varies from "Alice" to "Alice". She's fairly new to the Role, having acquired her position around the same time you became the Cheshire Cat. She's a bit stiff and serious, trying to figure out where her role stops and where she begins. She, like her predecessors, has a passion for roses and it was her garden that was destroyed by the Ink Well. You aren't surprised when she says she's coming with you "for her rose garden". As a Main Role, she is also functionally immortal. She physically appears to be in her early thirties (30-33).

Appearance: Isabelle is a woman of about average height, standing at 5'5. She has soft brown skin and straight black hair. She has red eyes and a fuller figure.

The Jabberwocky - Fenrir (he/him)

Fenrir is the Jabberwocky. He is the second Jabberwocky ever in Wonderland. His role, like Isabelle's, varies from "Alice" to "Alice". Some "Alices" don't ever go near him while others face him. He's solemn and fairly stoic and serious. He's the last person you expected to volunteer since he prefers to be solitary, although you suspect it's because he just wants to get this over with and go back to minding his own business. As a Main Role, he is functionally immortal, but physically appears in his late twenties (27-29).

Appearance: Fenrir is pretty tall, standing at a wild 6'5. He has tanned olive skin and black hair with streaks/highlights of dull blue and green. His eyes are grey and he has an fit figure, not too muscular but not lanky either. He has a few light scars on his face.

Wonderland - ??? (it/its)

Wonderland is... Wonderland. It has a personality of its own and is the one who moves you and the others around when there's an "Alice". It's in charge of making sure the "Alice's" story runs smoothly and to get them in and out quickly. Due to the ichor appearing, it's no longer running smoothly, often forgetting to move pieces around causing a disruption of the cycle. When the Ink Well appeared in the Red Queen's garden, it seems to have stopped "working" all together.

Appearance: It's a land, so far. Notable chessboard fields?

Mysterious Figure - ??? (they/them)

What's Wonderland without one mysterious figure? After the latest Ink Well in the Red Queen's garden, you've been seeing them around Wonderland. You aren't sure if they're following you or if you're indirectly following them, but you seen them quite often. Even odder, every time you see them, they look confused. How strange...

Appearance: You haven't gotten close enough to fully look at them, but you think they at least have blue hair? Or was it purple? Maybe green or even pink? You swear it was white one time. Their skin is very pale, nearly paper white. They're tall from what you can tell. Probably around 6'2. They're clothed in a long black robe with a hood. It's a bit on the nose, don't you think?

[biscuitsofthesevenseas]

DRAGON LORE ANALYSIS TIME

Warning: kind of long(an)

I think we all know where this story is going. The fact that Longan is normally quite nonchalant but then we get this monstrosity of a facial expression as soon as Pitaya decides to chip off his helmet, is just... like I think this guy has more going on than the game is letting us know. Like why did he just decide to sink into the ocean for a couple thousand years after seeing the vision instead of, you know, eagerly anticipating it? Why do they hate cookies so much, how did they receive more power than the other dragons, and if they do despise cookies with all their might then how did Snakefruit get to the palace alive for the first time? I mean, we do know that their power is flawed (proof of that is Pond Dinos existence) , but considering how much the dragon talks about its raw power, I'm not exactly sure whether they actually know about the flaws (well, except for acknowledging, and having therefore, beef with Pond Dino).

Im also slightly disappointed this update ended on a cliffhanger, especially with all the hype, leaks, and the amount of time the Dragon Saga has been going on for. Its been nearly 5 or 6 years since Pitaya was released, and we still haven't even gotten to the final battle yet.

On that note, I think I might as well say what I think will happen in finale. For a start, I kind of hope there will be a Lychee redemption arc. It sound hilarious, but like, think about it. Rambutan wants her friend back, even if said 'friend' was and is a life-sucking succubus dragon. Lychee herself is probably the least popular of the dragons (used to be ananas but they gained a bunch of new fans, including myself, this update.) She's been completely sidelined in lore, even her own release cutscenes focusing on Rambutan more than her. She appeared a total of two times this entire update, and not much more throughout this megaupdate. Oh and she's the only legendary without a costume since Ananas and Pitaya got theirs this megaupdate, so I think that update will give her one. A redemption arc would be interesting and it would give her the opportunity to not end the saga as longans servant. (I also realised that it would be extremely funny if longan also got redeened and received a costume for it. Like, angelic Longan. Angelic Longan. Think about it.)

Now, Snakefruit. I do not trust that thing one bit, and I am 100% expecting a plot twist on the final DS update where it tries to steal longans dragon form after longan gets inevitably defeated (crob doesn't do killing most of the time, although it would be great if longan just straight up died.) I mean sure, it made a deal with lotus, bla bla blah, but you aren't forgetting that this is the creature that somehow managed to steal all the cookies' life forces in order to become a dragon. And whats the deal with Snakefruit anyways? How did it even grasp the idea of becoming a dragon? I just happened to realise we know almost nothing about it apart from its goals. Devsis, give the snake lore please.

My fingers hurt now I think I'll stop typing-

[studioghibelli]

lonely like me- joel miller x reader series

— ;; chapter one, tombstone

summary: joel miller has wrapped himself in an impenetrable wall of thorns, where nothing of seriousness can ever get to him. you have spent the last five years running from a bloody, violent past, thirsty for revenge. when two unstoppable, stubborn, roughed up forces meet, something soft and unspoken begins to ensue.

warnings: no use of y/n, some original characters, sort of enemies (the bickering type) to lovers, cowboyjoel!au, wild west!au, orphaned reader, bounty hunter!reader, hefty age gap (20s/50s), female reader, I am basically taking so many creative liberties this is pretty much my own story with joel miller in it i am so sorry people, probably going to be a slow burn, tragic backstory, will update as i go <3 lmk if i missed anything!

rating: r, 18+ mdni

word count: 4.2k

note: i will be making a spotify playlist for this eventually. this is my first series pretty much ever, so any comments, recommendations, feedback, critiques are all welcome- so please feel free to comment them! thank you kindly my friends.

The wind was howling, like a pack of grieving wolves.

Beneath the canopy of Texas' barren wasteland, the night sky was aflame with twinkling slivers of white, perfectly painted atop the canvas of navy as the promise of winter soon approached.

You couldn’t remember the last time your back wasn’t aching. With the sudden chill that had blanketed itself over the land, your bones cried out for help more and more with each passing day. You were too young to hurt like this, too young to know a pain like this.

But life was a brutal teacher, and you knew there was no other way through it but to hurt with no respite. A desert with no oasis.

Your horse whinnied beneath you, the leather saddle cool to the touch of your naked hands.

“It’s alright, boy. Only got a day of ridin' left. Just a bit longer and you’ll get all the barley you want.” He liked this answer, sweeping his head to the right with a deep huff out of his nostrils. His heavy hooves continued imprinting against the soft brown earth of the ground beneath.

Fritz was your father’s horse, before the attack. Before you were left with nothing but a wad of cash, a fading Stetson, and an old, stubborn steed. Despite his head strong nature and aging body, Fritz was still a beautiful sight to behold. A buckskin American Quarter with white socks on each leg, accompanied by a thick, luscious black mane and a matching tail that was always brushed out and braided- courtesy of you. Your daddy had, supposedly, wrestled him in the deserts of New Mexico when the both of them were just two young bucks, taming him then and there. A bond was formed, a silent sort of partnership that only a gun slinger and their horse can have.

Well, that's how the story goes, anyway. You were never too sure how true it was.

He still had a wild streak in him, after all these years, after all this suffering. Just like you.

You looked up at the moon. It hung from its dainty piece of silver twine, twinkling against the backdrop of dusk. It had always been a sight to behold in your eyes, a celestial entity so unobtainable, yet one you loved so dearly, so deeply.

An owl hooted to your left, and you heard the leaves of the surrounding vegetation dance against the smoothing rhythm of the harmonic gale.

"We've been out on our own for too long, boy." You whispered to Fritz. He pulled against the leather reigns slightly, and you saw where his head was turning. About two miles south you saw lights flickering. A town. A town much closer than your original stopping point.

"Always were the ones with brains, weren't ya?" You patted his head, steering him in a new direction. "A few days off track won't hurt." Fritz was silent at the sound of your voice, clopping quietly and huffing every so often towards the vibrant town.

As you drew closer you could hear buildings bustling with music, women singing songs and men slamming their cups of beer together, frothy foam clinging to the sides. A sign was posted above the entrance:

TOMBSTONE

Something about this place sounded awfully familiar, but you just swallowed it down, eyes hellbent and searching for the nearest stable. Out there, far off in the distance, stood a creaking barn you figured Fritz would be safe resting in.

Clopping and clacking to the entrance, you saw a tubby man with a newsboy cap on, a cigar hanging beneath a thick, red moustache.

"What can I do ya' fer, ma'am?"

"Need to board him. Got any room?" You asked, pulling yourself off your worn saddle with a hefty sigh. Oh, how your body ached.

"Yeah, I got room." He eyed you and your horse, sniffing. "It'll be $15 dollars for the week."

With an eyebrow slowly raised, you pointed towards the sign. "Says right there it's $10. You tryna bleed me dry?"

His eyes, aged and graying atop the leathery mask of skin he wore, widened with surprise. "Now I ain't never met a girl on her own that can read."

"Now you have. I'll settle on giving you $8, since you tried to play me."

He gave a thick shrug of his shoulders, giving in to your offer. "Fair 'nuff. He gets barley twice a day, dollar extra fer some apples. Fresh hay every two days, can throw in a saddle at the end, for twenty extra, if ya' want."

"Sounds good. Hear that, boy?" You turned to Fritz, gently running your fingers down his dusty muzzle. "Just like I said. All the barley you want." Your loyal steed nudged against your chest, before a thinning, weakly looking stableboy took him in to the darkening barn.

"What's your name anyway, miss?" The old man asked, sitting back down in his chair as you grabbed your bag.

"Don't got one anymore." You mumbled, thumbing through your satchel.

"Everybody's got one."

You ignored him.

"This should cover it. Take care of my boy. I'll give you enough for an apple a day." Stuffing the cash in his hand you turned on your heel, before sweeping back to look at him. "And, trust me, I will know if you're skimpin' on those damn apples." You rested your hand on the holster to your side, fingers brushing the pearlescent handle of your Colt. It was a threat, not a warning.

The man tilted his cap, nodding. "I ain't got no doubt about it, miss."

You walked down the dirty road, the thick air burning your nostrils. It smelled like manure, liquor, and lumber. The streets were nearly barren, except the occasional prostitute smoking outside a door, or a fight in a dark alley you had no business standing around to watch.

Just to the corner, you saw the swinging doors of a decaying saloon, falling apart at the corners, and made your way inside. There was an empty seat at the bar that you made a straight B line for. Beside the empty chair sat a broad man in a leather jacket, head bowed, black rim of his Stetson covering a brow you figured was laced tight, thinking about whatever guilt and bad blood inevitably plagued him.

Your eyes raked down his back, his jacket stretched tightly against it. Clearing your throat, ignoring the feeling which stirred within you just at the sight of this man's backside, you sat beside him, ushering the bartender over.

The smell of cigarette smoke, smooth whiskey, and warm, nutty oak seeped in through your nostrils. You realized it was him. The nameless, faceless man who had not so much as looked to the side, despite feeling your body shift beside his into the seat.

"Well hello there, pretty lady. What can I getcha' this fine Thursday?"

"It's Thursday?" You asked incredulously, studying the bottles behind him.

The bartender, a boy about your age with slicked back blonde locks and a thin patch of hair on his chin laughed at your surprise, nodding. "Yes ma'am. Been out on the road for long?"

You scoffed to yourself. The man beside you twitched his chin a bit, but his face stayed covered by his thick shoulder, eyes still behind the darkness of the shadow his well-fitted, worn, aged hat provided.

"How'd you tell I've been out on my own?" Your words were laced with sarcasm.

You had seen better, brighter days.

When your skin wasn't caked by the thick, dry southern dust, when you wore handmade, tailored dresses the color of lilies and sea foam, when your hair was always clean and curled courtesy of your mama, when you were young and alive and pure and clean. A life you felt was more of a theory, a concept, rather than a memory. A story you had never lived, not for many years. Not since you were a young, naive little girl, forced to live out on her own. Forced to witness the bloody walls, dripping knives, rippling gun shots. Forced to live a waking nightmare.

Now here you were. Cotton trousers stained by mud and tea, vest tearing away at the seams. You barely recognized yourself, whenever you caught a glimpse in a flowing stream or dirty window. You didn't think you were pretty anymore, not like you used to be. But you'd rather take the toughness you had acquired, the grit and the anger you held, over being pretty, soft, feminine.

Well, you were still trying to convince yourself of that.

"You okay?" The bartenders voice snapped you out, and you looked up at him.

"Just a whiskey and sarsaparilla. I like mixing 'em." You explained, and the boy nodded once, turning on his heel to work whatever magic he knew.

The shrouded figure beside you scoffed. "Cowboys don't mix their shit." He grunted out.

Your voice caught in your throat before you could throw back an insult, an explanation, anything. He sounded..... delicious. Angry, tough, worn by life, raspy and rough and.... and your eyes dropped down to his hand, wrapped around the glass of his double shot of what you could only assume was Jim Beam or Maker's. His nails were caked with dirt, palms wide and rough, leathered up by what you figured were decades of hard work. You couldn't see his face, but you knew by his hands that whatever was beneath must have been real nice to look at.

For what felt like the hundredth time, you cleared your throat. "I ain't no cowboy." You finally mumbled, voice tired like a petulant child's.

He chuckled sweetly, lifting his cup up to his lips and downing it in one thick gulp. "Sure do look like one."

"Well, I'm not."

"Just playin' dress up then?"

You rolled your eyes, the bartender handing you an open glass bottle of sarsaparilla and a shot of amber hued liquid. "It's all I had."

And that's when he looked up. You glanced over, not expecting to see that.

Tanned skin, dark eyes, perfect lips. A thick moustache, surrounded by scruffy, graying facial hair. You saw a stray curl fall from the brim of his hat, brown and laced with salty white streaks. His jaw was sharp and tempting, lips wet from his tongue, and his gaze was steady, confident. He was the most attractive man you had ever laid eyes on. Time had done him well, the clock had been good to him. He was old, much older than you, no doubt about it, but still so alluring, mysterious, delicious,

"Holy shit." You found yourself whispering.

"Yeah," he grunted while flicking his fingers, ordering another round, "I have that effect on women."

"I'm not a woman. I'm a cowboy, remember?"

"Does this cowboy have a name?" He asked, eyeing you slowly.

"Not one she plans on tellin' you."

He gave a deep shrug of his shoulders, twirling the new cup of liquid between his fingers, before nursing a slow sip. "Mine's Joel." He grunted after a long moment of turning something or another over in his head.

"You said you stole?" You asked, the music of the live band behind your backs playing up louder.

The man rolled his dark eyes, the orbs dripping with honeyed amber, before looking at you. "J-O-E-L. My name is Joel."

"Oh." You said in a moment of understanding. You brought the cup of your mixed liquid towards your mouth, slowly sipping at it. "Well now I just feel like I'm being rude, not telling you mine."

"You are pretty rude, yeah." He agreed, a burning smirk planted on top of his thin lips.

"Well, just for that, I'm not telling you now. You ruined it." Your arms crossed over your stomach, eyebrows stitched together in a grimace.

"Only agreein' with ya. I guess I'll have to come up with my own name then."

"For me?"

He nodded.

"Like what? Just pull one outta your ass? Kate? Jane?"

Joel laughed a deep laugh from his chest. "You're dumber than a bag of rocks, aint'cha?"

Your cheeks heated up, out of embarrassment or anger, you were unsure. "Could be. Not as dumb as you though. J-O-E-L."

"I was thinkin'.... hmmm." He studied your face, and you felt that foreign stir brewing back inside your belly. He traced your features. You wondered what he was thinking. Joel had a light smirk dancing across his mouth, eyes darkening ever so slightly with every new inch of skin on your face he discovered. He poked and prodded you with his gaze, and you suddenly had the urge to cover up. It was like he was undressing you, slithering deep into your soul, unearthing and unlocking secrets you had never confessed to anyone before.

"Yeah, those names'll suit you for now."

"What will?"

"Just have to wait and see."

"Well you don't have much longer to confess. I'm heading out tomorrow." You lied.

Joel nodded. "I am too. Where you headed?"

"West."

"What's West?" He asked, stirring the remaining liquid in his cup.

"Work."

"'S that so? What you do for work?"

You stared at the ridges in the wooden table, white knuckling the edge. Memories you wished to repress came swimming up to the surface of your mind. The metallic taste of blood, the smell of salty tears. Begs and pleas and I'll give you anything you wants and please, just give me some times. Your jaw clenched. Joel took notice.

"I hunt." You finally answered. It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Hunt what?" Joel asked, curiosity sparking within him.

You pointed to a few torn posters on the wall with your head.

One, yellowing at the edges with browning letters stood out amongst them all.

HARVEY JONES, 58 YEARS OLD

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE FOR:

MURDER, ARSON, KIDNAPPING.

$5,000 REWARD

"People like that." You muttered, staring at his picture.

Harvey had an old and scarred face, tanned and rough. His right cheek looked like a dog had gotten ahold of him, covered by patchy, gnarled facial hair, and his eyes were cruel, painted through with rage by the steady hand of time, no doubt a victim to the tempestuous waves of life. You swallowed, and Joel watched your eyes gloss over with something he had become well acquainted with: Rage.

"You think he's campin' out West, too?" Joel asked, eyes cemented to the side profile of your face. God damn, were you pretty, he thought. A firecracker.

You nodded slowly. "Wyoming."

"That's where I'm headed."

"What're you running from, Joel?"

"Not runnin' from nothing. Searchin' for my brother, 's all."

You shook your head, eyes meeting his. "Everybody's running from something."

Joel sat in silence, finishing his drink. "I have a proposition for you."

"I'm not sleepin' with you." You grumbled into your cup, staring at him from behind the rim.

"Not what I was gonna ask. Nice to know that's where your pretty little head went." He snickered, waving for another drink. Poor bartender, you thought, he must be five drinks in already. You saw the cups piling around him. Damn, could he hold his liquor. The mark of a real man, your pops always used to say.

"What's this proposition then, Cowboy Joel?"

"I go with you, out West. Keep you safe, help you find that Harvey man. I get half the reward for takin' care of you."

"I don't need some disgusting, stinky man takin' care of me."

Joel laughed, that chesty, deep, gorgeous laugh once again, his neck falling back. "Now I know I ain't stinky, darlin'."

Darlin'. That must have been the name. Your cheeks lit with the flame of.... well, something you didn't quite have the name for.

"And you know I ain't no fool." He continued, his voice settling into a sturdy sort of seriousness. "But you don't look like you've been too well out there on your own. How old are those clothes? Four months? Five? Covered in dirt, even though you wash them weekly. Right? Am I gettin' somewhere with this? Your cheeks are covered in scratches. It's rough out there. Rough for any man on his own, not jus' you." Joel raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to nod. And nod you did. You could feel bitter hot tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away, continuing your silent sitting.

"Now, let me see you there safe, make sure you get that man for whatever he did to you, and we can go our separate ways. Like nothin' ever happened. Hell, I'd settle for less than half- If I end up likin' you some."

"Okay." You whispered. "Okay." You repeated, louder this time.

"You got a room here for the night?"

You shook your head no. "I just got here, 'n hour or so ago."

"Want to join me in mine?"

"I said I'm not going to sleep with you-"

Joel cut you off. "That's not what I'm askin'. I don't want to see you naked." You narrowed your eyes, for some reason feeling a bit deflated by that comment. "Just figured it'll give you someplace to wash off. Got a tub in mine, you can go up there and get some of that dirt off. I'll stay down here, if it'd make you feel any better."

You saw him pull a key from his back pocket, pushing it towards you. You stared at the little piece of metal before taking it, glancing up at him.

"Do you... do you know if any clothes shops are open 'round here?" You finally asked, almost sheepishly.

"Think there's one down the road, to the left. Could still be open."

You stuffed the key in your bra. "What's the room number?"

"Twelve."

You gave him a nod, pushing your way out of the saloon, feeling the fresh night air hit your cheeks. You gasped for breath, taking in the sensation of the earth soaking its way into your lungs, filling you to the brim with the crisp night. You hadn't realized how hot it was in there, how stifled your chest had become.

"Dammit." You grunted to yourself, leaning the palms of your hands on your knees as you bent over. These weird feelings? Yeah. Not good. "Dammit. Dammit!" You snapped again, this time louder. Your worn boot kicked a pebble across the street, hearing it clang against the metal of a water trough. "Fuckin' stupid asshole."

You walked the directions he had given you, finding a little clothes shop with the lights still on. You ratted your knuckled against the door as you walked in. A pretty lady, about the age of this Joel you had just met, smiled at you from behind the counter, not deterred by your appearance.

"Howdy! Looking for some new clothes?" She chirped, a sweet song-like quality tugging at her words.

"Yes ma'am. Something nice."

"You a rider?" She asked.

"I am, yes ma'am I'm on the road a lot. Need something that lets me move freely." You explained curtly, not meaning to seem so standoffish.

"Have you ever tried a riding skirt? Just got a new shipment in, made from the finest cow hide." She guided you towards a mannequin, showing you the skirt.

It was ankle length and looked heavy, but you felt a shimmer in your eyes once you saw it. The hide was light brown, patches of white and black spots littered throughout. Must have been a pretty cow. You'd look like a proper lady wearing one of these, you thought, a bit like you used to. You shook the thought away. No. You needed tough. Rough.

"I, uh-" You rubbed the back of your neck. "I think I'll just settle for some pants."

"Sure! These are new." She held up a pair of trousers, simple and black, a pair you knew would fit you nice and well.

"Those'll do." You smiled, gently grabbing them from her. She caught your eye, grinning.

"Good! Now we're gettin' somewhere. I think this would look great together." The pretty lady held up a long sleeved white shirt with a black bow, reminiscent of a bolo tie, around the collar. Alongside it, there stood a nice, deep maroon vest, silver embellished buttons lining the middle, a pretty frill at the hems.

"That's pretty." You admitted, grabbing it from her.

"You need a new holster? Boots? Belt?"

"Well, might as well just get it all." You joked, eliciting a laugh from her.

You settled on a thick belt that matched the vest, a silver buckle in the middle with deep florals carved into the material, a real piece of turquoise jutting out in the middle. Your holster was falling apart, so you grabbed on that matched the belt, and a pair of new leather boots that ached when you tried them on. All good boots have to be worn in, you thought, it'll be worth the blisters.

"How about a hat-"

"No!" You rushed out, a bit too brutally, and she took a step back with her hands raised defensively. You coughed a bit, repeating yourself much softer. "No. No thank you, I mean. This hat was my-... it's a, uh, it's a family hat."

There was a long sort of silence, thick and awkward, the kind you hated the most. "Oh, do you have some sort of, like... sleeping shirt?"

"I've got a nightgown."

Grudgingly, you accepted, taking the soft, feminine fabric from her. It was white, with a dainty bow at the low collar. It was... cute. Something the old you would have worn. Something that sweet, pretty little thing of a girl you once were would have swooned over. It filled you with a twinge of pain.

"Thank you." You spoke earnestly.

She smiled, nodding a bit, before taking you to the register. "It'll be $80."

"$80?" You repeated.

"A bit too much for you?"

You thumbed through the wad of cash in your satchel, handing her $100. "No, it isn't enough. You could be making bank in here, lady." You scooped up the bag your new clothes were in, turning to walk towards the door. "Keep the change."

She giggled a giddy laugh, bidding you a sweet and meaningful farewell, before you made your way to the inn, searching for this mysterious door 12.

Once you finally found it, you unlocked it with ease, the lamp on the beside table soon flickering awake with golden life as you flipped it on. The room smelled like Joel. Like wood, smoke, whiskey. It smelled good. You felt your skin prick with goosebumps, and you shook it out of your head. A man has never had this sort of effect on you. You groaned, stuffing your face in the palms of your hot hands.

This was business. Business. Business. Business. That's all it was. All it ever would be. All you would ever let it be.

The bath in the corner was already full with water, untouched, a bar of soap on the table beside it. You stripped, allowing the cold water to soon engulf you as you let out a little yelp, the temperature making your bones ache even more. Your nipples hardened painfully, and you gave one a twist, feeling some odd sort of relief inside of you, caused by that stupid oaf down at the bar.

"God damned fucking water." You grumbled as it sloshed against your face, directing your energy towards being annoyed, before reaching for the bar of soap. You must have scrubbed every inch of your skin, for at least an hour, before you felt clean enough to get out. The water was swirling with dirt and soap suds, and you winced at the sight. Were you really that dirty? You felt embarrassed.

There was a knock at the door. Joel.

You rushed to dry off and threw the nightgown over your head, before he stepped in with a hand over his eyes.

"Now, I ain't tryna' get a peak if you're still naked." He felt around with his free hand, closing the door with a kick of his leg. Something about that made you feel.... some sort of way.

"I'm not naked." You grumbled, and he let his hand drop.

"Well, I didn't take you for the nightgown type. Did you buy that for me?" He asked smugly, his fingers moving to the buttons of his vest.

You rolled your eyes. "No, I didn't." You spat matter-of-factly, taking every ounce of willpower to turn your back to him as he unclothed himself.

"Mhm. Well, better get a good sleep tonight, darlin'. Got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

You shuffled your way to bed, refusing to look his way, trying to ignore the new name he had brandished you with, and climbed under the wool blankets, keeping as many feet away from him as possible. You felt his weight shifting against the hard mattress beneath you once he was undressed, the blanket shuffling. You knew his back was turned to yours, obliging your unspoken wish for space. As you stared at the wall, you felt yourself begin feeling silently thankful for a change of pace from the cold, hard ground.

You fell asleep to the lullaby of his snores.

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth

chapter 1: suffocation.

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read that, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood, violence, gore, mutilation, death, & animal death. the animal death is pretty detailed, so please don't read this fic if you're triggered by that kind of topic.

author's notes: This first chapter is a little bit of a mess imo, but I wanted to post it to assure you all that I don’t want to abandon this fic. It may take me longer to post and update chapters, especially since I graduated from uni (mwahahah) and my schedule may get busy. Still, I really enjoy writing this story—and you all seem to enjoy reading it. Both of those things are enough to keep me going.

Something extremely ironic happened around the time I was writing the last few chapters of Act 1. So… if you remember, in Chapter 6, Hannibal and the reader go on an opera date (of sorts). During that date, the reader remarks that they “don’t know the first thing about opera.” Those words were pretty much taken directly from my mouth. Fast forward to about mid-fall, I get a call for an interview for an internship. I end up doing the first interview, then a second interview… Then I get the internship. The irony? This internship is at an opera house. (What’s even more ironic is that I’m now getting to the point where I do actually know things about opera—I know different productions and directors and technical terms… It’s absolutely crazy. The universe is making me eat my words, lol.

To make matters even stranger, I was in the office for the internship one day and caught a glimpse of a television, which broadcasts what’s happening on the stage. Imagine my absolute surprise and fear when I look up at the television screen with absolutely no expectations and see a single man in a beige jumpsuit with something over his face standing on stage, his shadow silhouetted against the wall behind him. Imagine my surprise when I see that, not only is he standing in an enclosure with iron bars (just like the ones at Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane), but it also looks as if he is staring right at me—and he looks exactly like Hannibal Lecter in captivity. It was simultaneously scary as hell and weirdly reassuring. Anyway, I’ve taken these experiences as cosmic confirmation that I should continue writing this fic. Lol.

Anyway. Back to the important things… I’m planning to borrow elements from both Silence of the Lambs and Red Dragon, but, similarly to the first act, there will be canon divergence and canon non-compliance. Also, as you probably discerned in the past act, there is some plot armor. But, this is fiction.

Your life currently takes two forms: before the Chesapeake Ripper… and after. 

Before the Ripper, the leaf-stained pavement of the Bureau filled you with hope. Walking through the agency’s halls was a testament to the hard work that brought you there. Each assignment was an invaluable opportunity to further develop your interrogation and combat skills. You went to classes, completed assignments, trained, slept, and repeated the cycle the next day. Over and over and over again. But you were happy. 

Life doesn’t feel so simple anymore. You feel like you’ve been fading for a while now, slowly deteriorating as you invest more and more energy into catching criminals. Your work has morphed into an exhausting mutual exchange, one in which you take murderers’ freedom and they take your restful nights. You can’t remember the last time you rested unencumbered by the horrors you’ve seen in the field.

By some miracle, Jack manages to keep the press relatively uninformed about the happenings behind the Ripper case. Everyone is too absorbed with the fact that Hannibal’s in captivity to remember to ask just how he got there, and you’re very grateful for that lapse in memory. You can just imagine the interactions you’d have with paparazzi. Is it true that he stabbed you? Is it true that he purposefully left you alive, only to surrender in your front yard and torment you with the constant knowledge that he will remain in the same place, lying in wait until the moment you will inevitably need him? You shudder. 

Even with all the chaos that comes from the Ripper case—the media coverage of Hannibal and the attention the FBI gets—life goes on. Back at the Bureau, you occasionally lecture the new recruits and you take on assignments along with the rest of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Jack is still wont to call on you at the most ungodly of hours; Beverly still trades lighthearted taunts with you; Brian Zeller still seems to hate your guts, for reasons you’re not quite sure of; Alana and you are back to a steady friendship, albeit with occasional beats of unexplained tension and awkward silence. 

Criminality continues to occur in the Ripper’s wake. You’re not surprised: the imprisonment of one criminal doesn’t beget the imprisonment of another. Even so, it’s difficult for you to proceed as if things are normal. You see traces of Hannibal in each of the monsters you apprehend. Your emotions are starting to eat you alive from the inside. You don’t have a therapist to assist you with those emotions anymore. And, while you think therapy would be helpful, you also know that there’s no way in hell you’d be able to actually be honest with a therapist without being imprisoned yourself. The things you’ve done and the urges you’ve felt…  Neither is even close to a semblance of normality. 

You take a deep breath. You have no issue stopping other criminals, sending them to empty white walls and thin mattresses. Why was Hannibal Lecter any different? You suppose you shouldn’t fool yourself—you know the answer to that question already: you got to know him. Beyond the mask of the Ripper, beyond the bloodied skin and cruel smile… You started to see him as a man, perhaps even a friend. Perhaps, even-

You tear yourself away from that thought process before it gets too far along. The semantics don’t matter now. All that matters is that you’re back in the field, back popping pills for your headaches and blinking fresh horrors from your eyes. All that matters is that the memory of Hannibal Lecter begins to fade away in the face of work— so much so that keeping busy helps you forget the pain. 

Meanwhile, a hundred miles away, a veterinarian walks into a stable under a farmer’s guidance. The two stand over a dead horse and the veterinarian frowns. The farmer explains the horse’s death before stepping aside, letting the professional work. 

The farmer quickly becomes lost in their thoughts. They hadn’t expected the horse to die in the middle of her pregnancy. The farmer swallows past the tightness in their throat and tears their eyes away from the horse. They were looking forward to the birth of the foal, looking forward to helping the mother raise her offspring. The stable air suddenly feels suffocating and they take a look at the veterinarian’s turned back before stepping outside to get some fresh air. 

Moments later, the veterinarian rejoins them. The doctor’s lips are drawn in a tight line and there’s a troubled expression on their face. The farmer feels any remaining composure promptly seep out of them, as the veterinarian suggests they come back into the stable. 

“It feels like there’s something here,” the veterinarian says, their expression conflicted. They touch the horse’s womb with a gloved hand and frown. 

“She was pregnant,” the farmer chokes out, their throat feeling tight again. It hurts to utter the words aloud.

“With twins?” The veterinarian asks, turning around to look at them. 

“No, just one baby,” the farmer shakes their head. Why would they ask about twins? Surely, they don’t feel another baby in the womb. The thought of two deaths is morbid and distressing enough, but three? The farmer inhales shakily. 

“There’s… something else here.” The veterinarian remarks, their face contorting as they feel the horse’s womb once more. They turn back to look at the farmer for assistance. The farmer feels a horrible, inexplicable sense of foreboding crawling up their skin. Despite that feeling, they nod to the veterinarian. The doctor nods in response and turns to the horse’s womb, before making an incision.

The veterinarian unearths the dead foal and places it on the nearby hay with infinite gentleness. The farmer’s chest begins to hurt as they come to terms with the sight before them. Their pain doesn’t end there, however. The veterinarian continues slicing along the skin before stopping and glancing back at them inexplicably. It’s as if they’re waiting for permission to continue. The farmer appreciates the gesture and they nod in affirmation. This mystery needs to be put to rest. 

The veterinarian inhales sharply, sending the farmer’s heart racing. The farmer prompts them to step aside, revealing the horse’s womb. There’s… something there. The farmer squints at it, a gasp ripping its way from their lips as they realize just what they’re looking at. A human corpse lies on the stable floor, a stark shock of muted crimson against the golden strands of hay. The farmer brings a shaking hand to their pocket and calls the police. 

Unaware of these occurrences, you slowly exhale and pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache coming on. You busy yourself with grading your students’ papers, and you don’t learn of the corpse until a few hours later, when the medicine begins to kick in and you’re foolishly convinced that you’ll be fine. Before you can leave for the day, Jack is walking up to you and beckoning you to the lab. The two of you grab Beverly along the way, which leaves the three of you to enter the laboratory that Price and Zeller are currently situated in. When you walk in, you’re immediately assaulted with the scent of formaldehyde. Price explains the situation behind the corpse, how a veterinarian found the body within the womb of a horse. The notion is strikingly similar to the other deaths by suffocation that have been eluding the BAU for several weeks. Jack seems to think the same thing, as he rattles off what he knows so far about the killer. You add things here and there—small things you can notice from the state of the corpse itself—before Price gets the group back on track. 

“I called you here because…” Price trails off, frowning before readjusting his stethoscope and placing it on the victim’s chest once more. The room is deathly silent as he concentrates. “...There’s a heartbeat.”

“That doesn’t come with the onset of rigor mortis—we all know that,” Zeller continues, looking down at the corpse with a somewhat puzzled expression. He seems to sense you staring and looks up, his eyebrows furrowing as his gaze meets yours. “She’s dead.” He announces with complete certainty. 

“She was found in the womb of the horse?” Beverly asks. Everyone else nods and she pauses for a moment. “Make an incision and check the chest cavity.” There’s an unshakeable certainty in her voice and it throws you off for a moment, before you realize what she’s getting at. It’s not unfathomable that something was buried within the victim’s chest cavity. Suffocation seems to be a common theme with this killer. Did they put some sort of dead animal in the corpse? The thought makes your stomach turn. 

“Alright,” Price acquiesces, after glancing at Jack for approval. Crawford nods, evidently attributing value to Beverly’s suggestion. The four of you—Crawford, Beverly, Zeller, and you—watch as Price leans in and makes a careful incision in the chest. For several moments, there’s nothing but a tense silence in the air as Jimmy works. The quiet is broken a few seconds later when Price takes a sharp breath. “I saw something.” 

“Keep going,” Jack demands, bringing Jimmy’s attention back to the task at hand. Price nods and makes the incision a little bigger. All of you are watching in anticipation, waiting for something you’re not quite sure will appear. 

All of a sudden, there’s a flash of motion. A yellow blur flits about the cavity, before reaching upwards and extending its wings to fly out. You watch in disbelief as the bloodstained bird stretches its wings and flies about the lab, colliding with the sheen of the fluorescent lighting and sending shadows flickering along the floor.

Jack is the first one to respond. He quickly paces over to the small window located near the ceiling and opens it, allowing the bird an escape. For a few moments, the bird doesn’t seem to notice: it’s too overwhelmed with the sudden change in environment to comprehend that it has just been granted an escape. It has a chance at true freedom, but it’s too busy taking in the laboratory’s flimsy promises to notice. The bird eventually notices the open window and flies out of it, before Jack closes the laboratory off from the outside world once more. 

The group begins discussing what just occurred, but your mind is elsewhere. You feel a strange sort of kinship with the bird: suffocated beneath rows of ribs and walls of tissue and skin; banished to the space between; too taken with the small allowances to notice freedom within reach. You pinch the bridge of your nose. Your headache is returning, as pressure builds up in your temples and constricts your very skin. It’s significantly harder to breathe. Every time you blink, you’re greeted with the memory of that bright yellow bird bursting from its confines, greeting the stale laboratory air with beating wings. You step outside the lab to get some fresh air, trading your smaller prison for a bigger one—just as the bird did mere moments ago. 

It doesn’t take long for Jack to find you. After all, you’re not hidden—you’re simply leaning against the wall in the hallway that leads to the laboratory. Jack strides up to you, his hands in his pockets and that familiar tight line drawn across his face. You suspect he’ll get wrinkles a lot sooner than everyone else his age—sheerly because of all the responsibility he holds and the pressure he’s forced to perform under. It must be exhausting to be the one calling the shots in these horrible situations. You had always assumed Jack had the easy job, but looking at him now, you think that assumption must be incorrect. He is suffering, just as you are. Perhaps… Jack has just grown better at hiding it. 

The thought makes Jack’s remark slip in one ear and right out the other. You ask him to repeat himself and he sighs. “We need to go to the stable where the corpse was found. There are several police officers there already, but…” But we need to do a more thorough investigation , he doesn’t say. You hear him anyway and nod. Jack walks past you and paces purposefully down the hall, not even bothering to look and see if you’re following him. Perhaps he already knows you will follow him. 

What follows is an awkward car ride. Neither of the two of you attempt to break the tense silence, leaving a suffocating air of uncertainty and indecision. You don’t know what to say to Jack, so you instead busy yourself with looking out the window. You resolutely pretend not to notice your boss’s gaze repeatedly flitting over to you and, after a painful amount of time, Jack is driving up the gravel path that leads to a modest farmhouse and a beautiful wooden stable. 

The place is already crawling with police officers and FBI agents. Unfortunately, the police were the first ones to be informed of the case, which means the FBI is forced to share jurisdiction with them. You know Jack isn’t too happy about that, especially once you see the frown on his face as he watches the police officers clumsily investigate. They don’t have the right training for a situation like this and Jack is delighted to inform them of that fact—albeit with much more sugar coated wording than you would have utilized. A few minutes later, the cops are gone, leaving Jack, you, and the set of agents that Jack requested to follow after your car on the drive over. The other agents are quick to secure the crime scene, while Jack and you decide to explore the premises a little first. 

The property features a small, rather unremarkable house with slightly dirty bricks and a well-loved bench swing on the porch. The front door is agape, revealing hardwood flooring and items strewn about. Jack and you exchange a glance before walking into the home. You don’t see any sign of life until you reach the kitchen and come across an older woman sitting at the table, stirring a cup of tea. You’re quick to show your badge and explain the situation to her. She doesn’t seem to have a great idea of what’s going on, so you eventually decide to leave her be and keep looking about the property. 

Next to the house is a rather large stable, complete with several different stalls and a wide variety of tools. You have no idea what half of the tools could possibly be used for, but the majority of them look as if they’ve been used at least once. There are bales of hay in the corner of the room and various accessories hanging near the post of each horse’s stall. There are only a few horses in the stable—you think you could’ve seen a few in the pastures out back earlier. There’s a horrible stench pervading the air, and it’s not the typical odor that comes from a farm. It’s the smell of death. You look at Jack and he nods, inclining his head and gesturing for you to continue exploring the stable. It isn’t until you reach the last stall—one that is inexplicably larger than the rest—that you find the source of the stench. The rotted corpse of the horse rests at the back of the stall, the womb flayed open. The organs have been removed, but the smell of decay remains. Surprisingly enough, you’re not alone in this stall. A brown-haired man sits cross-legged on the floor next to the horse, a blank expression on his face. 

“...Hello?” You decide to try. There’s no response. “Excuse me?” Still no response. 

You glance at Jack and he raises his eyebrows, before turning to the stranger. “You must be Peter Bernardone,” Jack remarks. The mention of the man’s name seems to be enough to get his attention. On second thought, you remember Jack offhandedly mentioning that there may be a stablehand on site. It seems you’ve found him. 

“That’s me,” the man replies flatly, staring ahead with glassy eyes. He looks as if he’s on an entirely different plane of existence, as he looks at the wall ahead of him with enough intensity to melt it.

“Jack Crawford, FBI,” Jack answers with an introduction of his own. He flashes his badge for a moment before putting it away. You can’t tell if Peter is even paying attention, but you do the same to make him more comfortable. “We’re just here to ask you some questions.”

“I want to talk,” Peter murmurs quietly, just barely loud enough to be heard. He pulls his knees up to his chest; his eyes haven’t strayed from the corpse of the animal in front of him. You feel your chest constrict a little at the sight. 

“Good,” Jack responds with a nod. 

“...To you,” Peter finishes with a gesture. To your complete surprise, he doesn’t point at Jack—he’s pointing at you. Jack blinks in equal surprise, looking at you for answers. You send him a helpless look. At first, you’re not sure why you seem more trustworthy than Jack. Then you remember Jack’s position and the intimidating aura he tends to give off. You think you’d want to talk to someone like yourself too, were you in Peter’s situation. 

“Alright,” you agree. You don’t see the harm in having a conversation. You need information and, more importantly, answers. Jack stares at you for a long few seconds, before exhaling in evident exasperation. 

“I’ll be outside,” Jack promises, before walking away. You wait until Jack is out of sight before you take a step closer to Peter, placing your hands in your pockets. 

“What do you do here, Peter?” You hear yourself ask. Your voice sounds foreign to your ears. 

“I volunteer here,” Peter responds, still facing the corpse. His voice sounds hollow, empty. “Sometimes.” 

“Did you… know this horse?” You ask hesitantly, looking down at the corpse.

“Yes,” Peter answers without hesitation. There’s a hint of emotion in his voice now.  

“Ridden her before?”

“I don’t ride the horses,” Peter replies, “I just like to brush them.” 

“Okay,” you acknowledge. You begin pacing around the stall in an attempt to calm your restless nerves. “Peter, were you here on the day that the veterinarian visited?” Jack had briefed you on the circumstances of the horse’s death, how a veterinarian had been called to investigate before the corpse was found in the womb. 

“I don’t remember a veterinarian,” he stares ahead with a frown. 

“That’s fine,” you answer. He may not have been there that day. “The veterinarian was the one who cut open the womb and found the corpse… Did you know this horse was pregnant?”

At that question, Peter turns around and stares at you. His hollow gaze is enough to send a shiver down your spine. For a moment, he just stares at you, before huffing in amusement. “Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” you echo. You suppose that was a rather dumb question on your part. “Were you… sad about the foal?”

“Of course,” Peter huffs again. “Why do you think I’m sitting here?” This discussion isn’t getting you very far. 

“Fine,” you acquiesce. You take a deep breath. “This doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I’m going to give you my extension, and if you ever feel like talking about what happened, you can call me, okay?” Thankfully, you know for certain that Peter isn’t the killer—the psychological profile you built on this murderer tells you that much. Jack clearly doesn’t think Peter is the killer either, and those two facts are enough for you to rule him out as a suspect. However, you’re still contemplating the possibility of him tampering with the crime scene. 

Peter clears his throat pointedly and you remember what you were supposed to be doing. You grab a notepad from your jacket pocket and quickly scrawl down the Behavioral Analysis Unit’s phone number, followed by the extension to your office phone. You take a step closer and hold it out to Peter. For a fraction of a moment, you think he won’t take it. Just before you can pull your hand back, he takes the paper and slips it into his pocket. 

You turn on your heel and take a step towards the door of the stall, fully intent on leaving, when the door falls open of its own accord. Jack Crawford stands in the doorway, staring at you. 

“Good, Agent,” Jack remarks. This must be important. “We have a lead,” he says vaguely, his eyes falling to Peter. You can’t discuss confidential information here—the details will have to wait until you’re both in the car.

“Excellent,” you remark in relief. “I’ll meet you at the car?” You can sense that Peter’s attention is piqued. Maybe you can still get something out of him. Jack nods and walks away once more. You then turn to Peter, who has turned his body away from the horse to face you. Somehow, he’s intrigued now. Something has caught his eye. “Sorry, Peter,” you apologize, taking a step backwards and emphasizing that you’re a moment away from leaving, “I have to go.”

“What is it?” Peter asks, “Did you find him?”

“It’s classified, I’m sorry,” you respond, ignoring the inexplicable sound of alarm bells blaring in your head. Peter isn’t the killer. “But we’re tracking down this killer. I promise he’ll be put away.”

“You promise?” Peter asks, a dangerous conviction in his eyes. 

“Yes,” you respond without hesitation. You don’t have the authority to make that kind of promise, but you do anyway. The sincerity in your expression must convince Peter, because he takes a slow breath and the tension seems to fade from his form. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Peter. It was nice to meet you.” Peter says the same and you turn to leave the stable. 

“Price and Zeller found soil in the corpse’s throat,” Jack recounts to you as he drives along the highway, moving at a comfortable speed. His eyes are fixed on the road, but he recalls his conversation with Price with perfect consistency. “We traced it to a burial site about thirty minutes from here.”

“Great,” you remark, relief coursing through you. To your surprise, Jack doesn’t respond. Instead, he simply nods ever so slightly and continues staring ahead. Now, it seems as if he’s avoiding something. “What is it?” You ask. Something seems off about him. 

“You may want to brace yourself,” Jack warns vaguely. 

“Why?” You hear yourself question. Jack doesn’t answer, and he’s quiet for the rest of the car ride. When the two of you pull up to the supposed burial site, you’re filled with trepidation. This job always comes with the knowledge that blood and gore could be waiting at every corner. That’s the normal day for an agent. So… why does Jack feel the need to warn you? You grapple with the prospect as the two of you leave the car and join the group of agents circled around something. 

It isn’t until you get closer that you recognize the familiar stench of rotting death. Sure enough, the group of agents is clustered around a hole in the ground—one that houses a woman’s corpse. You stare at the marks around her neck, the dirt caked under her nails and staining her fingertips. She was on the brink of death when she was buried. She was trying to escape. You stare down at the body for another moment, searching for any more abnormalities, before taking a step back to let the other agents resume their investigation. You exchange glances with Jack. 

“She’s not the only one,” Jack says. You stare at the field around you—the grassy, open expanse. It seems to stretch on for miles now. You feel your heart steadily thudding in your chest, at a rate slightly faster than normal. Your head begins to ache. 

“How many of them are there?” You murmur. The question is quiet, as you practically whisper it against the wind. For a moment, you think Jack doesn’t hear it. You then realize that he has comprehended it, but is simply declining to answer. Indeed, your boss stares out at the field with a conflicted expression. “Jack?”

“Sixteen,” Jack responds, turning his attention back to you. You feel something in your stomach twist and pull. 

“That can’t be right,” you remark. It sounds as if the wind is picking up. It takes you several seconds to realize the sound is being conjured by your own mind, and that the air is damp and still around you. You swallow hard and take another look around at the field, suddenly understanding why the agents are now evenly dispersed across the space. They all have shovels and each sound of metal hitting dirt is enough to send a bolt of pain down your temple and through your cheekbones. Your teeth hurt as you watch the unearthing of sixteen different victims. They’re uniformly dispersed across the field. This is no happy accident—the killer meticulously planned for their graves to be close (but not too close). The thought brings a burning feeling to your throat and you feel your knees suddenly buckle. You place a hand on the ground, feeling the familiar horrible feeling of nausea climbing past your throat until you’re vomiting on the killer’s ground. It takes you a few minutes to stop, and even longer for you to fully recover. Your eyes sting and you can’t tell if you’re going to cry or pass out. There’s an overwhelming clarity in your vision and a rhythmic pounding at your temple.

This graveyard is a gruesome display, even to someone who has spent their entire career surrounded by carnage. You’ve seen your fair share of murder victims. You’ve never seen sixteen of them lined up in two neat rows of eight, buried in a nondescript field under layers of muddy soil. Moreover, you can sense the killer’s feelings—and it makes you sick. This was not a gesture born out of respect for the victims. The murderer did not dig up these graves to give these women a final resting place; he buried them to trap them, so that even in death, they would never truly be free. Their existences would be tied to him forever. They would never be allowed to breathe again. It’s nothing short of sickening. There’s nausea stewing in your stomach again, revulsion prickling across your skin, and sweat trickling down your neck.

You can’t seem to push yourself up to your feet. You’re grounded to the damp soil, to the wrong side of the earth. What deems you worthy of living? What deemed these women worthy of dying? Your hands are twitching at your sides. A deep breath causes your chest to hitch and you nearly vomit again. You look down on your body as you claw at the grass and tear it up, shakily pulling at the dirt and plants and grass and rot and death and injustice and horrible, terrible guilt and indescribable anger and vengeance -

There’s a hand on your shoulder. You instinctually tense, your movements beginning to slow. It feels as if you’re suddenly catapulted back into your body, forced to inhabit the itchy, dirt-stained skin and the endless remorse that wants to eat you alive from the inside. 

“They’re dead; there is nothing left for them here,” Jack says. It’s his strange way of comforting you. It sort of works. After a moment, he takes a step forward and extends a hand to you. You take it, allowing him to pull you up. Jack seems to be fighting against the urge to say or do something, because his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are pulled taut in a thin line. There’s dirt all over you, yet you are still privileged with life. 

You don’t remember how you get back to the Bureau. All you remember is staring blankly ahead as you’re half-led through the halls by Jack himself, his hand on your shoulder providing equal support and increased pressure. All you remember is the worry on Alana’s face as you walk past, the way she gets up from her desk and walks over to you, how she leads you towards the far restroom with a gentle hand. It ends up being the same restroom where Zeller accused you of killing Franklyn. The memory of that encounter is far fresher than you want it to be. 

Alana leads you to a sink and guides your hands towards the water. 

“Allow me,” she remarks, turning on the sink. She steps away for a moment and you stare at the water dripping from the faucet. Alana returns moments later with a washcloth. She pumps some soap on your hands and helps you wash them clean. Your head aches. You don’t know what to think, what to say. All you can think about is the graveyard. It haunts your vision every time you blink, forcing you to think of suffocating under piles of dirt and debris. You inhale sharply, gasping. Regaining your breath is a chore. “I’m worried about you,” Alana soon admits. You hate that her concern makes you feel appreciated. Your relationship with Alana ended years ago. You don’t want to be hers again, but this very moment reminds you of the intimacy you no longer get to see.

“You shouldn’t be,” you remark. Alana laughs under her breath. You both know that’s not how it works. Emotions don’t bend to logic. 

“What did you see?” Her hand on your forearm keeps you tethered to reality. You shake your head, unable to begin describing the scene that will most certainly haunt your nightmares. The two of you are silent for the remainder of your time together under the flickering fluorescent lights, as you try to come to terms with the terrible regret, revulsion, and rage threatening to spill over your frame and inhabit your every waking moment.

next chapter

endnotes: thanks for reading! i'm very excited to continue this story, mwahhahahha

here's a lil sneak peek for the next chapter: “Peter,” Clark practically coos. You hate him, more than you’ve ever hated anyone before. He is a bundle of contradictions: a fine-dressed man with a fine-dressed smile and fine-dressed lies and cruelty and violence and- “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

hannibal taglist <3: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

[ronwestbreeze]

TO YOU , WORLDS AWAY : PART TWO : CHAPTER TWELVE

pairing: jake sully x fem!reader

summary: in which it is the year 2159

word count: 2.4k

author's note: hello hello! TYWA part two has arrived! now updating is going to be a bit different for this. i'm thinking posting each chapter once a week will be what I will do from here on out that way I can have time to write future chapters whilst you all read the one's I have already written! just remember, don't demand me to post, it doesn't help with motivation or make me want to keep writing it! anyways, thank you for the patience! and without further ado, part two!

AO3 | prev | next

“I keep having these dreams. About this girl. Every time I saw her, it felt like I knew her for years. Like she was my best friend in the whole world. And I couldn’t imagine a life without her.”

“Tell me about these dreams.”

“Well…they always start with fire and…”

“What’s wrong? Baby girl, what is it?”

“You’ll think I’m weird, Daddy.”

“I won’t, I won’t. I promise.”

“When I wake up, I’m sad. Like I’ve lost someone. And it feels so heavy…Daddy, I hate it!”

“Sssh, ssh, it’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you, alright? I’ve got you.”

“I miss her, Daddy. I miss her so much.”

“Miss who, baby girl?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t even know her name…”

Year 2159

It had been five years since the RDA were exiled off of Pandora and Dr. Chloe Parker was still trying to find her footing on this planet. 

Before the battle, she had been well into the late Dr. Augustine’s Avatar Program. Trained and studied learning to control her own avatar and then using her time to explore all of Pandora’s plants and herbs. And it was interesting, learning about all the medicines here, the potential use for them.

Then the battle at the Tree of Souls happened. Killing dozens of wildlife, many humans and Na’vi alike. It was a sad day to say the least. But after Jake Sully took over as the clan leader for the Omatikaya Clan and exiled the RDA off of Pandora, things began to change for the better.

Dr. Chloe had been one of the humans allowed to stay on Pandora, mostly because she didn’t contribute to the war that struck the planet and because Dr. Max Patel vouched for her and some of the other scientists and avatar volunteers. Now she had spent her time continuing to explore all of Pandora, working with the Na’vi in different clans to study their ways of medicine and perhaps teach them some of the stuff humans do, even though she knew they would probably never use it.

For the past few months, Dr. Chloe, and her small research team, took their avatars and their next journey to the Olangi Clan. A very nomadic clan that worked very closely with the Omatikaya so their home wasn’t too far from the former’s. Their clan leader, Akwey, had allowed them to stay and start their research there as long as they didn’t pose a threat to his people and were respectful of the lands and their ways. Which wasn't a difficult task, especially when there were no more military men flanking the planet anymore.

But as of recently, Dr. Chloe had been requested to retrieve the Tsahik of the Omatikaya Clan, Mo’at since the Olangi’s Tsahik had died in the battle against the RDA. So, instead of researching like the rest of her team, she had been made into a messenger, going back and forth from each clan speaking of something called Eywa…Dr. Chloe wasn’t really too spiritual to care much of who this Eywa was. But if it made the people happy and content, and kept them from shutting down her research, then Dr. Chloe would take one for the team for now.

On the other hand, she wasn’t entirely too comfortable leaving her very first patient alone so much. A patient very important to her research.

When Dr. Chloe found Mo’at, she was with her daughter, Neytiri if she could recall correctly. Dr. Chloe never really had a conversation with the woman—mostly because of her obvious distaste of Dr. Chloe’s presence—and today was no different. Once she arrived in her avatar form, Neytiri hissed and walked away. One of her children, a young boy, followed after her closely.

“Why has Akwey sent you now, Chloeparker?” Mo’at greeted her while crushing up what looked like herbs in a small wooden bowl. Dr. Chloe’s Na’vi wasn’t perfect but she could understand a lot of it after years of listening to both Dr. Augustine and the people talk expertly in it.

“An elder died yesterday.” Dr. Chloe informed her, stuffing her hands into her shorts. “Akwey wishes for you to perform the ceremony.”

Mo’at hummed, not looking up from her work. “One day, he will have to come to my daughter as she will be the next Tsahik of the People. And I will finally rest.”

“Let’s hope that day isn’t soon then.” Dr. Chloe commented with a thin smile. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your daughter doesn’t seem to like me much.”

“You are Sky People. Of course she doesn't like you.” Mo’at stood with the bowl and finally looked at Dr. Chloe. “I am not too fond of your people either.”

Dr. Chloe could understand that in a way. But she was a bit tired of being grouped with the people that tried to destroy Pandora and take it over. Then again, she really couldn’t blame them. If she were in their shoes, she’d hold a grudge too. It didn’t matter if they were the same or not. That anger, that resent, it was uncontrollable and rightful. Dr. Chloe could do nothing but shrug.

“Touché.”

“Mmph.” Mo’at then handed her the bowl. Dr. Chloe took it, surprised at the sudden gesture. “I understand you are a doctor among your people. This can be more useful than whatever technology you Sky People insist on using.”

Chloe held the little bowl delicately but frowned, “The technology is not all useless, you know. It does help sometimes.”

“Sometimes.” Mo’at pointed out. Dr. Chloe tried not to roll her eyes.

There was small movement behind Mo’at and Dr. Chloe did a double take. She hadn’t realized they weren’t alone until Mo’at had stood. It was a little girl that didn’t really look like Na’vi. Actually, when Dr. Chloe looked at her closely, she realized the little girl looked awfully similar to someone.

Before she could wonder just who the little girl reminded her of, her earpiece suddenly beeped, alerting her that one of her team members was calling her from back at the Olangi Clan.

Dr. Chloe excused herself before answering her earpiece, “This is Dr. Chloe—”

“You need to get back here fast!”

She blinked in confusion at the urgency in her fellow researcher, Simon's voice, “Why, what’s happening?”

There was a pause, “…Okay, don’t get mad but we decided to take her out of cryosleep—”

“WHAT?!” Dr. Chloe covered her mouth when Mo’at gave her a disapproving scowl and the little girl watched her curiously. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice before continuing, “Why the hell would you do something like that—she’s not even stable enough to take her out—”

“Just let me explain!” Simon interrupted with an exhausted sigh. “We connected her to the machines we’ve been working on for months ever since we first started working on her, remember?”

“Those aren’t even ready yet!” Chloe hissed into the earpiece, walking out of the tent where Mo’at and the little girl still were. “Simon, what the hell were you thinking—”

“It worked, Chloe.”

She went quiet. Her eyes wandered aimlessly around the forest, unsure if she had heard him correctly. When Simon called her name again she finally responded in a hushed whisper, “You’re not shitting me, are you? Y-Your saying—”

“It worked, Chloe, it worked.” She could practically imagine the growing smile on his face as he said this. “She could wake up at any moment now. But with her condition, it’s not exactly permanent and I don’t imagine she herself would be happy with the results, but they are supporting her. They're keeping her alive until we know how to deal with the heavier wounds.”

This was definitely a development. This had been something she had been working on for two years now, hearing that it worked, on a person no less? Chloe couldn’t help but start packing up her things and leave.

“I’ll be right there! Don’t do anything without me!”

And with that, Chloe rushed back toward the Samson she had arrived in, ordering the pilot to take her back to plains.

There was a lab within the tall trees the Olangi Clan lived in. Chloe had it built when she first arrived in the plains. Even though she technically wanted to build one in one of the trees, having a lab hanging from a tree wasn’t exactly the safest position. So, they went with having it on the ground.

Plus, if they had done it in the tree, then the lab wouldn’t be as spacious as they needed it to be.

When Chloe arrived back, she came out of her link bed with Simon waiting for her.

“How is she?”

The two walked side by side with each other, leaving the link room and walking down the long hallway. Simon carried a holographic pad in his hands as he spoke, “She’s stable, still has yet to wake up, but things are looking good so far. The doctors want to start on the severe wounds right away.”

“How exactly bad are these injuries?” Chloe found herself asking. Really, when they first saw the patient, they had already decided to quickly put her in cryosleep with how badly injured she was and freeze her wounds before it became any more lethal to her body. Chloe hadn’t exactly seen it for herself but she’d always kept hearing about how bad it was.

Simon frowned, “Third and second degree burns, a broken rib, and a her lungs might've collapsed, I'm not entirely sure.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, I hear she was a lot worse and the doctors managed to work on some of the less lethal burns, but she’s not exactly out of the woods yet.” Simon sighed as they stopped in front of the closed door. “We have twenty minutes with her before the doctors get to work.”

Chloe frowned, staring at him incredulously, “What should we say to her if she does wake up?”

Simon shrugged, “Tell of the situation, maybe fill her in since she’s missed basically five years of her life, and…I don’t know, comfort her the best we know how?”

“Comfort is not either of our strong suits, Simon.”

Simon rolled his eyes before finally opening the door.

What did death feel like? Was it this bright? This cold? Were you supposed to feel so heavy, so numb as if you couldn’t feel your body. Maybe your consciousness was floating above your body. There were stories like that, you remember reading about people who have died for a few seconds and were able to see their body outside of themselves.

Okay, maybe you weren’t actually dead. You may not have known what it felt like but you were pretty sure you weren’t supposed to be able to recall a memory as if it were another day. Then again, your body didn’t feel like a ton of anvils had fallen onto it and was pinning it down, preventing you from moving.

You hadn’t realized your eyes had been open until a shadow came into view, blocking some of the light above. Your vision was blurred, really you didn’t know when you had woken up or how long you had been staring up at the ceiling. Yes, that was definitely a ceiling.

Either hell was some bright room or you were somehow still alive.

Muffled voices echoed into your ears. You hadn’t realized, at first, that the voices were coming from the shadowed heads above you. It was like using your ears for the first time, like you were a newborn baby. Hell, your eyes felt like they hadn’t been used before.

Soon, you started registering the voices.

“You think she fell into some sort of vegetative state?” This voice belonged to a woman.

“I don’t know. It’s a possibility. Coming out of a cryosleep can be a little much.” This voice belonged to a man. Neither of them were familiar to your groggy mind. “We might need to get the doctors.”

Soon your vision began to clear.

“Wait, hold on…” The woman above you whispered. She was staring directly down at you, eyes wide with wonder. “I think she’s…”

Your eyes then moved to the second head, the man, when he came back over and appeared in your vision. And like their voices, they were both unfamiliar to you. Even in your foggy mind, you could not recall a single memory where it included these two strangers. Wait, maybe the woman. Back before you had stopped going to Hell’s Gate, you might’ve seen her a few times in passing.

Wait.

Hell’s Gate.

The bombs.

The ship crashed.

You should’ve been dead.

“Dr. L/N?”

The woman’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, you refocused your gaze on her and she grinned excitedly. “You can hear me? Understand me?”

With great difficulty, you nodded. Or maybe your head shifted slightly similar to a nod, you didn’t really know.

“Holy shit.” The male muttered in amazement.

The woman continued grinning, “Welcome back, Doc.”

Before you could ask her where you were, before you could question who these people were, it suddenly hit you.

And it really hit you. Worse than a pile of anvils. More like an out of control train that crashed right into your body and dragged you along the way.

That was the type of pain that struck your body once your senses had begun coming back. This pain was unimaginable. It was unlike anything, unlike any pain you had ever felt in your short life.

This was worse. This was what death felt like.

You didn’t remember much of what happened after your chest jolted forward from the shock of the pain. All you saw was the two that had been standing over you, rushing away, shouting for what sounded like help. And in the next few seconds you kept blacking out a few times. The world went in and out. Every sound clashed together around you. Most of the pain, you realized, was coming from your waist, hell, just your entire upper body.

You wanted to scream. But all that came out of your mouth was choked gasps, barely any words or cries. You were crying. You were crying. Yes, you were sure of it.

There was a sharp prick against your neck.

And in the next second, it was like you were falling out of the world and back into the blackness.

Falling.

Falling.

Eventually, you would hit the ground…

And Jake Sully would wake up.

[tgmsunmontue]

It's all academic darlin' PART 1/10

12k+ Hangster AU. Updating 2-3 parts per week and will be finished by 31st January 2024. (Each part is ~1500 words).

Bradley is a professor but living his best life with IceMav parents. Jake is a pilot. Maverick sort-of tries (and fails) to play matchmaker, so he tries again. Touch of epistolary and sprinkling of one-sided unknown/mistaken-identity.

(Note for later parts/chapters - Ice uses sign to communicate at home, I’m typing it like sign is English despite the fact that I know it isn’t (while NZSL is my third language, I have no working knowledge on the grammar useage in ASL).)

PART ONE

                The 12 hour trip has given him plenty of time to think. He doesn’t know what possessed him to accept Mav’s offer; quiet place you can just get away from everything. When faced with the idea of going home and seeing his family, not being able to answer questions versus being offered a solitary retreat into the woods for a week or two or however long he could stand his own company… Well, he’s never spent very much time alone before and he guesses the novelty had held a certain appeal. He knows he might not actually be alone when he gets there. Mav had mentioned that his son might still be there, but that he’d be leaving to get back to school. It had made him sound young. But Jake’s seen photos, knows that Bradley has at least graduated from some form of college judging from the photos in Mav’s office and hangar, proud moments documented with pictures. 

                Sure enough when he pulls in front of the cabin there’s another truck out front, music blaring from somewhere. He steps out of his own truck and can now hear someone loudly singing along. He follows the sound around the house and yep, definitely the same guy from the photos (the flash of moustache is the clincher). He’s cutting wood, axe swinging easily in time with the music and Jake takes his time to just watch. He’s tall, maybe a bit taller than Jake and he hadn’t been expecting that with how tall Maverick was not. Shirtless, skin tanned and gleaming with sweat from the combination of summer heat and exertion of cutting wood. Jake swallows, letting his eyes run over the scene appreciatively because it’s been a little while and this right here is… nice.

                “Baby can I hold you tonight?” Thunk. “Baby if I told you the right words.” Thunk. “Ooo, at the right time.” Thunk. “Would you be mine?” Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. “Baby can I hold you tonight?” Thunk.

                As he watches, he assesses; Bradley looks around the same age as Jake and the other Dagger squadron members. Not young at all then. No wonder Mav had been so insistent about getting them all home, dad-vibe just morphing to encompass them all. He’d never had imagined a man with Maverick’s history to be a family man. That somehow, somewhere along the line, Maverick managed to raise a small human into the tall drink of water in front of him. Jake doesn’t know why he feels surprised, Mav is a good-looking man despite his age but he still doesn’t see much of a resemblance between him and Bradley. He shifts on his feet, not wanting to interrupt a man holding an axe, especially one as attractive while doing so… he licks his lips, wishing for a toothpick or some gum just to have something to do with his mouth and his lips twitch as he thinks about other ways he could occupy his mouth with the man in front of him. He startles, realization hitting him hard and fast. This is Mav’s son.

                Fuck.

                He cannot, under any circumstances, fuck with this man. Literally or figuratively. Maverick would kill him. He’d find some way to make it look like an accident, or just commit outright murder and then hide the body. And there would be no shortage of volunteers to help him do it. It’s only for a couple of days before Bradley apparently has to leave, Jake can be on his utmost best behavior. And it’s not like he’s in any fit state anyway. It’ll be fine.

                “Fucking shit!”

                Jake jumps at the yell, staring into the wide eyes of Bradley Mitchell, because there cannot be that many people with that moustache in the world. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, knows he’s going to have to refrain from so many comments about that distracting caterpillar of facial hair.

                “Sorry!”

                “Jesus man, you scared the fuck out of me…”

                The urge to bite back and tell him he shouldn’t be cutting wood by himself, or have music playing so loudly he can’t hear vehicles come up the road are on the tip of his tongue but he bites them back. Best behavior he reminds himself. And when did he become such an old man? Ugh.

                “Sorry,” he starts again. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m Jake. Lieutenant Jake Serensin.”

                The other man’s face goes pale under his tan, eyes going wide.

                “Fuck. Is Mav okay?”

                Shit.

                “He’s fine! Totally fine. Sorry. Again. I didn’t mean to worry you. You’re Bradley though right? Mav’s son? He said you’d be here, told me he’d let you know to expect me.”

                A look of relief is quickly replaced by chagrin and Jake bites his lip, because he’s definitely not expected.

                “Shit, I dropped my phone in the lake yesterday. Haven’t checked in with anyone. Obviously you’re welcome though, any friend of Mav’s is a friend of mine,” Bradley says. He’s smiling, reaching his hand out to shake and Jake gives himself a mental slap. He’s not sure if he should correct him on the whole friends with Mav front, because he’s pretty sure the older man merely tolerates him. And this is the son of a superior officer and he’s a guest and he will remember his manners if he doesn’t want to deal with the certain Southern guilt that will settle on him later. Best behavior. Which is also why he won’t go asking questions about why Bradley calls his dad by his fucking callsign.

                “Nice to meet you.”

                “Likewise. Sorry I wasn’t expecting you. You obviously know Mav, and who I am. I figure you’re not a serial killer. Let me just, uh, grab my shirt and then I can help you with your bags.”

                He wants to tell him not to bother, that he’s enjoying the view plenty, but even something as benign as ‘don’t put a shirt on on my account’ would come out heavy with the (intended) innuendo so he keeps his mouth shut and nods before realizing he doesn’t need any help with his bags and says as much, biting back another comment about the floral Hawaiian shirt that the other man is shoving his arms through but still leaving completely unbuttoned and okay, he’s thankful for small mercies. He’s going to look, he’s not a fucking saint.

                “It’s fine man, come on. Let me show you the guest room. Did you bring groceries? I hope Mav warned you to bring food, because unless you like hunting and fishing you’re shit out of luck.”

                Fortunately Mav had warned him and Jake had organized groceries. He carries everything inside with Bradley’s help; front door opening into a large living space with a kitchen and dining area to one side, a large wall-mounted TV on one wall and then a fireplace taking up the central inner wall, clearly used for heating in the cooler months. Down a short hallway Bradley points out Mav’s bedroom, his own and then the guest room where Jake drops his duffle.

                Heading back to the kitchen he takes in the few photos, not many personalized ones, but plenty of ones of different types of aircraft and something in him feels a little more settled just looking at the pictures of the planes in the air. The piano and guitar make him pause and he wonders if either belong to Mav or Bradley. Obviously one or both of them play, although he can’t imagine Mav playing either. Then there are the books. So many books, some look like heavy texts and Jake wonders who the hell comes away on vacation to read textbooks that are thick enough to be classified as weapons. He can imagine Mav reading them over playing the musical instruments though. Bradley is putting the chilled items away in the fridge, offering him a beer and Jake takes it gratefully. One won’t hurt.

                “So how was the drive?”

                “Long.” Too long considering he’s meant to be taking it easy but he’s done worse.

                “Where did you drive from?”

                “North Island.”

                “Shit. I thought you’d just come from Fallon.”

                “Huh. No. That would have been much closer, but I needed to get away.”

                He almost expects Bradley to ask, but he guesses growing up with Mav he knows some questions won’t get answers so lets it slide and Jake’s grateful.

                “So you saw Mav yesterday?”

                “Yep, sure did. He made the offer a few days ago and just reminded me of it yesterday and I thought… sure. Why not.”

                “Did he give you a list of jobs?”

                “No. Should he have?”

                “He must like you,” Bradley laughs and Jake’s eyes catch the column of his throat as he tips his bottle to take a drink and he swallows roughly. Okay. He looks away and hums, shrugs. Doesn’t want to mention the concussion and bruises he’s still recovering from. He’s meant to be taking it easy and Mav knows it.

                “So, what do you do? Or is being a lumberjack a fulltime gig?”

                “Ha. No. I’m a… teacher.”

                Jake quirks an eyebrow because that answer had waivered as an almost question. But it tracks with the summer break and the whole getting back to school thing Mav has mentioned. And it’s a good a conversation as any, although it is quickly turned on him, with Bradley asking him about his flying experiences, looking a little wistful when Jake mentions going through Top Gun and he wonders if it would be impolite to ask why Bradley didn’t join the Navy like Mav. Definitely. Obviously his face still asks the question, because Bradley is offering up information freely.

                “My mom asked me to not join the Navy. Not quite her dying wish, but pretty damn close…”

                Well shit. He winces.

                “I’m sorry –” Jake starts and Bradley is already waving his hand.

                “It was over twenty years ago, you’re good. I’m good. She just wanted me safe. Of course, telling a teenager he can’t do something isn’t usually the best approach. And keeping Mav from teaching me to fly was never going to happen. I got my solo license when I was sixteen and haven’t looked back. I love flying.”

                “That is something I can agree with,” Jake says, tipping his beer bottle toward Bradley.

                “To flying.”

                “To flying,” Bradley repeats, his smile wide and friendly.

PART TWO

[thediktatortot]

I would very tentatively like to put feelers out there for anyone looking to write long-form roleplay for final fantasy 7. I haven't written it with anyone in a very very long time and with getting back into the remake games it's spurned me to want to get back into it.

If you would be interested or are curious, I'll write all my info and what I'm looking for under the cut.

First things first.

Adults only, preferably someone 20+ though the older you are the more comfortable I will be as I am 32 and like to write about a range of topics including darker ones.

How I write

I write book style like you would see in a published story, so "talking like this" and story like this, with variations for emphasis.

Hard No's and discomforts

There isn't much I'm not open and willing to write, and usually it's a story by story basis, but I get squicked out by non-trans mpreg and would like to avoid overly ooc and crack fic style story.

What I like to write

I like to write from the Vincent POV and I like to keep the timeline pretty canon unless writing in parts of the timeline that have not been filled in.

My favorite parts of the timeline to write about pre FF7 events, DoC events and post Advent Children.

I don't have any concrete plot ideas just yet as I usually form those alongside my writing partner, but I am particularly interested in the Turks pre-Soldier program or post FF7 events.

How I write Vincent

I am of the mind that post-getting shot, Vincent is way more subdued due to memory loss from actually dying for a period of time, lucrecia even saying that she couldn't prevent decay of tissue in DoC. So there is a lot of himself he just does not remember due to that, however I do believe he has a sense of humor, is more talkative with those he is close with and has an interest in experiencing the world around him that is so new and updated.

Pre-getting shot Vincent however is a professional man who knows when to keep his personality subdued for his job. He is a Turk and he does his job well, this doesn't mean he doesn't have a life outside of that. Most of the memories we get outside of the few Vincent has of the time at the lab, are from lucrecia POV.

I like to give him a soft energy outside of work, open with his coworkers and his friends, but not willing to make a fool of himself as he takes pride in his ability to be calm, cool and collected. He will however dance, drink, play games and generally enjoy himself with those around him.

I like to give Vincent a tense relationship with his father, nothing bad just more of differing opinions and typical son butting heads with father.

Pairings I like

Almost forgot to write these as I really just like writing Vincent in any situation, but I do like Cid/Vincent and Reno/Vincent the most. I tend to enjoy Vincent with Cloud, Barret, Reeve, Veld & Sepheroth depending on the story and context.

Anyway:

I'm disabled and unemployed so I tend to have a plethora of time at my disposal so I am flexible to writing with people at most times. I am also not someone who is impatient with responses though I do tend to go through spurts of replying very quickly. I may occasionally give a boop or nudge just to make sure we are still golden and see if maybe we need to put things on hold, but I'll never push.

Just to note I played FF7 for the first time in 1998 so if there are any headcanons that may seem weird to you that I have, it's because of the near 20 years of reinforcement it's had.

[niuniente]

I've been following your DHD since the beginning and I have loved it so incredibly much! I was so happy I finally found a comic where main character is single and not interested in dating, relationship etc. It's so hard for me to find such things (books, comics, TV shows, fanarts, you name it) since there's always a plot twist where main character ends up in a relationship anyway one way or another (side note: I've been single my whole long life, not interested in any of that stuff) so finding Alrick and you was a blessing! However, since Kizzie arrived and she started to have "hots on Alrick", I've start to lose joy and love towards DHD. Every update brings me fear and horrible anxiety Alrick will end up with Kizzie (she spreading her legs to him) and that would make me nope myself away from DHD. I adore you, love your arts and blog over all (you are too kind to this world), finding you has been the best thing in my life so, please please please, don't take this personally! You are wonderful person and I really like you! I just fear where DHD / Alrick is heading.

What I can say with 100% certainty is that Alrick will not get married. Or engaged. IF it's up to me, I mean, I didn't decide that Alrick starts to have a crush on someone. IF it was up to me only, there wouldn't be anything like that going on. An establish relationship to that sorts will not fit the story and it will take too much away from Alrick's own story. I do not wish his story to be too deeply linked into anyone else. DHD does require sort of a solo thing from Alrick. Yet, I can't really always control where the characters themselves want to go but I will do my best not to get Alrick TOO involved with anyone. DHD is not supposed to be a romance comic anyway.

And, like said, Alrick not interested in romance or such in general but it doesn't mean he couldn't have a crush on someone (which he clearly didn't expect).

I do encourage people to have fun with the ships because life's not that serious and a fictional story of mine is even less serious.

Love can appear in many, many forms, which I do not want to limit to just one form, not in art. Take this from someone who has been single for almost 20 years and haven't even hold anyone's hand during those two decades and who is childfree by choice and has no pets either. There's still love in my life and I love deeply even without a partner, kids or pets.

I hope this answers your concerns!

[gatheredfates]

I thought I might start using this graphic for the updates, too! At least until I get bored of it and end up creating another. 🌊 We love eye-catching visuals in this house.

Anyway, sorry for the delay with this update! Last weekend was insane, putting it lightly, and I only really feel like I have started to return to capacity now. I appreciate your patience!

As of 04/27, I have added the following resources (in no particular order) to Sea's Community Compendium for FFXIV Creatives:

LARGE SCALE

XIV TODO — honestly, huge thanks to whoever submitted this resource because I didn't know it existed! This is another set of tools and tailored checklists for XIV that help you track encounters, content completion, dailies and more! It's also extremely alt-friendly for those of us who have more characters than sense.

FREE COMPANY / COMMUNITY FOCUSED

THE VIERAN MAFIA — do you like suave Noir-themed bars framed by mystery and intrigue? How about a bit of organised crime? This Free Company is for you! (They're also hiring, if you're interested. Get in touch with @fjotla-vithir!)

MISC

FFXIV BUFF AND DEBUFF MAKER — if you have ever thought a screenshot of yours would be made funnier by a buff/debuff but you don't have access to photo editing software, @fortunafavore has you covered with this simple tool!

XKIT REWRITTEN — The most up-to-date iteration of the original XKit tool, XKit Rewritten provides a series of enhancement tools for Tumblr's web-based interface including accessibility tools, anti-capitalism bocks and recommendation tweaks.

Want to submit? You can either fill out the google form here, send me an ask with the relevant information contained on the Compendium, or join my Discord at SEAFLOOR (21+ only)!

As a reminder, the answer to the question of "Is my resource/community applicable to the Compendium?" is almost always a resounding yes. I want to know what's out there. I want to feature your project!

However, for the sake of clarity, I'll pop the FAQ from this post below in a read more for you to check out if you're worried. ✨

I want to put my community on the compendium but we have an application process. Is this okay?

Yes! Just note somewhere in your application that's a requirement. The only thing that is mandatory for the Compendium is that you must be open to new members or have a public-facing/accessible facet. There's no point advertising a community if no one can join it in some way!

I want to put my community on the compendium but I only have x number of members —

Also totally okay! People don't start with large communities. Activity is a must but, whether your server has two or two thousand members, if you're looking for new people to join, I'd love to help you find people.

I want to put my community on the compendium but I worry its too niche?

Okay, and? If your Eorzean Fishing Alliance has four members but you roleplay every second weekend, I still want to know about it.

What resources/communities can I add if I'm not the owner of them?

Mutual consent is extremely important to me, so anything that isn't a large-scale community OR a publicly accessible resource must be endorsed by the owner/admin/moderators in order to be added to the compendium. I operate under the assumption that a resource posted to a public space (tumblr, googledocs, youtube, etc) is open to all. A large-scale community is one with a significant member count or openly advertises itself as being accessible to everyone for whatever purpose it serves. If in doubt, please get in touch with me. I'm happy to contact your community owners for you!

How active does a community need to be?

If you find a community has not been active in about two/three months, send me a message and I'll take a look at it. Communities have ebbs and flows, especially event spaces that may take hiatuses depending on member interest/life events. I'm not strict in my implementation provided a space isn't dead. If a link or anything is broken, absolutely contact me about that.

I have [insert a question not stated here]?

No drama! Send me an ask or use the #Compendium channel in my Discord!

[glossyybabie]

identity

part 19 || part 20

Summary: You can feel yourself crumbling away.

Warnings: Kidnapping. Blood and gore. A Missy-esque bit of body horror.

Word count: 1376

Notes: Applying to internships has taken up all of my time so I haven’t been able to update in aeons. I’m not even sorry.

Waking up dazed and confused was becoming a very natural feeling for you. This ceiling was a strangely common sight. The pale grey tiles felt as though they were staring back at you with a shared kind of familiarity.

You pushed yourself upright. Your body immediately put up plenty of resistance, but not as much as you’d been expecting. A morbid part of you knew that you were just adjusting. This sort of discomfort would be the new normal.

Your gaze drew towards a tray of bloodied tools, resting harmlessly against the arm of a pristine white chair. The blue latex gloves on the other armrest had been twisted inside out to avoid splattering the chair in red.

Your palms smoothed down your hospital gown against your skin. You felt no bruises, no unevenness in the form of bumps or scarring. Your skin was clear, if dull, almost monochrome. You wondered just how many basic vitamins and minerals you were dangerously low on.

You started forward on wobbly legs. Pain radiated in a multitude of areas — some areas you didn't even know were capable of being in pain. But it was easy enough to ignore. That pain wasn't too sharp or troublesome. It didn't have you doubling over. If you could walk, you were fine.

You toyed with a blood-caked scalpel in your hand. In hindsight, you weren't even sure what had compelled you to pick it up. It wasn't as if any weapon existed that was a match for Missy. And even if there was, it wouldn't be a scalpel. The fires of hell probably weren't strong enough for that bitch–

"Who? Me?"

Missy stood behind you. Just a few feet away, she was just as refined and imposing as you'd always remembered her being. Her plum skirts swished around her legs as she took a step closer. You followed the line of her vision towards the scalpel in your hand.

"Now, where exactly were you going with that?" Missy asked calmly.

When interacting with Missy, there was no such thing as a lie. Lies were for just about anyone else.

"For a walk."

Missy grinned, a sweet yet cold expression that exposed her teeth. "Sure you are, poppet. Come on, back to mummy."

She was beckoning you back, her hands open and waiting for you to take. You stared at her palms. She didn't make a move towards you. She was letting you make the next move.

You shifted the scalpel around in your hand. "Why should I?" you challenged her. "Why should I do anything you say if it doesn't matter anyway?"

Missy exhaled sharply. "Sweetheart, I can't do this with you every time you have a crisis of self. Just come over here, give me your new toy, and no one has to get hurt. Alright?"

You watched her go still. Even now, your move in this game wasn't over yet. She was giving you a rare chance to reconsider. This was her showing mercy. She wasn't hurting you . . .

Yet. But she hadn't hurt you for a year of your life, and yet she'd never created wounds that ran so deep. She didn't need to cause harm in order to hurt. She was above that.

You shook your head. "No."

Pain shot through your arm like nothing you could have imagined. Your fingers were frozen around the steel door handle. You couldn’t consciously move them. You couldn’t move anything.

All too soon, sensation returned. You jerked away and stumbled onto the floor. The scalpel in your hand scraped across your face, eventually skidding across the shiny floor to a halt and leaving a notable trail of blood in its wake.

Your face erupted in blistering pain. You let out a pained cry and clasped your hands over your nose and mouth as blood poured over your trembling lips.

Missy stooped down and pinched the chunk of mangled flesh from the floor. “I suppose I can officially say got your nose.”

You wanted to scream for so many reasons. Tears burned in your eyes. Your throat was tight, but that feeling was nothing compared to the hot, thick viscera that coated your mouth and chin. You struggled to breathe past the fluids on your face.

You started to roll onto your front, but Missy slipped the tip of her boot beneath you before you could manage. She started to forcefully turn you over, ignoring your sobbing, garbled protests.

“Come on,” Missy said lightly, kneeling carelessly in the pool of blood beside you. “Let’s see what you’ve done. Don’t be shy now.”

This was all her fault — all of this was her fault. You were so defeated. The blood started to dribble down your cheeks and through your nose where it reached your throat. Your attempted coughs resembled inhuman grunts.

Missy pulled your damp hands away from your face. She laughed.

“Oh dear. See, this is why we don’t walk around with sharp tools. It’s only a matter of time before I get bored and shock you into slicing your organs off,” Missy sighed. She toyed with the exposed raw meat of your open wound, uncaring of the way you writhed in pain and clawed at her arms, gurgling incoherent words. “I think we can do better though. Shall we go again? I’ll aim for something more substantial this time, like an eye. Ooh, maybe an ear. Your tongue, if I time it right.”

You couldn’t stop crying. You were humiliated. You’d sustained injuries to last several lifetimes, you’d been torn apart and hastily glued back together in every way possible, but this felt more real than anything Missy had hurled at you before.

This was your face. It was the only familiar sight in your reflection. It reminded you of who you truly were. And now it was as disfigured, haggard, unattractive as the rest of you. Crumbling and wasting away like a plastic-corroded doll in a charity shop.

This was the largest piece of your identity to flake away so far. And it hurt.

Missy started to pull you up. You were just relieved that she was no longer poking her sharp red fingernails into the gaping hole in your face. “Come on, that’s enough sulking,” she said impatiently. “You humans are so hopelessly hideous with or without basic facial features, so I wouldn’t worry your ugly little head about it. That’s the spirit.”

She forced you to walk towards the bed you’d woken up in, disregarding the crippling pain you were in. Your knees buckled hopelessly beneath you. Missy half-dragged you alongside her.

“And hey,” she continued, “maybe someday I’ll get bored and reattach your nose. Or a nose, anyway. That’ll give you something to look forward to.”

You choked on a gasp. Blood spurted out of your mouth, all tangy on the tip of your tongue. You tried to make the most of the sensation — it was a matter of time before Missy started focusing on new areas of your face to maim.

Your knees slammed firmly onto the unforgiving floor. The blood-loss was starting to make you feel lightheaded. The thumping against the front of your skull wouldn’t cease, no matter how much you willed it.

You tried to speak, with little success. Your words tumbled out gurgled and splattered with blood. Hardly coherent.

Missy leaned in closer, tilting her ear towards you. “What was that, dear?”

You felt sick. The way she made you feel was dehumanising. On your knees in front of her. Pleading. Begging. Worthlessly so.

You cleared the immediate blood from your mouth and sobbed. “. . . Help me, Missy.”

Missy sighed, lowering her head in resignation. “Oh, alright,” she conceded. “Since you asked so nicely.”

She lifted your limp body off the floor. You put up no resistance as she carried you the remaining distance, her arms firmly supporting your weight this time. She gently set you down and lowered your head onto a soft pillow.

She moved the tray of tools towards herself. You watched her settle down comfortably, one leg neatly crossed over the other, as she reached for a familiar silver rod. Dread settled in the pit of your stomach.

“Let me just give my cautery rod a chance to heat up first.”

[caliburn-the-sword]

okay so i watched ncis sydney. i took NO notes so this is gonna be absolutely incomprehensible as i remember things off the top of my head

the american boss lady was from dc legends!!! i loved her on legends!! did not love her here :/

what rights did the americans have whatsoever to do anything ever they were annoying af

police officer should have been 10x more scared of that random gunshot. because when do we have gun violence here ever

i liked the green eyeliner and pronouns character she was a nerd and also cute as a button

green eyeliner and pronouns, and the old santa coroner guy were very funky. i smell a found family dynamic coming

i saw the proton NMR graph and got motherfucking war flashbacks from chem mod 8 please never do that again

it's so strange to see bondi beach on tv and there AREN'T tourists drowning in it. this isn't real aussie tv. if i'm forced to see that beach at least make it realistic and have a tourist drown there

gladys berejiklian dupe. i tried to play the gladys game but it's been so long since i had to watch the 11am covid updates that i can't remember what any colour means other than black jacket = bad

why did this cop have the literal fucking prime minister on his speed dial

why is the cop called JD. every time i heard him get call that i was like hehe heathers

these crosscuts. cringe af

why was the harbour bridge and opera house visible EVERYWHERE. i swear i saw it for like 20 out of the 45 minutes of screentime afjksnfa

THE AUKUS NUKE SUBS WE GOT FROM DADDY AMERICA FKSJHFNAFJKN

disappointed to see no murder snakes in the aussie themed crime

obligatory gen z joke about young character

obligatory nerd with multiple PhD's just for funsies

the cringe af "ncis sydney. it has a nice ring to it" like okay and i loved the part where he said it's ncis-ing time and ncised all over those guys and WE are ncis sydney GOD i hate when shows say the title of the show because WHY

oh no now the aussie cop and the american ncis lady reluctantly have to work together and form an alliance!! who could've seen that coming

anyways this is my emotional support aussie show absolutely can't WAIT to watch the next episode next week. ncis sydney is life ncis sydney is everything

[yae-energy]

╰┈─✩ ˚ ‧ random thoughts : 2 ‧ ˚

✧˖° synopsis : more random hc’s cause why not (the manga is crushing my soul)

✧˖° cast and crew : yuta okkotsu, maki zenin

.ᐟ content warnings : cursing (cause when am i not)

⤑ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ authors note : idk yall i just wanted to post 😭 i got at least 3 more ideas i wanna do.

~

yuta <3

- really good at math for absolutely no reason at all, mental math specifically cause istg this man is like a fucking calculator

- was a nightcore kid (BADDDDDDDLYYY)

- used to be a really big harry potter fan for a while

- loves musicals. like, LOVES musicals

- will say a lot of stuff ironically to the point where it actually becomes unironic and it annoys everybody to hell and back. but he genuinely cannot stop 😭

- vocal stims with the most annoying tiktok audios

- loves carrots and hummus and doesn’t like celery

- he love’s halloween and always matches costumes with inumaki

- his biggest pet peeves are gum popping and squeaky noises. like he will genuinely get so pissed off if he hears either of those things

- is really good at board games & card games, like he’ll really whoop your ass in some uno tbh (which is why no one plays with him) and pls don’t let him get his hands on them draw 4’s or it’s absolutely over for everybody. (and it’s even worse if they’re playing train. like he loses friends afterwards)

*before each turn he’s like “😬 sorry guyssss” (he’s in fact, not sorry)

*also is unnecessarily good at monopoly, like he racks up all the properties so quickly and everyone always thinks he’s cheating

- has really bad eczema (mainly gets it on his neck and it’s reallyyyyyy bad in the winter)

—

maki <3

- lactose (and still consumes dairy but like…at what cost girlie ☹️)

*also has horrible indigestion

- likes strawberries but hates strawberry flavored things. do NOT give her no strawberry flavored NOTHING or she will fight you

- is a sparkling water enjoyer (inumaki and panda clown her for this everyday and have been since they met her)

- doesn’t like bananas, she has a visceral HATRED for them i tell you. nobody knows why either but that’s just the way it is.

- COFFEE LOVERRRR (loads that shit up with creamer and sugar)

- loves doing crossword puzzles (and puzzles in general)

- really good at chess and ESPECIALLY checkers (she’s just really good at most games tbh, she doesn’t know how either)

- her glasses are always dirty LMAO (same girlie, same)

- really likes baseball, like really really likes it 😭

- adding onto the coffee one: she is an ice coffee FANN. everytime she’s mad one of the second years brings her an iced coffee and she’s completely ok again.

- she’s a dnd girlieeee !!! and she plays with yuta and inumaki when they all have time

- hates reading anything because she just doesn’t feel like it (and she’s impatient) so she gets yuta to read it for her 😭

- is one of those people where if you ask her to do something she’ll instantly say no but do it anyways 💀

- really good at mimicking people’s voices and copying signatures (like it’s actually terrifying)

⤑ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ tags : @morosis-haze @jogeto @mypimpademia @zairene @planetlunaa @cosmiles @milesmolasses @chinieh @romiantic @stqrriichiigo

if you wish to be tagged in any future works, here’s my tag form to fill out <33

if you wish to submit a request, here’s my ask box :)

⤑ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ closing notes : took wayyyyy longer than i needed to finish this ! (just the life of being an adhd girlie 😋‼️) but pt.2 to this will come out shortly

also notice how i cannot SHUT THE FUCKKK up about these two like they did NOT need to be this long, do i care though? not really !!

now i’m onto these fuck ass tags 🙄

anyhow, love y’all 🫶🏽

update as of posting : it did take me over a month to post this i won’t lie…mb 😭

- xoxo, yves <3

[songmingisthighs]

a bit tmi about writing on tumblr and good writers leaving this community

so i write literally whatever i want. I take in requests but i can't act upon it if i'm not inspired and people here know i work at my own pace. I'd like to say that i'm one of the lucky ones who still get support despite everything i put people here through with my breakdowns and burnouts and really confusing working schedule and availability. sure i have to reprimand some people who pressure me or give me a hard time regarding my work, going as far as implementing the anon policy where i absolutely do not hold back when people don't follow my rules, and i get both hate and support for that. some people don't like the way i protect myself and some think it's all well deserved, either way the system works for me and I've been on this account for the past... 3 years ?? idk i forgot tbh but I've been here a while

i envy people who get a lot of attention with whatever they write, going as far as getting 6000 notes with one post and that's the kind of attention i can only wish to get. but i realize with such attention comes great burden. i saw people who do enjoy writing getting more reluctant to post because they're scared and they overthink and they lost the joy in writing and it sucks seeing that. they had to work around what they think people would accept or like and GOD that's tiring as fuck.

but what sucks more are the people who consume content like air and think that they're entitled to get more that's why they pressure writers to post. they see what is available and forget that there is a person behind the screen who has a life. like do you think i camp on tumblr 24/7? i have work, i have a life. granted it's not a fulfilling nor a productive one but i have things going on in my life. some people don't understand boundaries, some people can't differentiate 'hi. can i ask if you're planning on updating this series?' and 'it's been too long since you update this series. please update it, i need more' like the second one is TECHNICALLY okay if you know the author but if it's like someone you never interacted with, it's just disgusting. like for me personally, if you prefaced the second sentiment with something like your experience reading my crap or smth, i'd probably react to it well but if it goes straight to 'hey why aren't you updating?' the bad side of me will come out and i don't mean the right side of my face.

that being said, i don't agree with authors who pressure readers to like and reblog too. like that's how you get to 4k notes ig? but that just never sat well with me. maybe because i already set a certain expectation in this blog which is 'what i put here is simply what i want, you can enjoy it or not, and if you want to appreciate my effort to provide content, that's up to you'. like yeah comments and reblogs support my drive to post like the more i get them, the more i feel motivated to post but i wouldn't put something like 'if you want me to post more, reblog because likes don't give traffic' or smth like you're a writer, you could've created a more acceptable sentence. but if said writer is going for 'i provide this so I'm entitled to things i think i deserve' then... good for you ig?

point is, i think there is a correlation between writers and readers here and no matter what the reason behind someone leaving the tumblr writing community, i think the writer-reader aspect still has a play in it. i especially hate readers who criticize writers when they themselves contribute NOTHING in the form of content. I'm a firm believer of 'if you think it's a problem, be the solution' and that's how i came into writing here anyway. I didn't see the type content i like so i make it. that's it. i worry if people would accept my work but at the end of the day, it's so interesting seeing the 3 am thoughts i had turned into actual content. i don't get paid and god do i wish i got paid for doing this. but still, I'm lucky with the people, including readers, that i have around me. it's sad seeing good writers burning out and leaving but I'm glad that their lives still went on. but not the people that ran out of tumblr because of the crap they pulled. they can go ahead and camp in wattpad idc

[blusilurus]

A wee bit my fursona for funsies!!! 2024 Update edition notes on top (The eye markings updated to be more like my older designs + the necklace)! The bottom is a drawing made before the top update that shows my fursona at all stages of design over the course of my life thus far! More rambling under the cut!

Healing really is just circling back to that funky little fursona you made in your youth boi howdy!!! Top is some doodle note's of my sona and surprise we are going back to the old eye markings (but added a slight flair more similar to the newer markings)! As well as a (optional) silver circle necklace (originally a yinyang back in the day)! The bottom drawing features all versions of my sona from the very first to the most recent right before top images version! My fursona has always kinda grown with me and I think somewhere midway between highschool till now I sidelined it a bit. I really do love my fursona though and have found a lot of joy in kinda bringing it more "back" in a sense! Hence why you'll notice my icon and whatnot features it again instead of human! Just for clarity this is very much "me" but just as some goofy sparkle cat LMAO. Honestly I've been finding a lot of joy in getting back in touch with things I used to love but in the chaos of life kinda left behind one being my old 3DS XL (I homebrewed it now hell ya)!!! I'm hoping to update my ref soon with the correct design. I also want to take my ref down a notch/simplify since I mainly just use it anyway. Alt forms of my sona are still valid (Ex. the dragon and bunny versions) but I'll prob just pop the cat form only on the ref like ol times! But yea howdy!